#knives hates humans so much specifically because he's seen and heard of them do such cruel and terrible things | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lucytara · 4 years

Note

Bumbleby. Blue. “And now that you’re here realized I need you for survival. I know from the awe in your eyes”

On the day of the reaping, Blake never expects her own name.

She’s never taken tesserae; her name’s in there six times because of her age, and that’s it. It’s her second-to-last eligible year, and she’s six among thousands. She has no reason to expect her own name when some girls in her class have their names in thirty, forty, fifty times - she brushes the nagging anxiety away for days leading up, finding comfort in the words of her family, in Adam, who’s on his last year and isn’t quite as lucky.

“Twenty-one times,” he says, but he’s still scowling. “Could be worse. But it’s still a flawed system. The poorer you are, the less value your life has. Here in Twelve? The Capitol doesn’t even think of us as people.”

Blake’s heard this speech a thousand times, but she hasn’t shared the hardest of his experiences and so she doesn’t stop him. “But what do you want to do, Adam?” she asks. “We can’t do anything. We can barely survive.”

She doesn’t miss the brief, scornful look in his eyes before he masks it with fire. She’s survived easier than he has, with her father as the Mayor, but it hasn’t been easy for any of them. “You’re right,” he says, though his tone’s taken on an odd, darkly thoughtful quality. “We can’t. But victors…” he trails off, shredding a loose leaf in his hand, strip by strip. “If I were a victor, I might.”

–

“Blake Belladonna!”

She rewatches the scene from third-person, as if it’s a dream she’s having, only it’s happening a split second after inside of her own skull. The perfectly manicured hand of their escort dipping a hand into the jar and pulling the crisp, white slip of paper with Blake’s name on it caught between her fingers. Her hazy, disoriented walk to the steps, the hem of her dress batting against her ankles. She’s not there. She’s in the Capitol, watching herself called to the death and starting, already, to murmur about her odds.

But Adam. She sees Adam perfectly.

Sees him step forward to volunteer for a boy whose name Blake doesn’t even know. Sees the crowd shifting uncomfortably, uncertain what to make of the move. Sees some of them clutching their hearts, some of them shaking their heads. And she sees Adam, unable to hide the victorious smirk in the corner of his mouth.

–

“I’m so sorry, Blake,” her father says, his hand on her shoulder as her mother embraces her, weeping. “I never wanted this for you. For any of us.”

If so many people don’t want this, Blake thinks numbly, why do we still have it?

–

Their mentor’s a woman named Sienna Kahn, now in her early thirties after having won her Games at fifteen. She’s tough, hard around the edges, as Blake imagines anyone would be who’s watched countless children die under their watch. Blake doesn’t understand, but she understands - Sienna doesn’t want to get attached.

She and Adam barely speak - her silence falls to the fact that she’s on her way to her own murder. But Adam’s?

Well, she’s seen this quiet intensity from him before. And he’s making plans.

–

There’s more to work with than Sienna thinks there is: for one, she and Adam both know their way around a sword, and she’s no stranger hitting a target with a knife. Teenage boredom, she says when Sienna asks, and despite the doubt, she doesn’t push it further.

I wanted to help people, is the real answer. When I saw how Adam had been treated, I wanted to help. And then I saw how many people were like him, I wanted to do more than that.

“Your father’s a good man,” Sienna says instead, arms crossed over her body. She’s holding a far-off look in her eye, and instantly Blake knows she’s being told information specifically because Sienna thinks she won’t be alive to repeat it later. “He fought for people the only way he could, and I’m sure he almost died for it. I thought he wasn’t doing enough, back then. But I get it now.” She fixates her gaze on Blake again, solidly in the present, still on the same train car to a mass grave. “What do you have to fight for, Blake?”

Adam’s listening for her answer, and she says the only thing she’s thought since her name was called the day before. “Honestly? I don’t know why we’re fighting at all.”

A smile works its way to the edge of Sienna’s mouth, but it isn’t happy. It’s full of regret. “Yeah,” she says. “I used to think like that, too.”

–

They watch the other reapings. There’s a pair of volunteers from One who seem like they come as a set, with equally stupid names: Emerald and Mercury. Then she only really remembers the girl from two, who looks fourteen and innocent, but Blake knows better. The red-headed girl from three, who stands tall. A girl from five, missing an eye. A large boy from eight.

But the one reaping that sticks in her mind from the minute she sees it is the reaping from Four.

A girl’s name is called, and there’s a brief bout of hysteria from the crowd while a girl with long, blonde hair tugs her back and volunteers in her place. The younger girl just screams, but the older girl - Yang - just stands on the stage, slowly putting herself back together. It’s like Blake can see it happening - see her locking her heart away. Putting all that love she has for her sister somewhere it can’t be used against her.

“Pathetic,” Adam murmurs, because he hates weakness. He’s proud to see himself volunteer, steady and confident. “To protect you, of course,” he clarifies, and nothing’s ever been further from the truth.

Strangely, all Blake can comprehend is that she’s looking forward to tomorrow - getting to see Yang in person.

–

Their outfits are stunning, as is their debut. They have a compelling story: the mayor’s daughter from Twelve and the boy determined to keep her alive. It’s a television show, Sienna says. It’s about the narrative.

Blake finds that flash of blonde hair in the crowd. She thinks she sees seashells winding their way down a braid, and a net is woven to create some sort of dress. Yang clearly hates it, but she says something to the boy from her district, and he laughs.

Laughter isn’t a simple thing to come by in the Hunger Games. She decides, for no reason at all, that she likes Yang.

–

After the parade of horses, their team is riding on a high; she’s kept herself grounded, though, unwilling to entertain any ideas of survival. She’s walking to the elevator when she swears she catches Yang staring at her, but she blinks and she’s only met with Yang’s profile, her chin dropped and her eyes averted down.

–

Yang is a mystery in the training room. She spends most of her time at the wildlife stations, learning to tie knots, painting patterns, identifying poisonous plants. She never spars, or uses any of the weapons, really, but she lifts weights, punches a bag around a bit. Blake can tell everyone’s set on edge by her presence, not able to tell the extent of her power, skill, ability. It’s uncommon to hide that sort of thing during training, but her muscles tell their own story. There’s more to her than she’s allowing them to see.

That doesn’t stop Blake from watching her, though. From cataloguing where she spends her time and how it allows her to feel. She’s not as guarded as the rest of them - she seems to like making traps, because she gains this look of concentration as she follows along with the instructor, knotting rope around her fingers. She spends a little bit of time with the boy from her district, and almost against his will, he appears slightly enamored with her. In fact, a lot of them do, though they try to hide it. Blake isn’t the only one who watches her.

She’s so absorbed with the state of affairs that she doesn’t notice who isn’t, but she does notice there’s an energy between her and Adam that wasn’t palpable before, and now it seems to be coating the room.

“Thinking about allies, Blake?” he says over dinner, light enough to pass as a joke but sinister enough to be a threat.

“No,” Blake says, because she’s only thinking about the quickest way to die.

She hopes she can at least see Yang, wherever she is when it happens.

–

Her knife sinks directly into the red dot, signaling a bulleye on their human-shaped target. She’s not paying attention to the show she’s putting on; all she’s really doing is daydreaming while she idly throws knives. It helps her think. Gives her clarity.

They’re easy to flick. Most people don’t understand the wrist movement, the finesse - they tie it to strength, rather than purpose. That’s why Blake’s so good at it; she’s about precision, not power. That’d always been Adam.

Someone is watching her. Actually, as she comes back into herself, many people are watching her, but only one she cares about: Yang, back at the trap station, staring unfettered.

Blake abruptly puts her knives down. The worst part of the Hunger Games, she’s starting to understand, aren’t the games themselves. That’s going to awaken survival instincts, desperation for life - primal, unhindered urges. No, no, the worst part of the Games is now, these few days before, when they’re taken care of so exquisitely, when shiny, beautiful things are dangled in front of them and cruelly ripped away.

“Why?” she can’t resist asking, kneeling beside Yang. “Why did you do it?”

Yang’s eyes haven’t left her, but her fingers stall around the rope, as if surprised by the question. She examines Blake with a strange intensity, but an openness Blake still isn’t used to from any other tribute. Everyone’s either closed off or showing off, genuinity nowhere to be found. Except perhaps the redhead from Three. Pyrrha. She’s been spending some time teaching a much smaller, younger boy how to throw a spear. He doesn’t stand a chance, but Pyrrha must know that.

“Don’t you have someone?” Yang says, drops her gaze back to the knot. “Someone you’d die for?”

Her parents. Her friends. Adam. “No,” Blake admits honestly. “Nobody.” There are no cameras yet. No one to hurt with the admission. Adam had called her selfish, once; maybe he’d been right.

But Yang laughs, once and under her breath. “Maybe you’re better off that way,” Yang says, not unkindly. Her smile’s sad and quiet; whatever memories rise, they’re memories for her to cherish one last time. That’s how all memories feel these days. “My sister is my life.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Blake says, captivated by every word out of Yang’s mouth; how real she sounds. There’s no show; she’s not aiming to impress, or grasping at pity. She’s here because of a choice she made, and she’ll live and die with that. Blake wonders what that’s like: to have a choice. “Not many people would do what you did.”

“Well, what about you, Belladonna?” Yang questions, sitting up a little straighter, expression a sliding door that suddenly gives way to teasing. There’s a tone underneath, though - heavy - like a lingering doubt. “The guy who volunteered for you. To protect you, right?”

She’s close - she’s kept her volume low. She’s not stupid. She’s playing this conversation with an angle, but it isn’t for her own benefit.

Blake turns her head, locks onto Adam’s hand clenched around the grip of his sword, lunging strikes at a dummy. She feels the familiar uncurling of fear in her stomach, a dark and massive shape lingering just below. Ominous and foreboding.

“Yeah,” Blake says, and looks away. “He did.”

Picking up on her discomfort isn’t hard, and it isn’t something she’s actively tried to mask; Yang pauses strangely, gaze flickering between them. She infers, “It’s not a good thing, is it.” And trains her focus on Blake again. “It’s not good that he’s here.”

“I don’t know,” Blake admits. “He - I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Maybe you aren’t.”

“He wants me to believe it is,” she says finally. “He told me all he wants is to see me safe.”

“And you think he’s lying?” Yang asks, like a story she’s invested in, though Blake isn’t quite sure why.

“I think,” Blake starts, and at last puts into words what exactly has haunted her since the reaping days earlier, “that Adam wants to win, and he thinks he can use me to do that. Use my loyalty to him.”

The knot effortlessly tightens and unravels between Yang’s fingers. It seems to be an unconscious habit, and one she’s better at than her hours at the station might’ve led them to believe. “Hm,” she says, poking her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You’re good with those knives, that’s for sure. It makes sense that he’d rather have you as an ally than an enemy - help him take out all the threats, and take you out himself.”

“Perceptive,” Blake says, impressed despite her dawning horror; she’d been so good at pushing it down, at talking herself out of circles, at trusting him despite the signs. In one conversation, Yang’s forced her to undo all that. She echoes Yang’s earlier words to her. Maybe it’s for the best.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Yang says, and subtly jerks her head in his direction. “With how purposefully he’s showing off his swordplay, I’m amazed he even remembers you exist.” She rolls her eyes. “Men.”

And Blake laughs. Like Yang’s district partner at the parade. It’s accidental, and nearly shocking in its sincerity, but she laughs anyway. She doesn’t have a choice. “Men,” she agrees, and Yang laughs too.

That’s the first time Blake thinks about living.

–

The first time Yang thinks about dying - dying willingly - is their final day in the training center.

Blake Belladonna, beautiful and clever and entirely obvious to everyone but herself, locates her at the camouflage station, attempting to blend her hand into a sandy coastline. She stares quizzically down at the pattern, eyebrows knitting together, and Yang makes the connection with a laugh. “You’ve never seen the ocean.”

“No.” Blake shakes her head. “What’s it like?”

“Well, I’m no artist,” Yang says, wiggling her fingers, “but kinda like this. Blue, green, boundless - sometimes I think about just diving in the water and swimming as far as I can. Swimming away.” She adds, “Salty.”

And then Blake reaches for a paintbrush, deliberately dragging her fingers along the back of Yang’s hand, leaving streaks of blue paint. She pauses; Yang keeps breathing, but it’s a struggle. She says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Yang says.

“Don’t die.” She takes the brush, and swirls it into the yellow paint. “Don’t give up.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” Yang asks, almost unnerved at the sentiment, fighting against the way it makes her want to cry. Her skin feels raw where Blake had touched her, and the marks remain.

“Because,” Blake says softly, “I think you deserve better than this.”

“I think we all do,” Yang counters, flaring up - it’s not just me, she wants to say. You deserve better. You. There are so few beautiful things left. You.

“But the rest of us aren’t here because there’s someone we care enough about to protect.” Blake lets it hang between them. “You’re a good person, Yang. Anyone can tell that much.”

Yang’d never understood the Capitol and its fascination with tattoos as a statement. Now she stares at the blue streaks across the back of her hand, and wonders about wearing it forever.

She’d die, she thinks. She’d die for Blake, too.

–

She spars for the first and last time after that, and one of her blows sends the trainer flying off the practice area and into the concrete, knocking him unconscious.

But she sweats the paint off, and finds without it, it’s a little easier to breathe.

–

Their scores aren’t surprising. Adam pulls a nine. Blake gets a ten - Adam pretends to be happy for her, but she sees that facade cracking instantly.

Yang gets an eleven.

“Her?” Adam spits out, clearly infuriated. He’s already seeing red.

“She’s a genius,” Sienna says at the revelation, shocking Adam into silence. “You’re good with a weapon, Adam, and anyone will give you that. But unarmed? You’re nothing.” She jerks her head towards the blonde girl on-screen. “You can’t disarm her. She’ll kill you with her bare hands.”

“Her?” Adam snarls. “If she gets within my line of sight, she’s–”

“You think she doesn’t know how to dodge a sword?” she asks, and Adam bristles once again with no response. “Do you truly believe a girl whose primary skill is hand-to-hand combat doesn’t know how to evade an attack? You’re a fool if you cast her aside as a threat, Adam. She’s the most dangerous one here.”

Blake stares blankly at her picture, wondering if it’s intelligence, if it’s determination, passion, will. Wonders if Yang’s trained for this, if she’s excited, if she’s terrified. Wonders if it’s all just luck, a mixed bag of rot and gold.

But Blake recalls the tapes of the reapings, across every district, and she remembers none of them as clearly as she remembers Yang’s - not even her own. Yang’s; a reaping that wasn’t supposed to be hers at all.

Ruby! Ruby! No!

Armed guards in white holding her back, or trying to, but being no match for her strength.

I volunteer! She hears Yang’s scream in her mind, even now, days later, sees her pushing her way to the platform. I volunteer as tribute!

Or, Blake thinks, maybe it’s just what she’s always done to survive.

–

Blake’s tactic, they’d decided, is mysterious and alluring: she’s to answer her interview in short, vague answers, and smile as though she’s hiding something. It’s not hard. She’s hiding so much from herself already that it barely even feels like a tactic.

Yang goes for sexy and powerful, and she doesn’t even have to try. People in the audience are literally fanning themselves as she’s interviewed. She looks stunning in her dress, her heels, red-lipped and eyes that seem to match underneath the stage lights.

“I just want my sister to know I love her,” she says at the end, a calculated vulnerability that makes every citizen watching want her even more, moaning about how strong and brave she is, protecting her younger sister like that.

“She makes me sick,” Adam says, face warped with hatred, and suddenly, it isn’t her own safety she’s worried for.

–

It’s a diversion. Confuse Adam, make him scramble for a new plan, make him rethink his strategy. Because Yang had been right, and Blake’s instincts had been, too: he wants to win. And when you want to win, everyone else is a target.

So during her interview, she confesses, “I know I can win. But I’ve met someone here who I’d really like to keep alive, even more than that.”

The interviewer goes insane. “Another tribute?” he says. “You’ve met someone here?”

Blake shrugs, pretending to be coy. “That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

He groans, begs her for details, and she says next to nothing, but the audience eats it up - she sees the camera focus on her as the show closes, hoping to catch her eyes flickering to another tribute. She stares straight ahead, speaking to no one until they’re backstage.

“Adam, not now,” Sienna says immediately, pointing him to the elevator. “Go upstairs. We’ll meet you there.” He grits his teeth, but does as he’s told. Sienna turns on her. “What the hell was that?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Blake says lowly, “and neither are you. We both know what Adam’s plan is. Or was.”

It’s a statement that forces Sienna into a corner, and she relents after a few seconds of the two of them staring each other down. “You’ll be his first target now, not his last,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“It doesn’t matter the order,” Blake says, brushing by her to the elevator. “I’ve been number one on his list for a long, long time. But I’m not playing the Games on his terms anymore.”

“Well, you’ve given them a hell of a narrative,” Sienna says, following her, reluctantly impressed. “The whole Capitol’s dying to know who your lucky love interest could be, since it’s not him.”

Yang shoves her arm through the elevator door just as it’s about to close. “Mind if I catch a ride?” she asks, stepping inside, her heels held in her hand.

So, maybe Blake should’ve thought through her plan, because at the moment, Yang’s a foot away from her and absolutely the most beautiful girl Blake’s ever seen in her life, and her story for the cameras turns out to be more true than she’d meant it to be.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sienna says, throwing up her hands. Apparently Blake’s staring is noticeable. “Of course it is. Blake, you’re on your own.”

“No, she’s not,” Yang murmurs, and brushes her fingers against Blake’s, hanging between them. “She’s got me.”

–

There’s a vibrancy to her when she disembarks, an urgency to her mouth. Find me, she says, leaning close, grasping Blake’s hand. Find me in the arena. Or I’ll find you. Okay?

“Why?” Blake asks again, unable to comprehend anything Yang does or says, unable to reconcile the motivation behind it.

“Because I want you alive,” she says, and lets go. “I want you to live.”

You’re insane, Blake wants to say. None of us will live except one. And out of all of us, it should be you.

