#kneel beneath your overlord

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Infernal Shadows 04.

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it, last part was a cliffhanger but here we are surviving :) Some background on Madame and I pray you guys get the reference with the name of the exorcist

A/N: I AM BACK FROM THE DEAD!!!! I finally got this out and I added to it so this is a longer chapter than anticipated. I’m so horribly sorry for taking forever to get this out, I had like so many reports to do for my job and this was just calling to me. I hope you guys didn’t forget this and if you did I totally don’t blame you. Not to fret though, I have big plans coming soon, and I’m pushing for longer chapters to keep you people fed. I love you all so so so much! Happy reading and thank you for being so patient and for all the kind messages I got! As for the taglist, I’m afraid it’s closed as of right now, just because I physically cannot tag anymore people on these posts, so I’ll try to figure something out with that!

Tags: @dollops-of-delusion @nebusokuxp @scrunchss @rosedasy @valluvz @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @sillysillyxinnabun @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @only-cherry-blossom @sockgoblin @nxrdamp @1-800-no-users-left @l0ca1ax010t1 @inutheangel @reader-of-worlds @writing-fanics @random-person07 @ghostdoodlen @elaemae @fantasy-angelo @tanjirosworld @patchesofdreams @sunnyslug @reineurynome @scoliobean @arrozyfrijoles23 @kimmikreates @lqmons @amarokofficial @mangobango69

Word count: 5694

Navigation!! // Masterlist!! // Serendipity writes (event)!! // Part three //

Charlie had almost jumped out of her seat upon seeing the excorsist by your side. The water spout collapsing quickly, water violently splashing all around. A crowd of ‘ooh’s and ah’s could be heard from the crowd as you finally revealed the exorcist to everyone, allowing the sinners around to get a better look at the pet with you. The exorcist next to you was a woman, who looked fairly young. Her wings were large, white feathers with a sheer hint of gold. Her skin was ghostly white, and her eyes were equally as pale, almost a ghost. she looked around quickly, turning in her spot on the ground next to you, where she was kneeling. Her wrists were bound by chains and she stood quickly, wings flaring out. Yet, amid the spectacle, Charlotte couldn't help but notice a flicker of sorrow in the exorcist's pale eyes.

You stood next to her calmly, playing the violin as she stood, flying off the ground and up the middle of the coliseum, flying as quickly as she good. Her long hair, white with golden streaks, flowing as she flew up. Before she could get out however, a long black chain appeared around her neck, pulling her backward quickly, choking her. Her eyes went wide, hand reaching out to the sky above, a silent reach for heaven, before her angelic body was pulled back into the floor of the coliseum, body hitting the hard ground with a loud thud, the floor cracking beneath her upon the impact. Black chains began to hold onto her legs, her chest and neck as she fought against it, the chains lifting her high enough in the air for the crowd to see, making a mockery out of her, out of the exorcists above.

Charlotte's eyes widened, mirroring the shock and disbelief etched across her face as she witnessed the angelic exorcist's dramatic entrance. Alastor, usually composed, betrayed a subtle flicker of concern, his stoic demeanor momentarily shaken.

As the exorcist's wings unfurled, the sheer beauty of her appearance contrasted sharply with the ominous chains that bound her. The crowd's collective gasp echoed, drowning out the earlier applause.

Alastor's grip on his opera glasses tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the unforeseen depth this performance had taken. The music continued, but now there was an undertone of tension, each note echoing the internal struggle of the exorcist. Just the way you had intended.

The audience's gasps turned into uneasy whispers. Charlotte glanced at Alastor, finding a mix of fascination and unease in his expression. His smile looked almost painful, like a touch to him would have him shatter on the spot. She was not used to seeing him this way. Something was oddly unsettling about having him next to her in this way.

“Should we be watching this?” Velvet leans over to ask Vox, sketch book long discarded. He says nothing, eyes blown wide as he takes in the sight before him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever seen an exorcist, but this sight was different in itself. You were basically manhandling an exorcist right in front of everyone. This was holy power you were messing with. Tauntingly, making a fool out of this poor innocent girl. Vox wasn’t sure if he was supposed to run away, tail between his legs, or sit and watch the way you had wanted. To obey or disobey, like a dog.

The song was finally at its peak, the angels wings spread to its full length as she fought to get away, thrashing about as she fought again the chains. Charlotte feels her own throat tighten, her heart feeling heavy.

“I can’t watch.” Charlotte said, standing and moving to take her leave, but a large shadow blocked her path.

“Madame requests that you stay here.” The shadow spoke. Charlotte was silent and though she wanted to argue, decided against it.

Amidst the tension, the atmosphere in the coliseum grew heavier, the ethereal music now echoing a dissonant melody. As the angelic exorcist continued her struggle, a figure emerged from the shadows – a mysterious character, their presence felt more than seen.

This enigmatic figure, shrouded in darkness, approached Charlotte with a whispered urgency. "You hold the key to her liberation," the voice murmured, barely audible over the haunting notes of the violin. "Will you break the chains or become a spectator to her demise?"

Charlotte, conflicted and sensing a greater responsibility, looked at the shadowy figure, determination flickering in her eyes. With a newfound resolve, she turned towards the restrained exorcist, seeking a way to intervene and unravel the unsettling performance that had taken a dark turn. The coliseum, once a mere stage for entertainment, now stood witness to a moral crossroads where choices weighed heavily on the hearts of those present, and it was definitely making Charlotte contemplate her whole reason for being here.

Alastor's sharp warning reverberates through the air, his stern tone emphasizing the gravity of the situation. "Interruption during Madame's performance is ill-advised, my dear. It is best not to meddle in affairs beyond your understanding." he cautions, a hint of a threat underlying his words.

Rosie, with a more nurturing but firm approach, guides Charlotte back to her seat. "It's not the time, hon. Madame's got her ways, and we don't want trouble. Just watch and let it play out," Rosie advises, her gaze mirroring a subtle concern for Charlotte's safety.

As Charlotte reluctantly takes her seat, the tension in the coliseum persists, the haunting music and the struggling exorcist creating an eerie symphony that held everyone in a state of suspense. The shadowy figure lingers, observing the unfolding drama with a watchful gaze, leaving an air of mystery and uncertainty in its wake.

The resounding crash echoes through the coliseum as the angelic exorcist succumbs to the relentless chains, her divine form colliding with the unforgiving ground. The spectators, now silent witnesses to the spectacle's unsettling conclusion, feel the vibrations of the impact reverberate through the arena.

The once-beautiful performance has transformed into a scene of somber defeat, the ethereal music now hauntingly melancholic. The shadows that enshrouded the coliseum seem to deepen, casting an eerie gloom over the aftermath.

The mysterious figure in the shadows maintains a watchful presence, its intentions still unclear as the audience processes the unsettling turn of events. The coliseum, leaving an indelible mark on the collective psyche of those who bore witness. As the ethereal music slowly fades to silence, the chains metamorphose into spectral figures, gracefully carrying the defeated angel away. The abrupt stillness in the coliseum feels eerie, the aftermath of the performance leaving the guests, including Charlotte, in a state of uneasy reflection.

The band, once vivid and lively, dissipates like wisps of smoke, leaving an empty stage behind. Madame, now standing alone in the center of the coliseum, is joined by the largest shadow, a looming presence beside her. The shadowy figure addresses the hushed audience, explaining that they will be escorted back to Madame's home for dinner. "Ladies and gentlemen, the next act awaits within the walls of Madame's mansion. Your journey through her realm has only just begun.”

The guests, still processing the unsettling performance, are ushered towards their tables with a sense of quiet trepidation. The coliseum, now devoid of the vibrant spectacle, transforms into a place of anticipation as the guests prepare for the next act in Madame's enigmatic domain. Charlotte, visibly shaken, moves among the disquieted crowd. Zestial stands out, his calm demeanor contrasting with the collective unease. His eyes reveal a depth of understanding, leaving Charlotte to wonder what he really thought of the performance. As they return to Madame's home, the charged atmosphere persists, leaving everyone to ponder what awaits them in the next act of this mysterious and haunting night.

The shadows lead those seated privately with Madame through a mysterious portal, transporting them to a large, black room. The windows, tinted black from floor to ceiling, create an otherworldly aura. Bowls of floating fire cast dancing shadows around the room, adding an element of mystique. In the center stands an impressive dining table, crafted from black wood with matching black chairs adorned with white cushions.

White plates with a gold lining are meticulously arranged, each bearing a name card. The order mirrors the sequence in which the guests were initially invited: Alastor, Vox, Charlie, Velvet, Zestial, Carmilla, and Rosie. Three empty seats capture attention, the most prominent being the grand and ornate chair at the head of the table – undoubtedly Madame's seat.

However, two other unoccupied chairs add a layer of intrigue. One is positioned across from Madame, and the other is to her right. Vox, leaning casually against the black dining table, raises an eyebrow as he scans the unoccupied chairs. "So, did Madame forget to send out a couple more invites, or did she just not bother finding anyone else worth inviting?" His tone, dripping with casual disdain, prompts an involuntary eye twitch from Alastor and a scoff from Carmilla. The room is momentarily tense as the guests settle into their seats, the air thick with unspoken tension and the promise of an unconventional dining.

The large shadow materializes behind Madame's chair the moment everyone takes their seats. It speaks with a commanding presence,

"Madame will be joining you shortly, ensuring the guests are properly situated in the main dining hall. For now, you may all start with the drink of your choice."

As the shadow's words linger, the room is filled with the appearance of various drinks, each guest's preference seemingly anticipated. The other shadows swiftly deliver the beverages before seamlessly vanishing from view. In their place, a small orchestra emerges from the darkest corners of the room, ready to weave a musical tapestry that will accompany the unfolding feast.

The atmosphere in the black room remains charged with a sense of anticipation, the guests left to wonder about the mysteries that await in Madame's unconventional and enigmatic domain.

The anticipation peaks as the celestial display unfolds outside the tinted windows. Stars twinkle in the vast darkness, and constellations take shape, transforming the black room into a cosmic spectacle. The guests, mesmerized by the celestial scene, exchange awed glances.

”Oh this is so beautiful.” Charlotte says, glancing around at the stars.

In the midst of this ethereal backdrop, Madame makes her grand entrance. A sweeping gust of shadow accompanies her, like a cloak billowing in an unseen breeze. She moves gracefully, her silhouette weaving through the darkness, and steps into the room with an air of an almost royal confidence.

Madame wears an elaborate gown that seems to absorb and reflect the celestial light. Its deep, dark hues shimmer with a glow, adorned with intricate patterns that evoke the mysteries of the night sky, certainly fitting her specticle. Her presence commands attention, and a hushed silence falls over the room as the guests turn their gaze towards her.

A soft, melodic hum emanates from Madame, resonating with the orchestral tunes. The shadows, now at her command, align to form a fleeting silhouette of wings that unfurl and then disappear into the darkness. She takes her seat at the grand table, her eyes gleaming with a haunting form of excitement.

As Madame takes her seat, the celestial display beyond the windows intensifies, casting a glow over the dining room. The shadows, now intricately woven into ethereal patterns, dance along the walls, adding to the surreal atmosphere. With a graceful gesture, Madame signals the waitstaff shadows to present the first course. Exquisite dishes are unveiled, each a culinary masterpiece designed to tantalize the senses. Alastor’s eyes light up as his favorite dish is revealed — Jambalaya. Rich and spicy, it perfectly captures his love for bold and vibrant flavors.

Vox, always one for extravagance, is presented with Sushi. Delicate sushi rolls arranged like musical notes create a visual and auditory delight, harmonizing with each flavorful bite. Meanwhile, Velvet savors the spicy noodles on her plate, a cosmic array of ingredients adorning handmade noodles, reflecting her love for adventurous flavors.

Charlotte’s palate is delighted with the Harmony of Garden Greens, a vibrant salad showcasing fresh and wholesome ingredients. Zestial’s preference for refined flavors is indulged with a nice tender steak. Carmilla indulges in an enchanting dark Chocolate Fondue, a decadent dessert that mirrors her taste for the luxurious. Rosie, captivated by sweetness and charm, enjoys a stellar Strawberry Shortcake, a heavenly creation adorned with edible flowers. Rosie was grateful Madame hadn’t served her limbs this evening, though the craving was very much there.

As the guests savor their feast, Vox, unable to resist his penchant for stirring conversation, attempts to broach the topic of the enigmatic exorcist from Madame's previous performance. "Madame, that exorcist bit was quite the show, don't you think? Who was she, and why the dramatics?" Vox inquires with his signature flair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Though Alastor would never admit it, he was silently appreciative Vox was the one to voice the question. He knew Madame would have his head if he dared to ask. A large grin is displayed as he awaits Madame’s response. Knowing she is intolerant of being questioned on her decisions.

Madame, however, responds with a stern and unwavering gaze. "Vox, some matters are not for idle chatter. Rest assured, when the time is right, I will provide the explanation that is due." Her tone, though firm, carries a sense of ancient wisdom that tempers Vox's usual audacity. Alastor just grins to himself, happy she did not disappoint.

Carmilla, sensitive to the undercurrents of unease, feels a shiver down her spine. The cryptic response leaves her uneasy, but she keeps her feelings to herself. Madame's words hang in the air, a subtle reminder that there are depths to this realm that remain veiled. She is in control.

The aura intensifies as the orchestra weaves a haunting melody, adding an ethereal backdrop to the exchange. The guests, now caught in the delicate dance of shadows, flavors, and unspoken mysteries, await the unfolding of Madame's narrative. However, to their dismay, she leaves them empty handed.

The small orchestra adapts it’s tunes, complementing the dining room with melodies that resonate with the mysteries of Madame. The music sways between haunting and enchanting, guiding the guests through an experience that transcends the ordinary.

"I hope the food is to everyone's enjoyment," Madame remarks, her plate being set in front of her last. The guests, captivated by the transcendent feast, eagerly dig into their respective dishes. As the flavors unfold on their palates, a chorus of satisfaction fills the room.

“These are quite excellent.” Carmilla comments as she enjoys her meal. Madame only nods in response. Compliments flow freely from the guests to Madame and the shadows, expressions of delight escaping between bites. Alastor, savoring his Jambalaya, commends the bold and vibrant flavors.

The room resonates with the sounds of enjoyment, and Rosie, with the Strawberry Shortcake, receives nods of approval for the delightful sweetness. Madame, her strong composure unwavering, listens to the compliments with a hint of satisfaction. Everyone enjoys being praised.

As the melodies of the cosmos continue to weave through the air, the dining room becomes a mix of flavor and enchantment. The guests, immersed in the extraordinary experience, savor each moment, aware that this transcendent feast is not just a meal but the start to something haunting.

Things could not be peaceful forever though. Madame pushed back a bit and stood, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

“I would like to thank you all for being such pleasant guests tonight. I do believe a lot has happened since the last extermination. I am aware you overlords, or the ones that had the decency to show up, are aware that we must do something to protect our souls. Which begs the question.” Madame stops, taking her time to look at everyone. “What do you plan to do when the exorcists come down here to kill you all?” She asks bluntly. Carmilla inhales sharply not saying much, which Zestial just sips a cup of tea, his usual. Alastor and Rosie exchange a glance, but before anyone can say anything, Vox interjects.

“Well Madame I think you’ll be pleased to know Vox-tech has been working on protection for the people and-“

“Do you really think a piece of technology will stop this?” Madame asks. Her eyes narrow at him, and Vox silently sinks into his seat. Madame sighs, her shadow pulling her chair farther back so she can walk around the table, to the empty seat across from her. “Since you all clearly have no clue what to do, I presume I’ll share my idea.” Madame says, before she snaps her fingers. In an instant, a large shadow, almost in the shape of a sphere, forms next to her. It’s whispy and hyperactive, almost alive, before it sinks to the ground. Slowly it’s fades away. The guests stand, wanting to get a closer look, before the shadow turns to fog, and falls away. There in it’s place is the exorcist from the coliseum.

“Madame-!” Carmilla says, but is met with a stern look from Madame.

“Something wrong?” She asked. A chain formed around the exorcists neck, one that wrapped around Madame’s hand. She holds it tight, like she’s holding a wild animal back. Velvet wonders if this is because she’s afraid, or excited.

“Go on. Speak.” Madame says to the girl next to her. She looks down at the ground, a bit bruised but shining brightly nevertheless.

“I do not wish-to fight.” The girl says, and Madame just smiles.

“Let her go.” Charlotte says. The overlords look at Charlotte with a surprised expression. Madame says nothing, and instead tilts her head to look at Charlotte.

“Let her go?” Madame repeats, and Charlotte nods.

“Yes. Let her go.” Charlotte says, suddenly feeling nervous. Madame doesn’t appear to be upset, which only confuses and makes Charlotte even more anxious.

“Very well then. Have it your way.” Madame says, dropping the chained leash. Suddenly, the exorcist flies up and lunges at Zestial, attacking him. The overlords all disperse, watching as he throws her off of him.

“No! Wait stop!” Charlotte says, trying to get the situation under control. Alastor’s eyes widen, and he grins, tentacles appearing from the ground quickly, attempting to scare her by attacking her wings. The moment his tentacle touches the feathers on her back, it burns, and Alastor pulls back immediately, seemingly confused. The room erupts in screams and chaos, Rosie attempting to get the exorcist away from her as she tries to kill her.

“My dear, you do realize the mess you’ve made, yes?” Alastor asks as he summons himself next to Madame. She stands by the windows, the starts casting an almost colorful display over her, making her seem ethereal. Madame nods.

“Well then maybe you should get Lilith’s pet under control.” Madame inquires. Alastor just grins, nodding before lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

“Of course Madame.” He says, before fading into his shadow. Carmilla stands next to a tired Zestial, while Velvet and Vox stand on the dining table, holding onto each other for dear life, while Rosie takes to poking fun at the exorcist, who seems to only want to harm Charlotte at this point.

“You filthy girl-!” The exorcist cries, before she chokes, a black chain wrapping around her neck quickly, and pulling her back.

“Enough Evangeline.” Madame says sharply. At this, the exorcist grows quiet almost immediately. Charlotte is in tears and on the floor, Alastor picking her up by her underarms, setting her straight.

“This is why you be quiet.” Alastor whispered to Charlotte.

“Oh~ that was fun! Let’s do this again.” Rosie says delightfully. Madame just nods to her, an unreadable expression adorning her features.

“Yes, let’s.” Madame says, tugging Evangeline’s chain sharply. Evangeline stands, now looking a bit shorter than Madame, while Madame’s shadows remove Vox and Velvet from the dining table. Quickly, everything is back in order, as Madame ushers the guests to take their seats. Now, Evangeline sits at the head of the table, across from Madame.

“Everyone, this is Evangeline, my sister.”

“Sister?” Vox asks, shying away from the exorcist.

“Didn’t you hear her?” Velvet asks, nudging him with her elbow. He just nods, but says nothing.

“Yes. Sister. I’ve obtained her for one reason and that reason only.” Madame said, before Zestial interjected.

“What reason doth that be?” Zestial asks. Madame just smiles, with a snap of her fingers, Evangeline is turned around, wings sprawled out.

“To send a message of course.” Madame says. Before a paper is presented to all the guests.

“During the extermination I had the pleasure of speaking to Adam.”

”Wait Adam like, first man Adam?” Velvet asked, and Madame nods.

“Yes, him. He believes he can wipe us out fairly quickly. He said he’d be back for me specifically.” Madame said, looking out to the windows, before continuing. “So, I decided it would be best if we sent him a lovely letter. Charlotte,” Madame said, “I know you spoke to him recently. If he wants to come to your hotel, I believe it’s only right we make other areas just as much of a target.” Madame said, before Carmilla frowned.