But the next morning, standing on the platform, she finds Yang three spaces down from her, and their eyes meet as if by gravitational pull.

Find me, Yang mouths, and the cannons blast.

#Anonymous #bumbleby #rwby fic #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #rwby #yes...it's a hunger games au. will i continue it? maybe!

650 notes · View notes

ghostly-roses · 3 years

Text

1. Introduction

Name (last, first): Bunjaku

Nickname(s): Daifuku (a traditional Japanese sweet)

Age: 17-19

Species: Human

Gender: Nonbinary Male

Pronouns: He/Him, They/Them

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual Polyamorous

Birthday: June 28

Life Story: Bunjaku is a minor returning character in the hubtown and is usually sought out by Jakotsu because of his sexuality and openness about his attraction to other men. He was sold into a brothel by his family when caught in a relationship with another teenage boy of a high ranking family who was engaged to a girl of a similar ranking family. He and the boy talked about leaving their town to be together, but after the boy’s father heard of this, everything fell apart. The boy was forced to face Bunjaku in a sword match to the death for his ‘betrayal’ to his family. He only managed to leave a cut on Bunjaku’s cheek before he turned around and said everything between the two of them was a lie. He was just trying to run away from responsibility and his duties to his family. Just because he was being childish didn’t mean Bunjaku needed to die. Due to this event and his family disowning him, Bunjaku doesn’t feel like he can emotionally let people too close to him. Otherwise, he would be in a relationship with one (or more) of his clients.

Though the word nonbinary didn’t exist at the time when asked, Bunjaku explains he doesn’t strongly feel he is male or female, but somewhere in the middle or neither. He does use male pronouns, but when strangers address him as ‘them’ he secretly feels validated. His nickname Daifuku was given to him by Jakotsu because of how sweet he is.

He works as a kagema, or male prostitute, in the hub town (Kyoto as of now). He presents himself much like Jakotsu. Bunjaku is very flamboyant, but very soft spoken. He wears a loosely tied yukata with one sleeve on, one sleeve off, and his hair tied back in a low ponytail that he often brushes over his right shoulder.

Fun Fact: Bunjaku’s reincarnation, named Bushimichi (Buu for short), is/was a part of a fanfiction called Inu Generations where Jakotsu, Bankotsu, and Kagura are granted new lives and are tasked with taking care of and raising InuYasha’s granddaughter and Sesshomaru’s grandson. Buu is romantically interested in Bankotsu, and helps Ban embrace his bisexuality (I ship him with Jakotsu, and since Ban states he finds Kikyo attractive, bisexual it is. Welcome to my shit headcanon.)

2. About Him/Her

Alignment: True Neutral/Neutral Good

Personality: Sweet, Soft-spoken, Nurturing, Positive, Encouraging, Reasonably Distant, Social Butterfly, Extroverted (but has ambivert-like tendencies), Bit of Goofball

Good Habit(s): He has a tendency to brush his ponytail over his right shoulder. He usually does it out of habit, but when embarrassed, surprised, flustered, or experiencing strong emotions he’ll either grab at it to somewhat hide his face and/or play with the tip of it. It’s also a strong tell if he has something on his mind when he’s by himself.

Bad Habit(s): He’s not in a place that he can be completely open with anyone. He has people in his life he’s close with, but he does keep a bit of a distance so he won’t get hurt by others. Bunjaku is willing to talk about this and his past if in the right mood and mind set, but if not he’ll say it’s too painful and that he’s trying to move pasted it. He has periods of laziness where he spends a lot of time sleeping and just generally lazing about.

Like(s): He actually likes his job. It has its bad sides, but he really likes to get to know his clients. He likes to make them feel welcome, and hear their stories. When he’s not working he’s either chatting with the yujo or their clients.

Dislike(s): He hates not being taken seriously because of how he looks, how he presents himself, or his sexuality. It’s one of the few things that actually gets a rise out of him. He doesn’t want to be a ‘man’s man’.

Hobbies: Socializing, Sleeping, Playing with Cho

Strength(s): He is a very friendly and positive person that people gravitate towards.

Weakness(es): Due to his babyface, some of his male clients and other males have tried to forcefully have their way with Bunjaku. The women of the brothel are increasingly protective of him, and will secretly check on him and his clients.

Special Powers/Abilities: N/A

Extras: People usually have a distinct perception of him. He is the living embodiment of a cavity, and is too sweet. He’s also not the biggest fan of sweeter foods.

3. Dreams and Talents

Ambition/Life-long Dream: Find a loving partner(s) and settle down

Occupation/Job: Kagema (Male Prostitute)

Best Class(es): Daggers and Knives

Worst Class(es): All other weapons

4. Family and Friends

Parent(s): Mother, Father

Sibling(s): Two Sisters

Relative(s): Aunt, Cousins

Pet(s): Cho, a stray kitten he found trying to catch a butterfly.

Best Friend(s): N/A

Friend(s): Mitsuha, Amaya, Jakotsu, Shin’ichi

Crush(es): Jakotsu and some other clients

Rival(s): One or two of the yujoes

Enemies: N/A

5. InuYasha Information

If you're a demon, what kind of demon are you?: N/A

Alliance: Yujo of the brothel, and most of his clients

Do you have jewel shards?: No

If so, how many?: 0

Weapon(s): Dagger (Only for protection, he wears it around his upper thigh when walking around.)

6. Looks and Appearance

Body Type/Looks: Ectomorph/Rectangle/Average Height, but on the thinner side (He’s meant to look like the stereotypical uke from yaoi.)

Blood Type: O-

Height: 5”6

Weight: 150 - 160 lbs

Outfit(s): Peach Yukata with a Plum Blossom (Ume) Motif

Accessories: Red Hair Ribbon

Makeup: None

Scent: Regular human

Hairstyle(s): Low ponytail

Scars, Tattoos, Jewelry and/or Piercings: Scar across his right cheek

Appearance [if you don't have a picture, just delete this]: Androgynous as fuck

7. Extra Information

Theme Song/Quote: “As with the butterfly, adversity is necessary to build character in people.” - Joseph B. Wirthlin

“Just living is not enough,” said the butterfly, “one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.” - Hans Christian Anderson

Cherry Blossom Shower - Okami Soundtrack

Favorite Food(s): Savory and Sour Foods

Favorite Color(s): Peach, Light purples

Favorite Number(s): 8

Favorite Season(s): Spring

Favorite Holiday(s): Flower Festivals

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn

Theme: Flowers?

What would you like to happen? [Any specific ideas? Anything particular that you'd like to happen? It can just be a word, too. Something for me to work from.]:

8. Character Opinions [What Your OC thinks about the characters]

Band of Seven: They’re all friendly with me, but I only have connections to Jakotsu and Bankotsu. Though, they all agreed I have a nice ass. That was a fun night!

Bankotsu: I don’t know him the greatest, but I tried to comfort him about his possible attraction to the same sex. He was very defensive and confused about the exchange.

Jakotsu: He is a regular client of mine when in town. Though he can be rough with me, he always makes sure I feel comfortable and effectively babies me during aftercare and anytime we’re in public together.

After Story: Five or six years after hearing the news of the Band of Seven being executed, Bunjaku is approached by what seems to be an old client he hasn’t seen in years with a woman by his side. The old client is named Kazuo and the woman is Tsuya. They ask to speak with Bunjaku after he’s done working.

“So what didn’t you want to talk about, Kazuo? Wanting to catch up?”

He and his wife looked at each other awkwardly before explaining the ‘situation’. Kazuo introduced his wife, Tsuya, to Bunjaku. Bunjaku was thrilled to know Kazuo has a partner and has settled down. Kazuo went on to explain that despite being married, he still had strong feelings for Bunjaku, and that his wife was comfortable with the idea of him having a male partner. Bunjaku was incredibly taken aback, and fingered at his ponytail out of habit.

“U-uhmm,...if we were going t-to do this, I-I’d like to-uh...get to know your wife first. J-Just so everything is, uh, no one is, we aren’t, uh-I’m not overstepping any boundaries.”

Tsuya chimed in, “He’s just as sweet and cute as you said he was!” causing Bunjaku to blush even more than he already was, and hide his face behind his ponytail and hands.

Kazuo and Bunjaku’s relationship started out slowly. Communication between the three was open and honest. While he and Kazuo were getting more intimate, Bunjaku and Tsuya were getting closer, and some sparks began to fly. Soon enough, the two come to the conclusion that they were falling in love as well. The three of them eventually sat down and the husband and wife declaration their mutual love for Bunjaku. The trio of now lovers agreed that all partners were allowed to be intimate.

The triad lived very happily together for about a year or two until Tsuya fell pregnant. They didn’t know if the child’s father was Bunjaku or Kazuo, but all of them were excited about the new arrival. Bunjaku’s mention of the name Aiko (love child) was what they decided to name the baby girl when she was born. They had one more child between them, another girl named Honoka (harmony flower). It wouldn’t be until years later that the father of each child became more evident. Aiko looked and acted more like Bunjaku, while the same could have been said for Honoka and Kazuo. The girls were two years and three months apart.

Years later while shopping with a young Aiko, Bunjaku saw a face that used to haunt his dreams. It was the boy, now man, that was the first love of his life and the reason for the scar on his right cheek. The man recognized Bunjaku, stopped him, and awkwardly explained that he did indeed love Bunjaku and apologized about the scar. The interaction was bittersweet for the both of them. It gave them both some kind of closure, but it left the man wondering what could have been if he stood up for the two of them when they were young teenagers.

A/N: Thank you for reading and sorry about any typos! I can only find so many errors when editing things myself.

InuYasha Bio Template: https://www.deviantart.com/aamlchu/art/InuYasha-Character-Bio-Template-805061013

Amaya and her bio: https://www.deviantart.com/aamlchu/art/Amaya-with-Chibi-Ban-Jak-and-Sui-With-Bio--800211364

#inuyasha #inuyasha oc #yashahime #inuyasha Jakotsu #Jakotsu #Bunjaku #non-binary #nonbinary #non binary character #oc #my art #my oc art #polyamory #triad

8 notes · View notes

tomishaped · 3 years

Text

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence • Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Supernatural

Relationship:

Dean Winchester!Izzy Hlton

Characters:

Dean Winchester • Izzy Hilton • Sam Winchester • Asmodeus • Dagon • Demons • Hellhound • Ellen Harvelle • Jo Harvelle • Hunters • Crowley • Charlie Bradbury • Bobby Singer • Ruby • Death • Pestilence • Famine • War • Castiel • Angels • Cain

Additional Tags:

Demon Dean Winchester • Demon Sex • Kidnapping • Gay Sex • Blood • Blood Kink • Hate Sex • Love/Hate • Major Character Injury • Major Original Character(s) • Character Death • Past Child Abuse • Past Rape/Non-con • Past Sexual Abuse • Past Torture • Past Violence • Canon-Typical Violence • Violence • Protective Dean Winchester • Bisexual Dean Winchester • Top Dean Winchester • Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings • Izzy is too • Emotional Hurt/Comfort • Emotional/Psychological Abuse

Summary: After being pulled out of hell Dean realizes quickly that the four months he had been gone made way for a lot of changes in the lives of everyone he knows, including the life he had known for himself before he died. Nobody was treating him the same, and there was seriously something going on with his brother that he could not figure out. He was spending most of his time alone nowadays, not really hunting anymore since Bobby and Sam were against it for him, and spending most of his time drinking instead to try and forget. He was angry, pretty much all the time. That anger really worked in his favour though when walking back to the impala he came across a freaking hoard of demons getting ready to attack some blond chick. He didn't know who she was or what the hell all the demons wanted with her, but there was no way he could just walk away. Maybe if he had any idea what trying to save this person was going to lead too he would have just walked away, maybe if he had actually given any thought to the situation before him he wouldn't have put himself in the middle of it, but even before hell he made impulsive and rash decisions... so maybe not.

Previous Chapters:

• Chapter One • Chapter Two: Part One •

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

Chapter Two: Welcome to the Batcave

Part Two

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

Izzy watched the other actually curious for a moment to see if he would finally catch what he said. Aaaand, there it was! He had to give the hunter some props, he was taking the fact that he mistaked Izzy for a girl better than he could remember anyone else had. Demons especially hated him for it. Not for the same reasons that humans seemed too, most demons really didn't care what your fucking gender was as they body hopped so often, what they didn't like was that someone so small, sweet, and innocent looking was actually a deadly assassin sent by a prince of hell. And worse, he was good at it. Izzy looked away from him again and back at the book he was holding when Dean started to talk, crossing one leg over the other as he started to look through the book. "If the idiots would just abandon their stupid plans of trying to break Lucifer from the cage I would just leave them alone," Izzy muttered as most of his attention was back to the book in his hands, not realizing he even said it out loud or knowing if Dean had heard about what this specific group of hellions were planning. "I wouldn't count too much on actually finding one, I've only ever found info on one and I can't find that fucker for the life of me. I've never not found a mark before him, it was actually really frustrating…" he said, talking more naturally and easily than he had before with most of his attention focused on something else. He could feel his heart racing as he read through the pages. The first few were just about Cain. How he had become a demon. That was actually interesting even if none of what he was learning would help him track the mother fucker. Cain was the only demon specifically named though. After the chapter on him, the book went on to explain how because of him it had become possible for a human to turn. And what had to happen to said human for something like that to happen and Izzy found that for the first time that he could remember, he was grateful for something. He was really fucking grateful that he couldn't remember being human. Because this shit sucked.

Dean relaxed his shoulders when the other didn’t point out how obviously awkward his mistake was. It must have happened quite a bit and it was obvious as to why. Though he didn’t dwell on it for too long after catching Izzy mutter under his breath. So Izzy knew about Lucifer and over half of Hell’s plans to free him. Not too many hunters really knew what was going on, just that demons had been kicking up a shit storm lately. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the table Izzy was sitting on. He raised a brow when Izzy said he’d only found one and he couldn’t track him. “A mark?” He asked, not following him. “Do you think they could make more demons like that? I have a feeling they’d be a bitch in a fight.”

"Not a mark, my marks. Whatever demon I'm hunting at the time," Dean really did get kind of lucky that Izzy had found this book if he wanted to ask questions. The lithe demon was only half paying attention to whatever he was saying, basically only enough to make sure he didn't let the fact that he was one of these demons slip out. "Though he does actually have a mark that turned him in the first place. Didn't know that." Izzy nodded without hesitation at the other males next question though, "Definitely. Seriously time consuming and difficult, but not impossible. Looks like when it does happen, it's usually an accident. And they are definitely totally awesome in a fight. Stronger than a knight of hell but not quite as strong as a prince. And not easy to kill. Our knives won't kill one of them." The book didn't actually tell him that last part, he knew it from experience back when Asmodues was first training him. He had kinda lost his temper at the pretty little blond and actually fucking stabbed him with the same knife he now had hidden in his boot. All it did to the blond was piss him off though. It ruined the dress he was wearing and had left a nasty little scar in his side where he had been stabbed. "So unless you’re Cain with his first blade or have that Colt and bullets that you killed Azazel with, or yanno, a crazy person like me, I would avoid looking for one of them." He took in a deep breath as he slammed the book shut, trying to not let it be seen how incredibly fucking furious he was right now. Well, at least he knew why Asmodues was so keen on him not knowing how he turned. "So uh, yeah. Thanks for the info. Great fucking room ya got here. But I gotta go find a certain prince and tear his fucking head off somehow," Izzy said, his voice showing he obviously was not happy with what he just read if his words didn't give that part away. He was caring less and less about whatever fucking cover he was supposed to be playing here. He couldn't fully remember right now what he had let on that he knew about the man in the room with him but he no longer really cared. He pushed himself down from the table and went to move past Dean, "Nice to meet ya and all that shit and like, thanks for the help…" he paused for a moment to look at the hunter again, fuck it. Dean gave him access to the information he so desperately wanted, he figured he could return the favour with some info that Dean probably actually needed, "By the way, you really should probably get your brother away from Ruby because bitch has him all fucked up, pretty sure that people shouldn't actually be drinking demon blood the way he is. Pretty fucked up. So yeah. Gotta go."

“Oh they sound great,” Dean said when Izzy confirmed that more could be made this way. “Oh yea, awesome,” He shot back when Izzy went on about them and described them that way and mentioned that the knives were worthless against them. The only good thing that was mentioned was that apparently they were only ever made on accident and there were no rumored army’s full of them. He had noticed the others snapping of the book and the anger rolling off of him, clearly having read something he didn’t like. “Oh yea that sounds like a feasible plan, how do you plan on getting in Hel-?” He was cut off by the other male thanking him for the help. “Wait.” He said, not wanting the other to run off and get killed while half cocked. He didn’t get a chance to say anything else because what Izzy said after that shut him right up. “Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” He asked, his voice showing his own rising anger. “And how the hell do you know who he’s with?” He asked him. This ment Izzy knew who they were before he ran into him tonight. He started reaching for his pistol in a back holster without thinking much about it. “Who are you?” He asked, taking a step back and raising the fire arm.

Izzy rolled his eyes as Dean called after him when he turned and started to walk to the bunkers exit. If he did leave here right now, he really would go straight to the youngest prince and try and kill the fucker somehow. "Oh come on Dean, you're pretty and reckless but I didn't peg you for being stupid. I hunt demons. Ruby is a fucking demon. And your brother is running around with her. Do I really need to connect all the dots for you?" He stopped for a moment when he heard the click of the firearm and rolled his eyes again. Really? First time he ever tried to actually help someone else out and they pulled a gun on him. Not that Dean's pistol would actually hurt him, but he had been serious when he mentioned he liked this jacket. He didn't feel like throwing it out because of a bullet hole after he managed to actually keep it through the ambush.

He turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. "I was after her. I really can't fucking stand her. Unfortunately for me, your junkie brother was in the way and I couldn't get close enough without having to kill him first, and since I don't kill humans that wasn't exactly an option." He waved his hand at the pistole pointed at him, looking more annoyed that Dean was pointing it at him than anything else, "But I swear to fuck if you pull that trigger that'll change real fucking fast as I will slit your fucking throat." He wasn't reaching for the knife though, he wasn't scared of the gun and wouldn't pull it unless Dean actually did attack him first. After all, he didn't know the bullet wouldn't hurt him, he would definitely be trying to kill him and Izzy didn't take well to that happening. Threats were usually whatever, a dime a dozen when you did what he did, but actually trying to do it was another thing completely. "Now do you wanna play this game with me too or do you mind if I go now?"

Dean narrowed his eyes when Izzy said he hunted demons. He didn’t say anything for a minute after Izzy said all that and threatened retaliation by cutting his throat. His jaw was tense but he eased the hammer back and lowered his gun. He didn’t like anything he had said. He just knew Izzy was keeping something from him but… he was telling the truth about his brother and Dean hated it. He kept his hard eyes on the blond as he put his gun back in his holster and he pulled out a small piece of paper from his back pocket and grabbed a forgotten pen on the table. He didn't say anything as he quickly jotted something down, folded it and handed it to him. “In case you do something stupid like take on a prince of hell and want back up,” he said, his voice was quiet and calm. His reboiling rage wasn’t aimed at the blond any more so he tried to keep it from exploding on him. He had seen what he could do with that knife of his.

The anger at the hunter seemed to dissipate when he withdrew his weapon and put it back in the holster. Smart move, because the little demon had been deadly fucking serious about retaliation if he tried to shoot him. When Dean handed him that paper and said that, Izzy couldn't stop the confused look that crossed his face. Seriously? We both just threatened to kill the other and Dean was offering to back him up again a second later? What the fuck went on in human fucking heads? He really didn't understand them at all. Especially this one. And this happened to be the first one he spent any length of time with. "Right. Not gonna happen, but thanks? The backup thing. The prince thing is totally happening." After nearly sixty years around Asmodeus, Izzy didn't hold any fear of him. The prince needed Izzy and they both knew it. Besides, that was a long time to spend with anyone, and since the prince had wanted Izzy a secret until he was ready he had been the one Izzy trained with most often before he started throwing demon chum his way to practice with. Izzy knew that mans every fucking move.

5 notes · View notes

bard-llama · 4 years

Text

Know Thine Enemy (Iorveth/Roche) Part 1

Summary: Iorveth spends a lot of time wondering what it was about Vernon Roche that got to him. A chance encounter in the forest forces him to question if there might not be more to it than determination to outwit his enemy.

Read on AO3

If you like my writing, consider donating to my ko-fi! I am writing gift fics for all donors.

Notes:

There is some Elder Speech in this fic. Translations are below:

Aen Seidhe = Formal name for what elves call themselves. Two types: Those who lived before the Conjunction of the Spheres brought humanity to the continent, and those born after.

Dùthaich is Scottish Gaelic for Homeland, according to Google Translate

Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human

Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human

Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google.

Onto the Story:

Iorveth had spent a long time nursing his hatred for Temeria’s King. Well, for most of the Northern Kings, actually, but Temeria was special. Temeria had been his home, long before humans had named it such.

The elven name sounded better anyway. Dùthaich meant homeland in the dh’oine’s tongue, and that’s what it was. An elven homeland. Typical how dh’oine always forgot that their cities were built on elven ruins.

At any rate, there had been a time King Foltest was – well, not a good king, dh’oine didn’t really have those. But not a particularly notable bad king. Iorveth had hated him on principle, but it was a distant hate, a vague awareness of Foltest’s existence.

Then Foltest had decided that nonhumans should be eliminated. Just for existing.

Iorveth’s hate became very personal very fast. And he used it, used it to lead his men to fight Foltest’s order and save those they could. More than that, he used his hatred to do the things he had to do, to order his men to do. Kings never gave into the Scoia’tael because they asked nicely, they gave in because they had no choice, because the Scoia’tael had made it impossible for villages to go about their regular business of paying taxes and tributes, which meant the kingdom lost money.

Kings hated losing money. Dh’oine greed in general was a frightening thing – Iorveth had seen men beat and kill others for a mere copper – but it was especially prevalent amongst kings and nobility.

Money made Kings pay attention, made them stop ignoring the inconvenient elven uprisings and actually consider the terms the Scoia’tael proposed. Iorveth seethed; They weren’t even asking for much – all they wanted was a place where they could live without their mere existence carrying down a death sentence. Why couldn’t dh’oine understand that, understand that they were just people, people who wanted to live their lives?

Instead of giving them that, Foltest doubled down his efforts in his efforts to eradicate Iorveth’s people. It was a scary thing, to know that someone cared so little about you, thought so little of you that they sentenced your entire species to death.

Foltest created a special forces unit specifically to hunt down nonhumans. Roche may claim that his orders were only to stop the Scoia’tael, but Iorveth knew better. Foltest wanted them all destroyed: the Scoia’tael, the misguided nonhumans living under human rule, even the few innocent nonhumans left. He wanted them all dead.

Iorveth wasn’t sure if he was glad that Roche didn’t appear to want the same thing or not. Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, was confusing. And intriguing.

And, ultimately, his enemy.

The problem was, Iorveth spent a lot of time thinking about his enemy. He thought about how to outwit Roche, how to lay traps for the Blue Stripes, and how to give his own men an advantage. More nonhumans joined them every day, driven away from human villages by the uptick of hatred and violence that no one stopped. Iorveth had a responsibility to prepare them for the reality of living as a guerrilla soldier, to prepare them to survive.

He wasn’t sure when thinking about Roche had turned into thinking about how stupid the dh’oine’s hat was or how confusing his relationship with his second in command – who, everytime Iorveth had encountered her, seemed to believe that fastening the armor clasps down her front was for other people. If one of Iorveth’s soldiers did something so stupid, he would have them stuck on latrine duty until they learned that armor was supposed to protect your vulnerable spots. It didn’t do any good leaving them exposed.

But Roche never seemed concerned that his second in command walked around with her armor unfastened. The other men in his unit, from what Iorveth had observed, found the commander’s dress distracting and would often make lewd remarks, though Ves – the second in command – insulted them right back. She usually won the arguments that Iorveth saw, too, though sometimes that was purely because she’d decided it was now time for a knife throwing contest and the men quailed.

Iorveth couldn’t blame them. Ves was good with her knives. She’d nearly taken off Iorveth’s head more than once, and the feral snarl on her face had told Iorveth that she would be more than delighted to be the one to kill him.

It was different than the feral smirk Roche sometimes wore. Roche’s tended to have an energy that was more I will be the one to catch you as opposed to I want to murder you brutally.

Maybe that was why Iorveth found Roche so fascinating. The man honestly seemed to believe that their fight wasn’t about race at all, fixating on their tactics. Part of Iorveth understood – he hated ordering his men to do what they had to sometimes, but their methods worked. Ambushing any travelers through the forest gave the Scoia’tael a home that humans feared to invade. Stealing goods from the army gave the Scoia’tael medicine and supplies they otherwise wouldn’t be able to obtain. Burning caravans full of merchandise seemed harsh, but local governors were quick to give into their demands after they did. The Scoia’tael had some victories to truly celebrate.

Not enough of them, though. Cities enacted laws forbidding employers from refusing nonhumans work, but they weren’t enforced. There were rules that kept landlords from refusing housing to nonhumans, but that didn’t stop people from burning their houses down – often with the poor nonhumans still inside. There were even laws against hate crimes, against the brutal violence racists took comfort in. But that didn’t stop the governors and aldermen and local mayors from leading the lynchings.

Iorveth couldn’t remember what it was like to look at a dh’oine and see anything other than a threat.

Maybe that was what made Roche so interesting. The dh’oine was very much a threat – and yet, not as much of one as he could be. Roche was ruthless: ordering his men not to take prisoners in raids, torturing the few prisoners he did take for information, ignoring the way innocents sometimes became casualties of war. He was not a good man.

But he wasn’t as bad as he could have been. His predecessor had been far worse, and Iorveth wished he had been the one to slit that brute’s neck. Roche had never ordered their women raped, their babies battered and beaten, their schools and libraries set on fire.

Not that there were many of those left to set alight.

Dol Blathanna maintained some of their cultural heritage, but only for as long as Nilfgaard permitted it. What Iorveth wanted, what he and his men fought for, was a truly free elven state, where all were welcomed and treated as equals, dh’oine included. As much as Iorveth personally despised dh’oine, he had heard tales of enough decent ones to know that they weren’t all a lost cause.

Only most of them.

Iorveth didn’t know which category Vernon Roche fell into.

He didn’t know which one he wanted Roche to fall into. That was what scared him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, like picking at a scab, constantly wondering if Roche could be made to understand and why Iorveth even cared.

Because he did care. A lot. It wasn’t that he liked Roche – in point of fact, he was an extremely unlikeable man – but Roche’s determination to see this as a policy issue rather than a race issue both infuriated and entranced him. Iorveth felt like he had to understand where Roche was coming from, because how could anyone not see the obvious?

What he really wanted, he realized one day, was to sit down and have a debate with the man. As enjoyable as crossing swords with him was – and it truly was. Iorveth had forgotten how fun fighting could be when you had a worthy opponent – what Iorveth really wanted was to understand him.

Iorveth’s brethren would laugh at him if they could hear his thoughts. Who cared about understanding their enemy when they would eventually be destroyed? Anything beyond strategic information was meaningless.

And maybe it was meaningless. Learning more about Roche would do nothing to further the Scoia’tael’s cause. It wasn’t as if he could make Roche less racist or less willing to follow a genocidal maniac.

Nonetheless, the thought stayed with him all day – the idea that he wanted to know, to truly understand Vernon Roche – and it was still on his mind that evening when he was scouting with his second in command, Ciaran. Iorveth glanced at his companion with a measure of guilt. Ciaran would certainly find his interest inappropriate at best. At worst, grounds to overthrow his command. After all, how could the Scoia’tael be led by someone who fell for human excuses?

He didn’t, though. He was under no illusions that Roche was anything but a racist and that for nonhumans to survive, Foltest had to die. If Iorveth ever felt otherwise, he would step down immediately, because his people deserved to be led by someone who would do anything to free them.

Of course, they probably also deserved someone who watched where he was going. When they reached the end of their patrol route, Ciaran nodded to him and headed back to the others, to play music and eat and dance with their brethren. But Iorveth wasn’t feeling up to company yet, so he kept wandering through the forest, thinking about enemies and allies and friends and the complicated way those definitions had shifted of recent. Which was no excuse for not noticing the trap before he walked right into it.

The first hint that something was wrong was the feeling of something tugging on his ankle, slowly growing tighter. The moment he looked down to check was also the moment he was yanked into the air by the rope, and his arrows fell from his quiver, scattering on the forest floor, as he dangled upside down in the air

The Elder Speech he muttered was definitely not repeatable in polite company, but when was Iorveth ever in polite company, anyway? And this situation deserved his strongest curses, because it was just fucking embarrassing to get caught like this.

His clothing made a dedicated effort to fall around his ears, which was extra annoying when he was trying to bend in half so he could cut the stupid rope around his ankle. The spinning wasn’t helping either.

But the absolute worst thing about this situation was the sound of crunching leaves that signaled someone approaching. Maybe a hunter, coming to check for rabbits, or – more likely – someone who would be delighted to have caught the leader of the Scoia’tael, even if it was a decidedly temporary situation. One of his elves would never make so much noise, so it couldn’t be one of them.

But it could be the absolute worst person to possibly find him. As Iorveth tried to bat the gambeson out of his face, he caught a glimpse of none other than Vernon Roche making his way towards him.

Iorveth swore under his breath. Of fucking course it would be Roche. That was just the way this day was going, what with him walking into a trap, getting his leg jerked into the air, and the part where the rest of him followed. It was humiliating and painful and as much as the thought of having a proper conversation with Roche had been haunting him, he did not want to deal with Roche right now.

“Apparently I’ve been going about capturing Scoia’tael all wrong,” Roche laughed at him and Iorveth chucked his bow at the human. It wouldn’t do him much good without his arrows anyway.

Roche ducked, the bastard. But the force of the throw made Iorveth spin again and he was actually starting to feel a bit queasy. Nonetheless, he held his knife up threateningly. Of course, given that he was hanging upside down with his clothes dangling around his face, it was difficult to look appropriately threatening.

“Huh, guess it’s not just the ears that are pointy,” Roche muttered as Iorveth slowly spun around to face him.

Iorveth sputtered, flushing red. That was – firstly, it was beyond inappropriate for his enemy to be talking about his ears. But secondly, was Roche referring to his– his– well, what could be seen through his hose now that the gambeson that covered it hung down his chest instead of preserving his modesty?

Iorveth wasn’t sure what the strangled noise that left him could be defined as, but it had Roche laughing again. Of all the indecencies, Iorveth certainly hadn’t been expecting his enemy to proposition him! And then to laugh about it!

“Don’t get your ears in a twist,” Roche held up his hands pacifyingly, a growing smirk on his face.

“Stop talking about my ears!” Iorveth hollered, hating himself for losing control. Roche was surprisingly good and wrenching the control of a situation away from him, but usually Iorveth at least started out in control! Like this, he was completely off balance and entirely at a disadvantage in their face-off. It made something in his chest clench and something that must have been fury welled up inside him.

“Relax, pointy ears.” Roche said, referencing his ears again, as if Iorveth hadn’t been demeaned enough.

When Roche approached him, he slashed his knife wildly, but between his armor impeding him, and his awkward position, it was far too easy for Roche to disarm him. Roche held his captured knife up until the sun glinted off of the blade and Iorveth found it hard to breathe.

This was not how he would die. He refused to go out humiliated and helpless in front of Roche of all people.

“Stop squirming, you stupid elf,” Roche barked, grabbing his gambeson and leveling the knife against Iorveth’s throat. Iorveth froze, feeling the cool metal bite into his skin when he swallowed. “Now what should I do with you?” The dh’oine tilted his head in contemplation, slowly dragging the knife down to the hollow of Iorveth’s throat.

They stayed there like that for a long moment, eyes locked and Roche entirely in control. It made something squirm in his belly and it was probably all the blood rushing to his head, but his hose felt oddly tight. And considering the only reason his gambeson wasn’t blocking his face was because Roche had it in a firm hold, Iorveth was entirely on display – both his obviously confused cock and his bright red ears.

“Kill me already, dh’oine,” Iorveth challenged, honestly kind of hoping Roche would just get it over with. He understood the need to gloat over a victory, but Iorveth already wanted to crawl into the earth and never emerge. He would welcome death, if only to end this moment.

Roche licked his lips and tapped the tip of the blade against Iorveth’s collarbone once before abruptly turning away. Iorveth’s armor fell back in front of his face and he let out an outraged shout. Then his stomach lurched as the rope around his suddenly lost tension and he was falling towards the ground with a high pitched yelp. The forest floor welcomed him face-first into the dirt and leaves, his once-pristine arrows snapping as he landed on them.

Iorveth snarled, attempting to get his clothing back to rights so he could kill the son of a bitch that just stood next to the rope he’d cut, laughing at Iorveth.

“Always wondered if elves ate twigs and leaves,” Roche chuckled and Iorveth spat at his feet.

“You will die for this,” he threatened, even though he had no weapon aside from the broken arrowheads scattered under him.

“For freeing you?” Roche smirked. “Not very neighborly of you.”

“I am not your neighbor, invader!” Iorveth finally pulled himself to his feet, teeth barred.

Roche just cocked his eyebrow. “That’s gratitude for you. What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?”

The fucker was enjoying his, merriment dancing in his eyes. Iorveth’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. “I didn’t need your help! I would have freed myself!”

“Oh yeah, looked like you were making great progress on that.” Roche said. “How’s your ankle?”

Throbbing with pain, actually, but Iorveth would die before admitting it to a dh’oine. His entire face felt achy and bruised and the reality that he would likely have to limp back to his people – since Roche certainly didn’t seem to be preparing to kill him – made Iorveth want to burrow down into the earth between the tree’s roots and never return.

“Fuck off, dh’oine,” Iorveth hissed.

Roche shrugged. “And here I thought elves were supposed to be well-mannered and graceful.”

Iorveth grabbed a handful of arrowheads and threw them at Roche in impotent rage. Roche watched them fall to the ground not two paces in front of Iorveth and burst into laughter. “Oh, elf, this just isn’t your day, is it?” Iorveth growled. “All right, all right, I’ll leave you to your forest. Made my fucking night as it is.”

And then Vernon fucking Roche threw him a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, and walked away, still laughing.

Iorveth tried very hard to sink into the earth, but after several minutes in which he simply lay on his back, he was forced to admit that it wasn’t going to happen. Getting to his feet involved a horrifying amount of crawling and clawing at the tree, but finally, Iorveth recovered his bow and leaned on it heavily. It was absolutely not designed to be used as a walking stick, but he would likely have to repair it or make a new one anyway.

As he hobbled slowly back to camp, the absolute worst part of all of this was that the squirming heat in his belly hadn’t dissipated, and instead itched under his skin, making him want – something. Something a proud Aen Siedhe like him should never want.

Iorveth swallowed harshly and grit his teeth, forcing his mind to focus only on the journey back to Aindeoin, the Scoia’tael base camp. Iorveth had been the one to name it, years ago, in an attempt to make it feel more like a home, more like somewhere the Aen Seidhe of old might have respected, even if it was nowhere near as glorious as the great Silver Towers they’d used to live in. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, before dh’oine had come to their shores and driven them out of their homes.

Once upon a time, Iorveth had owned a concert hall, the stone strategically carved to enhance acoustics. Playing on that stage was a magical feeling – afloat in a world that was nothing but sound and music. He had practiced with some of the most renowned musicians in elven history and played before crowds of hundreds, back when it was possible to gather hundreds of elves together without a massacre.