”Why should we? Won’t that make us all targets?” Carmilla asked. Madame nodded.

“Yes, but with too many locations they’ll spread themselves thin.” Madame said.

“Why are we talking about this in front of her?” Rosie asked, pointing to Evangeline. “Won’t she just tell them what we’re planning?” Rosie asked. Madame shrugged.

”Possibly. I never said she was going back alive.” Madame said. “But this topic can wait. I’m ready for dessert.” She said, and suddenly shadows were back with all kinds of desserts in the middle of the table. Evangeline was now facing the rest of the guests, all who stared at her with a predatory gaze.

Y/n L/n was born in the year 1885, with her sister, Evangeline, arriving in 1887, just two years apart. Y/n was the eldest among her siblings, having two younger sisters and a younger brother. Sadly, the youngest sister passed away at the tender age of twelve, a victim to scarlet fever. Despite this tragedy, Evangeline remained the darling of the town, known for her innocence and beloved by all. Meanwhile, their brother Arthur matured at a quicker pace than Evangeline.

The family's prosperity stemmed from being victims of the Salem witch trials back in the 1600s. This dark history actually served as a catalyst, enabling their ancestors to establish a business that had been passed down through generations, making Y/n the rightful heir. Initially, the business catered to workers and provided scrubs, but Y/n had grander visions.

Under Y/n's leadership, the business transformed from producing simple workwear to crafting exquisite dresses, corsets, feathered hats, and other fashionable garments. These creations were designed to empower young women and elevate their sense of self-esteem, departing from the mundane work attire of the past.

As word spread of the boutique's exceptional offerings, affluent families began flocking to Y/n's establishment, seeking custom dresses and elegant accessories. Evangeline, always cheerful and accommodating, played a pivotal role in welcoming and attending to the guests while Y/n conducted business.

Despite the initial success and harmony, ominous clouds loomed on the horizon, signaling that peace and tranquility might not last forever.

Evangeline's heart fluttered whenever she was around Alexander, a charming and charismatic gentleman who frequented the boutique who was also from a wealthy family. Their budding romance seemed like a fairy tale at first, but little did Evangeline know, Alexander harbored hidden agendas. But Y/n could see it from a mile away. But alas, she let her younger sister be. She did not feel threatened by Alexander. To her, he was simply another walking wallet right into her arms.

As their relationship deepened, Alexander subtly planted seeds of doubt about Y/n in Evangeline's mind. He would gently question Y/n's decisions, pointing out areas where he believed Evangeline could excel if given more freedom.

"My darling Evangeline," Alexander would whisper, his voice dripping with honeyed words, "you're a diamond in the rough, waiting to shine. But Y/n's cautious approach is holding you back. Imagine what you could achieve with your own vision."

Evangeline, enamored and impressionable, began to see Y/n's protective actions as barriers to her dreams rather than safeguards for their family's legacy. Alexander's persuasive arguments fueled Evangeline's desire for independence and recognition.

"You deserve more than being just Y/n's shadow," Alexander would say, his eyes filled with feigned concern. "Don't let fear of failure hold you back. Take risks, Evangeline. Follow your heart."

Unaware of Alexander's ulterior motives, Evangeline started to view Y/n's guidance and decisions with skepticism. She began to prioritize her relationship with Alexander over the family's business, inadvertently straining her bond with Y/n.

As Alexander's influence grew, Evangeline's perception of Y/n shifted, painting Y/n as overly controlling and unsupportive of her aspirations. The once-close sisters found themselves on opposite ends, with Alexander's manipulative tactics driving a wedge between them.

Behind the facade of love and affection, Alexander manipulated Evangeline's emotions and perceptions, using her vulnerability to further his own agenda. The tangled web of romance and manipulation threatened to unravel the familial harmony Y/n had worked so hard to maintain.

One evening, as Evangeline sat in her room at the family estate, Alexander approached her with a concerned expression. "Evangeline, my love," he began, "I've noticed something troubling about Y/n's management of the business. It seems she's keeping you in the dark about important decisions."

Evangeline furrowed her brow, surprised by Alexander's revelation. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Alexander leaned in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "I've heard whispers among the staff," he confided, "about Y/n making decisions behind your back, as if she doesn't trust you with the business's future. You deserve to have a voice, Evangeline. You shouldn't be kept in the dark."

Doubt crept into Evangeline's mind as she pondered Alexander's words. She had always trusted Y/n implicitly, but Alexander's claims sowed seeds of suspicion and resentment. "But Y/n has always had our family's best interests at heart," Evangeline countered weakly.

"Of course, my dear," Alexander reassured her, his tone soothing. "But perhaps Y/n fears that your ideas and vision might outshine hers. You're more than capable, Evangeline. Don't let anyone keep you from realizing your full potential."

In the following days, Alexander's subtle manipulation and peer pressure intensified. He highlighted instances where Y/n had made decisions without consulting Evangeline, portraying Y/n as controlling and domineering. "You're the future of this business, Evangeline," he would say, planting seeds of ambition and discord.

Fueled by Alexander's influence, Evangeline confronted Y/n during a heated family meeting about the business's direction. "Why are you keeping me in the dark, Y/n?" Evangeline demanded, her voice trembling with emotion. "I deserve to be involved in every decision!"

Y/n, taken aback by Evangeline's sudden hostility, tried to explain. "Evangeline, I've always valued your input, but some decisions require swift action. I never intended to keep you in the dark." Y/n would say sternly, trying to keep her composure.

But Alexander's words echoed in Evangeline's mind, clouding her judgment and fueling her resolve to assert herself in the business. The once-unbreakable bond between the sisters fractured under the weight of manipulation and misunderstandings, orchestrated by Alexander's cunning tactics.

Evangline’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she and Alexander stood before Y/n, their announcement hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

“We’re engaged, Y/n,” Evangeline exclaimed, her voice filled with joy. “And we believe it’s time for me to take over the business. After all, I’ll be married soon and would want to pass it down to our children someday.”

Y/n’s eyes widened in disbelief as Evangeline and Alexander stood before her, their engagement bombshell hanging heavily in the air. The room fell silent as Y/n processed the news, her shock palpable.

“You’re getting engaged without even discussing it with me first?” Y/n’s voice cracked with incredulity, her tone carrying a mix of surprise and hurt.

Evangeline, caught off guard by Y/n’s reaction, tried to explain. “Y/n, we thought you would be happy for us,” she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

But Y/n’s shock quickly turned into frustration and anger. “Happy for you?” Y/n’s tone sharpened, her words laced with bitterness. “How can I be happy when you’re making decisions that affect our entire family without even consulting me?”

Evangeline’s expression faltered, her eyes filling with tears. “But Y/n, I love Alexander, and we want to build a future together,” she pleaded.

Y/n’s emotions boiled over, her hurt turning into harsh words aimed at Evangeline. “Love blinds you, Evangeline,” Y/n snapped, her voice rising. “You’re being manipulated, and you don’t even see it!”

Evangeline’s tears spilled over as Y/n’s words hit home. “I’m not being manipulated, Y/n,” she protested, her voice trembling.

But Y/n’s frustration didn’t stop there. Her gaze turned to Alexander, her tone dripping with disdain. “And you,” Y/n directed her anger at him, “using Evangeline to get to our family fortune, shamelessly preying on her innocence and trust.”

Alexander’s facade of charm faltered for a moment, his expression betraying a hint of unease. “I assure you, Y/n, my intentions are genuine,” he tried to placate her.

But Y/n wasn’t buying it. “Genuine? You’re nothing but a leech, Alexander,” Y/n’s words cut through the tension, her anger simmering beneath the surface. “I won’t let you manipulate our family for your selfish gain.”

As the tension escalates during the argument, Evangeline turns to Y/n, her eyes filled with confusion and hurt. “What do you mean, Y/n?” she asks, her voice trembling with emotion.

Y/n’s expression hardens, her resolve firm as she faces Evangeline. “The whole family can see it, Evangeline,” Y/n’s tone is resolute, her words cutting through the air. “Alexander is just after our money, and he’s using you to get to it.”

Evangeline’s eyes widen in shock, disbelief evident on her face. “No, that’s not true,” she protests, her voice tinged with desperation.

But Y/n doesn’t back down. “Open your eyes, Evangeline,” Y/n urges, her voice filled with urgency. “He drove Arthur away from you, manipulated him to keep you to himself. He’s tearing our family apart for his own selfish motives.”

The weight of Y/n’s words hangs heavily in the air, the truth of the situation sinking in for Evangeline amidst the chaos of emotions and accusations.

In response to Y/n’s accusations, Alexander turns to Evangeline with a dismissive smirk, his tone dripping with condescension. “Evangeline, Y/n is lying,” he asserts confidently. “She’s never been in love, so she wouldn’t even know what she’s talking about.”

Evangeline, torn between her trust in Alexander and the unsettling doubts planted by Y/n’s words, looks to him for reassurance. “But Alexander, I love you,” she insists, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

Alexander’s charm kicks into full gear as he takes Evangeline’s hand, his gaze filled with faux affection. “And I love you, my dear,” he replies smoothly. “Don’t let Y/n’s jealousy and lies cloud your judgment. We have a future together, away from all this drama.”

As the tension reaches its peak, Y/n’s resolve remains unyielding as she delivers a stark ultimatum to Evangeline. “If you choose to marry him, Evangeline, I will never speak to you again,” Y/n’s voice is firm, her words carrying the weight of finality. “You will be disowned from the family and removed from the business entirely.”

Evangeline’s eyes widen in shock and hurt, her voice barely above a whisper as she asks, “Why are you doing this to me, Y/n?”

Y/n’s expression softens for a moment, but her determination doesn’t waver. “I’m thinking of the family business, Evangeline,” Y/n’s tone is unwavering, her words laced with a mix of sadness and pragmatism. “I’m thinking of what will benefit us, not silly emotions like love that can be manipulated and used against us.”

The gravity of Y/n’s decision hangs heavily in the air, the rift between the sisters widening as Evangeline grapples with the harsh reality of Y/n’s ultimatum.

Evangeline's voice trembles with a mix of defiance and sorrow as she tells Y/n, "I'm going to marry Alexander anyway, Y/n." Her eyes reflect a sense of resignation, knowing the rift her decision will create between her and her sister.

Y/n receives the wedding invitation in the mail, her heart heavy as she reads Evangeline's words inviting them to the wedding. Despite the hurt in Evangeline's voice, Y/n remains steadfast in her decision not to attend, unwilling to condone a union she strongly opposes. This choice further deepens the rift between the sisters, leaving Evangeline feeling the pain of their absence on her special day.

“You don’t need her anyway.” Alexander says to Evangeline when she tells him how hurt she was her sibling did not show up.

In 1901, tragedy strikes as Evangeline dies during childbirth. The funeral is held, and Y/n, Arthur, and Evangeline’s only child, a son, attend. However, Alexander chooses not to attend and sends his son with the nanny instead. Y/n isn’t surprised, but she did debate going to their estate to tell Alexander how much of a horrible husband he was.

In 1915, Y/n tragically dies from poisoning due to alcohol. The family faces yet another loss, marking the end of an era filled with turmoil and strained relationships. Arthur is the last sibling left, the head of the business, and serves out his life fulfilling Y/n’s visions, making her the face of the family name forever.

“You always did only worry about yourself.” Evangeline thought to herself as she began her dessert.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin demon #alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel rosie #hazbin hotel #hellaverse #vox x reader #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #yandere vox x reader #yandere vox #alastor vs vox #isuckatwritingsobenice infernal shadows #isuckatwritingsobenice

[4izawas]

╰─▸ ❝ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄! ❞ ──── 𝐟𝐭. 𝐋. 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him with a raised eyebrow while your lips quirk up into a smile.

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: hazbin hotel | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: lucifer morningstar/f!reader | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 2.57k.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fem reader, dom reader, dom fem reader, sub lucifer, bottom lucifer, manipulative reader ( i have awoken an obsession in writing them i’m afraid ), reader is longtime friends with alastor, mentions of alastor, reader is ‘the seamstress’ overlord, lucifer crawls across the floor like once? maybe twice, oral ( fem receiving ), begging, brief master kink, whining, some degradation, praise kink, lucifer is 100% being a Good Boy, leg humping, self-inflicted overstimulation, and he WHIMPERS, crying, lucifer’s just a needy lil guy tbh.

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐬: i have fallen into a rabbit hole </3 | 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃!— @mrskreideprinz. @p-ersus. @herohibiscus. @vampcubus.

— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!

Breathy whines and whimpers echo through the dimly lit room, the flickering flame of candles catching on the deep red wine in the glass you’re holding with your non-dominant hand. The other is currently being lavished with needy, borderline worshipful kisses, your wrist tightly gripped by the man you’d had wrapped around your pinkie finger for the last five or so years. After being abandoned by his beloved wife and his sweet little daughter, he had been a mess — a mess a long-standing overlord like yourself had been quick to clean up and turn into something else, something more. Playing the concerned friend with ‘hidden feelings’ had been more than easy ( whether or not those falsified feelings had festered into something real was for you to know, and for you to know only ), and you’d had him eating out of your hand faster than even you had expected. After only two years he’d removed Lilith’s ring, and a month after that he’d begged for yours, which of course you’d accepted. You’d helped run the kingdom in his name ever since while he lavished you with attention and tended to his silly little hobbies. Your empire had expanded from a simple series of shops in every Ring that clothed the upper class to a behind-the-scenes Queen of the nation; typically you’d have celebrated with your oldest friend, but he’d disappeared after a tie-up with the Media Demon, and you’d not heard from or of him since. Briefly you’d worried he’d succumbed to his injuries, but then waved them away; little could injure Alastor, and no mobilized television screen would be able to kill him. Once he needed your services as his only tailor again he’d return, and you could demand and receive answers from him then. Until that time, your time was split between all of Hell, the whims of Rosie, and of course the dim-witted desperate King you called your own. 

Alastor would be proud, if not envious, of the web you’d weaved across Pride, if you did say so yourself. 

With one leg you push Lucifer away, planting the ball of one of your feet against his bare chest and making him fall back onto his calves, kneeling before you just as he belonged. He whines at the loss of skin contact when you withdraw your foot, but you ignore him, pondering; honestly he’d been far too easy to shape, so much so that it was almost disappointing at first, but his resolve and desperation to please had been more than entertaining. Every moment he kept by your side made your power grow, and considering the abandonment issues that ran rampant like poison beneath his skin, eating away at his brain and filling him with anxiety, that meant you were never alone for more than a few hours. If you weren’t steadily growing stronger, you’d have questioned if the clinginess were at all worth it. 

“Please — Please, let me… Please…” The soft whimpers from the floor in front of you catch your attention instantly, and you gaze down at the mess of a man before you. His hair — typically so well-managed — hangs messily over his eyes, and his wings flare out behind him, the massive feathered limbs twitching every now and then as he holds himself back from touching you without permission; the kissing had been reward enough for the necklace he’d surprised you with at breakfast, even if he wanted more. To get more, he had to earn it. 

“Do you know any words other than ‘please’?” you ask, amused by the sight of the puddle of an angel before you as well as his vastly shrunken vocabulary. He’s on his knees before you, eyes wanting and voice thick as he begs, and it does nothing but feed the raging warmth in your lower abdomen. In control though you may be, the King of Hell would get what he wanted before the night was through; after all, how could you deny someone who was being such a good boy?

“I know whatever words you want me to say,” he promises in a whine, “What do you want me to say? To ask? I’ll do it, I promise.” You know he will; when has he ever not done what you ask? Never. 

“You’ll be good?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you sip your wine, and he whimpers and nods, hands fisting and unfisting around nothing as he continues fighting the urges to grip at you like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. You fight off the urge to laugh; he was just so pathetic, you couldn’t help but feel fond of him. There was just something about sorry men on their knees that did it for you every time, and the King of Hell was no exception.

“S-So good,” he moans shakily, his pupils dilating as you crook a finger in his direction as the smallest invitation. He crawls on all fours closer to you before leaning his head against the warm skin of the inside of your thigh, nuzzling against you before hiding his eyes against it. “I will, I — I…” Fuck, he couldn’t even think — exactly how you liked him. His breathing is picking up, getting heavier than before — he’s getting all worked up, and you haven’t even properly touched him yet. 

You cross your legs tightly, displacing him, and a questioning noise falls from his lips. “Mmm… Ask me for permission,” you purr, and you watch his pupils slowly dilate and his eyes fill with a fresh surge of want. 

“F-Fuck, okay — C-Can I? Please, can I?” he asks, a pleading tone in his voice that has you clenching around nothing. 

“Can you what?” you ask, turning to study your fingernails lazily after taking your last drink of wine, putting the glass on the table next to where you were sitting. He lets out a noise of complaint, demanding your attention be put back on him, and you acquiesce easily; you could certainly give in to one or two of his requests, wordless or otherwise, considering he’d be begging to bury himself in your cunt before the night was out. 

He trembles, barely holding himself back from descending upon you like a starved man would a meal. “Can I touch you? I want to taste you, wanna make you feel good, please—“

You narrow your eyes and fight off the smile making the corners of your lips twitch; you can’t smile yet, it would ruin all the fun. “Who are you asking, Lucifer?” 

“Fuck. Fuck. Master, I’m-!” he whimpers, and you raise an eyebrow in silence, watching as he bites down hard on his bottom lip before asking, “Please, Master, can I lick your pussy?”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Hmmm…” you squint slowly at him, as if pondering the thought for the sole sake of teasing him, and he plants a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee before looking up at you, asking silently for the permission he felt he needed. 

“Please?” he begs again, and you smile finally, watching the way his ruby eyes light up with barely-contained excitement. 

“It’s alright with me,” you purr softly, uncrossing and spreading your legs for him. He lunges forward, curling his forearms under the backs of your thighs and burying his face in your cunt immediately. He’s sloppy as he eats you out, drooling from the taste and excitement, and you sigh happily as you relax into the couch cushions. The man was ever-so-talented with his tongue, you’d discovered years ago, and his favorite hobby was to lie between your legs as often and long as you would let him — and oh, would you let him. All he wanted to do was please you, to ensure your comfort and make sure you never wanted to leave him, and a while your pity for him turned into a soft fondness that urged you to acquiesce to some of his more romanticized fancies, which was why the two of you had had a lovely dinner tonight before you’d led him by his red tie to your shared bedroom. 

“Fuck,” you groan, letting your head fall back at the same time as you close your eyes and bury your free hand in his feather-soft hair, drawing him deeper into your core and coaxing a moan from him at the sensation of his hair being pulled a little. “That’s it, sweet boy — more tongue, just a little more… What a good boy you are…” 

Your hips roll up into his learned tongue at the same time that you catch your own bottom lip between your teeth and grab at one of your breasts lazily, kneading it in time with each swirl of his tongue against you. A shaky string of words into your cunt that you faintly recognize as whiny pleas for you to love him and stay with him forever only stimulate you more, the vibrations making your hips jump up. A small bump against your leg goes ignored the first time, as well as the second, but the third catches your attention and you open your eyes and look down to see him grinding against your leg like a dog. Bullying him crosses your mind, and you are nothing but a slave to your own whims in the bedroom, so you do. 

“What a pathetic fucking man!” you laugh, startling him out of his focus on your cunt and cumming against your leg, and he blinks up at you with wide eyes. He never stops lapping at your cunt, and you scoff meanly. “Humping my leg like some mutt, how unfitting of a king. You’re so desperate to get off that you can’t even wait for the opportunity to use my cunt like a real man — but at least you’re good with your tongue, aren’t you?”