Still, Aindeoin had it’s charms, things he might actually miss if they recovered their lands tomorrow. Things like sleeping under the stars – though, never in winter. He’d made that mistake once, and woken up with a foot of snow on top of him – living with his brethren in close reach, avoiding cooking duty for as long as possible, and even the heights of the forest. Aindeoin was built into the forest itself, high up in the trees, using the natural infrastructure of the branches to form buildings and houses for their use.

Of course, living in the trees meant climbing up them. Fortunately, elven ingenuity would save him from attempting to do so with his ankle in this state. Iorveth cupped a hand around his mouth and mimicked a birdcall.

At the signal, one of his guards lowered the platform that would raise Iorveth into the air. The pulley system they used was really quite simple, but it saved them hours of work transporting supplies and people.

Upon seeing him, several elves jumped up to help him.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Iorveth just grunted, determinedly scanning the camp until he found what he was looking for. Then he pushed his way past his concerned brethren and made a beeline for the liquor, pulling a flask out of the hands of his best archer. Taredd sputtered as Iorveth immediately downed the whole thing, wincing in disgust as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat and burned its way down to his stomach.

“Ugh, that’s vile,” he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and passed the flask back, clapping a stunned Taredd on the back. “Do we have more?”

“You don’t drink,” Taredd pointed out meekly.

It was true, Iorveth wasn’t big on imbibing mind-altering substances. Not because he was against them – he was over thirteen hundred years old, he had tried everything under the sun at least once – but because as Commander of the Scoia’tael, he had a responsibility to his men to always be at his best.

That responsibility could go fuck itself for the rest of the evening, Iorveth decided. “Tonight, I do.”

He caught the worried look Taredd sent over his shoulder, and Iorveth turned to face his second in command with a sigh.

“Should I ask?” Ciaran’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline as he looked over Iorveth’s rumpled appearance.

“No.” Another drink was placed in his hand and Iorveth sipped at it this time. The world already seemed hazy and slightly less awful.

“At least see Imadia,” Ciaran bit his lip in concern. “You look pretty beat up.”

Iorveth hummed, the drink making his entire miserable evening seem somehow less terrible. He let Ciaran caraouse him towards their medic and she tutted as she assessed him.

“You, Iorveth, are an absolute mess.” Imadia crossed her arms.

Tell me about it, he didn’t say. Imadia was an elder Aen Seidhe – the eldest in his territory – and she was entirely done with the “bullshit of these young whippersnappers,” as she put it. Iorveth wouldn’t usually be labeled as one of the young ones. He had lived on the continent since before the Conjunction of the Spheres, since before the arrival of humanity. He could hardly be called young – and yet, Imadia’s shrewdness was the reason she’d stayed alive so long. Iorveth had learned to listen to her long ago, even if he resented it at times.

Times like now.

“Sooooo,” she drew the word out for as long as her breath held, “what happened?”

Iorveth growled. It was useless to lie to her. She always saw through him and enjoyed making him pay for attempted lies. “Vernon fucking Roche,” he snarled, and just thinking of the dh’oine made the hot, squirming sensation in his gut rise up towards his throat.

“Ah, the pretty dh’oine,” she sighed, the stern woman from a moment ago suddenly lovestruck. “I do hope I’ll get to meet him at some point.”

“He’s trying to kill us,” Iorveth said, pointedly not thinking about how Roche had had a wonderful opportunity to kill him and had freed him instead. “And he’s not pretty.” Ruggedly handsome maybe, but not pretty.

Iorveth swallowed hard. No, not ruggedly handsome either. Roche was a dh’oine. Iorveth had no opinion on the beauty of dh’oine.

Imadia ignored him. “I like him. He’s got a good voice. I can hear him yelling orders even back where I’m positioned,” which, as a medic, was supposed to be far behind their defensive line. She usually managed to edge a little closer than he’d like, but Iorveth knew better than to get between her and a patient. “Bet he has a lovely tongue.”

Her words were as salacious as her wink and he accidentally inhaled his drink and broke down coughing.

“All right there, dearie?” She smirked.

Iorveth made a rude hand gesture, wheezing for breath. Imadia just laughed.

“Keep your weight off your ankle for a day and you’ll be fine.”

“What about my face?”

“Sorry, can’t help you with that,” she winked.

Iorveth rolled his eye. “I landed on my face. Bloede hurts.”

“Landed? What exactly were you doing before that?” Her fingers gripped his chin, tilting his head from side to side, and tutted. “Light bruising. Fortunate – would be a shame to break your nose. Always thought it was one of your best features.”

Iorveth blinked at her. “My...nose?”

“Mmm. Straight and sharp.” Imadia tapped him on the nose and turned away. “You’re fine. I’d recommend a good night’s sleep, but from the drink in your hand, I’m guessing we shall be subjected to your dramatics instead.”

“I’m not dramatic.” Iorveth frowned. Then he took another drink. “But if I do start ranting, shut me up if I say anything about rabbit traps.”

Ranting was perhaps not the right word for the tirades he tended to fall into on the rare occasions he drank. It was simply that arguing and debating with his peers was one of the things he missed most from the Aen Seidhe’s heyday. Old memories of fond discussions with long-dead elves brought a faint smile to his lips.

Maybe that was what drew him to Roche. The man was inventive with his insults, cunning with his wit, and scathing with his remarks. It really was quite a shame Iorveth couldn’t just sit down and have a conversation with him.

Not that he ever wanted to see Roche again. He would never live down the humiliation of this day.

Imadia laughed. “Rabbit traps. Is that what they call it these days? In my day, we just called it–”

Iorveth covered his ears. Some things just shouldn’t be heard from the mouths of elders. Especially not elders who found dh’oine weirdly attractive and knew all the dirtiest words in their oldest languages.

Touching his ears reminded him of the way Roche had constantly referred to them and his face flushed. It was downright indecent for Roche to do such a thing! He couldn’t possibly mean it...right? Who just up and propositioned their sworn enemy, who they were constantly trying to kill?

Only Roche hadn’t killed him today. There had been, perhaps, times when they could have taken a lethal blow and held back, but this had been so much more than that. He had been entirely at Roche’s mercy, unable to effectively defend himself. Roche could have done anything to him.

And he had let Iorveth go. Yes, Iorveth had been hurt and humiliated and perhaps a little bit something else, but he’d been alive. And he shouldn’t have been.

Instead of killing him, Roche had laughed at him and commented on his ears and let him go.

Did that mean that Roche truly did intend to proposition him? How else could he interpret such brazen remarks about his ears. It would be like if – if he casually brought up the dh’oine’s nipples, like some sort of salacious sailor. What other intent could Roche have?

Iorveth licked his lips and desperately finished off his drink. Alcohol. He needed more of it, needed to not be thinking about dh’oine or propositions or Roche.

Especially Roche.

“I need a drink,” he announced, and proceeded to make no move to rise.

“I think that’s the opposite of what you need,” Imadia tsked. Nonetheless, she reached into her medicine bad and pulled out a vial of herbs.

Iorveth’s eyes lit up, leaning forward. He so rarely indulged, but when he did, there was no better combination than Imadia’s herbs and a drink. It brought back memories of a time before strife with the dh’oine – though not before strife with dwarves. They were only very recent allies, in the grand scheme of things – but rather than overwhelming him, the herbs kept the memories light and energizing, bolstering him instead of dragging him down. It was one of the few times he told tales of the old days, the days when elves had lived in peace.

That was probably why Kythaela cleared her throat from the entryway. “Got you another drink, sir.”

Iorveth accepted with a sigh. “You don’t have to call me sir, you know.”

“Yes sir,” she grinned.

Kythaela and the other younger elves were always eager to hear stories of the old days. He wasn’t sure what was so great about his stories when there were a handful of others who had been there too and were far more eager to talk about it. Especially because his stories often digressed into rants about the cultural significance of holy relicts that no longer existed.

His rants did not tend to be kind to dh’oine. Maybe that was what they liked. He wasn’t sure why that made something in his chest twinge, but he didn’t like it.

Iorveth took another drink, and when Imadia offered him a smoke, he eagerly imbibed.

The last thing he remembered was Ciaran’s hazel eyes looking worriedly up at him as he accepted another drink.

Coda: The Blue Stripes

When the Bossman returned to camp after a scouting mission into the forest, Finch wasn’t the only one to stare after him in surprise. Whistling merrily, Bossman picked up the pile of paperwork that they’d all taken turns nudging closer to the fire to avoid doing it, and actually sat down and started filling it out with a grin.

“Sir,” Silas, the newbie of the crew – still green behind the ears, but an impressive fighter – approached the Bossman’s temporary desk (actually a rock and a tree stump). “Is everything okay? Did anything happen?”

“Nothing to report,” Bossman shook his head, smile still curling his lips. It was weird. Bossman wore gruff and unhappy a lot more easily than – delight? Happiness? For a man with permanent frown lines, the grin made him look younger, kinder. It made Finch’s fingers ache for his bow, for the world that came with it, where the only thing that mattered was his aim and who he was targeting. He grabbed a branch off the ground and headed over to the campfire, taking a seat next to Thirteen. Thirteen immediately offered him the bottle they were all sharing and Finch took a small sip, feeling the burn all the way down.

The Blue Stripes made their own liquor and it was strong.

“Whatcha carving this time?” Thirteen asked, knocking his knee against Finch’s.

Finch shrugged. He didn’t really carve with an idea in mind – he just needed to do something with his hands. Peeling away slow curls of wood was a good way to do that, and it still left him the attention to follow the conversation around him.

“I can’t be the only one thinking it,” Ves, Bossman’s Second said, taking a generous swig when the bottle came to her.

“Roche definitely got laid, right? Why else would he be so happy?” Fenn looked like yule had come early. No doubt he would soon propose placing bets on what Bossman had gotten up to.

“He wouldn’t!” Silas hissed. “He was on duty!”

Finch – and several others, he noticed – determinedly avoided Silas’s gaze.

“Sooooo,” PT dragged the word out in the awkward silence. “Who do we think it was?”

“Had to be an elf, didn’t it?”

“Maybe a dwarf? Scoia’tael’s been recruiting more o’ them lately.”

“Why’re we assuming he went to the forest? Could’ve gone to the whorehouse,” Thirteen stole the bottle back and guzzled it.

“You all realize I can hear you, right?” Bossman asked, looking over at them with a raised eyebrow. His makeshift desk was a handful of paces away from the fire, and they had been making no attempt to lower their voices.

“No one asked you,” Ves waved her hand. She leaned in towards the fire as if sharing a secret, and said loudly, “Bet Roche got fucked by a leshen. That’d bring a grin to his sour puss.”

Bossman snorted loudly, shook his head almost fondly, and went back to his paperwork, still whistling idly.

“I bet he’s got a secret lover,” Shorty winked. “Someone serious.”

“Oooooh, not a bad idea, Shorty,” Fenn’s grin made him look like he was high on fisstech. He was hurriedly writing down the betting options in his notebook. “All right! Let’s say...buy in is 20 orens. Plaaaaaaace your bets!” He threw his hands wide in a dramatic gesture and almost took out Thirteen’s eye with his pencil.

Finch bet 40 on the secret lover theory, mostly because he wanted to believe one of them was getting some on the regular. Shorty didn’t count; he may be happily married, but his wife had also let him name all sixteen of their children after troop divisions. Finch loved the little rascals – and not just because Foxtrot said he was the best uncle – but personally, he was looking for a sensible woman.

They spent the evening laughing and poking fun at the Bossman as they finished off three bottles of Thirtheen’s home brew. All the while, Bossman worked steadily through their backlog of paperwork and whistled a jaunty tune.

Maybe he really was getting laid.

Part 2

#iorveth/roche #iorveth #vernon roche #enemies to lovers #the witcher #the witcher 2 #my fics #fic #writing #iorveth vernon roche

6 notes · View notes

slashhinginghasher · 4 years

Text

Midnight Star - Chromeskull x OFC - Part 1: Thief In the Night

Listen. I love the "Big Scary is only soft for their SO" as much as the next horny person, but I feel like we as a community have been largely overlooking the fact that Chromeskull canonically tortures and murders people (specifically women) for personal enjoyment. So I'm gonna be the nasty bitch that brings that side of him back up again lol.

You can also read this on my Ao3.

Marena hated a lot of things. But if she had to list them, “summer” would be very fucking near the top, and “summer in the Southern United States” would be right next to it. She hated the way the sun beat down like an anvil. She hated the sticky, suffocating humidity that draped itself over everything until it felt as though the entire world was sweating. She hated the waves of heat that emanated from the ground, even in the dead of night. She hated that even the fucking ocean provided no relief; she’d nearly gagged the first and only time she’d attempted a midnight swim, the water curling around her ankles like tepid bathwater. She wanted to peel off her clothes, shave her head, wriggle out of her skin. She wanted to crawl into a freezer and wait until winter, but that season didn’t seem to exist here in the armpit of the world, so maybe she’d stay there until she was dead.

There were no freezers to be found in the swampy vegetation bordering the empty road she followed. There was, however, an abundance of gnats, flies, mosquitoes, and other nameless biting, flying things so great that Marena was seriously considering setting herself on fire just to kill them off. She’d been on the road for weeks. Her feet were blistered. Her stomach was starting to eat itself. If she had to comb any more spanish moss out of her hair she was going to scream. But she kept going, one foot in front of the other, because it was better than turning back. And she stayed in this stupid sauna of a country because it was better than what lay across the ocean.

Marena walked, and dreamed of snow.

***

The car was a temptation. Shiny and black, it gave off an impression of speed even while sitting still. And it was gloriously unattended. Marena had been watching it for nearly fifteen minutes and had seen neither hide nor hair of the driver.

Her court-appointed therapist in Miami had said that a lot of her problems stemmed from a lack of impulse control. Marena thought that was bullshit. She could control her impulses just fine when she wanted; it was just that she so rarely wanted to. With a mental Fuck You to Dr. Call Me Linda, she pulled the wire hook out of her bag and popped the car’s lock in a matter of seconds.

The rest of the job was not so simple. The car was a newer model; the dashboard alone had enough electronics to power a small rocketship. At first, it resisted her efforts, almost as if it didn’t want to be stolen. Her nerves felt like a live wire as too many minutes stretched past, expecting the owner to return. Two screwdrivers and broken nail later, she resorted to swearing and brute force.

“Come on you piece of shit suka blyat’, START!” she snarled, forcing screwdriver number three into the keyhole with her fist and cranking it as hard as she could. The engine roared to life, the radio blaring a hip hop dance remix she’d heard outside at least half a dozen clubs. She slammed her hand against the power button and froze, the only sounds now the purring of the engine and the incessant insect chatter. Scarcely believing her luck, Marena slid into the leather driver’s seat and carefully shut the door. She tapped the gas pedal and grinned when the engine revved in response. Cranking the air conditioning and easing out onto the road, Marena let out a triumphant whoop and floored it.

***

The sky was turning a dusky, pre-dawn blue when the car slowed to a stop.

“What?” The tank was still half full. Marena stomped on the gas. No response. “Chto za khuynya? What the fuck?” She punched the steering column, punched the dashboard, succeeded only in scraping her knuckles. The car shut off. “No no no no…” The cooling engine ticked mockingly at her. “How the fuck…?”

The screen on the dashboard flared to life.

NOT YOURS, PIGGY

Marena’s very heartfelt Fuck! froze in her throat. She had to get out. She had to get out now. Eyes still on the screen, she pulled at the door handle. Locked. When did that happen? And why couldn’t she unlock it? Rage bubbled up in her chest as she yanked at the handle, rage at whatever bastard was controlling the car, and at her own stupid mistake for stealing a goddamned remote control car, of all the dumb fucking…. Marena forced herself to stop before she did something else idiotic, like ripping the handle off the door. Took a slow breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She scanned the futuristic dashboard. Too many buttons, probably not enough time to push them all, assuming they’d even respond to her touch.

Come on, Masha. You love to break shit. Duh. Marena pulled her only spare shirt out of her bag and quickly wrapped it around her elbow, planning to smash her way through the window.

The guy with the crowbar beat her to it.

***

The first thing Marena noticed when she came to was sweet, blessed cold, the kind one felt in warehouses with industrial AC systems.

The second thing she noticed was that she was chained to a chair. Literally chained; she could feel the links chilling her wrists and ankles. Another chain dug into her hips like a too-tight airplane seatbelt. Whoever tied her up knew what they were doing then; metal couldn’t be frayed or worked loose like fiber rope. And the restraint across her lap prevented her from bucking or contorting into a more favorable fighting position.

Speaking of fighting… all of her knives were still in place. Wrists, boots, back, pockets. Which meant one of three things:

1. This was a rush job. 2. Her mystery abductor was half an idiot and didn’t check her for weapons. 3. Her mystery abductor knew she was armed and didn’t do anything about it because they knew she wouldn’t be able to beat them in a fight anyway.

Marena really hoped it wasn’t the third one.

A quick mental check revealed that she was still fairly intact. Her muscles were stiff, her head ached, and she had a nasty case of dry-mouth, but she’d had hangovers worse than this before. The lack of a massive head injury meant she hadn’t been beaten unconscious, so she must have been drugged. She tried to think past the car window shattering, but couldn’t remember being forced to swallow or inhale anything. A needle, then?

Marena heard heavy footsteps approaching, then the rustle of fabric as someone settled in front of her. She briefly toyed with the idea of playing possum, but the need to face whatever was about to happen head-on won out. Not weak. Not anymore.

She opened her eyes and came face to face with a grinning skull.

Well, it was a mask shaped like a grinning skull, attached to a head that was most probably human. The mask shined in the weak light of… wherever the fuck she was. It was meant to be intimidating, distracting, and Marena forced herself to look away and take in the other details of her captor.

The guy was a beast. Crouched as he was, he was still eye-level with her. He’d dwarf her standing. Shaved head, black tailored suit (why though), black gloves (too thin to be leather, latex maybe?). The red light of a camcorder blinked from a mount on his right shoulder. She caught a glint of metal near his waistband but didn’t let her gaze linger long enough to identify exactly what type of weapon he was packing.