Lucifer whines out a moan into you as he nods an affirmative, and you laugh again, this time more breathily. “You like that, don’t you?” you ask mockingly, tugging at his messy hair just enough for it to sting a little. He whimpers into your core, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes. “The mockery, the harsh words, me being mean — and the praise. Can’t make up your mind on what you want more can you?” A shrill whine is your only response as he nips at your swollen clit, and your hips buck up into his face as you moan, “Mmm, you just want to get cunt-drunk, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh!” he agrees, thrusting hard against you and lapping up every drop of slick you had to offer him. He was talented when it came to slipping back and forth between focusing on smothering your clit with attention and dipping his tongue into your wanting hole, and it took all your inner strength not to lose face and wrap your thighs around his head. 

“Please,” he says, voice slurred with desire, “Please, more — Love more, let me have more, I want more-!”

“More?” you ask mockingly, clenching around nothing as his long tongue circles your clit, and he moans into you desperately enough that the vibrations nearly force a whimper of your own from you lips.  “G-Go ahead and ride my leg,” you say shakily, grinning down at him patronizingly as he immediately starts grinding down on you hard. “And cum whenever you want — after all, you’re just my dumb little pussy-whipped pretty boy~”

He lets out a shrill cry, thrusting against your leg hard as he bites and sucks at your cunt and cums all over your calf, moaning and crying with tears running down his face. Shrill cries fall from your lips as you stop bothering to hold them back; he was already getting sloppy in the ways you liked him best, him hearing you call out for him would only further your shared desire. 

“What do we say?” you ask, keening as he sucks at you greedily, and he lets out a stilted cry of his own. 

“Thank you!” he gasps, continuing to roll his cock against you and hiccuping through tears at the overstimulation he’s forcing upon himself as smaller spurts of cum rush from his cock and coat your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you..!”

“Good boy,” you murmur, moving your hand from his hair to gently caress his face, and he lets out a shaky sob as he nuzzles into your hand. You lay your head back, content to doze as he comes down from his own particular high while clinging to you. 

“Love you,” he whispers quietly, and you hum softly back at him in response, wordlessly sharing the feeling. “So much. So, so much, more than anyone…” You let him babble mindlessly, knowing how fond he was of doing so, and listen in silence while watching him with a deep fondness sparkling in your eyes. After about a half hour or so he slows his chatter to a stop, beginning to play with your fingers and nibble at his lips, clearly wanting something. 

“What is it, Lucifer?” you ask lazily, petting his head gently, and he lets out wordless whine that makes you raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

He’s quiet for a moment, for some reason unsure of himself, before he finally voices his desire. “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him smugly while your lips quirk up into a smile. 

“More?” you ask mockingly, then scoff and cross your legs, cutting him off from what he desired most, a surprised unintentional chirp falling from his lips. “Mmm, I don’t know if you deserve it…” And so begin the waterworks.

Lucifer bursts into tears, overstimulated and wanting and needy, all while being denied of the only thing he wants. He was a man lost in a vast desert and you were the small spring he stumbled upon after days — after tasting you the first time all those years ago, once in a night was never enough. You’re just being mean to bully him like you always do now, and he knows it. 

Your cum glistens on his lips and chin, and his tongue darts out to lick it up without thinking, sending a surge of heat rushing through your core. “But — But I was good!” he argues shakily through his tears, “Please, I just want — want to make you feel good, ‘nd I wanna feel good too…”

You gaze down at him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and biting down on it harshly to ground yourself; God, he’s fucking cute. So needy and desperate, his face coated in your cum… 

You smile and spread your legs again, fighting off the urge to laugh at the way his feathers fluff up and he starts trembling in excitement. He’s always been an insatiable little thing, and you should have known better than to start to doze off after he’d achieved just his first orgasm — besides, you can handle him! This was your King after all, and you know him like you know your own mind. What’s a half dozen or more orgasms before the night is out? You could always sleep past noon if you really wanted, and it wasn’t as if he’d be leaving you anytime soon. 

“Then go ahead, Your Majesty,” you purr softly, watching the way his pupils nearly swallow up his irises entirely at the rumble in your voice. “I’m all yours.”

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

#lucifer morningstar x reader #sub!lucifer morningstar x reader #sub lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer magne x reader #sub!lucifer magne x reader #sub lucifer magne x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin x reader #lucifer morningstar x you #sub!lucifer morningstar x you #sub lucifer morningstar x you #lucifer magne x you #sub!lucifer magne x you #sub lucifer magne x you #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin x you

[ddesguv]

You're not sure where you are, but it feels familiar. You're in a dimly lit room, the only source of illumination being a single candle that flickers gently on a nearby table. The air is thick with anticipation, your heart racing as you realize who is there with you . Alastor. The Overlord himself. He stands before you, his expression a mix of amusement and desire as he takes in your appearance, dressed in nothing but your silk sheets. His eyes roam up and down your body, taking in every inch of you, and for a moment, you feel self-conscious beneath his intense gaze.

But then, something shifts in the air, and his expression turns predatory. He steps closer, his hand reaching out to stroke your cheek. His touch sends shivers down your spine, and you feel your body respond to his touch. You can't help but lean into it, wanting more.

"Ah, you feel it too, don't you?" he whispers, his voice a husky rasp. "The desire, the need..." He trails off, his fingers trailing lower, tracing the outline of your collarbone. You arch into his touch, and he chuckles darkly. "I've been waiting for this moment, my pet. I've been watching you, listening to you..."

His hand finds its way lower still, to your silk sheets, and with a practiced motion, he tugs them down, revealing you to him. Your body is flush with desire, your nipples hard and peaked, your sex already wet with anticipation. Alastor kneels before you, his eyes fixed on your center as he parts your folds with his fingers, teasing you with the promise of pleasure. You gasp, your hips bucking upwards in response to his touch.

"That's it, my pet," he whispers, his hot breath fanning across your sensitive skin. "Let me see how much you want this." He guides his fingers inside you, thrusting slowly, and you cry out, your body tensing with pleasure. He watches you closely, enjoying the sight of your body arching under his touch. With his free hand, he cups your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb until it's hard and pointed.

The sensation is overwhelming, and you feel yourself begin to spiral out of control. You're lost in the heat of the moment, in Alastor's expert touch. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue thrusting deep inside your mouth as he continues to thrust his fingers inside you. You can feel the tension building within you, feel the familiar tightening in your stomach, the fire spreading through your veins.

You moan into his kiss, arching your back off the bed as the pleasure washes over you in waves. Alastor's free hand moves lower still, teasing your folds before finding its way to your clit. He circles it expertly, driving you higher, higher, until you feel the world explode around you. You cry out his name, your body shuddering with release, and he growls in satisfaction.

He pulls back, watching you carefully as you catch your breath. His eyes travel up and down your body, taking in every detail, every expression of pleasure and desire. "You're so beautiful when you come," he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair. "So sweet..." He leans in, pressing his lips to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and words across your skin.

The next thing you know, you are shaken awake.

Your eyes flutter open to find Alastor standing over you. His handsome face is contorted into a wicked grin as he stares down at you, his gaze intense and predatory.

" My dear, I couldn't help but notice you were calling for me as I was passing by, anything I could assist you with?"

#alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #x reader #fanfiction #alastor #alastor x reader smut

[softp-parkeruwu]

petition to rename mitochondria to my-tochondria cause MY-TOCHONDRIA is thE poweR hoUse of the ceLl bitch not youR-tochondria

#kneel beneath your overlord #your-tochondria aint got shit on mine #my-tochondria can obliterate yours in battle

[wrenhyperfixates]

Ever Since We Met—New Series Coming Soon!

Summary: After making a bet with Odin, Loki finally has a chance to prove he is worthy of being heir to the throne. Under mysterious circumstances, you find yourself stranded on Asgard, left with no option but to team up with Loki and help him win the crown. Now posing as visiting royalty, you must be careful of rumors in court that say you’re not who you claim, all while battling your growing feelings for the raven haired king. But some things are easier said than done because secrets, you’ll soon learn, can be deadly.

< Ever Since We Met is a pre-Thor 1 slowburn. The pairing is Loki x gender neutral reader. The story will begin posting the first Friday in March. It is fully drafted and a total of 28 parts! >

General Tag List: @lucywrites02​ @frostedgiant​ @lunarmoon8​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​ @lokistan​ @lowkeyorlokificrecs​ @gaitwae​ @whatafuckingdumbass​ @castiels-majestic-wings​ @kozkaboi​ @cozy-the-overlord​ @birdgirl90​ @myraiswack​​​

If you’re not already on the general tag list and would like to be added to that or the Ever Since We Met tag list, both are open!! Feel free to send me an ask, DM, or comment on this post. 

< Header by my best friend, the amazing and talented @lokistan! A big thank you to Star not only for that, but for giving me feedback throughout the whole writing process. >

*Preview beneath the cut.*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taking a final gulp of air, he pushed through the heavy golden doors and walked towards Odin. As a child, Loki had always thought his father looked so imposing sitting on the throne, as if he had in his palm the fate of all people. Well, now Loki was grown, and he knew that the old man sitting in that glorified chair did hold someone’s fate. His. And if Loki wasn’t careful, Odin would crush his dreams, his destiny, without so much as batting an eye.

Loki’s heeled boots clicked on the cold floor, as if counting down the steps left before he could make his request. They were, perhaps, a bit more formal than something one might wear on a regular basis, but he figured why not dress to impress? His semi-formal cloak swooshed behind him, and he had to resist anxiously fiddling with the fabric. With his hair slicked back and combed perfectly in place, he thought he looked very princely, but if all went well, he was going to be far more than that.

“Your majesty,” he greeted Odin in the formal way he’d been taught since birth, bowing at his waist. Oh, how he so despised that part; if he had it his way, he’d never bow to anyone again. At least he didn’t have to kneel as most of the lesser nobles and commoners did.

“Rise my son,” Odin said with a wave of his hand. “Why have you felt the need for this audience so close to my departure?”

“Well, father,” Loki began. He summoned all his strength to keep up his nonchalant facade. “It has come to my attention that you have invited Thor to join you and mother on your diplomatic mission to Alfheim. An invitation, I might add, that he has accepted.”

“Yes, yes,” he yawned. “What of it? I hope you are not looking to come. The convoy is already full.”

“On the contrary, I think it best if I stay here.” Loki studied his father’s expression a moment before continuing. “To rule the kingdom.”

It was painfully silent in the near-empty throne room. And then Odin began laughing. Not chuckling, but full on laughing at his son. This was perhaps the most embarrassed Loki had ever felt, and there wasn’t even anyone else in the room. But all he wanted was to show his father he was capable of ruling. That he would make a far more competent king than his oaf of a brother. This was a critical moment, he knew, and he couldn’t let any cracks in his armor show. He kept his face completely neutral as his father slowly ceased his cackling.

“And why should I allow for that. You see, Loki, I have already chosen my successor, and it is not you,” Odin bluntly explained as Loki’s blood began to boil and hopes began to drop. Maybe this was just a nightmare, and he’d wake up to make his plea for real. No such luck. “The official announcement was going to come upon my return, but it seems cruel to keep it from you now.”

All the times Loki played this out in his head, it never went quite this poorly. Never in his wildest dreams had he been expecting Odin to admit what he already knew deep down; he’d lost. But all his training, his preparing, his effort to show that he was the one deserving of the crown, could it really be for nothing?

“Come now, my son,” Odin said when Loki took too long to reply. He wondered if his father was trying to have a comforting tone. If he was, he was failing miserably. “You always knew I would have to pick one of you. That only one of you could take the mighty throne of Asgard.”

Yes, but I should be the victor, Loki thought, ignoring the tears pricking the back of his eyes. The last thing he would do was cry in front of the Allfather. Especially when he still had a chance to make this work in his favor. All he had to do was keep it together for the next fifteen minutes and alter his argument a little. If Odin was taking drastic measures, maybe that’s what he had to do, too.

“I do not think you should act so rashly, father,” Loki spoke up, voice impressively even. “After all, you have yet to hear my proposition.”

“And what might that be? Speak, son, and tell me.”

“Let me rule Asgard while you are gone. If I do well, you wait to make your decision on who will be your heir, allow me to continue to compete for the crown.”

The old king laughed again, not as loudly as before, but just as unkindly. “Why would I do that? I see no way in which this benefits me.”

“On the contrary, as a prince, I would have the right to plead my case to the Allmother if you took me out of the running. It would be a long, tedious process if you had to go through all the right channels to prove my brother is better suited for the kingship. And then again, they might not even find that he is. Or I could even challenge Thor for the crown, if it comes down to it. Such scandal to mark the end of your reign would be a shame, do you not agree?” He paused for dramatic effect, and to let the words sink in. “However, should I do poorly on the throne, I would have no argument to make, and would back down peacefully.”

The tension was so thick, Loki was tempted to whip out one of his daggers to try to cut it, and give himself room to breathe. But even the subtlest of movements would give way to an accusation of weakness, so he stood where he was, his piercing gaze staring into his father’s one eye, waiting for him to speak. Odin tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne, mulling over the very thinly veiled threat. By the time the king was opening his mouth to speak, Loki felt ready to scream.

“Very well,” he finally conceded. “But your success will be according to my terms. There are three things a good king needs. The first is the respect of those he rules. The second, fear and awe of his enemies and allies alike.”

Loki’s eyes flitted down for the briefest of seconds before looking up with renewed confidence. “And the last?”

“Worthiness,” Odin continued, standing up and walking down the steps, “to have the crown on his head.”

More eagerly than he would have liked, Loki nodded. He was certainly clever enough to figure out a way to prove he had each of those. It seemed that his silver tongue had not failed him today. But before he could say he accepted the terms, Odin had one last stipulation to add.

“You may not set foot out of the kingdom. Everything must run smoothly while you are here. Is this understood?”

“Yes, father, it is. And you will not interfere with my reign,” Loki replied, distrusting something about the look in the old man’s eye. “So then, do we have a deal?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ever Since We Met begins March 5 12:30 pm EST! Can’t wait to share it :)

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki #mcu loki #loki fluff #fluff #loki angst #angst #reader insert #gender netural reader #loki multichapter #marvel #mcu #marvel reader insert #marvel fanfiction #loki fanfic #mcu reader insert #loki slowburn #allies to friends to lovers #friends to lovers #allies to lovers #loki friggason #loki friggason x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson x reader #loki x y/n

[aceghosts]

Whumptober 2021 Day 10: Oops, I Did It Again

Alternate Prompt: Mercy

Fandom: Mass Effect

Rating: M

Summary: Noticing Rooney's troubled emotional state after finding out what Archer has done to Gavin, Tali decides to talk with them.

Warnings: Torture and Trauma. Also, mentions of dead bodies and a character reliving their trauma. Part of this fic deals with the ending of the Overlord DLC, and the background of a Colonist Shepard.

Words: 1,277 words.

Ship: No Ship! Just some good old fashioned friendship between Rooney and Tali.

AO3 Link

Rooney shakes, anger overwhelming them. How could Archer do this to someone, much less his own brother? And he wants Rooney to leave David with him? No. No fucking way. They close their eyes, and they’re back on Mindoir, holding Jack’s dead body again. “ROONEY!” Jack’s screams reverberate in their skull. Shaking their head, Rooney reminds themself to focus on David. David needs their help; they can help him.

“No,’ Rooney cuts him off harshly, curled fists trembling, ‘I’ve seen enough of your cruelty to know that David will never be free from it. He is coming with me.” Rooney will find David somewhere safe. They’ll search the whole galaxy if they have to. Cerberus will never lay another hand on him.

They turn away from him, determined to get David out of that hellish contraption. “NO! You need to leave him; David is too valuable!” Rooney’s vision turns red, their anger spiking. All Archer sees is a fucking opportunity, another tool to use in service to the Illusive Man. Out of the corner of their eye, they see Archer aim his gun at them. As he pulls the trigger, Rooney ducks beneath the shot. Big mistake. People who shoot at Commander Shepard don’t typically survive.

Rooney pulls out their own pistol as they turn to face him. They whip it across his face, Archer stumbling backward. His nose cracks, blood streaming from it. He grunts and Rooney punches him with their left fist. The doors to this torture chamber open, but Rooney doesn’t acknowledge it. They’re too angry to look, focused on wanting to make Archer feel a fraction of the pain that David felt. They punch Archer again, knocking him to the ground. Rooney brings their pistol up to his face as they kneel beside him. They should put a bullet in his head, do the galaxy a favor. Rooney closes their eyes, the vision of Jack’s lifeless eyes staring up at them. They can hear him scream in their head again. Shit.

“Shepard!” They look over to the door, finding Tali and Thane looking concerned. Especially Tali. She looks horrified as if this isn’t the Rooney that she knows. Rooney looks back at Archer. They should kill him, but instead, they will show him mercy, albeit cruel mercy. They’ll show him the mercy he never showed David. The mercy Batarian Slavers never showed Mindoir.

Rooney snarls, “If you ever think about coming after David, this bullet will be waiting for you. Then, we’ll see who’s valuable.”

Archer looks up at his brother, seeing him for the first time. “Where are you going to take him?”

“Grissom Academy,’ Rooney says, standing up, ‘They have the resources to help David without torturing him.” Rooney holsters their pistol, looking at Tali and Thane. Thane looks relieved, but Tali still looks troubled, watching Rooney carefully. Bringing their right hand up to their comms, Rooney calls for Joker. “Contact Grissom Academy. We have someone who needs their help.”

Rooney’s attention returns to David. In the back of their mind, they can still Jack’s still body, his blood on their hands. A tear leaks out of their eye, and Rooney wipes it away. They couldn’t save Jack, but they can save David.

--

The elevator doors to Rooney’s quarters opens followed by the sound of someone’s footsteps. Rooney looks up from their report to the Illusive Man, the one they’ve been trying to write for the last two hours. Tali stands beside their desk, wringing her hands nervously. Leaning back in their chair, Rooney raises an eyebrow. “Is there an issue, Tali? Is anyone from the Cerberus crew giving you trouble?”

She shakes her head, her voice unsteady. “No, it’s not Cerberus.”

“Then, what is it?”

“I wanted to check on you. You seemed…” She trails off, unsure of how to continue.

Oh.“Let’s talk.” Rooney says, getting up out of their desk chair. They motion for Tali to follow them, heading down towards the couch. Rooney sits on the dark leather couch, patting for Tali to sit down next to them. She sits next to them, a few inches between her and Rooney. “I’ve never really told you about my childhood, have I?”

Tali shakes her head. “No. You’ve mentioned a few things here and there. All I know is that you grew up on a colony, Mindoir. I read up on it; I heard it was attacked by Batarian Slavers.”

Rooney nods. “When I was sixteen. I lost my whole family in the attack on Mindoir, including my younger brother, Jack.”

“Oh.” Rooney hears the dawning realization in her voice.

“Yeah. I’ve worked through it, but it just hit me like a sledgehammer today. Jack wasn’t autistic like David, but he was bright, far too bright to be stuck on a colony like Mindoir,’ They look over at Tali, smiling, ‘You two probably would have gotten along.”

“I’m sure we would have.”

Rooney leans forwards, hands folded together. They sniffle, tears in their eyes as they focus on their hands. “When I was a kid, I was always in charge of looking after Jack. He used to get picked on sometimes, and I was his protector. And I failed-“ They stop, the guilt threatening to overwhelm them. Tali scoots closer, placing her hand on Rooney’s shoulder.