That familiar destructive urge, the need to kick and claw and tear, crept through her veins. Her fingers wanted to twitch. Her teeth wanted to clench. Marena forced herself into stillness. Not yet. Wait for the right time. Patience. The skull stared at her, motionless, expressionless, so she returned the favor. He pulled out a cell phone, typed something, and held it up for her to see.

HELLO PIGGY

Years of practice kept Marena’s face blank while a litany of choice curses flew through her head.

“This is about the car,” she said. It wasn’t a question. The skull nodded anyway, and reached for her.

Fuck it.

Marena lunged.

#laid to rest #chromeskull #chromeskull x ofc #jesse cromeans #my writing #marena polunochnaya

21 notes · View notes

thesummerstorms · 4 years

Note

I'm starting to write a fanfiction for repcomm, how would you describe Darman POV?

Okay, um... this is a very broad question, so this is a very BROAD and extremely lengthy answer (sorry but I couldn’t not include text evidence.)

But in general? Darman...

1. often looks externally calm, even to his brothers, and is very good at hiding resentment or anger. people mistake him as calm or level several times in the series when he’s actually having a hard time in his thoughts. Eventually he reaches the point in 501st where it can no longer be hidden, but I think he’s been feeling it for a lot longer than anyone realized.

“He’d been alive for eleven standard years, coming up on twelve. He was twenty-three or twenty-four the manual said. It wasn’t enough time to live.

Sergeant Kal said we’d been robbed.

Fierfek, I hope Etain can’t feel me getting angry.

“I wish I could just sit and relax like you, Dar,” Atin said. “How’d you get to be so calm? You didn’t learn it from Kal, that’s for sure.”

There’s just Sergeant Kal and Etain and my brothers. Oh, and Jusik. General Jusik’s one of us. No one else really cares.

“I’ve got a clean conscience,” Darman said. It had come as a surprise to him after years of cloistered training on Kamino that many cultures in the galaxy regarded him as a killer, something immoral. “That or I’m too tired to worry.”

(True Colors, Chapter 1, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

2. Isn’t always up front with his emotions when he feels they’d be burdensome on a loved one and wants to be outwardly positive. See the above conversation with Atin, or his hesitance to call Etain a few chapters after Fi’s injury.

Notably in the scene above he does make mention of talking over serious things with Etain, like what would happen to the clones after the war, but I feel like he hides some of his more in-the-moment feelings and people don’t expect it because on the surface he seems like the uncomplicated one,

Brain-dead people sometimes regained consciousness and then reported what they’d heard during the coma, and Darman could think of nothing more awful in that moment than Fi being in some terrible paralysis but feeling everything. Dead was better. He wanted a cleaner end than Fi.

“Call Etain,” Niner suggested, “She always cheers you up.”

But Darman didn’t want to call her just to rage about how unfair things were. He settled down with a holozine so no one would talk to him for a while, and the others played blades, throwing knives into a target board divided into rings and quardrants. When he’d come to terms with this, he’d have something more positive to say to her. They could talk about where they’d go when they got some leave together.

I can’t imagine a mission without Fi now.

True Colors, Chapter 16, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

3. it’s a case by case basis though. like any human being, Dar is complicated. It really depends on the in the moment situation. Notably above, his reluctance to call and be a burden was for a situation that had been happening for a while, while in the immediate aftermath he called Etain pretty immediately.

Fi didn’t react, but then Darman knew he wouldn’t . The point was he’d said it, and that meant he’d do it. Reluctantly, he followed Niner back to the mess deck, and found a quiet corner to pour his heart out in a message to Etain.

He could have unburdened himself on his brothers, but they all knew what he was thinking anyway.

(True Colors, Chapter 14, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

4. He notices a lot of little details. Even more specifically, he notices and is intensely focused on small changes or signals in the people he cares about. He also very much wants to provide emotional support and is watching for the cues that it’s needed, especially in Etain.

You can see it with Dar noticing Fi and his music, or when he goes after Etain in Triple Zero, or at the end of True Colors when he’s intensely aware of Etain’s body language radiating distress and mentally immediately tries to figure out why she’s upset and put her at ease.

Darman cut into Fi’s personal circut to speak but was instantly deafened by the volume of the music. That was how Fi dealt with things: a thick wall of noise and chatter to shut out the next moment. (True Colors, Chapter 1, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

He caught a note in her voice that said she was holding back; maybe there was someone with her. The holovids showed clandestine love affairs as exciting, but Darman just found the secrecy miserable. (True Colors, Chapter 10, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

Etain had that same expression he’d just seen on Skirata’s face. He knew he must have said something wrong, but wasn’t sure what. He unfolded her arms with a little gentle pressure and took her hand. (True Colors, Chapter 19, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

“The baby’s upset you somehow, hasn’t it? he said. Of course; being a Jedi, Etain would have never known her parents. Does it remind you of being taken from your family?” (True Colors, Chapter 19, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

There. He’d said it, and she would feel better now, let off the hook. There was no point dwelling on his shortened life span. Neither of them knew what was around the corner. He’d take the pressure off her, because it was the responsible thing to do.

(True Colors, Chapter 19, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

The Skydome gardens were just as beautiful and fascinating as Etain had promised. He could tell she was trying to be cheerful and enthusiastic about them, but there was something sad and wondered about her that he didn’t know how to make better.

Evacuating Qiilura must have been worse than she let on. But she tell him in her own good time.

(True Colors, Chapter 19, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

5. He’s pretty intensely protective, and not in an entirely healthy way? It never manifests as a doubt about his loved ones’ competency so much as a desire to jump someone else for disrespecting them. He is a worrier, but it’s not in a “no, they can’t do this” kind of way that too many shitty male romance leads get stuck in. He’s defensive of his relationships in a way that exceeds normal not-fooling-around.

Wherever it was they were sending her, she could tell him, couldn’t she? Maybe she didn’t want to worry him. Of course I’m worried. I’m always worried. (True Colors, Chapter 10, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

Darman swallowed a sudden an unexpected desire to tell Fi to lay off Etain, and in no uncertain terms. Fi knew nothing about her, nothing. Darman was ambushed by a split moment of protectiveness, and was immediately embarrassed by it. (Hard Contact, Pg. 222.) [ Idk why this one has page numbers and not the others.]

“Open up, or stand away from the door,” Etain yelled. She had no concept of cover, but she was a Jedi and had her own early-warning system. Darman was watching her back anyway. He’d smack Sev for the wisecracks later.” (Order 66, Pg. 167.) [ Also don’t know why this one has page numbers and not hard Contact.]

“Where’s the General?” Fi said.

Darman interrupted. “Saying goodbye to Gett.” He seemed to be taking an intense interest in Etain’s whereabouts. “Can you see Sergeant Kal? She said he was meeting us.”

“So… you’ve been ordered about by a geriatric and a child, have you?”

Darman’s voice frosted over. “Scorch, do you like medcenter food?” (Triple Zero, Pg. 119.) [Seriously, Kindle just fucking hates True Colors.]

“I think it’s kind of encouraging.” Scorch chuckled. “Atin gets a cute Twi’lek girlfriend, Dar gets his very own general-”

“-and Scorch gets a thick ear if he doesn’t shut it right now.”

The comlink was suddenly silent, except for the occasional sound of swallowing. Darman wasn’t in a joking mood when it came to Etain. He never had been, not even on Qiilura, when there hadn’t been anything between them. (Triple Zero, Pg. 245.)

“Why did he need Etain then?”

“Maybe to show her how it’s done.”

Fi watched Darman bristle. (Triple Zero, Pg. 176.)

Atin hadn’t seen Laseema since the start of the siege, and just chatted with her in snatched moments by comlink. Darman couldn’t even talk to Etain until she dropped out of hyperspace; Enacca was taking her time. He checked his comlink, saw no message, and reminded himself that Etain was fine. (Order 66, pg. 371)

6. Darman is captivated by very small things/small details/small moments of beauty.

It was definitely autumn .A mist had blanketed the countryside like a sea. A puddle had formed in the sheeting stretched over the shelter, and Darman went to scoop it out but stopped.

“What are those things?” he asked, “I saw them on the river, too.”

Ruby and sapphire colored insects were dancing above the surface of the puddle. “Daywings,” Etain said.

“I’ve never seen colors like it….”

…”They’re amazing,” he said, completely absorbed by the spectacle. (Hard Contact, Pg. 182.)

7. Like most of the clones, he starts more naive/optimistic and then becomes more and more disillusioned the further in the series you go.

It was still tough to stand back and let the convoy take it. Darman itched for an excuse to open fire. He’d gone charging to the rescue before on Qiilura, breaking cover to save civilians, but he’d been a kid then on his second deployment. The longer you spent fighting, the more cautious you became.(Order 66, Pg. 65.)

8. Arguably all of the above paints a little bit harsher a picture than it should. I also generally see Darman as very genuinely soft and caring with his loved ones. He’s also considerate and generous. One of his love languages is food/small gifts & gestures; I swear it.

“It’s getting light,” Darman said. He sat down cross-legged in the hide, armor plates clacking against something. “You look cold. Need any more pain-killers?”

Etain had achieved a consistent level of dampness and pain that she could live with.She was too tired to think of anything else. She’d even stopped noticing the persistent odor of wet merlie wool. “I’m okay.”

“If we light a fire, we’ll be a magnet for half the Separatist army.” He rummaged in his belt and held out a ration cube to her, still that incongruous amalgam of fresh naivete and utterly clinical killer. She shook her head. He pulled out a bag. “Dried kuvara?”

She realized from the way he had put the fruit carefully in his belt and not his pack that he prized it. He lived on rations with all the taste appeal of rancid mott hide. The sacrifice was rather touching.

(Hard Contact, pg. 175-178 ish)

Darman leaned against the wall, all concern. “Do you want something to eat? We’re going to risk Qibbu’s nerf in glockaw sauce. Scorch reckons it’s probably armored rat.”

“I’m not sure I can face crowds right now.”

“You might be overestimating the popularity of Qibbu’s cuisine.” He shrugged. “I could probably get the cook to stun the thing with my Deecee and send it up by room service.” …

“Only if you keep me company.”

“Yeah, eating armored rat alone is probably asking for it.” He grinned suddenly, and she felt illuminated by it. “You might need first aid.”

(Triple Zero, pg. 175-178 ish)

Darman thought it was time they got on making friends with the Marits. He stood up and wandered over to the lizards, wondering if there might be anything in Eyat that he could acquire for Etain. It was hard to think of anything a Jedi might want. They avoided possessions. (True Colors, Chapter 2, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

9. He does have a light-hearted side; it’s not all just ruminating.

She was suddenly aware of Darman looking up at her, grinning, and if it wasn’t for his surroundings, he could have been any young man showing off his prowess to a woman. (Triple Zero pg. 182 ish)

Even Darman had fallen happily into it. He was engrossed in the game, shoulder-charging Boss and knocking Jusik flat. (Triple Zero, pg. 158)

10. He’s just as much a romantic as Etain is.

“I never stopped thinking about you, either,” Darman said, “Not for a moment.” (Triple Zero, pg. 186)

All he wanted at the end of it was some time with Etain. (True Colors, Chapter 1, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass.)

He couldn’t even recall putting on his plates. His mind was on Etain. (True Colors, Chapter 10, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass)

Darman was working up the nerve to say that he loved her, too, when the link closed from her end of the channel and the moment was gone. he took a deep breath before yanking the door open, broken-hearted he might never get the chance to tell her. (True Colors, Chapter 10, page number unknown because Kindle is an ass)

He was fed up finding things in common with insects. he was a man, and he missed his girl. He wanted to go home- and he realized he had no idea where home was.

Fi said it was Mandalore. Darman decided it would be wherever Etain wanted it to be. (Order 66, pg 53 ish)

Darman was twenty meters from Etain now.He looked through the sea of strangers, and could see just one being out of all of them- Et’ika. (Order 66, pg 400 ish)

There’s honestly also plenty to be said about Dar not wanting to upset the equilibrium in his squad- he doesn’t want special treatment, or to have more than his brothers. That’s...pretty standard for this series though?

Also Darman really doesn’t react well to secrets post Venku reveal, but lbr, I’m not crawling through 501st for quotes.

#Darman Skirata #Republic Commando #Meta #ish #My Meta

26 notes · View notes

a-plethaura-ask-blog · 5 years

Text

So, I started this comic page about a few months ago. (yeah, I know, it really narrows it down, huh?) This was a comic page intro I was going to do for my AU ContaminationTale. However, there are quite a lot of things stopping me from actually making the comic. I want to start a comic, but I think I would do fairly poorly at actually making a good comic that will keep attention.

I also have all of my characters designed for ContaminationTale, but I do not want to actually do them digitally cause I am afraid I will mess it up. I am bad at character reference sheets. I love to have something going on, or something more implied, and not just a character. However, I hope I will fix that with myself soon.

The backstory behind ContaminationTale is besically something kinda similar but very adjacent to how Error Sans was formed. As confusing as it is, allow me to elaborate-

ContaminationTale is an AU where classic Undertale is taken over and corrupted by a strange human that is not Chara, or the other human souls. It is just a random human that had run across the world and watched the events of the world pan out. So in a way, they are like a way to breach the 4th wall, whilst not being able to communicate with the obersevers of the AU. (Myself, or people that may view my works) Here is the old set of information I made for ContaminationTale when it was first created. Including characters, places, items, food and other stuff like that.

[ ° Basic Information ° ]

» Classic Undertale ™ is slowly fading away, being overshadowed by it's many various AU's, which have became far more popular than the classic game. So when the infamous, and to-say-the-least very unwelcome 'Shadow Player' comes back, and completely takes control of the game, he controls all of the characters as well. Now, running on only hate, fear and sadness; Undertale is going to make a fatal, feral strike-back at the many AU that fans so ADORE.

[ ° AU Connections ° ]

➡ All of the AU, over a large span of years, have managed to completely coincide with each other and accept each other's existence. They even have come to think of each other as kin. Family and such. Error is way more level, having been around Ink and Blue so much made him less homicidal and seemed to get rid of his 'God-Syndrome'. Other more homicidal AU, such as Horror and Killer have also calmed down murder wise, however they do have their slip ups. Nightmare since then had also split into two versions of himself. Night, who is the one with no black ooze on him is able to be with dream, and be happy, and Nightmare, who is more level in the head, but still a jerk. At times there can be tension but they all get over it rather fast. This is called the 'Pacification of the Bad AU' (As restated later, this is NO WHERE NEAR CANON. This is for the plot of ContaminationTale.)

Quick Note: As another note, in this AU, the monsters hate killing, and Chara was pacified. He is in the same boat as the monsters. The monsters of ContaminationTale used what free code they were able to spare to make it to where any AU versions of themselves they killed respawned in the Flower Patch being as it was the furthest from most of the while they were able to keep their 'good' conscious. The person who hacked them was unable to reverse it.

[ ° Characters ° ] (All Characters keep their same personalities when in their 'Free Form' however, in their 'Contaminant Form' they all remain kind of similar to themselves, but become homocidal, and attack any AU characters soon there after, or instantly.

» Sans

» Papyrus

» Grillby

» Toriel

» Gaster

» Asgore

» Alphys

» Asriel

» Flowey

» Undyne

» Burgerpants

» Mettaton

» Nopstablook

» Temmie

» Doggo

» Monster Kid

» Monster Kids Parents

» Chara

» Frisk

» Endogeny

» Muffet

[ ° Common Reference Places ° ]

» The Waterfall

➡ No longer exists. When the world started to vanish, the waterfall went first and was unable to be brought back.

» Grillby's Bar

➡ Doesn't really function as a bar anymore. This place is actually more it less used for medical treatment and a weapon station.

» Echo Flower garden/field/cave

➡ All places that have echo flowers in them are or can be used for a torture room. When a person is trapped in there, the flowers only scream, cry and laugh at the being inside. There are no identified words that are ever said, other than 'DIE'.

» MTT Station

➡ This place is actually used for the Shadow Players base and planning area. Off limits and heavily guarded with technology. It had many secret operative plans that happen in it all the time.

»Asgore's Castle

➡ Mostly a moot point area. However when any of the classic monsters die they respawn in the center room of the castle. However the center room is also a jail cell and the monster that spawns there gets three days solitary confinement for getting killed.

» Flowey's Flower Patch

➡ Any au characters that are killed in ContaminationTale that are not part of the AU spawn in the flower patch. Other than that this location is rather useless.

» Toriel's Ruins

➡ Long since abandoned. However the au characters that come to ContaminationTale often regroup, stay and recoop themselves here. They use this as a base and plan area. It provides shelter to those AU that can't make Portals like Dream can.

» Alphys Lab

➡ Used to mix poisons, and is filled with mechanical body parts used to replace lost limbs that didn't kill the victim. It is also used to overview the town and make traps.

» Sans Station - Bridge Crossing

➡ Loaded to the brim with motion sensors and traps ready for the unsuspecting. This causes confusion is and can be very dangerous if you are not careful or nimble because stuff comes at you from all sides.

[ ° Common Food and Food Stats ° ]

- Cinnamon Bun - (Restores 25 HP)

- Hot Dog w/ Bun - (Restores 50 HP)

- Hard Tac (Restores 30 HP)

- Alfrado ( Restores 100 HP)

- Cupcake (Restores 10 HP)

- Spaghetti ( Restores 50 HP)

- Pie (Restores 40 HP)

- Candy (Restores 5 HP each)

[ ° Weaponry ° ]

» Sans Butcher's Knife

➡ /+30 ATK/ - /-5 SPD/ - /+10 HP/

↪ Fire Perk - With this Sans can give the Butcher Knives the ability to set themselves on fire on the blade. However this one lasts for a few attacks before he has to build up a charge again.

» Papyrus's Bone Staff

➡ /+40atk/ - /-5spd/ - /+15hp/

↪ Dead Weight Perk - The dead weight Perk is used to inflict extra damage on characters when a weapon is swung. The dead weight puts more pressure and force behind the attack. Depending on how willing he is the fight, it affects how well Papyrus is able to use his weapon.