“Guess I just couldn’t understand how someone could do that to their own brother. His brother is alive and healthy, and mine is six feet under. He should be cherishing the time he has with David, not experimenting on him like a lab rat. I would give anything in the galaxy to have one more moment with my brother, and he treats David like a tool.” Rooney’s voice trembles, angry at the injustice of it all.

Tail pulls Rooney into her arms. They stiffen for a moment before letting Tali pull them into a hug. They hug her back, cherishing the touch of a friend. “I’m sorry, Shepard.”

They sniffle. “Not your fault. This just got personal.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. Archer is a bosh’tet!”

“The biggest.” Rooney grins as the pair laugh.

Tali clears her throat when the pair finish laughing. “Shepard, could you tell me more about your family? I’d like to hear about them if you’re okay with that.”

Rooney nods as Tali releases them. The pair lean back on the couch. Tali curls into Rooney’s side, her helmet resting on Rooney’s shoulder. They pull up their omni-tool, a photo projecting from it. In the photo, a teenaged Rooney stands on the left in the center, next to two teenage boys. Behind the kids are four adults. Love and grief overtake Rooney as they start to tell Tali about their family.

--

Beside them, Tali yawns, the fourth one within twenty minutes. “Let’s get you to bed.” They say, switching off their omni-tool.

“I want to hear more stories!”

“And you can. But you’re tired, and we can always talk tomorrow.” Rooney says, getting up from the couch and stretching their limbs. They hold out their hand for Tali to take to help her up. As Rooney pulls her up, they say, “Thanks for listening to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about my family, and it was nice to relive those memories.”

Tali hugs them again, Rooney returning the hug. “It was nice to hear about them, Shepard. I’m always here to listen if you want to talk.”

They nod. “I know, but you know how I am. You’d have a better chance of getting a Krogan to talk about their feelings.”

She pulls away, laughing. “Oh trust, me. We all know, Shepard.”

#whumptober2021 #no.10 #mercy #altprompt #fic #mass effect #trauma tw #torture tw #death mention tw #masseffectfanfic #commander shepard #tali'zorah #tali zorah vas normandy #tali'zorah nar rayya #themshep #the rooney fic tag #kate writes #i think this one turned out pretty good!!!

[ambrial-blog]

Was It Worth It.

Was it worth it? Moxie's voice hisses at him, chained to the wall where Blitz dare not tread. It was a forbidden room: A sacrificial room. Blitzo's heartbeat thudded in his as he looked around for a way to get to Moxie. "Choosing him over us! Yells Moxie. "Open your eyes Blitzo, he is using you to achieve overlord status. At first, Blitzo had been all in, sick and tired of Stolas. Even if the Owl prince didn't mean to, he had chipped away at something he shouldn't have, something buried deep within Blitz himself.

A glimmer of murderous intent, Striker had caught a glimpse at what simmered beneath Blitzo's skin during the pain games.  But as Blitzo sat on his throne surrounded by the finer things in life. The was one thing Striker was adamant about him giving up, one thing Striker drilled into him from the very start. "That within these cobblestone walls, that once stood the pious Goetic mansion, no sliver of a  previous life was permitted.  Instead of opening his eyes, Striker strived to keep them closed. Focused on him and whatever current mission they were undertaking. They were side by side through it all,  but to be truthfully honest, Blitzo never felt so lonely. Anything that had to do with the former life that he tried to hold onto, Blitzo had to hide from Striker.

The Overlord Imp was bound to find out about his betrayal. His obligation as a father outweighed the need for a mate.  He now walks a thin line between loyalties, unable to leave the castle walls. There are others like Striker posted at various intervals of the castle, rooms he is not permitted to go into. But Blitzo could no longer ignore the nagging sensation at the back of his head.  He followed his instincts into a room that was heavily guarded by Striker's men. Serpents: with a wraithlike appearance posted on all sides. Only to find Moxie barely conscious and bleeding onto the floor. "Lord Blitzo, I suggest you turn around because, on the next full moon, this little lamb will be sacrificed." Speaks the Guard reaching for Blitz's arm. "No, No, he is with me! Shouts Blitzo yanking his arm back.  Moxie looks up, blood near the corners of his mouth.  A light of hope flickers within his eyes as he struggles against his shackles upon hearing Blitzo's voice.

Blitzo rams his elbow into one of the Guard's chests. The serpent doubles over as two others come, each putting a hand to Blitzo's arms. Blitz throws one into the wall while flipping the other onto his back, punching his face quickly.

"Blitz behind you!" Shouts Moxie in a raspy voice, his eyes wide and fearful.

Blitzo falters upon hearing his voice: crack in his ears, his hand around a guard's throat. Striker's personal Guard has an arm wrapped around Blitzo's neck. "That enough, Lord Blitz, that vermin isn't worth your time. Please come with me quietly; Lord Striker is waiting for you in the den, or is there a problem? Jaxx inquires. Was there a problem? Blitz laughed bitterly, glaring up at Jaxx.

"Why? Demanded Blitz, is Moxie set up to be your sacrificial lamb! You bastard!  and why is Striker going after members of my family?" He hisses, breaking Jaxx's hold pressing a dagger to the Guard's throat as he waits for his answer, "You need to take that up with Lord Striker, Master Blitzo" Jaxx answers his eyes a steely green darkens.  As he watches, Blitzo lowers the dagger.

"I think I will Jaxx, in the meantime make Moxie comfortable."

Blitz couldn't do anything at the moment to help out Mox, not without blowing everything he worked so hard for.  

In the wee hours of the morning, sunlight filters in through the translucent curtains. A letter arrives through an open window the currier: A grey, prestigious owl.  It was a letter from Stolas, A Stolas he never really got to know. Blitzo petted the owl, And when he opened it and read what was inside. he knew he had made a terrible mistake.   His eyes widened. He could almost hear Stolas as his eyes skimmed the letter.   "My dearest Blitzy,  even now as I write this letter, I can feel death's icy caress. My hand quivers, and my heart pangs upon seeing you with him. I never knew how much you hated me or the burden I was to you. I hope one day you can forgive me for all the trouble, I was to you. I just wanted love, to be loved. My Blitzy, I know how hard your life was; I just wanted to be a part of it. I don't blame you, my love. You did what you thought was right.   Blood speckled the letter, forming a heart as a single owl feather was pressed into the letter.

"A memento, My dear Blitzy of the love I still hold for you." Stolas.

Blitzo must now gather the courage to face his past and confront his present. How many family members had Striker stashed here? How many were alive? Why was Striker brutally honest about something and deceptively cunning about others?.  Blitz could feel the pull, the magnetic attraction that had him coming back for more. It was like a bad addiction, and Striker was the drug. Striker knew the effect he had on Blitzo and used it as a form of control.

As Blitzo's boots clacked across the marbled corridors as he sought out a way of freeing Moxie and finding Millie and Loony.  Trying to find answers to his numerous questions.  Striker will stop at nothing to keep Blitzo in the dark until he has Alastor's head pinned to his wall in his trophy room.  It would make an excellent little addition to the ones he had already mounted to the wall- his growing collection.    Dark laughter resonates throughout the room. A shadowy figure sits beneath the severed head of the Goeita Prince on a throne made of ebony. His citrine yellow eyes pierce's the Guard that kneeled before him. As a clawed figure tip swirls the blooded wine.   "So you've come to gravel at my feet," hisses the Overlord. "Blitzy gave you the slip. Why am I not surprised? Striker growls. "If only you had been doing as I require, none of this would be necessary," spoke Striker as two of his personal guards flanked the fledgling. "Blitzo would have remained blissfully unaware of the whole thing. Now you have him questioning my whereabouts every full moon." "Your Lordship, I-I- please have mercy, he surprised us, that's all."

"Now your telling me, you have reason to believe my mate, is plotting against me, And you had the gull to inform him of about our plans, for our little sacrificial lamb!" snarls Striker, his claws digging into the arms of his throne. "And now, you have reason to believe he is planning a rescue. Did you at least slaughter the owl that sent him this letter! "Someone is toying with me, Zarr. Do I look like a man that likes to be toyed with!" Zarr's body trembles as he clutches the other Guard's forearm for support. The Guard pulls him onto his feet a knife is placed at his gullet. "On second thought proclaimed Striker, I might still have some use for you yet Zarr but you need to be taught a lesson." "Take him to the torturing chambers and begin removing his eyes and tongue and feed them to that hell-hound down in the dungeons. "I haven't provided for her in a while. I bet she is ravenous. Zarr screamed as they led him out of the trophy room. But, the serpent Overlord didn't realize the connection  Blitzo has with the radio-talk overlord demon- a link that could destroy everything they worked so hard to rebuild. It was getting harder and harder to keep Blitzo from discovering the horrible truth surrounding Goeita's death and its repercussions on the world. As the truth starts to unravel, the gunslinger will have to scramble to keep up his charade. Blitzo is beginning to slip out from under with each step he takes towards his family, it one step further from the Overlord.

With A candelabra in hand, Blitzo descended down the narrow winding stairs. It was dark, cold, and damp the further he trod. Until he came across a mammoth-sized kennel.  He kneeled before the cage placing the Calabria down, his eyes scanning the far reaches of the cell there; lying in piss and blood was Loona gnawing on an eyeball.  One crimson eye shot open as she spat out the eye into a corner. The sight of Blitzo made her rise to her feet. She grimaced as she walked. There was a scar running across her eye as she dragged her chains, trying to get closer, needing to know that this was real. that Blitzo had finely come for her. "Loony, Loony, Loony," cries Blitzo, I've found you!"

#Hellvua Boss #Fanfiction #Coming Soon to The Cowboy and The Harlequin" #look for part 2 (Coming soon) #Hazbin Hotel

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

Can I have Rodimus getting spitroasted by Magnus and Thunderclash? ;))

...plus a little more ;)

Additional content: cum swallowing, multiple orgasms, (slight) belly bulge, walked in on, thigh job, hand job, blow job

....ye

Before he knows what exactly is happening, Thunderclash is pushed against Rodimus’ desk with a surprising amount of strength from the speedster that has his helm spinning. He looks down to meet optics burning into him that pin him to the spot and make his spark burn in his chest that heightens as Rodimus’ hands drag down his sides, digging into him. Those hands are claiming him, his thoughts provide oh so helpfully and he dismisses the thought as quickly as it appears.

“I want to suck your spike,” Rodimus declares over Thunderclash’s chest, his hot vents tickling Thunderclash’s plating.

Thunderclash swallows thickly and he knows he’s panting already but he can’t get himself to stop as he nods.

“I-I’d like that,” Thunderclash feels the whirl of his spark in his intake and grips tightly onto the desk as Rodimus slides down over his frame until his mouth is hovering over Thunderclash’s spike cover, “I’d like that very much.”

Rodimus smirks up at him, his gaze dimming with hunger and he closes his optics as he places a searing kiss on Thunderclash’s plating and licks over the seam, the plating snapping open for him. He chuckles and Thunderclash feels heat rising to his face, embarrassed at how much Rodimus is effecting him, at how easily Rodimus could get to him. Then, his captain is running his glossa over the tip of his still depressurized spike and he forgets any shame and moans low in his chest. Rodimus takes the tip of his half-pressurized spike into his mouth and sucks hard while running his glossa underneath it, igniting the nodes there. Thunderclash leans heavily against the desk, dizzy with the feeling of heat burning into his very core, making it feel like his processor is melting. He can’t think about anything except  Rodimus’ mouth around his spike and chokes out a half cry as his spike suddenly pressurizes fully into Rodimus’ intake. He’s about to apologize but the words die on his glossa as Rodimus moans around his spike and as he sucks on it hard.

The door to the office opens suddenly and a datapad falls to the ground with a loud clatter and Thunderclash meets Ultra Magnus’ stunned expression and immediately wants to die as something aking to shame burns in his chest. Unbothered, Rodimus frees Thunderclash’s spike from his mouth with a pop then takes it one hand to stroke it lazily as he places an open-mouthed kiss at the base of it. Momentarily, Thunderclash is distracted by the yellow hand squeezing his spike just below the tip, clashing with the stripes of teal and the soft lip brushing his spike. Rodimus runs his glossa along the base of Thunderclash’s spike as he looks up at him, his blue optics freezing Thunderclash to the spot, unwilling and near unable to move. As he almost casually jerks Thunderclash off, Rodimus presses his cheek against Thunderclash’s pelvic plating as he looks to Ultra Magnus who now has a noticeable blush on his faceplates.

“Close and lock the door,” Rodimus orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Ultra Magnus obeys then his senses seem to come back to him somewhat as he asks, “What?”

Rodimus looks back up to Thunderclash, looking for something while calling back over to Ultra Magnus, “Join us.”

Thunderclash shrugs then nods and Rodimus gives him a brilliant smile, clearly delighted as he looks back over to Ultra Magnus who hesitates at the other side of the room. Ultra Magnus tears his optics from Rodimus to Thunderclash who beckons him over with one hand. Outbid by even himself, Ultra Magnus walks over and kneels behind Rodimus, running his hand over Rodimus’ hip then lower to his valve getting him to gasp against Thunderclash. Rodimus takes Thunderclash back into his mouth, taking his spike in one go, his intake tightening on Thunderclash’s spike as he swallows experimentally getting him to completely forget his embarrassment.

“You’re so wet,” Ultra Magnus grumbles low and Thunderclash can hear the soft, wet sounds of Ultra Magnus’ thick fingers thrusting in and out of Rodimus’ valve and moans.

Then, Ultra Magnus hooks an arm under Rodimus and stands up, his other hand hooking one of Rodimus’ legs up. Reacting quickly, Thunderclash wraps an arm under Rodimus to help support him. Now fully off the ground, Rodimus stills around Thunderclash’s spike and moans deeply as Ultra Magnus pushes slowly into his valve and lifts up both of his legs. Rodimus digs his fingers into the seams at Thunderclash’s hips, getting Thunderclash to thrust sharply into his throat and hums with approval. Getting the hint, Thunderclash thrusts slow and deep into Rodimus’ intake, Rodimus’ wet glossa running over the nodes along the bottom of his spike. Ultra Magnus thrusts into Rodimus’ valve steadily and hard enough he occasionally pushes Rodimus further onto Thunderclash’s spike. Rodimus makes quiet noises, whimpering and moaning around Thunderclash’s spike as they thrust into him, oral fluid running somewhat from his mouth. His lips tighten around Thunderclash’s spike as he sucks idly while Thunderclash practically uses him like a frag toy and Ultra Magnus’ spike stretches his valve. 

One sharp thrust from Ultra Magnus has Rodimus taking Thunderclash’s spike into his intake roughly and Thunderclash feels himself shake, knowing he’s close to overload. Carefully, he pulls his spike from Rodimus’ mouth with a low grunt and shivers when Rodimus presses his lips to the tip lick over the slit, his hot vents brushing over Thunderclash’s spike.

“I’m close,” Thunderclash pants as Rodimus’ frame bounces in his arm with every thrust from Ultra Magnus.

“Then why did you stop,” Rodimus replies breathlessly sounding frustrated.

“I…” Thunderclash trails off then he clears his intake to ask, “Face or intake?”

“Intake,” Rodimus gasps and moans as Ultra Magnus thrusts roughly into him.

Thunderclash pushes his spike past Rodimus’s lips, his spike suddenly deep in Rodimus’ intake as Ultra Magnus’s thrust pushes him forward onto Thunderclash’s spike, shocking both of them. Rodimus sighs and swallows around Thunderclash’s spike making him moan. Thunderclash thrusts into the tight, wet heat of Rodimus’ intake with sharp thrusts until charge is peaking off his frame and he stiffens as his spike twitches in Rodimus’ mouth, spilling transfluid into Rodimus’ intake that Rodimus swallows down as best as he can eagerly. Venting heavily, Thunderclash pulls out of Rodimus’ mouth, a strand of transfluid follows his spike and stains Rodimus’ lips. He moves to lift Rodimus as he moves closer to Ultra Magnus who shifts his grip on Rodimus so Rodimus is all but pressed between them. Looking down, he can see Rodimus’ valve lips spread wide, stretched as far as they can go by Ultra Magnus’ spike and watches almost entranced by the way his plating bulges slightly every time Ultra Magnus thrusts into him. Rodimus’ hands dig into Thunderclash’s shoulders bringing his attention back to him and he leans in to kiss away the transfluid at the corner of Rodimus’ lips.

Thunderclash puts a hand against Rodimus’ abdominal plating, feeling the press of Ultra Magnus’ spike as it pushes into Rodimus then trails lower to take Rodimus’ spike in his hand. He kisses Rodimus, pushing his glossa between Rodimus’ lips and tasting himself on Rodimus’ glossa while stroking Rodimus’ spike in time with Magnus’ thrusts. Rodimus pants and moans into his mouth, wrapping his arms around Thunderclash’s neck. Then, transfluid spills over Thunderclash’s hand as Rodimus screams into his mouth in overload and Thunderclash can feel his frame still with Ultra Magnus who overloads deep in Rodimus’ valve. Thunderclash breaks the kiss and Rodimus’ helm falls to his shoulder while Thunderclash pulls away enough to see transfluid push past Ultra Magnus’ spike from Rodimus’ valve to drip onto the floor. He swallows down a moan as Magnus pulls out of Rodimus and transfluid gushes from Rodimus’ valve who shivers in his arms at the feeling.

Pushing Rodimus against Magnus, Thunderclash runs his fingers through Rodimus’ folds and over his node. Rodimus pulls him back into a kiss as his hips thrust involuntarily into Thunderclash’s touch, demanding more. Thunderclash presses his spike against Rodimus’ entrance and pushes in slowly, savoring the feelings of Rodimus’ soaked valve around his spike. He loses all sense of control, and thrusts fast and hard into Rodimus making him whimper as he takes him against Magnus. Magnus’ spike, hot and firm presses against them and thrusts between Thunderclash’s thighs in time with his thrusts into Rodimus. Rodimus breaks the kiss so he can vent as he cries out loudly, feeling like he could break as he writhes in Magnus’ grip with Thunderclash thrusting into him like this, pressing against his ceiling node hard with every thrust. His optics white-out and his valve clenches down on Thunderclash’s spike, getting him to overlord with a yell, screaming Rodimus’ name. Ultra Magnus grunts over them and Thunderclash can feel hot transfluid run down his thighs as Magnus’ spike pulses between them.

They cling to each other as they collapse to the floor, venting heavily as they come down from overload. Thunderclash presses kisses thoughtlessly all over Rodimus’ face and shoulders, getting him to giggle and sigh into the touch. Thunderclash pulls out of Rodimus and Magnus releases him, letting Rodimus fall limply into Thunderclash’s arms, his optics growing dull with exhaustion. Magnus rises shakily and opens the door to peek out and check the halls then gestures for Thunderclash to come. He nods and hefts Rodimus up as he stands, faltering for a moment as his legs give slightly beneath him then walks to follow Magnus, quickly moving through the halls to get Rodimus back to his quarters.

Once they’re all cleaned up, they lay Rodimus in his berth and are about to leave until Rodimus drags them both down to join him. Caught in a surprisingly strong grip, they both give in to their fate and fall into recharge with him.

#valveplug #rodimus #thunderclash #ultra magnus #rodiclash #rodimags #hot magnum thunder #idk #nubbs writes #queuebbs #Anonymous

[vomitboi]

A Short Cinder Fall Analysis

So, after watching Episode 5 of Volume 8, I noticed a rather interesting statement that Cinder made that actually helps give more insight to her state of mind.  So I decided to make a brief analysis on her!  Keep in mind, though, there will be some spoilers for Volume 8, so please don’t read this until you’re fully caught up with the show!  (This also includes Episode 5, so for members who don’t have FIRST, keep that in mind.)