» Gaster's Scythe

➡ /+10 HP/ - /-5 SPD/ - /+15-20 ATK/

↪ Invisibility Perk : This makes the weapon itself unable to be seen by the naked eye after so many attacks for a stent of time. However you can still see the weapons shadow is it is in a lit area. That's why Gaster is more likely not to be found in dark scenery or places. If there is light anywhere, that is where you need to stay. Gaster also has the ability to blend into the dark, and it makes him a harder opponent.

»Toriel's Arrows

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /- 5 HP/ - /+5 ATK/

↪ Tipped Arrows ; this means they are actually poisoned with a small odor causes nausea, draining HP, and confusion to enemy characters. It however takes a small toll on her health every time she shoots an arrow. This is why she alters the arrows she uses. Her alterations come in an irregular patterns and it is spontaneous when she pulls one out.

» Asgore's Scepter

➡ /-15 SPD/ - /+10 ATK/ - /+0 HP/

↪ Electricity : like any other weapon, this one reacts better to opposite elements. The weapons this one better completed and takes out are wooden and metal weapons. It can not travel through rubber or other materials that have specific metals that do not connect well with the ability to travel through. If he uses a lightning based attack on a material that is not a conductor, the electricity comes back to him and will either stun him, or be shot off somewere else.

» Asriel's Slingshot

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /+5 ATK/ - /+ 0 HP/

↪ Explosive pellets are the thing that Asriel launches from his sling. These pellets are strong mini fireworks packed with acid. When it touches skin,fur or bone, even metal, it burns around the area it hit with a 5-7 inch radius. Depending on where he hits and what he hits, it can cause serious damage and make someone get bad infections.

» Undyne's Spear

➡ /-0 SPD/ - /+5 HP/ - /+10 ATK/

↪ Dead Weight Perk: Similar to Papyrus, her Spears are made of basic magic they don't have any initial weight untill they are seeing seeing at a Target. So initially her perk is the same as Papyrus's perk from there. However, if she is close enough, she can cause her weapon to lose all it's weight for faster movement, and gain all of it for maximum impact.

» Mettaton's Gun

➡ /+15 SPD/ - /+0HP/ - /+10 ATK/

↪ Silencer - the gun have no special or notable perks but it is good for power and stealth kills. The silencer makes it to where there is only ever A very faint click heard if the gun is fired. The gun itself fires off long bullets/pellets that are filled with acid. The second the bullet goes into skin, or hits something and gets stuck, the acid will start to burn through it.

» Frisk's Staff

➡ /-10 SPD/ - /+5 HP/ - /+5 ATK/

↪ Knock Back Perk : This makes a large gust of pressurized air go at the opponent and knock them down effectively for 1-3 attacks. Mainly due to having the 'wind' knocked out of them. /Funny? Only me? Ok... ;W;/ either way, this makes it to where Frisk usually does not have to get too close to anyone or anything and keeps them a safer distance away from the action while still being able to help out.

» Chara's Knife

➡ /+15 HP/ - /+15 ATK/ - /+5 SPD/

↪ Long Range Perk : after weapon is used so many times, the weapon can go through a stent of long range power ups. That means when the blade is swung it creates a red projectile cutting Lazer in the form of the slice and can only go forward for for up to 15 feet. Once it reaches that and is unable to catch anything, the attack turns to the ground, and goes into it. This can cause the ground to gain holes in it that are up to 25 feet in depth. After so many missed attacks, it will cause the ground to collapse, taking less space for movement against the enemies.

» Grillby's Arrows

➡ /-10 HP/ - /+20 ATK/ - /+10 SPD/

↪ Fire Perk : the fire only goes out when he snaps his fingers, but his fire in particular can't burn polyester. However, after so many uses, his fire won't reactivate itself until he has had a 10 minute rest.

» Tikal's Lasso

➡ /+5 SPD/ - /+10 ATK/ - /+0 HP/

↪ no perks, batter for stealth attacks

»Muffet's Glass Throwing Knives

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /+5 ATK/ - /+5 HP/

↪ respawn: if the knives are broken, they rebuild the partial belt bag, it might be better just to have more battle ready

» Alphys' Axe

➡ /-15 SPD/ - /+20 ATK/ - /+5 HP

» Monster Kid/Family Tail + Crossbows

➡ /+25 SPD/ - /+30 ATK/ - /-10 HP/

↪ no perks

[ ° All Weaponless Characters ° ]

» Temmie

» Burgerpants

» Doggo

» Endogeny

» Napstablook

» Flowey

[ ° Weaponless Characters Abilities ° ]

» Temmie

- Speed Attack: Used to confuse and knock out characters. Temmie runs around them and strikes their body in various places to try to cause more consistent confusion.

» Doggo

- Lock Jaw: Doggo locks his jaw around anyone's limbs. He won't let go until you give into Contaminated or you break his jaw. On the same note, if you break his jaw, his teeth will break from his jaw and sink into your skin until the contamination is spread. In the matter of 3 hours, his teeth grow back, and his jaw repairs itself.

» Endogeny

- Corrupt : uses the shades to possess enemies and attack other enemies or take themselves out.

» Burgerpants

- Incinerate: he always has a lighter and gasoline on him somewhere. So when he reacts he can use it to gradually put on his enemies then he can burn them alive when he lights it up.

» Flowey

- Vines : Shred or Strangle - Flowey can either crush his opinions with several Vines or throw needles at the enemy that are hard to dodge and have incredible sharpness.

» Napstablook

- Sonic Scream: Nopstablook screams silently at the other one enemies and the sound waves lower defense, and confuse them. It also makes them unable to see straight, makes them nautious and can cause surrounding items or building parts to collapse, gain damage or go haywire

[ ° Common World Items ° ]

* Machine Parts

- (Commonly found in the lab, or Mettatons News Station.) The machine parts vary, however, there is no real use for gears anymore, otherwise as throwing weapons. However, longer machine parts are used to make traps, or as close range weapons such as bo-staffs.

* Desk Supplies

- (Can be found anywhere) Desk supplies unclude things such as tape, pencils, pens, paper and other forms of common utilities. These also serve as weapons. They are easier to hide, find, and store without being weighed down.

* Marbles

- ( A rare find that some monsters used to posses. Such as Toriel) These are used as a good tripping device, or as a good distraction to those that can't avoid them.

* Contaminated Black Tar

- (Everywhere) This black tar only forms when a monster from Undertale / ContaminationTale is killed. Instead of turning into a pile of ashes, or dust, the turn into black goo and reform in the stated 'respawn' point. This can afflict other AU or humans that enter the world and turn them into a being like the afflicted monsters. However, since they are not considered 'Undertale' characters, they find a way to kill / destroy themselves. If they are just a human from the surface world, they will destroy themselves and not regenerate. However, if the are an AU, they regenerate fully healed in Flowey's flower patch.

* Silverware

- (Anywhere) This also serves as a great weapon.

* Broken Pipes

- (Inside walls and other items they can be placed in) these are used both weapons on 'inobvious spyware. They are all stuck into walls in order to spy around and keep an eye out without being seen right away.

>> Other Things to Clarify <<

1) As you have seen, there are both a "Flowey" and an "Asriel" in this AU. This was not a mistake, or an error in planning. They are both separate characters.

2) The 'Affiliations with other AU' including known AU Sanses or other characters is NOT CANON. I know most of you know this already, however, this is to those who get easily offended. The other AU checking in on the 'Classic' world is because if something happens to destroy Undertale, ALL OF THE AU will be destroyed in the process.

3) Undertale and ContaminationTale are both the same thing here. I know you all think that since it is an AU like this, it might be like Dust, or Killer Sans and they diverge into another AU. Which is both true, and not true. It becomes it's own AU later, however I have it set up to exist where the other AU characters need to help the Undertale characters escape their situation and beat the hacker first.

4) After the hacker is beaten, ContaminationTale becomes its own AU where it lives abandoned, and no AU characters come into it anymore. Meaning the reason behind it's existance is actually kind of futile, and the human gets killed by the ContaminationTale monsters later only to come back. It turns into an ever-turning genocide AU.

5) ContaminationTale Characters can only kill other copies of theselves so they are more equally matched. If they attack a version of another monster, most of their attacks will be barely even able to cause damage, no matter how powerful. This is due to a slip-up in the coding that contaminated them.

6) The main reason the other AU care so much about helping this AU is because at the time it is still 'Undertale' not just 'ContaminationTale'. Undertales code is becoming unstable, and it is inevitable that it will cause Undertale itself to collapse. Killing all of the AU Sanses and their respective AU.

//Afternote: Another reason I made this AU is cause Classic is usually helping the other AU, and the other AU don't really help him out. So I wanted to change that. I also feel bad cause Undertale ins't as popular as it's AU anymore. I did a survey with all the Undertale Lovers in my school, and I was the only one who voted on Classic Undertale out of 76 kids. :( //

#undertale #au #au information #info #comic #comicpage #contaminationtale #underfell #underswap #swapsans #fellsans #swap #fell #classic?#classic sans #ibispaint #ibispaintx #ibis art

5 notes · View notes

spider-bih · 7 years

Text

Not Your Fault [Peter Parker]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female!Reader

Warnings: Much angst and some slight fluff, mentions of violence and crimes (also cursing) etc

-It’s 2 am and I hate how this came out. I didn’t edit shit so sorry for mistakes.-

Home is where the heart is.

Everyone knew the saying and just so, everyone knew the meaning. If you didn’t, just about anyone could explain it to you. They would tell you that home is not a building or a place, really. It could be, but it doesn’t have to be. Home is family- or someone who holds your heart dearly. Though we all know what it means- you never really know what it feels like, at least not until you find your home. Your place.

It was hard being him.

No, not Peter Parker (though some days it was a little difficult being him too), but Spider-Man.

Yes, he loved being Spider-Man. He loved helping his city and doing hero-like deeds. He loved the praise and the wonderful feeling he got knowing people loved him for what he did- especially when some people were cruel to him outside of the suit. Being Spider-Man was great, it was freeing and it let him do things he never dreamed he’d be able to. He wouldn’t trade it for anything- but, even the best of things have their downsides. Some days, things didn’t go the way they should.

Some days, he couldn’t save or help everyone.

He’d seen so much pain- heard so many cries and watched so much life drain away from strangers eyes. He had always hated failure- but he hated it infinitely more as Spider-Man. He hated it with a passion because any small mistake of his could cost him a life- specifically one that did not belong to him. He was always cautious, always careful- but sometimes it just wasn’t enough. He’d get beaten and slung around. He’d be shot at and just barely pricked or sliced with knives or other makeshift weapons. He would come home with healing cuts and fading bruises- but the pain always stayed. It never really left because for the beatings he’d be given, sometimes he got nothing in return. Sometimes he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough.

Sometimes he simply wasn’t enough.

He ached to know that. It was a deep dull ache, one that didn’t hurt much, one that wasn’t felt unless it demanded to be felt. It crept up at ungodly hours of the night when all seemed fine. It dragged him down and kept him trapped- alone and cold, with no one around to free him but himself- and some nights he couldn’t even do that.

It was a hard thing to live with- a hard and large pill to swallow every morning. Their screams and lifeless faces haunted his dreams and waking thoughts. Only one thing could really will them away- only one person could tame the storm that sometimes raged inside of him.

You.

You were the only one to keep him sane. The only one to remind him that he could not blame himself. It wan’t his fault, he didn’t know that one gang would be packing high-tech guns. He couldn’t have been able to tell that that one piece of shit man had already poisoned himself and his victim and that the commotion was just for show. There were so many things out of his control. He wasn’t the one to pull the trigger- wasn’t the one to start the fire or decide that someone should no longer live. It was the criminals that did this and he was as much a victim as the people wronged. Peter wasn’t a bad man. He had no ill intentions. Mistakes happen to even the best of people, its what made everyone human- what made them normal.

You always reminded him of this.

So on these awful nights- ones where he was left shaking and letting out choppy breaths while he swung away from the sirens and screams he couldn’t fix, he made his way to you. Quietly and carefully, he landed atop your fire escape, being sure to go unseen and unheard as he tapped on the glass of your window and swiftly slipped inside. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes..

“Peter..”, you’d whisper softly, a small frown of concern pulling across your features as you took in his beat up face and puffy eyes. Those beautiful pools of brown you’d grown to love looked so pitiful on these nights. They looked so sad and distraught, so unlike their usual look.

He’d just sniffle, wringing his mask in his hands as he tried to find the words to tell you what had went wrong tonight, “I- The guns- and- I-I dodged- and I tried to- she wouldn’t-”

Your frown would deepen and it only made him feel worse, “Peter. It wasn’t your fault-”

“It is!”, he’d insist in a harsh whisper.

“It isn’t.”, you’d counter, “It never is. You always do your best. You always do what you’re capable of and then some. You can’t win every fight, Peter. You’re not invincible or indestructible. You have your limits, we all do. Every hero has a limit- even the best of them. You’re not the only hero to lose a life and you won’t be the last to. The world isn’t fair, Peter. Things happen, people get taken and sometimes we can’t do a damn thing about it. You did what you could, I saw it on the News. You saved countless lives tonight-”

“I still lost one-”

“One. One out of what could have been hundreds. It isn’t your fault that woman did what she did. You can’t control people’s actions. I know it hurts you- I know it sucks. I can only imagine what you’re feeling and just barely at that-”

“I’m not the only one who blames me-”

“If anyone blames you it’s because they want someone to blame. Someone other than themselves- they want a reason why the person they loved had to be taken. A reason better than the world being horribly unfair. If I got hit by a car while crossing the street because I wasn’t paying enough attention, you wouldn’t blame me, you would blame the driver. We all want someone to blame- some reason why. It’s life. You’re a superhero. You do everything in your powers to help others and do right by the world. It’s not your fault.”

He remained silent, staring at you with watery eyes, ones that were much less sad and even a little softer. He’d always feel guilt and you couldn’t blame you for it, who wouldn’t? Though, you did lift him a little. You took away some of the hurt for tonight and he loved you so dearly for it. He pulled you into his shaking arms and buried his face into your neck, taking in your warmth and sweet scent. He held you close, sighing at your softness and the way you wrapped your arms around him.

“I love you, Peter. I love you so much..”, you would whisper softly.

He’d just burst, right there where he stood. Every emotion he’d forced back while underneath the mask came pouring out, bursting at the seams, but you held him together. You let him feel, let him grieve and feel sorrow. You always did, always had. He quickly learned that you were his home- that right here, in your warm embrace was where he belonged. No, it didn’t take nights like this for him to realize- it just made the realization that much more real and impactful.

You were his home- his world. He loved you with all he had, and no matter how many mistakes he made (which weren’t many), he knew there was no mistake in you being his home.

Home wasn’t a building or a place for him. It was a girl with dazzling eyes and a breath taking smile. His heart didn’t reside in his own chest, but inside of a warm and loving girl by the name of ___.

He loved you, and you loved him.

For tonight, that’s all he needed.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter x reader #spider-man x reader #Spider-Man: Homecoming #fics #my fics #its the babe #its like 2 am and i wanted to write #blah #ari writes

248 notes · View notes

mosquitgo · 7 years

Text

Random Lore Ramble #2 (Because I hate you all and want you to suffer through reading this): Corrupted Guardians

Woop woop, here we are another day, another post nobody gives a shit about except for me.

So a topic I briefly mentioned in Lore Ramble #1 was Corrupted, or Dark, Guardians.

What interests me is less about what these rare Guardians did, and more about their motives. I’ve personally been fascinated for years about the psychological differences between classes, so I’m going with one example per class to talk about. Eris Morn for the Hunters, Rezyl Azzir for Titans, and Toland the Shattered for Warlocks.

*NOTE: I don’t intend to mention the following people in this list because they aren’t 100% good or bad, more like somewhere in the middle: Kabr the Legionless, Osiris the Exiled, Praedyth. You could argue that those being my exceptions, Eris shouldn’t qualify, but I don’t have a surplus of examples for Hunters, so I’ll take whatever I can get.*

We may as well start with Eris Morn’s story, and my opinion on rogue Hunters in general.

Eris Morn was a member of the few Guardians to survive the Great Disaster, when hundreds of Guardians were given the second death by the hand of Crota on the Moon. Along with one of her friends, the Warlock Eriana-3, she was particularly spiteful about the death of Wei Ning, a Defender Titan known for her strength and power. As such, when Eriana began assembling the doomed First Crota Fireteam, Eris was among them. Joined by Vell Tarlowe, Omar Agah, Sai Mota, and the infamous Toland, they launched a quiet assault on Crota’s chambers, relying on the vast Hive-Lore knowledge from Toland to guide them through. I won’t go into specifics, but it was a terrible failure, to say the least. Eris was stranded kilometres down in the heart of the Hive domain, with Eriana, Tarlowe, Agah and Mota dead because of Toland, who was missing and probably gone the same way, and to top it all, her Ghost was long-dead, and her Light slowly draining out. So she does what Hunters do best. She adapts. She survives. Lightless and alone, she wanders the caves, killing anything in her way and staying away from Crota. Now this is where it really gets disturbing.

Somewhere along the line, Eris has her eyes ripped out by a Hive Knight, so, being more than a little too close for comfort to the line of sanity by now, she proceeds to rip out the knight’s eyes, and implant all three in her forehead. Now, after this we honestly don’t know what happened. She emerges, decades later, from the catacombs, not a Guardian, not a mortal either, but not quite Hive. Not quite anything, really. She is almost insanely angry at the Hive, at Toland, and most of all at Crota. Eris returns to the City and the Guardians, who for the most part disgusted by the strange half-Dark half-Light creature that she has become. Without Ikora Rey, she would have certainly been exiled, or ignored. But the Warlock Vanguard saw the knowledge and skills Eris had picked up from her years in the Lunar Catacombs, and not only allowed her to stay, at the Tower, but actually let her join the Vanguard in the War Room several times. As usual, Ikora was proven right, as Eris became a valuable asset in the defeat of Crota, and later his father Oryx, by our Guardian. When Towerfall occurred, Eris Morn had actually left the Tower, for unknown reasons, and may not even know about the events of the Red War with Ghaul.

So Eris may not be a “bad guy” by definition, but there is a definite inhuman side to her nature. She has Hive eyes, which appear to bleed or cry liquid Darkness. She has that strange green rock which has been suggested to be a Hive worm (fuck I’m not even going through that right now). Her Strike dialogue suggests that she may even KNOW some Hive. When Oryx is killed, she can control that infamous sword with her mind. I could go on for hours, but you get the point: Eris Morn is not human.

But I digress, my point is about Hunters. Taking it as a fact that she has taken in a worm, the story emerges. When her Ghost is taken, as I said, she adapts. Worms really aren’t entirely different in purpose to Ghosts, if you look at it bluntly. They effectively render the bearer immortal, plus they heal, give abilities and a whole other bunch of goodies too. So basically, the method of healing and survival is taken away, find the next best thing, which could well be a hive-worm. As well as this, swapping eyes with a Knight isn’t some strange experiment, or an attempt to become stronger, again, it’s a way to live. Eris has her eyes gouged out, and some part of her mind is still rational enough to make a few connections.

If she can’t see, she can’t use her knives, can’t shoot.

If she can’t shoot or knife-fight, she can’t kill Hive.

If she can’t kill Hive, she will die.

So of course, she does the rational thing, at least in the moment. She finds the dead Knight, gouges its eyes out, and somehow puts him in her head. This does have further ramifications, but in the moment, it’s do or die.

Now, one term in particular comes up constantly in this story. Survival. Everything Eris Morn does, good or bad, is to keep going. Nothing else.

So; when it comes to Hunters, we can reasonably safely say that their sole reason for “corrupting” is to stay alive. Simple as. They live on Light, when that isn’t enough, they look elsewhere. Anything that comes after is a byproduct, not considered or planned by the Hunter.

Next up we have the Warlocks, and I’m using Toland the Shattered as the example. There are quite a few Dark Warlocks down through the years, named and unnamed, but he is our most detailed one out there.

So Toland, aka the Mad Warlock, aka the guy who gave Voidwalkers a bad reputation forever.

Unfortunately, we don’t have much of an account of Toland pre-going-Dark, but we do have the rare treasure of a first person account through Toland’s Journals, which give us an insight into his mind, so here’s what we can piece together.

Toland does not have a Tragic Backstory™, like Eris Morn or Rezyl Azzir. He was just a Warlock, who was interested in Hive, had genius-level intelligence, didn’t get his answers from the Vanguard, and went too deep. As he started drifting further from the Light, creating strange, unnatural artifacts, and abandoning his Ghost entirely, the Vanguard took notice. Toland the Shattered was exiled, not that he really gave two shits. He hadn’t really been a Guardian for years anyway. So leaving behind the weapon Shadow Price (one of the artifacts I mentioned), Toland leaves the Tower behind. He disappears off somewhere doing some weird stuff, and slowly learning more about, and becoming more like, the Hive.

Then we have a wide blank space, in which Six Fronts, Osiris, and Twilight Gap occur, and everyone’s favourite psychopathic insane Voidwalker isn’t seen for years.

Then, when things settle down after the worst of the Fallen Wars have passed, Commander Zavala launches that ill-fated attack on Crota, who has held the moon for decades, and our story picks up.

Eris Morn and Eriana-3 assemble the First Crota fireteam. While looking for the sixth and final member, they realise that their team is comprised of fighters, and as any decent player knows, you need a tactician to head it up for any success. The only Warlock on the team is Eriana, but she is Praxic Warlock, so ultimately, another fighter. So against explicit Vanguard orders, they seek out Toland, in whatever dark corner of the universe he was hidden away in. Their reasons are pretty simple: The team needs a strategist desperately, and when it comes to Hive, you can’t get a better one than the Mad Warlock.

So Vell Tarlowe, Sai Mota, Omar Agah, Eriana-3, Eris Morn and Toland the Shattered descend into the Hellmouth. I’ve told you what comes next. Here’s the details.

So Toland’s agenda wasn’t 100% true to what Eris and Eriana had thought. To him, this wasn’t an honourable mission. It was the research opportunity of a lifetime. He’d been trying to get down into the Hellmouth for years now, and here was the chance to do so with an armed fucking guard!

Now, of course, Toland knew from the moment they came to him that it was suicide. Wading down into an unsecured area crawling with Hive, with a mildly insane mutant space wizard to guide you is not going to end well.

But then again, this is the greatest field study opportunity he’ll ever get. So, he agrees. He says yes, of course I can get you there, of course I know how, of course you’ll survive. (*Note: I’m about to go knee-deep in Hivelore here).

What really made it worth the risk to Toland was the slim chance of finding Îr Yût, the Deathsinger. Îr Yût was an extremely powerful Hive Wizard, capable of killing instantly with her voice. Being as excessively morbid as his Voidwalker peers, Toland was obsessed. How did the song work? Was it the song itself, or the one singing it? Could it be that the Deathsinger’s song was death itself? He reckoned, in a pretty logical fashion, that he could actually recreate the Deathsong himself, completely identical.

Now that in itself is an indication of how much Toland had strayed from humanity. I mean, have you heard the Hive screeching? It’s unnatural, it’s inhuman, and it’s downright terrifying at times. No human should be able to recreate that.

Anyway, so Toland agrees to lead the team to Crota, all the while planning for a meeting with the Deathsinger.

They go in, are swarmed with Hive. Mota is killed almost immediately, and then, miraculously, it stops. The tide of Hive falters, and stands still, and slowly but surely turns. Other than Toland, nobody understands this: Because the Hive don’t relent. They don’t retreat, pause or stop. Everyone knows that. But for some reason, they have now.

Unbeknownst to all but Toland, the Hive, after killing Mota, knew what was happening. Five veteran, powerful Guardians (plus one…thing) had entered their ground. This was good. Very good. The Hive live their lives by the Sword Logic, their philosophy, their religion, the way of life that even affects their physical makeup and biology. Right at the root of this is one fact: The Hive gain power from death. They are immortal, unless killed, as long as they feed their worm with a stream of death. The energy gained from a kill is paid in part to the rank above the killer. Now, all kills will create some power, but if the conditions are right, they will create more. I assume the conditions are certain symbols, locations etc. So that means that when Crota kills hundreds in combat with his sword, it actually isn’t that much of a power source. But even three or four Guardians, in the right conditions…. different story entirely.

The Hive begin to pull back, luring the Guardians in to where they can be sacrificed to maximum effect. Knowing this, the logical move is to retreat, or flat out run like hell. But Toland assures the other four survivors that this is normal, that the Hive are spread thin after the battle, that the best thing is to press forward, because despite knowing the increasing danger they’re in, he wants to find Îr Yût.

Shortly after this the fireteam is separated in two: Eris with Eriana and Agah, Tarlowe with Toland. By the time they find each other, Tarlowe is, as Toland says, “spectacularly dead”. Toland claims that the Hive got him, a Thrall got under his guard, nothing more, but who knows what he was capable of.

Eventually, they reach the chamber where the the Deathsinger resides, but with Agah dead.

Eriana-3 is killed. As the Deathsong begins, Eris realises why their passage was allowed. Enraged, she turns on Toland, only to see that the impossible is happening. The Deathsong is focused on Toland, but the Mad Warlock stands on his feet, unafraid. Eris Morn runs, angry and scared, assuming Toland is dead.

Now this is the moment Toland has waited for years for. He hears the Song of Death, and sings right back. Somewhere in those few seconds, something happens. His theory was incorrect. Nobody can recreate the Deathsong, but something he hadn’t predicted happens: instead of dying painfully, Toland the Shattered is sent to the Hive’s Ascendant Throne-World, the hellish alternate dimension created and ruled by Oryx, the Taken King. In this instant, he is changed somehow, so arriving in the Ascendant Realm, instead of being hunted and killed like most intruders, v he is ignored.

Being a Warlock, Toland does the only thing better than doing something impossible: He does another impossible thing. Years later, when Oryx hears of his son’s death and sets the Dreadnaught on course to Earth, who warns us? Who sends fragments of journal, torn paper, the knowledge we need to defeat the Taken and their Lord? It’s Toland the Shattered, of course. Obviously, there is no way he can physically propel items through to the real world, but, as you can see, impossibility isn’t really something that bothers the Mad Warlock.

So there it is. Looking at Toland’s story, just as with Eris, patterns start to emerge. Toland was exiled because he started going against Vanguard orders. He did this because he wanted, maybe needed, answers. Knowledge. I honestly believe that if he had been given permission and a research team, he wouldn’t have gone rogue, and if he did, it wouldn’t have been as severe or early as it was.

Perhaps his worst crime, effectively causing the deaths of four Guardians, was all for one reason. He wanted to know more about Îr Yût, and the Deathsong, and the Hive.

Just as the story of Eris comes back to survival, the story of Toland comes back to knowledge. I can draw parallels here to Osiris here, too. The stories go pretty similarly:

Warlock wants knowledge.

Warlock cannot access said knowledge, for some reason or other.

All hell breaks loose, caused by Warlock.

Warlock is exiled, disappears, and leaves everyone confused and afraid.

So; Warlocks go dark to know more, to learn, to understand other forms of power. Some side affects are deliberate, some are byproducts.

Two thirds of the way guys, hang in. Only Titans to go now.

Rezyl Azzir, later Dredgen Yor, is quite possibly the most infamous rogue Guardian in the Destiny Universe, and he is certainly the first of them. Killer of Pahanin, Jaren Ward, and dozens of others. Creator and first holder of Thorn.

Azzir was a Guardian before Guardians, resurrected in a time of chaos, shortly after the Collapse, before the Faction Wars, before the raising of the City Walls. He was a Titan by nature, but this was at the point where Guardians were called Risen, and Warlord Risen still dominated what little land hadn’t been taken by Fallen on Earth. So while the most famous group of Risen at this point were the Iron Lords, Azzir was the best outside their ranks.

He was, essentially, an early Saint-14, he was strong, powerful, kind, loyal, basically what a Titan should be.

*NOTE: In the grimoire, Azzir is referred to as the “First Guardian”. This can be interpreted a lot of ways, including that he was actually the first to be resurrected by a Ghost, but my personal favourite is that while other Risen existed, Rezyl Azzir was the first of them to operate similarly to the modern Guardians.*

He was probably the most effective in his field (which was Fallen-killing) for years, but even before the whole Dredgen Yor saga began, he started showing signs of going downhill. He became more and more reckless, once even letting himself die, hiding his Ghost, allowing himself to be brought to a Devil Baron’s throne room, only for his Ghost to revive him. Shortly after, he killed the Baron and fought his way out. The risk involved there is insane. He literally let his Ghost materialise in plain view. If a Vandal or Dreg had been quick enough to get it, Azzir was dead.

Years later, and hundreds of near-suicidal missions, Azzir finds a Hive pit, and, reckless as ever, goes straight down, no hesitation.

Now, something I should mention here is that in the Destiny Universe, weapons can mean a lot more to their owners than just a gun, or just a sword, or whatever they are. We see it with Amanda Holliday and the Chaperone, Cayde-6 with Ace of Spades, Lord Shaxx with his Razelighter, and of course, Rezyl Azzir with Rose. Rose was a hand cannon, and a pretty normal one, but it served him well, and he got really protective of it.

But before going down, he makes the questionable decision to leave his Ghost on the surface. His reasons are unknown. It could be as simple as that he didn’t want his Ghost killed, but I do think he knew that one way of another, there was little chance of him escaping unscathed, and he wanted to spare his Ghost. So Azzir goes down, finds a Hive Wizard, and after attacking her, is confronted by a Hive Prince. Being led further and further down, we have absolutely no clue as to what happens next. All we know is that when he emerges from the caverns, he is no longer Rezyl Azzir.

The man that leaves that place is Dredgen Yor.

Even his beloved Rose has changed, it has become the now famous Thorn, a poisonous, twisted thing. The physical changes to Azzir (I’ll refer to him as Yor from now) are unspecified, but we know they were gradual, as later, when the Crucible was up and running, shortly after Six Fronts, Yor participated. He did extremely well that day, but then something was noticed.

Among the Guardians he killed that day, some did not get up. The most well-known of these was the Hunter Pahanin, only survivor of Kabr’s Vault of Glass fireteam.

In order to tell the rest of Yor’s story, I need to switch to the perspective of a young orphaned boy called Shin Malphur. Malphur lived in one of the many towns and villages in the European Dead Zone who ignored the call to the City, preferring to take their chances in the wilds as they had done for years.

This village was ruled by a single man, and he was cruel, and a terrible leader. He threatened and beat members of his village if they opposed him. One day, along comes a Hunter called Jaren Ward, on patrol to find survivors like these, and mark their locations. Before leaving, Ward is informed about the village leader’s cruelty. He confronts him publicly, and when the man attempts to kill him, Ward, being a Gunslinger Hunter, draws a gun and shoots him and the few loyal to him, in a few seconds.

In the silence that follows, the only one brave enough to thank Ward is the young Shin Malphur. Impressed by this, Ward leaves Shin his gun, the hand cannon The Last Word. While talking to him, the Hunter mentions that he’s on his way to Dwindler’s Ridge, the last known location of a dangerous rogue Guardian. Guess who that rogue Guardian is?

So Jaren Ward leaves the village, and goes towards Yor. Yor ambushes and kills him with Thorn. Ward’s Ghost flees, finding its way to Shin Malphur months later. It informs him what has happened, and what happens next is unique in three ways. The first is that Shin Malphur becomes the first person to become a Guardian while still alive. The second is that he is almost certainly the youngest Guardian ever Risen, somewhere in his teens. The third is that this is the only confirmed case of a Ghost leaving a dead Guardian and grafting to a regular person to make them a Guardian.

So Shin Malphur, now a Gunslinger Hunter like his hero Jaren Ward, leaves his village, killing Fallen and practising with his weapons and abilities, but always out for Dredgen Yor’s blood. It takes him years, as Dredgen Yor has years of training and leaves almost no trace, but Malphur finds Yor. Ironically, the showdown takes place again at Dwindler’s Ridge. They face off, guns not drawn. Yor smiles, recognising Ward’s gun, and says its name: “The Last Word.”

Shin Malphur draws and fires, lightning-fast, killing Dredgen Yor, and utters the infamous words, known to every Gunslinger: “Yours. Not mine.”

And that’s where the story of Rezyl Azzir and Dredgen Yor ends. We don’t know where Malphur goes or does. Interestingly though, he’s referred to as a “renegade Hunter”, so seeking out Yor was probably illegal because of the danger involved.

When he was known as Rezyl Azzir, Yor was a living legend, a beacon of Light for every Risen. As Dredgen Yor, he was a monster, feared by all. Even in the centuries after his death, wielders of weapons like Thorn, Shadow Price and Bad Juju (Toland the Shattered’s weapons) are watched closely to avoid the scenario of “another Dredgen Yor”.

Of all the Dark Guardians, he leaves the greatest and most terrible legacy. Dead Guardians. Broken people. Cursed weapons. A strange group of followers of his ways, calling themselves the Shadows of Yor, had to be extinguished quietly by Ikora Rey’s spy network, the Hidden.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell you what caused the final change from Rezyl Azzir, heroic Titan, to Dredgen Yor, Hive Abomination. But I can tell you what led up to it, the foreshadowing to this event. Azzir’s fall from grace began a long time before that day in the Hive tunnels. He had been reckless, arrogant, and blinded by anger for years. But we can trace back his arrogance to around the time the City Walls went up. Now it’s time for another unfounded theory: Rezyl Azzir started doing the insane things because he wasn’t needed anymore.

I said before that Azzir was the first Guardian. When he was at his best, other Risen started following him in spirit, acting like him, by his code. Those same Guardians were the ones who created the City. Although Lord Shaxx, Commander Zavala, and Lord Saladin created and upheld the Walls, they’re really Rezyl Azzir’s legacy. After this, they followed their own ways, or the ways of the newly formed Consensus, the officials behind City Defence. Nobody really learned from him anymore.

To exacerbate this situation, Azzir was once the greatest Titan, looked up to by pretty much every other one, but after the Battle of Six Fronts, Saint-14 is probably more deserving of that title. Shortly after, the Battle of Twilight Gap was won by the aforementioned Shaxx, Saladin, and Zavala. That put Azzir even further down the line of Titans. So assuming he wasn’t needed, Rezyl Azzir put himself in more and more dangerous situations, because he thought that if he did die the second death, it wouldn’t make a difference, in the grand scheme of things.

Now this reaction, a Titan losing faith in themselves, isn’t unique to him. Titans seemingly need to have a constant goal. Saladin was never himself after SIVA was contained and the Iron Lords disbanded. He only came into his own during the Second SIVA Crisis, and training Guardians in Iron Banner. When we found Zavala on Titan, he honestly didn’t know what he was doing, or why. He was nothing without the Vanguard, and the City.

All in all, big conclusions are:

Titans go Dark because there’s nothing left to fight for.

Hunters go Dark to survive for another day.

Warlocks go Dark because they want knowledge at any cost.

Well, that must about concludes this post, finally. Felt like I’d never get the end of it.

That’s about it.

#destiny 2 lore #destiny (game)#destiny lore

8 notes · View notes

letthesleepingdoglie · 5 years

Text

From Whence He Sprang - 09

Title: Never Left or Right

Part: 09 of 18

Rated: M

The Batcave

Gotham City

January 17th, 2012

17:24 EST

Team Year One

“You look like crap.” Artemis noted as she stepped off the open elevator platform that had brought her down into the Batcave.

Dick tore his gaze from the screen in front of him and turned to look over his shoulder at his friend. At least, he tried to. The movement was stiff and sluggish on account of the many bandages and stitches covering his exposed torso. It had taken Alfred the better part of an hour to patch up all the wounds that Dick had received from the fight last night, and the last thing that he wanted to do was tear all the meticulously stitched cuts open.