When looking into why a character has a certain personality or mindset, it’s important to factor in their upbringing, as that usually helps bring out a motive for a character.  At this point, the first scene of Volume 8 confirms that Cinder Fall is a representation of Cinderella (not that it was hard to decipher that beforehand thanks to her namesake).  Everyone and their mother already knows about the Cinderella story, and if you don’t...then where the heck have you been this whole time?!  But I digress.  The matter of the situation is that Cinderella was constantly ridiculed by her stepmother and her children, forced to clean the entire mansion (which was likely impossible due to its sheer size) along with several other forms of mistreatment.  Cinder Fall likely went through that same trauma, and that power dynamic left a psychological scar that affected how she developed in life up until now.  It would explain why Cinder is so set on gaining the powers of not just the Fall Maiden, but also the other maidens throughout the series, as she hates that feeling of powerlessness from her childhood.

(If you want more information on abuse and the different ways that people deal with the trauma, I suggest checking the blog @grxmmslayer​ made here.  It gives some important insight, as there have been multiple characters, both heroes and villains, that have undergone some form of abuse.)

“I want to be strong.  I want to be feared.  I want to be powerful.” ~Cinder Fall, Beginning of the End (Volume 3 Episode 7) 

Her desire to grow stronger also manifests abusive tendencies towards those beneath her, likely in the same way that she had to undergo through her life, as you can see later on in the very same episode:

Emerald: "We don't need him!  Everything was going fine!" Cinder: Slaps her.  "Do NOT mistake your place."

What’s interesting about this little statement is how ironic and hypocritical it is.  As a subject to Salem, she constantly questions her decisions when it prevents her from the chance of gaining more maiden powers, runs off to Amity Arena behind her back to fight the Winter Maiden, and outright declares this in the midst of her battle:

Clearly she does not see herself as beneath Salem, or at the very least, she doesn’t want to.   She can’t stand on being on the lower end of a power dynamic.  Even though she may kneel before Salem and proclaim, “I am nothing without you,” that is not where her heart truly lies.  In reality, she follows Salem mainly, if not only, because she will gain more power from it.  Power is everything to her, and she will stop at nothing if it means she can grow stronger and squash those beneath her.

My prediction is that she will eventually try to revolt against Salem once she believes she gains enough power (and hubris).  Of course, her plan will burst into flames, pun entirely detected, and Salem will either further humiliate her or outright kill her off the moment she is done being useful.  I do not believe that she will be redeemed by the end of this show, and she will likely watch everything she worked hard for fall apart, and perhaps even have a mental breakdown like a certain daughter of an also fiery overlord in a certain series all about bending elements.  And when that happens, there are going to be a lot of people that will pity her.

//So what do you guys think about this?  I personally welcome any and all comments as long as they are constructive.  If you want to elaborate on any of the points I mentioned, point out something I missed, or even disagree with some of the things I said, please feel free to!  At the end of the day, I’m just trying to learn more about this series and this character, so I’d be more than grateful if you opened my mind to different things. ^^

#rwby #rwby volume 8 #rwby v8 #rwby volume 8 episode 1 #rwby volume 8 episode 5 #rwby analysis #cinder fall #cinder fall analysis #abuse #analysis #cinderella #crtq

[liaswritesrobots]

Far From Home Chapter 10

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, Gore, Blood, Violence

Characters: Overlord, Sunder, Froid

Other Tags: Unrequited love, Canon Divergent, Alternate Universe, Reader Insert, Gender Neutral Pronouns, Xeno, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Threats of Violence, Violence, Gore, Blood, Stockholm Syndrome, Mentioned PTSD, Implied Abuse, Implied Voyeurism, Swearing, Character Death, Forced Relationship, Pining, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Words: 2081

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You slowly open your eyes to see the field of flowers, a blue sky with fluffy clouds, and the warm sun shining across the land. You rise up and look beneath you and realize you're on a sleeping Sunder's stomach. You don't know exactly when you fell asleep but you remember the two of you talking through late hours of the night about Earth and Cybertron. You look over to Sunder's face and smile. He seems so peaceful when he's asleep. You crawl up to his chest, to the slit between the spikes and lay yourself there. You listen to the hum of his spark for the first time.

It's so... different. It sounds so different from Overlord's... from Froid's. It's a low rumbling purr in your ear, like soft thunder that's so far away. It's somewhat calming actually.

Sunder opens his optics to the bright sky above. It takes him a moment to realize where he is but when he tilts his head slightly to the side and sees flowers he remembers that the two of you spent the night talking until you fell asleep on him, he didn't want to risk waking you so he just laid back and fell asleep too.

He looks down to see you curled up on his chest, your ear pressed against it listening to his spark, and smiles. He raises his left servo and places his index digit on your back, startling you.

"Sorry," he chuckles, "I didn't mean to startle you." 

You quickly jerk your head off his chest, an embarrassed look on your face, "It's okay, I should have gotten off of you when I woke up."

"I don't mind." He says placing his thumb on your back and lightly rubbing it.

You lay your head back down, listening to the rumble of his spark, soft hums form in his vocalizer as he watches you. He wishes he could have this moment forever. He wishes he could have you forever. That you two could just stay here and make a life for yourselves away from everyone and everything else that might bother the two of you.

He knows that wouldn't make you happy though, and as much as he wants you, he finds himself wanting nothing more in the entire galaxy than for you to be happy. 

He lets out a small sigh, "I suppose we should head back to the ship soon." He says putting the flowers he picked for you in his subspace.

"Yeah probably. This planet is nice though, thank you for bringing me here."

He gives you a warm smile before gently placing you on the ground. He starts to stand up but stops midway and quickly perks his head towards the sky behind him.

"Is something wrong?" You ask, trying to see what he's looking at.

"I hear a ship."

You two are frozen in place, you standing and him kneeling, as you two see a twinkling in the sky and the sound of a spacecraft getting louder. You wonder if it's someone looking for Sunder or just some aliens looking for a place to rest. The ship gets closer and you can make out to be a Cybertronian spacecraft… it almost looks like…

"LOOK OUT!" Sunder shouts, as he quickly throws himself over you. You hear gun fire from the ship's blasters hit the ground around you. One of the shots strikes Sunder's back and he lets out a pained grunt.

He looks back and his optics grow wide. The ship's image mirror in his fearful optics, and it's heading straight for the two of you! 

Sunder hastily snatches you off the ground, cupping you against his abdomen with one servo, and starts running. You hear gun fire continue behind him, and the sound of a ship gaining on the two of you. You squeeze yourself tight against Sunder, hands clenching into fists and tears starting to well in your eyes as the sound of the ground around you blowing up rings through the air.

The ship nosedives towards Sunder, causing him to try to run faster. He looks back to see that it's only seconds away from impact with him and he dives to the ground. The ship suddenly pulls up, missing his helm by a few inches. The ship flies over to a patch of the undamaged flowers and lands.

Sunder slightly pulls his servo that you're cupped in away, "Are you okay?!" he asks with worry lacing his tone, afraid that he may have accidentally hurt you in the dive.

"I'm okay," you say, wiping a tear away from your eyes, "What's going on?"  You look around at the land and your heart sinks, chunks of it have been destroyed and some of the flowers have caught fire, "Why would anyone do this? Who's even attacking us in a place like this?"

"I-"

"Tsk, tsk."

A lump rises in your throat and your eyes fill with terror.

"You really haven't forgotten me so quickly have you, my love?" Overlord asks, feigning hurt.

You start turning back to look at him.

"No!" Sunder says cupping his servo over you again, "Don't look at him. You won't have to look at him ever again."

"Making promises you can't keep, hm?"

Sunder jerks his head up with a scowl. He notes the big gun in his servos and the deranged look in Overlord's optics and grin, if this mech wasn't completely unhinged before he sure is now.

Good.

Sunder knows unhinged. He knows it well. He knows how to use that to his advantage, both his own and his opponent's.

"Y/n," he whispers down at you as he moves his servo so that you can see his face, "He has a gun. He hasn't used it yet because I have you. As soon as I put you down I want to run to the ship and-"

"What?! No! I'm not leaving you behind!" Your voice cracks as you try not to cry.

Sunder's spark pulses at the exclamation and he gives you a melancholic smile, "You have to. I can handle him. I want you to release Froid, he can protect you… get you far away from here if I do happen to fail. He can take you to Earth."

"I…" tears well in your eyes again, " I want you to go to Earth with me! I want us to go together! You asked what would make me happy… us going to Earth together would!"

His smile gets bigger, "Okay then. We'll go together."

Before you can get another word out he sets you among some flowers to keep you hidden then stands up. You begin running like Sunder told to, you look back to Sunder as you run with an ache in your heart. He looks up at Overlord with his blue optics glowing and his grin wide and toothy, a look you haven't seen since you left the prison. 

"I am unsure how you managed to turn yourself out again, or how you found us... but your life ends here."

Overlord scoffs and rolls his optics, "As if I'd lie there and die just because some delusional mech turned me inside out," He begins to step closer, "And your trail wasn't too hard to follow, I just had to sort through news headlines. Did you know there's been a string of gruesome murders recently? The victims minds were completely wiped, quite tragic really." Overlord says with a smug smile.

Sunder's expression does not change, yet mentally he's scolding himself for not being more careful. 

"It is not tragic to be made anew, to have your sins washed away and be made a new being free of the stench of guilt and regret! I can show you how glorious it can be! How beautiful life can be without the burden of your sins!"

"No thank you I quite like my sin actually." Overlord snarks as he lifts his gun and fires at Sunder.

Sunder dodges the attack and gets closer.

"I'll just turn you inside out again then. I'll make sure you forget how to turn back this time."

"Good luck with that," Overlord smirks, knocking on his helm, "I've taken precautions with some special platings to make sure that nasty little accident won't happen again."

Sunder's smile turns to a grimace. His optics glow brighter, so brightly that it looks like lightning is coming from them, and Overlord's arm twitches as he struggles to keep it steady, he snarls as he tries to steady it with his other servo.

"What the hell?!" Overlord shouts, "You shouldn't even be able to do this!"

Sunder smiles again,

"You think a mere plating can defy a God?! I am Fear! I am Judgement! I am DEATH! Your mind is not completely off limits to me! You are a worm, writhing before Mortilus in your filth! You should be ashamed to even face me! To offend me with the foul stench of sin that lays thick upon you! You are-"

"You talk too much." Overlord says steadying his arm, aiming his gun right at Sunder's chest, and pulling the trigger.

The shot can be heard for miles, a loud clank and thud causes you to turn back just as you reach the ship.

"SUNDER!" You scream out as you look back to see him drop to his knees and clutch his chest.

"Ah, there you are my dear." Overlord muses to himself looking over towards Sunder's ship. He looks back to Sunder, who is kneeled over with energon dripping from the wound he's trying so hard to cover with his servo. Overlord walks over to the mech and points his gun directly at his helm, "I can't say it's been fun, but I am a bit tickled to be able to kill such a notorious Mech. I almost admire your brutal work. Sadly all things must eventually end."

Sunder huffs and looks up at Overlord, a fire still burning bright in his determined optics.

"HEY!" You shout, turning both mechs attention towards you jumping up and down and waving your arms on the ship's dock.

'What are they doing?!' Sunder thinks to himself, 'I told them to free Froid and go.'

"OVERLORD! I'M HERE! I'M HERE LOVE! COME ON, THIS SHIP IS BIG! IT'S PERFECT FOR US!" You yell, still jumping to hold his attention, "COME ON LET'S GO, DON'T MAKE ME WAIT ANY LONGER, I MISSED YOU SO MUCH AND CAN'T WAIT FOR IT TO BE THE TWO OF US AGAIN!"

A sparkle gleams in Overlord's optics at the exclamation.

Sunder realizes now what you're doing, and he takes the opening you've given him, with one swift movement he jumps up and clamps his teeth down on Overlord's servo, causing the blue mech to let out a pained groan. He bites down hard and Overlord drops his gun. He takes his other servo and pushes Sunder's face, trying to get the mech to let go.

Sunder bites down as hard as he can, denting Overlord's servo and scraping paint, he pulls back hard, ripping Overlord's servo clean off as the mech screams in pain. 

"Damn you!" Overlord screams, falling backwards and gripping his wrist as wires spark and energon pours out.

Sunder picks up the gun Overlord dropped and makes a run for the ship, still gripping his bleeding chest.

"GET INSIDE Y/N!" Sunder yells.

You do as you're told this time, running all the way up the ramp before turning back to wait on Sunder. A wave of relief hits you as you see Sunder come up the ramp and hit a button out of your reach to close the ship's dock.

That relief doesn't last long though, as he spits out Overlord's servo and drops to his own servos and knees only a few steps in.

"Sunder!" You rush over to him and place your hands on his arm.

"You have... to free Froid," He huffs, "He can fly... the ship, keep you... safe."

"Sunder you can-" You start, but he interrupts you.

"NO TIME!" He yells, startling you.

You look at him with sorrow and worry filling your eyes before nodding and heading to the room Froid is held in. He watches you leave his side and so many thoughts and voices fill his mind. He watches hazily as you run along the hall, vision drifting in and out, before finally passing out in a pool of his own energon.

#Sunder #Transformers #IDW #Overlord #long post #my writing #Far From Home #Far From Home fic #blood #gore #swearing #violence #xeno #unrequited love #threats of violence #canon divergence #Canon divergent #kidnapping #minor character death #mentions of ptsd #implied voyeurism #implied abuse #stockholm syndrome #reader insert #gender neutral pronouns #ask to tag #cross posting #all caps

[notwhelmedyet]

Dratchtember Day 3

Prompt: Bloodshed Angst & hurt/comfort - Drift isn’t exiled after Overlord’s attack. Instead he’s stripped of his Autobrand and imprisoned in the brig. This is what happens next. (also on ao3 here)

"You mind if I come in?" Ratchet asked.

Drift stared sullenly at him, unmoved like he hadn't heard the question. Damn, maybe he hadn't - internally, Ratchet was vibrating with urgency, the need to get hooked into Drift's medical readouts. But he forced his body to stillness, redirected his fury down to dispassionate diagnoses. He wasn't going inside without Drift's okay.

Drift seemed to realize that, inclining his head to welcome Ratchet into the cell.

Ratchet lowered the forceshield and unlocked the door, coming to kneel beside the bench at the back of the cell. "You going to tell me who did this?" Ratchet asked, hooking in and letting the numbers replace his guesses.

Drift shook his head.

"You protecting them or punishing yourself?" Ratchet asked. "We both know you weren't behind Overlord - certainly not alone."

Drift's lips curled, revealing fangs still bright with fuel. "You sound like them."

Ratchet put him back together in silence, what he could repair outside the medibay. He lingered on cleaning the cut on Drift's helm - superficial, unimportant except for the part where it'd nearly given Ratchet spark failure when he'd first gotten to the brig, seen half of Drift's face streaked with fuel.

"If this happens again, I'm going to go to - " Ratchet's words died on his lips. He couldn't go to Rodimus, not after how the sentencing had gone. Ultra Magnus was gone. Red Alert was in a drawer in the morgue. "If I have to lock myself in here with you, I'm going to stop you from throwing yourself on a blade out of guilt," Ratchet declared.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to die," Drift rasped. "Dying's too easy."

Ratchet wondered if he meant for them or for himself. He suspected Drift meant both. And damn, he was going to get Rung down to speak to Drift, he was going to do something -

But in the short term there was a wormhole and an urgent comm and the best Ratchet could do was to promise he'd be back as soon as he could.

---

The ship was full of bodies; mostly legislators, some crew. Tailgate was dying and there was a limited window of time that any of Tyrest's miracles could save him. Ratchet didn't have the luxury of going down to the brig to check on one self-sacrificing scapegoat.

He went anyway.

The security system indicated that none of the doors had been improperly opened or damaged and so the Decepticon prisoners should have been safe in their cells. Sure enough, when the elevator opened, all the carnage was contained to the walkways between the cells.

There was a silence to the cell-block that that Ratchet hadn't heard since they picked up the Decepticon prisoners on Temptoria. The remains of eight, maybe nine legislators crowding the walkway between the cells; there were the bodies of three Autobots. Drift's cell door was open.

Ratchet checked the bodies first - all miraculously alive. Ratchet recognized them - Pyrene, Dirac and Toxin. Someone had used the emergency kit on the wall to stabilize Kirac, whose left leg had been torn free and who's chest had been crushed by the impact of a legislator's gun. The other two weren't nearly as bad off. Ratchet could deal with them later.

He went to the doorway of the cell and looked inside. "You mind if I come in?" he asked.

Drift stared at him, stretched out on the bench with his one leg twisted to wrongness and ruptured optic leaking down his face. His hands were pressed up against his side, Ratchet would have bet shanix there was a hole neatly matching a legislator's blade under his fingers. Drift stared at Ratchet and smiled.

"You're okay," Drift said. "Frag, Ratch, I was really worried about you."

"Worried about me?" Ratchet said dismissively, hustling into the cell to stop Drift from hauling himself up to a sitting position like a maniac. "I feel like you have more important things to worry about."

Drift snorted. "I'm not dead. What's happening up there? The rest of the crew? Rodimus?"

"We're still doing our headcount. There were some casualties but Rodimus is fine." Ratchet plugged in to Drift's medical readouts and sighed. "So, how did your cell door get open?"

"Someone must have left the door open," Drift said. "Forgetful of them."

"Yeah, I bet." Ratchet growled. "How much of this was the legislators, Drift?"

Drift turned away, and Ratchet knew he wasn't going to drag a confession out of him - not if Dirac and the other two hadn't.

"I'm taking you up to the medibay," Ratchet said, sliding one arm under Drift's shoulders and one beneath his knees to lift him as gently as he could. "Rodimus confessed, you know. He didn't even make it a full week before he cracked."

Ratchet had expected Drift to take the news as stoically as he'd taken everything else since his sentencing. Otherwise he would have waited until they were safely past the Decepticon prisoners watching from their cells to break the news. Instead, Drift crumbled and Ratchet had to walk him to the elevator like that, shielding him with his body as best he could.

---

Ratchet woke up at the sound of the door creaking open, and he was already sitting up and ready to go back on call before he realized it wasn't First Aid at the door of the relief room. And it wasn't Ambulon - wouldn't be Ambulon ever again.

"You mind if I come in?" Drift asked.

Ratchet held out his arms to catch Drift as he staggered across the space between the door and Ratchet's berth. Drift climbed into Ratchet's arms, squeezing Ratchet tighter than he would have dared touch Drift's battered frame. Ratchet felt like his spark was as raw as the patches on Drift's plating, gone soft at someone's arms holding him tight even if it was out of their need for comfort and not a desire to comfort him. "You're going to be okay," Ratchet whispered, voice breaking.

"So are you," Drift promised. "That was unbearable. Knowing you were in danger, knowing that you were hurt and not being able to save you...Primus. Ambulon. I am so sorry, Ratchet."

"There's nothing you could have done," Ratchet said. He wanted to say that there was nothing anyone could have done but he preferred not to lie to himself.

"The same goes for you," Drift said. "Ratchet, I don't - I don't believe I should be forgiven for what I did. I was complicit. If it weren't for me Overlord would never have been on this ship - "

"That's also true for Rodimus," Ratchet said.