Now that the adrenaline from the events of last night had worn off, each and every one of the wounds he’d received ached and throbbed as he moved. The fight with the mysterious assassins had been so intense that he didn’t remember receiving half of them.

“You should see Bruce.” Dick grunted as he finally managed to complete his turn.

“Seriously?” Artemis asked, an expression of surprise on her face. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen the dark knight seriously injured. “What happened to you guys?”

Dick shrugged. “Assassins, sword fights, explosions. The usual.”

A cursory glance told him that she must have come straight from school; she was still wearing her hated Gotham Academy uniform.

“What brings you all the way out here?” He asked her, which was a valid question. Batman didn’t have a Zeta Tube installed in the cave, and Wayne Manor was a relatively long trip from her home in the East End.

It was Artemis’ turn to shrug. “You missed class. I was worried.”

Dick suppressed a small smirk, though he tried to hide it. Artemis always put on a tough front so that people wouldn’t see how vulnerable she truly was, but it was always endearing to see that she cared.

“Plus,” she continued, pulling a handful of papers from her backpack, “Barb wanted me to make sure you got your homework.”

Dick groaned, but took the papers from Artemis and flipped through them. It wouldn't take more than an hour to get through, but it would be tedious, and he had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Artemis took advantage of Dick’s momentary distraction to glance at the screen that he'd been working on. A meaningless scroll of names, numbers and code flashed across the screen. “What’re you working on?”

“A difficult case.” He put his homework to one side and hit a few keys on the bat-computer’s keyboard, bringing up the relevant files and images for Artemis to skim through.

“About two weeks ago, Batman and I met a kid named Jason Todd and sent him over to the Catherine Hershey school. Yesterday, we got word from Commissioner Gordon that he’d gone missing. We went to the school to see if we could find any leads on what happened to him and ended up being ambushed by a group of assassins working for something called the Court of Owls.”

He pointed up at the corner of the screen, where the image of a man with inverted eyes was displayed. “He was their leader. Called himself Shrike.”

Artemis frowned as she looked at the picture. “What’s the Court of Owls?”

“We have no clue.” Dick sighed in frustration. “The assassins blew themselves up when they realized that they were going to lose. We’ve been looking since the attack and haven’t found anything. Batman’s never heard of it, and I can’t find any references to it in anywhere.”

Artemis’ frown deepened. It was rare for Batman to have never heard of something. “Do you have any leads?”

“Not many.” Dick admitted. He gestured over to the side, where several items sat arranged on top of a high-tech scanning bed. The mask that Robin had removed from Shrike. The swords and throwing knives the assassins had dropped in their fight. Charred pieces of limbs and barely identifiable chunks of tissue.

“Most of the physical evidence was obliterated in the explosions. We’ve run their DNA through all the databases we could and come up with nothing. Their gear is also untraceable. We’re analyzing what’s left, but nothing yet. Batman’s back at the school, looking for anything we missed.” Dick sighed. “All we really know for certain is that the Court of Owls is good.”

He tapped at the keyboard again, bringing up a series of case files bearing the GCPD’s logo. “Look at this.”

Artemis moved so that she was standing next to Dick’s chair and peered at the display. Dozens of names and faces populated the screen, each identifying a child between the ages of 10 to 13. “What am I looking at?”

“GCPD missing persons reports. Specifically, children listed as missing from the Catherine Hershey School. Notice anything?”

Artemis frowned. Some of the kidnappings stretched back decades, with some going all the way back to the 70s, when the GCPD had started keeping track of missing kids. She realized what she was supposed to be looking for as she read the dates listed on the files.

“Like clockwork… One kid disappears every four years. Jason was just the latest.”

“Right.” Dick confirmed. “And those are just the disappearances that we have official records for. Unofficially, I managed to dig up reports of similar disappearances stretching all the way back to the school’s founding.”

“Why?” Artemis asked, incredulous. For a school to have this many missing kids… Granted, this was Gotham City, but still, even accounting for the fact that a boarding school oriented towards strays and orphans would probably have more runaways and disappearances, how had someone not noticed?

“I don’t know.” Dick said. He was clearly frustrated, which was understandable. He’d been trying to come up with the answer to that question for the last few hours. The problem was, he didn’t know if that was the right question to ask.

At first, both he and Batman had based their theories on the assumption that Jason had been kidnapped because someone was trying to bait them; after all, it was a common enough strategy amongst their regular rogue’s gallery. But now that he’d dug deeper and found the reports of serial disappearances, he was forced to come up with new theories to work around.

It was like trying to put together a puzzle, except he didn’t have all the pieces, he didn’t know which pieces he had were useful, and he had no idea what the final image would look like.

Knowing that a child’s life was likely on the line, his inability to figure the situation out was maddening.

“Any ideas?” Dick asked her. “I could use a fresh pair of eyes on this.”

Artemis hesitated, considering how she could best contribute. It wasn’t that Artemis thought she wasn’t smart enough to help, or that she was intimidated by the fact that her mentor wasn’t a world renowned detective. The simple truth was that most of the things that she could think of right then and there would have already occurred to him. If she wanted to help, she needed to draw on the resources and skills that she had exclusive access to.

“How good were the assassins who attacked you?” She asked.

“Very.”

“League of Shadows good?” She pressed.

“No. Better. Much better.”

Artemis considered that for a moment before pulling out her phone. “I’ll ask my mom if she heard of anyone like them when she was part of the League. They try to keep tabs on anyone that has skills like that.”

“Thanks.”

As Artemis took a few steps away so that she could call her mom without disturbing Dick, an automated notification popped up on the Bat-computer’s screen to tell him that the detailed scan he’d been running on the assassin’s bodies was done.

“Whoa…” Dick breathed as he read through the results.

Almost every biological sample that he and Batman managed to collect displayed some evidence of either chemical or genetic manipulation. For example, the assassin’s blood contained cells that looked like normal platelets, but upon closer inspection, appeared to function much more effectively, clotting in a matter of seconds rather than minutes. Fragments of bone revealed that their skeletons had been coated in a porous material that allowed biological materials to pass through, but was as strong and as light as titanium. There were even remnants of organs that the bat-computer didn’t recognize as human.

No wonder he hadn’t been able to find a match in any of the databases he’d looked at. Even something as fundamental as their DNA had been re-written to include what looked like distinct strands of animal genes. This was almost Cadmus level gene-manipulation; there were parts that barely looked human anymore.

It wasn’t just the sheer scale of the enhancements that Dick found overwhelming, but also the amount of time it must have taken to implement them. He’d seen full body augmentation and reconstruction before, of course, but it wasn’t something you could do all at once. Even with advanced tech from STAR Labs, someone undergoing this much surgery and gene therapy would need, at best, several years to adjust to all the changes being wrought on his or her body.

Years… Dick realized with a start, as a disturbing thought crossed his mind.

Working quickly, he minimized everything on the computer screen except for the picture of Shrike’s face that the cameras built into his mask had captured, then opened up a program that had been designed for forensic investigators so that they could “age” pictures of young children to find out what they might look like several years after their respective disappearances.

Dick ran the process in reverse, taking a scan of Shrike’s face and reversing the aging process so that it displayed an approximation of what Shrike might have looked like at the age of 12. Granted, the image was very, very, very rough, but at least it gave him something to work with. He ran the image through every database concerning missing children that he had access to, both within the US and internationally.

Even with a super computer as powerful as the one that was built into the Batcave, the search still took a few minutes.

That gave Dick a moment to ponder. And to hope he was wrong. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Artemis was done with her phone call until she was standing next to him.

“Nothing.” She told him, tucking her phone away. “My mom says she’ll ask around though.”

He looked over at her. “Are you sure? I don’t want her to get into any trouble.”

Artemis waved his concerns away. “It’s fine. She knows how to take care of herself. Besides, I think she likes being able to help with hero stuff. It gives her something to do besides sit around the house all day, you know?”

“Mmm.” Dick conceded. He could empathize with that.

He sighed, rubbing his face, giving his eyes a rest. He’d been working non-stop on this since the ambush last night. Just because he was used to long hours of work didn’t mean that it never caught up with him. It was just hard to focus on things that seemed as trivial as food and sleep when someone’s life was on the line.

“Are you alright?” Artemis asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Dick said, pushing himself upright in his chair. “It’s just been a rough day.“

“You should get some rest.” She said. Dick glanced at her. He recognized that tone. Despite phrasing it as a suggestion, Artemis’ voice made clear that she was prepared to frog march him upstairs if she thought it would be necessary.

Oh, to have an big sister like Artemis.

“I’m just gonna finish this search, then I’ll grab a quick nap.” Dick promised.

Artemis crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d made a similar promise to her, only for her to return hours later to find him slumped over the keyboard, fast asleep.

“I will.” He insisted when she didn’t budge.

She continued to stare at him for a few moments longer before she uncrossed her arms. Inwardly, Dick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Fine.” Artemis said as she made her way back towards the elevator leading up to the manor. “But if you don’t give Zatanna a call by the time I get back from the Cave, I will beat the crap out of you.”

“Fair enough.” He conceded.

Artemis rolled her eyes, but gave a quick wave goodbye as the elevator doors slid shut.

The computer chimed in with a notification, letting him know that the search was done. Facial recognition had found a relatively close match for a child that had gone missing in Oregon.

“Matthew Board.” Dick said to himself, reading the name at the top of the report. Born to David and Serena Board, September 1975. The youngest of four children. Reported as missing January 16th, 1988. The official notes listed it as likely the child had run away from home.Interestingly, it hadn’t been his parents who had reported Matthew as missing, but a teacher at the school he had gone to. He ran a quick check and found that both the mother and father had criminal records, mostly for drug related offenses, though there were more than a few citations from Child Protection Services as well.

Dick’s discomfort was starting to grow. It felt like the picture on the puzzle was starting to become clearer. Matthew matched Jason’s profile almost exactly. A child from a rough background, around the age of 12, whose disappearance wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

This being the United States, which maintained a national database of missing children, there were DNA records for Matthew on file that Dick could access. He pulled these up and compared them to the samples that he had recovered from Shrike.

After Dick edited the sequences of animal DNA and removed them from the analysis, they were almost a perfect match.

Shrike was, or had been, Matthew Board.

Dick’s blood ran cold at the realization. Whatever the Court of Owls was, it had been kidnapping children in order to turn them into super-powered sociopathic killers. They’d been doing it in Gotham for years, decades even, right under their noses.

And he and Batman had put Jason right in their path.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The Labyrinth

Location Unknown

Time Unknown

Jason knew he was going to die.

That was his only rational thought as he stumbled forward through the dark, displaying none of the learned caution or stealth that he normally would have used. In truth, he was so consumed by the realization of his impending demise that he was scarcely aware of his surroundings, moving forward out of stubbornness rather than any real hope of going anywhere.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The way he would die was irrelevant. Cut apart by another booby trap. Bludgeoned to death by the fists of ferals and torn apart to be eaten. Finally succumbing to the gnawing pit of hunger and thirst that was welling up inside of him. It would all mean the same thing in the end: dying, alone, down in the dark.

Strange, to think of his death in such dispassionate terms. In a way, the only thing that surprised him was the fact that he was still alive.

He hadn’t seen any signs of life for…

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

He didn’t care.

Lorena. Joseph. Chris. Sean. They all probably thought he was dead.

Maybe they were right. It certainly felt like he was in hell right now.

For all he knew, they were the ones who were dead. The tunnels reeked of so much decay and abandonment that he couldn’t really believe that there was anyone friendly left in the world. Moving through the darkness, still covered with clotting blood and other visceral filth, he felt so cut off and isolated from everything that nothing felt real.

One of the few reassuring things he still felt was the weight of the knife in his hand. He vaguely recalled prying it, his own hands still sticky with blood, from the grasp of a fragmented skeleton that he’d tripped over as he’d stumbled through the dark. Judging from the size of the remains, it had probably belonged to a past aspirant. One who had fallen into the blood pool, just as he had, and somehow died, just as he would.

The knowledge had scared him at first. He had stared at the knife for a long time, knowing that he could have turned the weapon on himself, ended all of the pain that he had endured and the pain sure to come by slitting his own throat.

The prospect had, admittedly, been tempting.

But Jason hadn’t done it. Instead, he thought back to when he’d found James’ body.

His friend had known he was going to die the moment he realized he’d been caught in the floor trap that had dumped both of them down here. Even with everything that had happened to him, he’d gone down fighting, quite literally tearing the guts out of his feral killer.

Even in death, James would have avenged himself had Jason not intervened.

That seemed like a good example to follow.

If Jason was going to die no matter what he did, he wanted to die doing something, die fighting his fate. As much as he wanted the suffering to end, he wouldn’t take the easy way out. As much pain as it would bring, he would keep moving, resist, even if brought him to the bitterest of ends.

Jason clutched his looted knife tighter and kept moving forwards.

It was as good a direction as any other.

#young justice #young justice fanfic #young justice fanfiction #batman #robin #dick grayson #jason todd #the court of owls

0 notes

a-plethaura-ask-blog · 5 years

Text

The backstory behind ContaminationTale is besically something kinda similar but very adjacent to how Error Sans was formed. As confusing as it is, allow me to elaborate-

[ ° Basic Information ° ]

[ ° AU Connections ° ]

» Sans

» Papyrus

» Grillby

» Toriel

» Gaster

» Asgore

» Alphys

» Asriel

» Flowey

» Undyne

» Burgerpants

» Mettaton

» Nopstablook

» Temmie

» Doggo

» Monster Kid

» Monster Kids Parents

» Chara

» Frisk

» Endogeny

» Muffet

[ ° Common Reference Places ° ]

» The Waterfall

➡ No longer exists. When the world started to vanish, the waterfall went first and was unable to be brought back.

» Grillby's Bar

➡ Doesn't really function as a bar anymore. This place is actually more it less used for medical treatment and a weapon station.

» Echo Flower garden/field/cave

» MTT Station

➡ This place is actually used for the Shadow Players base and planning area. Off limits and heavily guarded with technology. It had many secret operative plans that happen in it all the time.

»Asgore's Castle

» Flowey's Flower Patch

➡ Any au characters that are killed in ContaminationTale that are not part of the AU spawn in the flower patch. Other than that this location is rather useless.

» Toriel's Ruins

» Alphys Lab

➡ Used to mix poisons, and is filled with mechanical body parts used to replace lost limbs that didn't kill the victim. It is also used to overview the town and make traps.

» Sans Station - Bridge Crossing

[ ° Common Food and Food Stats ° ]

- Cinnamon Bun - (Restores 25 HP)

- Hot Dog w/ Bun - (Restores 50 HP)

- Hard Tac (Restores 30 HP)

- Alfrado ( Restores 100 HP)

- Cupcake (Restores 10 HP)

- Spaghetti ( Restores 50 HP)

- Pie (Restores 40 HP)

- Candy (Restores 5 HP each)

[ ° Weaponry ° ]

» Sans Butcher's Knife

➡ /+30 ATK/ - /-5 SPD/ - /+10 HP/

↪ Fire Perk - With this Sans can give the Butcher Knives the ability to set themselves on fire on the blade. However this one lasts for a few attacks before he has to build up a charge again.

» Papyrus's Bone Staff

➡ /+40atk/ - /-5spd/ - /+15hp/

» Gaster's Scythe

➡ /+10 HP/ - /-5 SPD/ - /+15-20 ATK/

»Toriel's Arrows

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /- 5 HP/ - /+5 ATK/

» Asgore's Scepter

➡ /-15 SPD/ - /+10 ATK/ - /+0 HP/

» Asriel's Slingshot

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /+5 ATK/ - /+ 0 HP/

» Undyne's Spear

➡ /-0 SPD/ - /+5 HP/ - /+10 ATK/

» Mettaton's Gun

➡ /+15 SPD/ - /+0HP/ - /+10 ATK/

» Frisk's Staff

➡ /-10 SPD/ - /+5 HP/ - /+5 ATK/

» Chara's Knife

➡ /+15 HP/ - /+15 ATK/ - /+5 SPD/

» Grillby's Arrows

➡ /-10 HP/ - /+20 ATK/ - /+10 SPD/

» Tikal's Lasso

➡ /+5 SPD/ - /+10 ATK/ - /+0 HP/

↪ no perks, batter for stealth attacks

»Muffet's Glass Throwing Knives

➡ /+10 SPD/ - /+5 ATK/ - /+5 HP/

↪ respawn: if the knives are broken, they rebuild the partial belt bag, it might be better just to have more battle ready

» Alphys' Axe

➡ /-15 SPD/ - /+20 ATK/ - /+5 HP

» Monster Kid/Family Tail + Crossbows

➡ /+25 SPD/ - /+30 ATK/ - /-10 HP/

↪ no perks

[ ° All Weaponless Characters ° ]

» Temmie

» Burgerpants

» Doggo

» Endogeny

» Napstablook

» Flowey

[ ° Weaponless Characters Abilities ° ]

» Temmie

- Speed Attack: Used to confuse and knock out characters. Temmie runs around them and strikes their body in various places to try to cause more consistent confusion.

» Doggo

» Endogeny

- Corrupt : uses the shades to possess enemies and attack other enemies or take themselves out.

» Burgerpants

- Incinerate: he always has a lighter and gasoline on him somewhere. So when he reacts he can use it to gradually put on his enemies then he can burn them alive when he lights it up.

» Flowey

- Vines : Shred or Strangle - Flowey can either crush his opinions with several Vines or throw needles at the enemy that are hard to dodge and have incredible sharpness.

» Napstablook

[ ° Common World Items ° ]

* Machine Parts

* Desk Supplies

* Marbles

- ( A rare find that some monsters used to posses. Such as Toriel) These are used as a good tripping device, or as a good distraction to those that can't avoid them.

* Contaminated Black Tar

* Silverware

- (Anywhere) This also serves as a great weapon.

* Broken Pipes

>> Other Things to Clarify

1) As you have seen, there are both a "Flowey" and an "Asriel" in this AU. This was not a mistake, or an error in planning. They are both separate characters.

0 notes