"I don't have to reckon with his guilt, Ratch. Mine is more than enough." Drift pulled back, brushing noses with Ratchet as he did. "I don't think I should be forgiven but I don't think I can bear to leave you like that again."

"Think about yourself for once in your life," Ratchet grumbled.

"I am. Ratchet, I love you." Drift said. "I love you every and any way you'll love me back."

"Well, damn." Ratchet reached up to brush his fingers over Drift's cheek, beneath the eyepatch he'd be wearing for another three days, at least, while they waited for his new optic's connections to his brain module to stabilize. Drift shivered at his touch and Ratchet decided he'd held himself in enough for one week. He'd lost more than he could bear and he'd fucked up more than he could fix and there was nothing he could do about any of that now. But he could kiss Drift.

When he broke the kiss, spark thrumming in his chest, he leaned back to take in Drift's face; tired and drawn but with optics brimming with life and tears. There was a smile on Drift's face that he'd never seen before - real and hopeful.

"What do you know," Ratchet said. "I love you right back. And I'm never going to let you do anything that stupid and self-sacrificing again, even if I have to take on the whole damn universe to stop you."

"I'm really not worth taking on the universe for."

"Deny you'd do the same thing," Ratchet said. "I dare you."

"Kiss me again and I'll believe you."

#dratchtember #dratchet #my fics #ficlets

[coleroz]

The Wager

Disclaimer: Nothing owned here at all whatsoever zip none nadda.

Chapter five: The Wager

Summary: I kinda personified the light and dark sides of the Force, they are basically the Son and Daughter from the Clone Wars episode Overlords.(Which, I don’t claim to understand completely like are they actually the Force itself? I didn’t think so since they didn’t talk about it that way but heck I don’t know-) The concept was also sort of inspired by the film The Book of Life. (Which I think is really good btw. I think I may have stolen a line from it as well.)

The woman stood in what, in our mortal terms could only be described as a glade. It was warm, and bright, light streamed from no particular source. A sweet, unearthly singing kept the silence at bay.

At her feet was a flower.

A bright budded yellow flower.

And the inky black flower whose stem it was attached to-

The singing quieted. The air grew cold and the light dimmed.

She knew who was approaching.

“Hello Sister.”

A man, if he could be described as such, for he was as a living shadow, and dripping greasy ink, took form and walked, or rather stalked towards the woman.

“Brother.” She turned. “You have no right to enter this place.”

A twisted smile that gave one a slimy unpleasant feeling stretched across the man’s face.

“On the contrary, I have  every right. I have earned my place here once more. The darkness is stronger now than it has been in millennia. And it is I who am above you.”

His wicked smile broadened as he thought upon his greatest accomplishment.

“Even the mighty Chosen One is no longer yours. ...One might say he never was.”

He began circling her as a predator would it’s prey. She stood unperturbed. “I always called to him in his anger and his fear. How he responded was….intoxicating. The first time he slaughtered innocents, we both knew it was only a matter of time before he betrayed you and came to me.”

She did not blink, but finally spoke.

“The prophecy of old, merely said the  chosen One would bring balance and destroy the sith. How he would do so was never specified.”

Anger rumbled in him that she still continued to dismiss him. But he pondered. His eyes fell on the yellow budded flower and the black flower.

His smile returned.

“How about a wager then, my Sister?”

Silence.

“A wager?” She asked it flatly, but she did not fool him. He could sense her interest.

“The boy.

”He smiled as she looked sharply at him.

“The little one with golden hair and sapphire eyes, who shines so... brightly.” He snarled the last word.

“You refer to the son of the Chosen One?”

“Oh yes. He seems so pure and innocent, does he not? He shines like the brightest of stars. But even his pure heart is not left untainted with the dark.”

“If I can claim this boy as I have claimed his father, you will kneel, and finally admit I am stronger than you, greater than you.”

She considered him.

“You misjudge him, Brother. Untainted, he may not be, but the light courses strongly through him. He will not be easily swayed to your side.”

“Then it will be so much more the challenge. Oh, I have many plans and traps for him, as you well know.”

She paused. Her eyes lingered on the little yellow bud at her feet.

“Very well. If the boy comes to you willingly. If he betrays all he holds dear and becomes corrupt, then I shall do as you have said.

But if he cannot be turned, then you will leave this place, never to return.”

“Then by the ancient laws, the wager is set.”

~o0o~

“Vader was seduced by the dark side of the Force.” Ben leaned closer to Luke and lowered his voice.

“He betrayed and murdered your father.”

Despair and anger filled Luke Skywalker.

Despair that Ben was confirming the truth that Luke had always secretly wished would one day be proven false. That his father was indeed dead, and would never come back to collect his son from this desolate place and take him to fly among the stars.

Anger that his father had apparently been betrayed by a trusted friend. That he’d been murdered and would otherwise be alive, and the person responsible was still alive and kicking.

~o0o~

“I am your father.”

Luke stilled. An unnatural calm coming over him.

No.

That- No.

That’s impossible.

That terrible black-gloved hand reached out to him. Proffering. Imploring. He’s never trusted that hand. That hand had hurt him, his friends and so many others.

“Come with me, Luke.”

NONONONONONO.

Shock. Anger. Horror. Pain-horror-shockrepulsionfearsorrowrejectiondistrustragedenialshockterrorbetrayaldisgustangerpainfear.

……….

That’s impossible.

Again the hand.

“It is the only way.”

……..

No.

There was one way.

He let go. And let himself fall.

~o0o~

He scowled fiercely as he watched the youth fall. He would not die. That he knew.

“He has already proven he would choose death before joining you, Brother.”

“We shall see, my Sister, we shall see. He has yet to face the final trial. One he will fail.”

The flower was still yellow.

~o0o~

Luke stared at the lightsaber in his hand.

This lightsaber. This weapon. It was used for conflict, whether it be creating or resolving it. A lightsaber was the icon of the jedi. But a jedi was so much more than a flashy sword. It was a weapon such as this that his father had used to slice off his hand…. much as he had just cut off his father’s.

And now it was clear to him.

Down this path there can be but one destination.

He was a creature of the light.

And he would not fight.

He would not turn.

Not now.

Not ever.

“No.” His ultimate refusal echoing in the Force. The light within him swirling and vibrating like a swarm of fireflies. It warmed him, filled him until he practically glowed.

He threw his weapon aside. With it his anger, his hate, his fear. His darkness. He cast it aside, far, far away from him.

He raised his voice now. “You’ve failed Your Highness. I am a jedi, like my father before me!”

~o0o~

Beyond the mortal realm, the brother howled at the youth’s words, the boy’s resolve shattering and shaking and ripping through his very core.

She, on the other hand, stood tall and radiant as ever.

“Now you know the truth. You will never have him Brother! He has overcome! He has faced his greatest challenge, and prevailed! You have lost the wager. Now go from here! Flee!”

She raised her hand and winds picked up. The Son began to disintegrate into red and black ashes, the winds sweeping them away.

“Never!” His echoing voice seemed to fill the heavens. “There will always be darkness! Even in his heart. One day he will make a mistake, one that will cost him dearly and he will despair. And I will be there to comfort him then. I will be present in his waking dreams. Not you!”

With a last shrieking howl, his center burst into a swarm of ashes and black soot, the warm winds sweeping them away into oblivion.

The light became bright and piercing once more, the air warm, and sweet. The singing gradually returned, stronger than before.

The Woman stood, then bent, kneeling to cup the bright yellow bud that now bloomed fully, as bright as ever. Her eyes followed the stem to the inky black flower. And she smiled as it uncurled from around itself and color flooded back into the petals.

It was now a deep passionate red. Not a violent, savage, painful red, but a bright, sweet, loving red. As it had been, before.

But it’s center had always been that pure, sweet red.

Beside the red flower was a slightly smaller, blue one, with a white bud growing off the stem. If one looked beneath the ground, they would find the roots of these flowers intertwined.

“The hearts of men may change with time.” The words were barely audible. “But there will always be another hopeful soul to follow. The children of the light. You may wager that, my brother.”

Is everything clear in this? Is anything confusing?

Read on Fanfiction.net here

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #my writing #Luke Skywalker #Darth Vader #The Dark Side #The Light Side #star wars the clone wars #Anakin Skywalker #Luke and Vader #Skywalker family #father and son #fanfiction #i finished another one #is it good?

[raynellalaria]

When They Speak of This Day - Part Three

(( Part three of Raynell’s experience of the battle for Teldrassil in the War of Thorns! ))

.Part 1.  .Part 2.

They followed, trudging through upturned dirt, fallen tree trunks, and the general chaos wrought upon Darkshore through their advance. The trek took them most of the day, and as the sun began to sink into the late afternoon above Darkshore, they reached the normally peaceful, idyllic port of Lor’danel...only to find that peace to be, indeed, broken. Scores of orcish grunts clashed blades with those of the elven sentinels, while around them, scores of civilians cowered and fled from the bloodshed, clutching their belongings, their loved ones, anything they could carry away from the violent clash. Raynell hesitated to send her own unit forward, hearing the harried screams of those without sword or bow. They shook her being in that moment, shades of the panic brought upon by old memories of the Scourge harrowing her thoughts before she shook her head and drew her blade, an outstretched arm pointing the billowing flame sword forward.

“Soldiers of the Horde, press forward and bolster Saurfang's forces! Usher as many noncombatants out as you can, as well! Our blades are only for the Sentinels!”

The band of soldiers charged forth to join the grunts in overwhelming the defending Kaldorei sentinels. Many of the more bloodthirsty chose to engage solely in combat, while those of more peaceable nature ushered the panicked throngs of civilians and refugees. At times, Raynell saw what she normally expected from the Horde races, but others seemed far more strange to her. A mighty tauren bringing his war totem crashing down upon a Kaldorei body, with no sign of gentleness in his expression. An older looking Forsaken man trying to gently hand off a crying child to a panicked Gilnean mother as she attempted to swat him away. Scores of her own kin slashing throats. Orcs shielding fleeing refugees from stray arrows, even at the cost of their own well-being.

As Raynell took in the chaos around her, she suddenly felt an arrow whiz past her cheek, leaving a shallow cut. She turned to catch the blades of a rushing sentinel against the large, ornately designed cross guard of her fiery greatsword. All at once, she found herself surrounded by a host of sentinels, having to duck arrow fire and parry away strikes at all sides. She began to feel the toll of having expended her initial energy to clear a path forward, and as blades bit at her knees and an arrow dug into her shoulder, the knight felt a tinge of vulnerability.

That's when she heard it. The bellowing roar above her.

“LOK'TAR OGAR!”

The night elves harrowing the Captain suddenly scattered and fell around her as a pair of heavy footfalls crashed into the earth, upending the dirt beneath them. Raynell turned to see an old, weary, yet still fearsome and imposing orc, clad head to toe in spiked, battleworn plate. His snow white hair was tied in a pair of long ponytails at either side of his pale green, weathered face, sharp tusks rose from his lower lip, and a fierce red stare roiled in his eyes as he raised his gleaming battleaxe.

This was High Overlord Varok Saurfang.

“If you cannot honor my ally here with a fair fight, then let us see how you fare with the mighty Saurfang at her side!”

The sentinels around them hesitated, circling the pair with blades drawn and arrows nocked. Raynell used the reprieve to quickly heal herself, then raised her weapon as well. As the Kaldorei re-engaged, the pair struck out once more to meet them. Even with their numbers still greater, the Kaldorei were no match for the cleaving ferocity of Saurfang's axe, and the Captain's second wind proved their downfall as well. As the night elven defenses lay scattered, fallen, and all together dispersed from Lor'danel, a cheer sounded from the Horde soldiers as the battle began to die down. Raynell sheathed her blade, smiling as she looked on to the celebrants, then looking back at Saurfang.

“Thank you, High Overlord,” she said, a gleam in her eye, “I appreciate the save, although I was just about to turn the tide in my favor.”

The elder orc guffawed, shaking his head. “You elves are always so cocksure of your abilities, though I must admit that you proved much hardier than I thought!”

“Hardy, indeed!” Raynell flexed an arm and winked at the orc. “It seems we've secured Lor'danel for now. Won't be much longer until we prepare to besiege Teldrassil.”

“Not long, yes,” Saurfang responded, “although something about this troubles me...”

Before Raynell could respond, she heard a hoarse cough from behind. One of the sentinels stirred upon the ground, body caked in dirt and blood, with deep wounds scored across her body. The knight approached cautiously, stepping away from Saurfang as he gathered his thoughts, and as the sentinel raised her head, she stared back with the sort of malice that wished to shatter the Sin'dorei's bones outright, if they could.

“Y-you...” she rasped, blood trailing from her lips, “you will...never take...our home...”

Raynell frowned, kneeling at her side. “We will take it, and with it, the Alliance's holdings on Kalimdor,” she paused, then reached out a hand, her fingertips brimming with holy radiance. “But we have taken enough from Lor'danel. If you will lay down your weapon, I will let you return to your people to guide them to saf-”

The sentinel suddenly drew a dagger from her belt and cut quickly at Raynell's wrist. The knight cried out, holding said wrist as blood trickled from the opening between the glove and the wristguard, and the Kaldorei laughed before coughing up a trail of blood.

“Don't...don't humor me with your s-so called...mercy,” she heaved, breaths labored as she fought through immense pain to deliver her ultimatum. “Y-you...monsters...know nothing of mercy...of c-compassion. All you have done...is take...steal...you are...without honor...”

She defiantly lifted herself to her feet, knees wobbly as she held the dagger at her side. Raynell narrowed her eyes, reaching back for her blade with one hand while the other reaches out toward the sentinel, still glowing with holy energy. “Please, I have no desire to kill you. Let us end this so you may live another day.”

The sentinel growled, teeth bared as she, once again, stared daggers at the knight. “Another...day? For what, s-so that I may watch my people...s-suffer...imprisoned...enslaved...” She shook her head, beginning to raise the dagger. “No...I have lived for thousands of years...and will not live a single day under your b-boot...I will go into the comfort of Elune's light...and when my p-people speak of this day...they will curse you...ALL of you...for all the eons to come! TOR ILISAR'THERA'NAL!”

The sentinel's final act came far too quickly to intervene. The dagger at the Kaldorei's side was suddenly buried in her own throat, and the woman gagged a gout of blood, with more trailing from the mortal wound made by the blade, before collapsing into a lifeless heap. Raynell stood entirely still, eyes wide as she seemed unable to process what had just occurred before her. She covered her lips, choking back a sob as it seemed, in that moment, she would break.

It was in that moment that a firm, giant green hand rested on her shoulder. She suddenly snapped from her shock, looking back with a gasp.

“Not here, little one,” the old orc called softly. “Now is not the time for mourning.”

Raynell shuddered, drew in a deep breath, and nodded. She stepped away toward the inn to collect herself, sitting at the porch to remove her gloves and clean the wound on her wrist, soaking a clean, white linen cloth with a vial of antiseptic she kept in her belt pouch. As she did so, Saurfang approached, taking a moment to seat himself as well.

“A moment's respite! Rare on such a day as this...” His gaze turned to the nearby shores, seeing the sun close to dipping beneath the horizon before looking to Raynell.

“Why not humor me with a tale? Something to clear this foul air around us...”

#part three ye boi #raynell a'laria #world of warcraft #battle for azeroth #bfa #war of thorns #wyrmrest accord #wra #rp #roleplay #sin'dorei #blood elf #night elf #kaldorei #horde #alliance #undead #forsaken #gilneas #gilneans #orc #saurfang #varok saurfang #high overlord saurfang #lor'danel

[rosheendubh]

Plant Ylis, or...Rheinwen's Vision

Me, flooking around with horrid photo edits again:::

Ongentheow upon Igrena, fathered Ohthere on a spring tide night when her lord husband, Vortimer-Embreis Wledig-serving the high king, his father, Vortigern, was absent from his home, directing the marriage truce of their daughter, Anna, to Hlot, son of exiled Huns deposed after Atli’s shameful death, and newly commissioned as warden of Alba, southern lords claiming dominion over northern chieftains

And Vortimer ap Vortigern, of Sinfjotli’s/Vitalis’s progeny, passing Volsunga blood, that Vortimer too, slept with his wife after, ignorant of Ongentheow’s insult to her body, dark secret locked away in her heart

So in Uthyr’s veins runs both Ylfing and Yngling/Scylfing, mingled with the blood of emperors, yet Igrena, whose honor was violated and bore a son against her will knows not which man, perhaps both, claim his siring

Infant despised and cast off as an orphan, sweet Madrun-womb-twin of Anna and aunt and mother-raises him as a fosterling in the household of her husband, YnyrGwent/Cyngar of CaerGoch

Until such time as Rheinwen, seeking vengeance for her father’s death, scandalous queen of Vortigern’s aging years, Horsa fallen at Catigern’s blade, Catigern slain in later treachery saving his elder brother, accuses Igrena of adultery and witchcraft, suspicious of this boy of Madrun’s household, boy with no father, she witnessed all the years before, Ongentheow’s ravaging of Vortimer’s beautiful wife, eve of Vortimer’s return from Caledonian lands, her belly swelling forthwith, and no living child proclaimed 9 moons later

Rheinwen, seeking dynasty for her son, Pascentius, by Vortigern, and later, by Cerdic, Cynric will she bear, Plant Ylis, mother of the Saxon race upon British shores, in truth Hibernian and Jute origins, cares not how much ruin from her actions comes, only that Vortimer’s progeny falls, and her own sons stake hegemony on British soil

Igrena, though, seeks justice of her own, and through her unwanted son, boy of 2 fathers or none, is Uther sent abroad to Gaulish colleges, for safekeeping from Rheinwen’s devices, for learning such as the ancients prized, and finally, with his mother’s cool words embedded in his heart

*Do not return to these shores, nor seek my company ever, unless you’ve satisfied blood-price for the wrong done upon me, that was the cause of your life, and are ready to claim rule over this land with the death your father’s father—until Vortigern and Egil Ongentheow hasten to Hela’s gates of reckoning...*

~~

*Obviously, bleached out damsel is Rheinwen, daughter of Horsa (sometimes, Hengist, but it depends on who ya' read)

*Old hippy dude with Bling-Egil Ongentheow (look up Swedish-Geatish Wars-they make for a wondrous tie-in with my Arthurian head canon)

*Blindfolded cloaked person with bambino--maybe baby Uther getting carried away in the night, by Madrun, his older sister (twin of Anna--based off the Tale of St Madrun, daughter of Vortimer and the granddaughter of Vortigern...in combo with St Anne/Anna, my rendition of Morganna/Morgan) at the command of his mother, Igrena, who wants no squalling little mite reminding her of her humiliation at Ongentheow's hand, Vortigern's approval, and Rheinwen's plotting

*Kneeling Roman commander, Vortimer, trying to comfort his dying brother, Catigern, after the Night of the Long Knives, sons born of Sevira, the granddaughter of Magnus Maximus, from Vortigern's first marriage-the house of Vitalis/Sinfjotli, shattered by betrayal and deception, Vortimer/Emrys Wledig, and his brother, Catigern, in open revolt against their father, the OverLord of Britain south of the Walls, where Vortimer, exiled rebel prince, escapes to the Continent, his legions following him, deceived into service by a rising barabarian commander, Earp/Odovacer/Hryp/RithaGaer, to serve in the Western Emperor's desperate power play against the Visigoth army, 12,000 British troops holding the field for Roman reinforcements that never arrive, and 10,000 of them slaughtered

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander, ready to die at his side, until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*To Avillion, and the college of holy women and men residing, into the abbess’s care does does Vortimer slowly recover, as do his wounded comrades, under Vivian’s direction, the widowed and clever daughter of Macrobius Ambrosius Theodosius, who had tutored Vortimer and Catigern in their youth, Vortigern, a son of Odin from his father’s side, perhaps, but from their mother’s, Roman heritage and Roman learning for Roman princes of British and Volsung nobility *And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western emperor who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*Uter-Uhthere-Ohthere-Ueter-named after the centurion’s god, the common soldier’s god, Veteris, the guardian of legionaries, bringing Victory in battle, and with each Victory, one day closer to honorable retirement, the judge of warriors to the northern troops recruited along the borders of German forests, the peculiar syllables of Latin, assimilating the Brythonic enunciation to Ucter, to Victor, and back again to Wythr *That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, her status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth husband, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, an orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade on sacrosanct ground, or risk death before the witnesses of sky, earth, and sea, and his confusion of amusement or amazement, by that point, tried warrior, the commander of the fleet of Black Danes, seasoned by 5 years of raiding, journeying in lands, amid people more exotic than even his old studies might have painted (based on the Travels of the 9th century Ohthere/Wulfhere...), having recently won victories in his father’s reclaiming of Britannia’s overlord ship, against Vortigern, Uther, provoked by the woman’s confidence, commanding in the company of fighting men, taunted her, asking just what would happen if he refused her order, and kept his blade unsheathed, whereby Venaura, unflustered and entirely serious, replied simply, *You’ll die.* 

*By whose hand*, he returned.  

*By mine*, she stated, firm, without hesitation, her gaze flat upon him, emotionless.  *With laughter, and a mocking bow, did he comply to this woman, haughty in manner, but her eyes reminded him of sunlight breaking through the gray mists of fog and storm, flashing with the fire of her spirit, a mind quick and ever questioning. A mind, a will, to match his own.

*And that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged into iron, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and to Vortimer, grandson worthier than his own son, did that god-blade pass, iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword Vortimer knows will one day, at his own death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son, who salutes him with a bow, one arm crossed over his chest, the honorific spoken in a firm voice, resonant of the West Country where he’d spent his early childhood, his Latin shaped in the precise inflections of the orators of old, *Your Eminence, my sorrow the late word of your dire straits, that we hadn’t arrived before such losses accrued.* His son, who comports himself as one accustomed to circles of authority and rank, but there’s that expectancy flashing in his gaze, not quite experienced enough yet, to disguise the curiosity, hope, eagerness perhaps, though they’ve met once only, a decade ago, at the conclusion of that humiliating tribunal before the bishops of the Papal sees, a mock investigation, the crux of Rheinwen’s scheming, to see Igrena humiliated and dishonored, where Madrun was accused of dark rites, conceiving a half-human child, conjugating with an incubus, and Uther, judged devil spawn, to be consigned to some horrid trial meant to prove his humanity, forced Igrena to protect her treasured daughter, revealing the shame Ongentheow had wrought upon her, and the truth of Uther’s conception, that vile night, during those years when mercenaries from across the North Sea, and the lands of the Sueones, were serving under Vortigern’s hire *his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*he sees, in those moments of mutual scrutiny, that searching mirrored in his own thoughts, wondering on commonality of feature, of expression, or motion, his muscles stiffening from the exertion of battle, mind reeling from the magnitude of disaster, reeking of sweat, dried blood, and mire, and realizes in the young warrior’s countenance, whether it’s his or Ongentheow’s seed, an amalgamation of each, it’s Igrena’s beauty, ultimately, in her son, the mettle, the bold flash of fire spurring intellect, and Vortimer knows, the assurance rising, the sword he bears, Mimung, blade of the Waelsungs, will pass on to this man coming of age in an era of upheaval, shifting loyalties, and turning tides *this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, suggests they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*he eyes the younger man skeptically, mentioning he has no desire in getting caught up in the factional strife of Rome or Ravenna, his men even less so, Uther replying, *Neither do I.* He notices Vortimer’s puzzlement, the sharpened look, a pique of interest clearing the morbidity of thought in these monotonous weeks, *I want to go north, to the lands of our fathers, and beyond that. Where they say the sun never sets in summer, and the sea becomes a sheet of ice that never melts. Carausius’s fleet disappeared beyond that distance two centuries ago-*he breaks off at Vortimer’s scowl. 

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force*, Uther continues, undeterred by Vortimer’s jaded assumption, *a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name.* 

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune,* Vortimer, unable to mellow his cynicism, *I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.

*Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering as Vortimer’s chuckle grows deeper, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own domestic wars to not chance stirring foreign rivalries further. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?** 

—

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*To Avillion, and the college of holy women and men residing, into the abbess’s care does does Vortimer slowly recover, as do his wounded comrades, under Vivian’s direction, the widowed and clever daughter of Macrobius Ambrosius Theodosius, who had tutored Vortimer and Catigern in their youth, Vortigern, a son of Odin from his father’s side, perhaps, but from their mother’s, Roman heritage and Roman learning for Roman princes of British and Volsung nobility

*And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western empower who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return to will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*Uter-Uhthere-Ohthere-Ueter-named after the centurion’s god, the common soldier’s god, Veteris, the guardian of legionaries, bringing Victory in battle, and with each Victory, one day closer to honorable retirement, the judge of warriors to the northern troops recruited along the borders of German forests, the peculiar syllables of Latin, assimilating the Brythonic enunciation to Ucter, to Victor, and back again to Wythr

*That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, and status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, a orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade

*that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and Vortimer instead, wielding a god-blade of iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword he knows will one day, on Vortimer’s death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son, who salutes him with a bow, one arm crossed over his chest, the honorific spoken in a firm voice, resonant of the West Country where he’d spent his early childhood, his Latin shaped in the precise inflections of the orators of old, *Your Eminence, my sorrow the late word of your dire straits, that we hadn’t arrived before such losses accrued.* His son, who comports himself as one accustomed to circles of authority and rank, but there’s that expectancy flashing in his gaze, not quite experienced enough yet, to disguise the curiosity, hope, eagerness perhaps, though they’ve met once only, a decade ago, at the conclusion of that humiliating tribunal before the bishops of the Papal sees, a mock investigation, the crux of Rheinwen’s scheming, to see Igrena humiliated and dishonored, where Madrun was accused of dark rites, conceiving a half-human child, conjugating with an incubus, and Uther, judged devil spawn, to be consigned to some horrid trial meant to prove his humanity, forced Igrena to protect her treasured daughter, revealing the shame Ongentheow had wrought upon her, and the truth of Uther’s conception, that vile night, during those years when mercenaries from across the North Sea, and the lands of the Sueones, were serving under Vortigern’s hire

*his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own eyes, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*he sees, in those moments of mutual scrutiny, that searching mirrored in his own thoughts, wondering on commonality of feature, of expression, or motion, his muscles stiffening from the exertion of battle, mind reeling from the magnitude of disaster, reeking of sweat, dried blood, and mire, and realizes in the young warrior’s countenance, whether it’s his or Ongentheow’s seed, an amalgamation of each, it’s Igrena’s beauty, ultimately, in her son, the mettle, the bold flash of fire spurring intellect, and Vortimer knows, the assurance rising, the sword he bears, Mimung, blade of the Waelsungs, will pass on to this man coming of age in an era of upheaval, shifting loyalties, and turning tides

*this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*he eyes the younger man skeptically, mentioning he has no desire in getting caught up in the factional strife of Rome or Ravenna, his men even less so, Uther replying, *Neither do I.* He notices Vortimer’s puzzlement, the sharpened look, a pique of interest clearing the morbidity of thought in these monotonous weeks, *I want to go north, to the lands of our fathers, and beyond that. Where they say the sun never sets in summer, and the sea becomes a sheet of ice that never melts. Carausius’s fleet disappeared beyond that distance two centuries ago-*he breaks off at Vortimer’s scowl. 

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force, a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name. *

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune.  I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.*

Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering at Vortimer’s scathing laugh, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own wars to not chance steeping ourselves further in their rivalries.” Leaning forward, attention narrowed upon the younger man, he challenges this youth, son, or not his son, seeking a better answer than a quest for vengeance. *What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?*

*Recompense for the crime committed against my mother,” he answers, anger dark on his features. 

*That’s not your blood-debt to collect, Uther—* at which, Uther’s frustration boils over, venting back about the charge Igrena set upon him. *Despite your mother’s instruction, boy!* Vortimer’s voice raging through the quiet hall, slamming his palm down on the table, stunning both of them into silence. Uther exhales in frustration, frowning where Vortimer’s powerful hand rests, splayed by his tension, thickened by callouses, the index finger twisted from a long forgotten injury. Gathering what calm he’s able, Vortimer attempts with more patience, willing the younger man to understand, *Let it go now, Uther.*  *Uther’s jaw stiffens, protest rising, but Vortimer’s explanation chokes off his response. *Unless you wish the sin of patricide upon soul, leave it. It’s not for you, avenging the wrong done your mother. Do you understand me?* *Stubborn lad, he sees the storm of struggle over Uther’s face, resistance or acquiescence. And the slow, reluctant nod, the way he casts his gaze down the length of the table, refusing to meet his acknowledged father’s eyes.  The fierceness commanding him alters gradually, something numb and tormented, tone rasped by disgust. *It’s true, then? He-that-abscess of filth could have sired me?*

*Resignation falls heavy upon Vortimer. *As your mother counted the days, it’s hard to consider it untrue.* He let’s Uther work through that revelation, the long breath, a quiet sigh following, indicating some kind of acceptance, he hopes. A moment more, offering of truce, and Vortimer says, *Now, try again, Uther. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture?*

*The amber hued gaze grows distant, as Uther ponders what he envisions such exploration might hold. A young man, and his fellow warriors, clawing out some foothold of status or wealth upon the rise and fall of competing nations, left from the West’s decay.

*Rose tinged rays lengthen past the watery glass of the windows encased in the high stone walls of the chamber. Longing pierces Vortimer’s heart, Igrena’s essence vivid in the youth’s contemplation. Sweet soul, she had been younger than her son now, at the time of their marriage. A union she’d entered unwilling, a widow and mother already, barely out of girlhood at 16 summers.  A rebellious princess of the Hibernian Cennsaleigh (Leinstermen), fleeing from an unwanted match arranged by her father, without her consent,  Crimmthann, ruler of the Cennselaigh, desiring truce with the  Hibernian High-King, Loeghaire, and joining the dominant tribes of Hibernia’s northern and eastern facing coasts.  With her lover, a reckless prince of a minor sept, and the collusion of her brother, they’d fled, like the tales of Deirdre and Naoise, to Pretania/Pictland. Refugees with the Fidach, whose lands composed endless mountain ranges, fangs of snow-covered rock, soaring to the skies, gating off the foreboding lakes speckled through deep ravines, the strip of the Nessa’s water plunging to the Underworld, dividing Alba’s vast wilderness, had kept even the Romans in the days of their greatness, at bay.  Alas for Cyddbar, chieftain of the Fidach, sympathetic to the young lovers. And far too confidant in the rugged terrain defending his fortress, carved into a bluff, along the Western strand of that long lake, the Nessa (Uquart Castle).  He hadn’t accounted for Vortigern’s mercenary custom, nor the hammer of savagery inflicted by the combined forces of the Tyrant’s legions, allied with Jutish companies from across the North Sea. In those years, it seemed no spring or summer passed without some incursion of Picts or Scots, Fidach included, into the territories of southern Caledonians, residing in the lands stretching between both Walls—Valentia—as it was known. A lost name now, lost territory of a shattered Empire. In that first decade of Vortigern’s supremacy, attracting Germani warlords as paid mercenaries with the promise of land and stipend was like baiting sharks with fresh blood. Especially when they were kinsmen, Hengist and Horsa, supplying men and ships, and eager to escape Hunnish submission to Atila’s grasping hegemony, which recognized no bounds, even to the far reaches of lands beyond the sea, since the decimation of the rival Burgundian Gepids. Their hire allowed Vortigern to neutralize 2 problems with one solution. Cull the raiding Picts and Scotti, whilst negotiating leverage with notoriously insubordinate northern warlords of these buffer zones extending from Eboracum to the old Aelian divide, who kept uneasy relations with the Caledonian monopoly of Votadini and AlClut, peopling the cinch zone Of fertile river valleys between the Clota and the Forth. Many of their leaders who retained a model of legate, perfect, and centurion, in their command, accommodating civic governance to ensure secure roads and borders, even some sea-trade if they access to harbors, across that region of mist-shrouded mountains and bleak moors, lost forests where the veins of roads, towns, and forts connected the hinterland of Empire to civilization.  

Under the direction of Vortimer and Catigern, combined forces of British and Jute, some Anglen with their related cousins from neighboring lands further to the north, joined too, by Scotti tribes of the Cennsalaigh and Ulaidh, Crimmthann and Loeghaire amongst them, who in other years, would have been enemy, now shared common cause in restoring Crimthann’s wayward daughter, together razed the isolated hamlets of the Fidach, leaving a trail of destruction, and death, right to the path leading to the heights of Cyddbar’s fortress. Self-preservation dictated Cyddbar to accept terms, turning over the decapitated head of Igrena’s lover, tendrils of the flesh still dripping with fresh scarlet to the pebbled ground where both sides had assembled for the surrender along the strand of shore lapped by Nessa’s pewter waters. And Igrena, whose beauty men claimed to be fey-born, even in her stricken sorrow, slender and graceful as a young willow, proud and defiant against her father, a lone, lost figure holding her toddler son in her arms, shaming the grim scrutiny of battle-hardened men with her cold grief, when she was brought before that unforgiving audience. No ally, no appeal, her brother’s life spared, but her son, the bargaining piece to buy her cooperation, submission to the Hibernian high king. Smug Loeghaire, oozing self-satisfaction, eyes shifting like a greedy weasel’s, thinking himself merciful in his justice, accepting Igrena back, despite her infidelity. 

When she refused, coloring him with an insult so degrading, the men in immediate ear-shot looked away in discomfort, the sputtering Loeghaire convulsed into rage. With his sword raised to her white throat, he threatened death to her and her bastard child. And before the hard gazes of a 1000 upon another 1000 men, and the impassive attention of her father, Crimthann, who seemed impatient more than anything, to be done with his errant daughter whose impetuosity had cost him gold, men, and status, Igrena merely lifted her chin, pressing the thin flesh of her neck into the edge of Loeghaire’s blade, drawing a thin line of crimson on pale skin. *I’d rather death for myself and my boy, than expend an instant of life as your bride, Loeghaire.* 

An instant, as well, when Vortimer could no longer stand to see such a magnificent creature cast off to an obvious fool. Catigern never grew tired of ribbing him for his infamous disdain of female company, unless seeking a temporary physical release from the distraction of desire. Women were diversions from the weightier contentions men were forced to manage in the outside world. Trouble without home and children to occupy their wandering attentions and soft minds, or locked away in a convent somewhere, they became like bored hounds finding mischief when not appropriately engaged. As Catigern sensed as well, the truth of Vortimer’s reticence to female wile stemmed more profoundly with the memory of their mother, Sevira.

Chaste, devout in faith to her Christian God, as to her brother’s attempts at maintaining cordial relations with Roman authority, she suffered Vortigern’s growing abuse as events accelerated toward Britannia’s break with Rome, consequent to her father, Flavius Constantius’s, failed claim to Emperor. An act that stole the life of her eldest brother as well, hastening to their father on the Continent, with the vestiges of Britannia’s last legions.  Vortigern’s official invite to his Jutish brethren, promising alignment with the pro-Imperial factions led by her surviving brother, Urbogenus/Erbin, arose from Sevira’s skilled diplomacy, her marriage joining the lines of Mascen Wledig with the Aurelii of Glevum. And catapulting Vortigern to Imperator In all but name. Factionalism inevitably was born when Vortigern, exploiting the nativist divisions of old British tribalism, garnering the support of separatist chieftains from the remnants of prominent southern and western districts, rising war-lords in this new Britannia without Rome, gambled with his Jutish foederati, and moved to dissolve the civitas councils. To that point, Vortigern’s charisma, his decisiveness, the wise advice of his Roman wife, persuasive at her salons, to his opposition, allayed even her brother’s ambivalence over Vortigern’s ambitions. But from that moment, when Vortigern elevated himself with the proclamation of ‘Imperator’, exiling or executing any who opposed his authority, Erbin refused fealty, named Vortigern *tryant*, fleeing to his Dumnonian queen’s family, and for his life, eventually finding refuge amid the British houses of Aremorica, deposed and disgraced. Deserting Sevira to the denigration of her husband, for what Vortigern viewed as her betrayal to his cause, and subjecting her to emotional abuses an aging Sinfjotli was helpless to prevent. And adolescent Vortimer, his younger brother by a year, Catigern, bore witness with ever increasing rebellion to their father’s contemptuous regard of their patiently suffering mother. Sinfjotli, proud of his son’s achievement, but disgusted by how he treated his noble wife, he took charge of his grandsons’ education, sending them abroad to Gaul, into Macrobius Ambrosius’s tutelage.  And when they returned, young men ready to take up service in their father’s court, gifted with the rare qualities of intelligence, fortitude, ambition, and temperance, as well as a rare affection to each other, Vortimer and Catigern found their mother swaying from a hemp cord, hung from ceiling rafters, her death-sallowed skin crusted in dried tears that kept falling into her last death throes. 

A suicide Vortimer never forgave as a murder, inflicted by his father’s grasping callousness. Sevira’s corpse, suspended in ghostly vision before him, as he challenged Loeghaire, individual contest, for the right to this Hibernian princess, never mind that she viewed all the gathered warriors there, on that beach, with the same revulsion, who’d brought an end to her lover’s life. But her one act, the absolute defiance of death, pierced not only her skin, but Vortimer’s heart, touching a rare tenderness, desire for her obvious beauty, a willowy limbed maiden, whose clean lined harmony of cheek, pale and freckled, a high brow, crowned by a bounty of ashen strands lit by gold, whipped by the driving wind, her sorrowing eyes, long lashed, holding the shades of sea and sand, washing over the gray-green lichen blanketing rocky shores, but it was the taut pride of slender shoulders, lift of her chin, the vitriol of her gaze fixed on every one of those men’s faces, that captured him, and forever bound him to her. Nothing in her look softened upon Vortimer, as her father joined their hands, his trembling, hers slack, in her humiliation and disbelief, being bartered off to a southern British lordling, son of a usurping tyrant, treaty solidifying Leinster loyalty for British wealth, and ensuring no more harassment of new Hiberni colonizers to the territories of Demetia, where previous communities of Scotti had settled over the last century.  

Nine years her senior, as Vortimer reckoned his experience and maturity, Igrena’s resentment at their betrothal wrought forth a chasm of isolation and hurt between them, in those first months, he didn’t know how to mend. Gruff by nature, Vortimer was more accustomed, and so preferred, the company of his war-band to that of women.  Where he exploded with impatience at his young wife’s stubborn reticence, especially when he demanded she send her bastard son back to her dead lover’s people in Hibernia, it was his brother, a fury in battle, but by contrast, more attuned to a woman’s mind, and her affections, belying a sensitivity in Catigern’s nature neglected in Vortimer, who convinced Vortimer to allow the child in his home. At least temporarily. A comfort to his still grieving bride, who eventually agreed, by Catigern’s orchestration, as compromise with her husband, to send the child for fostering when he reached his 7th year, back to his father’s Hibernian tribe of the Ui Bairrche.

Indeed, It was Catigern who brought out the enchantment of Igrena’s spirit, the weave of her thoughts, reconciling her to the abandonment of her pagan upbringing in Crimthann’s halls, requisitely adopting the faith of Christ when she married her British husband. And it was Catigern who introduced his older, worshipped brother, to the dialogue of respect between lovers. The first time Her acerbic wit, parodying of Britannia’s competing aristocracies, vying for political and martial dominance, sparked Vortimer’s humor, responding to her for once, with more than condescension, and realizing the wisdom she possessed, deeper than her youth.  The asset of her talents, yet emerging, as confidant and advisor, partner, equal sovereign, pending Destiny’s preferences. Months passed. Igrena’s pain at her lover’s death gradually faded. And one night, in Vortimer’s modest hall, the old magistrate’s quarters of Venta Silurnum, she graced that chamber with a voice of sweet crystal, delicacy and longing, embodying a magic in the ancient tales of old gods, heroines, lovers, wars, and heroes. Some of her original improvision, fingers wise on the harp. When Vortimer’s tenor, deep and steady, flowed into her song, Igrena’s eyes widened in astonishment, a quaver in her chords, and stirred a murmur amongst his men, of surprise and admiration, not unpleasant for the momentary shock, their lord, usually so stoic in demeanor, suddenly relaxing reservation, a trait commended by a race styling their heritage as warriors and poets. A rare indulgence for Vortimer, the art of song, but a talent freely displayed with the glory of his wife’s yearning melody. Followed later, by other sounds of ecstasy resounding from their private quarters, that first night, and many after, nearly three months following the hastened elopement, born of shame and death, turned into something precious and tender. A passion still too new, viewed ambivalently by both Vortimer, and his golden wife, more so at her confusion, how quickly she ripened in pregnancy to his seed.  As like to clash in temper, as treat in gentleness, Vortimer’s happiness, boy-like almost, at the prospects of her growing belly, envisioning a home abounding with children, mocked her guilt, memories of first young love, the son she bore him. The father dead, the boy tolerated as courtesy. Both strong-willed, Igrena seconded Catigern’s description of her husband as sentimentally constipated, while Vortimer reprimanded her quick-temper, biting judgement of the opportunists who plagued his own court, sent by his father. Vortigern ever-thirsting to strengthen his position, his sons the weapons ensuring future dynasty.   Their daughters were born on the eve of Vortigern ceding the Cantici lands, to his Jutish brethren, 

[ladylilithprime]

12 - Sastiel

12. Kiss on the nose

(This kind of got away from me and turned into something a bit longer than a drabble. Oops?)

THEY CALLED HIM the Boy King, even now that he was a man. Samuel was the second son of the House of Winchester, left mostly to his studies and to hold the throne in trust during the war with Tartarus in the wake of Queen Mary’s death by a Tartaran Prince, and had never sought the throne for himself until it was thrust upon him by the death of King John. His elder brother had been captured and held prisoner by the Queen of Tartarus as leverage to make a new alliance marriage between the House of Winchester and the House of Campbell in hopes of giving Tartarus ultimate control over the Kingdom of Ziemia and, from there, a shot at challenging King Michael of Ter’d’Ange. Samuel was young, they thought, and surely easy enough to manipulate, and once the bonds of matrimony were set between him and Queen Lilith’s sister Ruby it would not matter if the elder son reclaimed the Ziemian throne for a time until another “accident” could be arranged.

They had underestimated King Samuel and his devotion to his older brother, as they had underestimated his intelligence. The battle that was fought for the soul of Prince Dean was fierce and ruthless and shed very little blood on either side. In the end, Queen Lilith lay dead at King Samuel’s feet and the scion of both House Winchester and House Campbell assumed the throne of Tartarus by right of conquest to cement his right of succession. Upon his release, Prince Dean had surprised everyone by kneeling at his younger brother’s feet and loudly swearing fealty to Samuel, King of Ziemia and Tartarus, as his Knight and champion.

All of this had been thoroughly explained to Prince Castiel, youngest brother of the King of Ter’d’Ange, when he had been selected as emissary from their kingdom to the fledgeling empire ruled by the ruthless Boy King. Ostensibly, he was being sent as support to Prince Gabriel, who was to renegotiate the treaties between Ter’d’Ange and both Ziemia and Tartarus now that the balances of power had been shaken up so badly. In reality, Michael had told him in confidence, he was to ingratiate himself with the elder brother to discover what sorcery held him bound so closely to King Samuel’s rule and, if needed, raise him from whatever perdition he was trapped within and bring him to Ter’d’Ange for sanctuary and healing until he was strong enough to reclaim Ziemia’s throne from the Boy King. Michael all too well remembered the treachery of his own younger brother, who had once been the Light of Ter’d’Ange and whose name was no longer spoken, and feared that the bloody beginning to King Samuel’s rule showed a similar treachery at work. And so Castiel had prepared himself for a ruler hungry for power, cold and calculating and quick with a silver tongue that dripped poisoned honey and empty promises.

He was not prepared for the reality. No amount of rumor or speculation could prepare him for the obvious devotion between King Samuel and Prince Dean, for the subtle deference the King offered to his older brother despite their respective positions. He was not prepared for the shadows concealed beneath strangely mesmerizing eyes, for the subtle flinch at their corners every time someone addressed him as “King” or “Majesty”. And he was not prepared for how, once the meeting was carried into King Samuel’s private offices, the brothers revealed to Castiel and Gabriel that they were all too aware of the real purpose of this visit.

“I told Dean no one would believe that he’d willingly give up the throne to his younger brother,” King Samuel - Sam, he insisted - said with a grimace as he slumped into one of the chairs by the fireplace, deliberately avoiding the more official seat behind the ornate desk. “And after what I did to get Dean back, I’m hardly going to be surprised that our neighbors are more than a little nervous about having me on either throne, never mind both.”

“If you know, then why to you retain the throne in place of your brother?” Castiel couldn’t help but ask.

“‘Cause I don’t want it,” Dean said, all blunt manners and gruff irritation. He crossed his arms, looming beside his seated brother and very much making him look the protective older sibling. It sent a stab of jealousy through Castiel - Michael had never been so protective of any of his siblings - and it took a moment for him to wrestle it down enough to pay attention to the Prince’s words. “Dad may have expected me to take the throne when he died, but I’ve always known I don’t have the head for the crown, not like I need to. Give me an army to lead and a battle to fight, I’m good, but looking after a kingdom at peace is way more Sammy’s strong suit than mine.”

“You call this a kingdom at peace?” Gabriel asked, raising his eyebrows. “He killed the Queen of Tartarus in single combat after ripping through all four Princes and at least two Knights. Takeovers don’t get much more hostile than that, kiddo.”

“There’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for my brother,” Sam said quietly. Castiel was struck again by the lines of exhaustion tugging around his eyes. “I will not forsake the people of Ziemia for an empty promise that bitch had no intention of honoring. I doubt Dean would have forgiven me if I had let myself be bound to Lilith’s she-demon sister for his sake.”

“I would have eventually,” Dean protested, though he looked drawn and haunted. The scenario had likely played out in his nightmares over the course of his captivity. “Might have taken a while in between fighting off assassination attempts, but assuming we both survived long enough I’d have forgiven you.”

“Then I’ll be grateful Ruby was too ambitious to play the long game and saved us the trouble, even if she did miscalculate her own charms,” Sam returned with a huff. Castiel and Gabriel exchanged glances; the pieces were fitting together in an interesting way that had the wheels in Castiel’s head turning with the possibilities.

Apparently Gabriel was thinking along the same lines, because he coughed once to draw the attention of the King and Prince, then said, “Look, Michael’s not just going to accept my word that things are good between you two. After Luc’s betrayal, he’s been… reserved at best with the rest of us. Not much he can do to me since I’m still in direct line of succession, but he’s been pretty harsh on Cassie, here.”

“Harsh?” Sam echoed, sitting up straighter in his seat at looking Castiel over more closely. Searching for the signs that Castiel had taken great pains to hide, he realized, and lowered his eyes even as he tilted his head enough for his hair to fall away from the small tattoo behind his ear. He heard the twin intakes of breath as King and Princes both saw the black winged dagger, the mark of one of Ter’d’Ange’s fabled Seraphim, the Crown’s most elite soldiers, spymasters and assassins. “I see. Your task here?”

“To use the cover of Gabriel’s negotiations to ascertain what sorcery had been employed to control Prince Dean and, if possible, bring him to Ter’d’Ange to be broken of that sorcery so that he might regain the crown of Ziemia with the military backing of Ter’d’Ange,” Castiel recited flatly. There was a swish of metal against leather and a flurry of movement by the chair, but Castiel did not raise his eyes. “It was a fool’s mission, even if you had been the power-hungry overlord Michael believes you to be, and all the more so now that I have seen the truth.”

“And what truth do you think you’ve seen that could make you back down from your King’s plot to turn me into a puppet of Ter’d’Ange, Seraphim?” Dean growled. Castiel risked a glance upwards and had to control a flinch. Dean’s thunderous expression was to be expected, but Sam’s weary resignation cut at Castiel’s battered heart much more sharply. He swallowed.

“There is no sorcery at work save for the love shared between you both,” he said quietly. “It’s a love that Michael has forgotten how to feel, would have beaten out of the rest of us if he could, and it is why my mission was doomed to fail from the start.” He hesitated, then lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head before the brothers. “I submit myself to your mercy, in whatever form that may take.”

“Why?” Sam asked softly. “Why tell us any of this? You could have easily kept your own council and gone back without ever letting on, so why explain?”

“Castiel is already on thin ice with Michael,” Gabriel explained, his voice far more sober than Castiel could remember hearing it. “He has too much heart to embrace the Seraphim mentality, and he questions and doubts his orders when they don’t make sense despite Naomi’s ‘best’ efforts. If he returned to Ter’d’Ange empty-handed with only talk of brotherly love, Michael might well have him turned over to Thaddeus. And I don’t know how much of my baby brother would survive that butcher.” There was a pause, but Castiel did not move. When Gabriel spoke next, his tone was wry. “Now me, my job here was obvious. Renegotiate the treaties and try to arrange an alliance marriage of our own with whichever one of you was single and amenable. Our sister Anna’s a little bit of a rebel and probably would have suited Dean well enough, but somehow I think Sam might like Castiel here a bit better.”

“And why should we entertain the idea of marrying my little brother off to Michael’s version of Ruby?” Dean asked, all skeptical sarcasm. Castiel controlled another flinch. Put like that, it did sound rather bad.

“Succession,” Gabriel said. “A marriage of state that can’t produce an heir is valid as a treaty seal, but not as a lock for succession to the throne of Ziemia or Tartarus, giving Sam the control. Even if you made Castiel Prince Consort, Sam would still have to take a second spouse to produce heirs or defer the succession to Dean’s heirs, if he ever has any, which keeps the throne of Ziemia in the House of Winchester. Castiel’s last in line for succession of Ter’d’Ange anyway, and it gets him away from Michael in a way that he can’t overtly protest, no matter how much he might complain about it later.”

“And why would Castiel agree to this?” Sam asked. There was a rustle of movement accompanied by a sound of protest from Dean, and then Castiel felt another’s presence in front of him. He looked up in shock when Sam actually dropped to one knee in front of Castiel to bring them closer to eye level. The Boy King offered a tired, somewhat rueful smile. “Please don’t misunderstand, I am grateful for your apparent change of heart in neither stealing Dean away nor attempting to turn him against me, but why bind yourself to me this way? You don’t even like me.”

“I do not know you,” Castiel pointed out, a little helplessly. He wanted to glance towards Gabriel for direction, but Sam’s eyes held him pinned. Bereft of direction, he struggled to explain himself and hoped it would be enough to support whatever plan Gabriel had in mind. “I… you love your brother above all else, enough that you willingly marched into Lilith’s realm to challenge her for his life, knowing what could happen if you failed. I can barely remember knowing the love of my brothers and sisters, and it never burned as the love between you and Dean does. So bright and pure, one would think your souls entwined.” He saw the surprise in Sam’s face and looked down again, chest clenching. “I know better than to expect you to love me like that… I will have to earn your trust first before I can even begin to earn your love, but the hope that I might, one day, earn even a fraction of that love you feel for Dean… it would be a gift beyond measure.”

Silence reigned for several moments. Castiel feared the drumming of his heart was audible to the entire room as he waited to see how Sam would respond to his awkward declaration. He didn’t dare look at Gabriel, and he couldn’t bring himself to look up at Sam or Dean. He went very still when one of Sam’s hands lifted and moved towards him, shivering when the long fingers brushed a bit of his hair behind his ear, the roughened pads grazing lightly over the ink-stained skin there.

“A love that must be earned is not love,” Sam said quietly, his voice very near to Castiel’s ear, making Castiel’s heart sink. Then Sam’s fingers were beneath his chin, urging Castiel to look up and meet his eyes. There was still so much weariness in his face, and yet his smile was warm and kind. It took Castiel’s breath away, more so than the words which followed. “Trust, you can earn with time, and your candor has earned you much of my trust already. As for my love, well…” he trailed off, eyes flicking down briefly, before meeting Castiel’s once more with a faint glint of animation that might have been called joy before he completely stunned Castiel by leaning in and dropping a brief peck of a kiss onto the end of his nose. “We’ll work on it together.”

And Castiel found himself sending up a quick prayer of thanks to a god he had long feared had forsaken him as King Samuel of the House of Winchester, ruler of Ziemia and Tartarus, helped him to his feet, because as playful as that one kiss had been, it had ignited a spark of hope in Castiel’s heart, and he knew that he would follow this Boy King willingly into Hell and back.

#kiss prompt drabble #sastiel #fantasy au #supernatural #sam winchester #castiel #dean winchester #gabriel #hoo boy this ended up longer than it was supposed to #Anonymous

[truth-beauty-strange-charm]

Archon Origins (Tunon)

So I was puzzling out the difference between Archons who manifested their powers through reputation and wild talents, and how an Archon’s power shapes them. And I ended up writing a possible origin story for Tunon (and I’ve got a draft for Bleden Mark’s early years in the works).

Edit: I didn’t really understand Tunon’s character before the Act 3 patch. There were many plausible explanations for his behaviour. But since the patch it would seem that my characterisation here of him as passive and superstitious is very much wrong.

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He stayed close to Kyros, in those early years, relying on her power to keep him safe from the Archons she controlled. Spending his time training judges to carry out her will and drafting the finer details of her laws. He wasn’t sure keeping safe from the Archons this way was sustainable, but the Overlord, as always, saw the possibilities.

He was kneeling before her in her throne room. Kyros, clothed from head to toe, spoke in the melodious voice she had always used with him.

“You must ensure they fear as well as respect you. They must see you as an extension of my justice,” the Overlord said, handing him a finely-wrought mask.

The mask was iron. Another of Kyros’ magics, which distinguished her armies from the unconquered and uncivilised. Tunon could sense some kind of power imbued within it.

“I am honoured to be given such a symbol of your trust and confidence, my lord,” he bowed his head low.

The Overlord placed a finger under his chin and tilted his head upwards, and affixed the mask to his face.

“The masses fear symbols more than they fear men. You will not take this off in public. Now go forth and do my will.”

Tunon rose, and bowed before turning to leave. And only Kyros noticed the slight hint of dark smoke that followed his footsteps.

---

It would be four hundred more years before Tunon ever wondered if the mask his lord had given him was as cursed as Bleden Mark’s shackles.

As his need for sleep ceased, and Kyros taught him more and more powerful magics, his duties increased until he scarcely had any time out of the public eye. True to his obsessive nature, Tunon often spent days dealing with petitioners in the Overlord’s stead without rest.

In time, personal passions faded. He was glad of his increasing ability to stay professional in trying circumstances at first, until he reached for those private emotions and found dull wisps in their place.

---

An enraged roar blasted through the halls of the Imperial Palace, rattling the walls and rocking it to its very foundations. Tunon immediately abandoned the legal documents he was drafting and rushed out of his study toward the origin of the sound – a battle within the palace walls themselves.

He arrived in moments to find all three of Kyros’ Archons attacking her. Two of them were fighting her in melee, reducing her manoeuvrability while a third used his powers to support their efforts. It had all the signs of the premediated strike.

But even with those odds, they were losing. Kyros blocked and dodged with practiced ease, and what blows they could land barely scratched the Overlord’s skin. Even three heavily armed Archons were nothing to her.

Tunon prepared a spell to take down the third Archon, but no sooner than he’d completed it did the third Archon rush in to engage Kyros in melee, while a second Archon, heavily wounded, fell back to heal herself with magic. The spell hit nothing but walls.

Tunon began preparing another spell, but the Archon had already downed a powerful healing potion. She directed a quick blast of magical force at his hands, and the spell fizzled uselessly away.

“Oh look, it’s Kyros’ pet,” she sneered and uncorked another potion with one hand, confident that she could kill this fledgling.

Knowing he was moments away from being bull rushed, Tunon activated his innate powers. Floating off the ground, he willed stone spikes to thrust out from the earth.

“Cute – what the fuck! You stole some of Kyros’ -”

She was cut off as one of the spikes stuck a glancing blow against her chestplate, knocking her backwards. She struggled to get up on her feet while the ground shifted beneath her, but already a storm was brewing in the sky, and at its eye was the ‘fledgling’ she had dismissed a moment ago.

The female Archon finally regained her footing and leaped over the spikes to attack him, only to have the mangled body of her comrade hurled at her by Kyros. Her other comrade was already fading away in a pool of blood.

The Overlord stalked over to the fallen, dazed figures. Taking a few seconds to prepare a more powerful spell, she pierced them both with a single, blindingly bright blast.

---

Tunon blinked, trying to recover his vision, and recover from his awe at the Overlord’s power. It carried with it a sense of implacable force. Of inevitability.

“My lord - ”

His words turned into a choking sound as Kyros grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the closest wall. He clawed at her grip in wild panic, but to no avail.

“What have you done?” she growled.

Nothing but desperate clawing. Kyros relaxed her grip slightly.

“A – a small ability I manifested, my lord. A very small, localised Archon ability, affecting no more than a few strides in any direction.” He had prepared those words earlier to explain himself and now they spilled out of him in a panic, only to stop abruptly. In his fear he had forgotten the rest of it.

Kyros threw him to the far corner of the room, and turned to look through a large hole torn through the walls, her mood unreadable.

Tunon knew that for all the Overlord’s unsurpassable political acumen and patient strategy, she still had a dangerous temper, no tolerance for those who defied her will, and a wide range of torture instruments with which to make her displeasure known. He pulled himself to a kneeling position, fists planted on the ground, head bowed. She would return to her wise, perhaps omniscient ways when her rage subsides.

The Overlord continued, in a calmer voice.

“For there to be order in the world, the masses must not mistake pale imitation for true power. I am Kyros. My power, my will, are mine alone. Encouraging foolish, insubordinate notions among my subjects will only lead to chaos. You will kill all who speak or write of this magic of yours, and burn any records made.”

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Author’s Note: We know that no one knows Tunon’s powers, but if you fight him he’ll hit you with AoE attacks that look like tiny versions of Edicts. So what if Tunon didn’t really come into his powers until after he revealed his plan to his kinsmen, making his name as one of Kyros’ faithful? What if he was associated specifically some kind of divine justice, with the power of Edicts filling in for divinity?

It’s certainly explain why he acts so much like a puppet to both Kyros and potentially our character, while retaining enough of a devotion to justice to ask weird philosophical questions about what it truly is, and to be obsessed with impartiality.

Reputation-Archons are weirder than wild talents and their elemental powers I guess is what I’m saying.

#fandom #tyranny game #Quark says something