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deniigi · 3 years

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Please have some Skywalker Babies + Uncle Rex.

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Title: skittles

Summary: Padme dies, but Anakin doesn't turn and as a result ends up with two little ones who are, naturally, adopted by the 501st--well, Leia is. Luke keeps getting stolen by a filthy thief.

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Rex has the twins for now. He has never felt terror like this before. He can’t stop checking over his shoulders for threats to their teeny tiny persons.

In his humble opinion, it should be illegal for humans to be born this small. He ran it past Ahsoka recently and she agreed, but she also provided intelligence that the twins’ size was not necessarily average for their species, either.

The other brothers helped him investigate this. They all gathered round and put the holonet searches on the projector so that they didn’t have to smash buckets over a datapad screen to be educated. Their search for ‘newborn natborn human baby’ was rewarded with images upon images of reddened tubies with big, round bellies and curled up limbs.

They did a new search for ‘2 weeks, natborn human baby’ and were rewarded with even more pictures, to which they held the twins up next to and found them wanting. The twins’ proportions were all wrong, their limbs were too skinny, their faces pinched. The babies on the holonet didn’t have hair, but their baby girl did.

The conclusion was that the research was inconclusive. Further, it was interrupted by the resident thief coming in to take his chances. Cody told them later, upon returning their baby boy, that they were better than this. Kenobi wasn’t slick. They needed to stop letting their guards now.

He said all this while ignoring the way the baby boy burrowed into the side of his throat and made smacking noises.

Such a strong man, that Cody. He is, unfortunately, not available now even though Rex has both twins and a heart attack waiting to happen.

The Thief is nearby. Rex can sense him. He heads back the way he came.

The baby girl, who has a name, but Anakin is too heartbroken to speak it, fists her hands at Rex and shakes them as if to threaten him into compliance. He does not know how to help her understand that he has not taken the blanket off her face out of malice, but rather to keep her from suffocating. She is angry with him regardless. She is often angry with him and endlessly crying when he does not put her exactly where she wants to be exactly when she wants it.

The thief calls her a princess, and so everyone else has started doing the same in lieu of her name. The child is bound to grow up thinking her name itself is ‘Princess’ at this rate. Ahsoka has been trying out different titles for her, but she doesn’t respond to them in the same way.

For all that the princess is royalty through and through, the baby boy is thoroughly a commoner. Catching him awake is a miracle. Part of that is because his waking hours are spent with the Thief, since Kenobi has decided, for some mysterious reason, that this child is his favorite of all in existence. He will not be separated from this child and when he is, he gets crafty in his attempts to get him back.

The princess does not like Kenobi. At all, period. He touches her and she screams and reaches her stubby hands for Rex. If Rex is not available to be screamed for, she will wail until her father comes to stuff her in his tunic.

Anakin is fine to hold the princess, but he cannot look upon the baby boy, even to feed him. He looks so much like his mother. It is a struggle for everyone—except Kenobi. Rex wonders aloud to Ahsoka if Kenobi will raise the boy on his own and a moment of silence fills the canteen.

Ahsoka throws herself from the room and goes sprinting for the masters’ quarters.

The twins are tested for Force Sensitivity and it becomes abundantly clear why Kenobi continues hoard the baby boy against all sense and wisdom. He is described by the jedi as a ‘sun’ in the Force. The princess too, but her presence in the Force blends in with her father’s until she is gazed upon in Rex’s Force-empty grip.

Only then is she, too, declared a star.

Twin stars, they are called.

‘Kenobi, put that down,’ the boy is named. ‘Kenobi, give that back,’ is his middle one.

The first time Rex sees the baby boy awake, he is startled by how blue his eyes are. His sister’s are dark, but his are light like water at the base of a waterfall. He makes a little sound and turns his heavy head to the side to blink at Rex’s forearm.

He is the older of the two, but the Princess is already overtaking him in weight. Kenobi has been scolded for this. In return, he locks everyone out of his quarters.

The twins are two months old when they stop being blinky-maggots and turn into smiley ones. Anakin cannot put the princess down or she will scream until she is blue in the face. As such their dedicated General can be found with his arms full, slowly banging his head against the nearest hard object.

He calls her ‘Leia.’ Princess Leia.

The baby boy is ‘Luke.’ Just Luke.

Anakin spends his time these days bouncing Leia and on the hunt for his son. He walks like a zombie towards Kenobi’s door and plasters his back against it. He slides down and tries desperately not to fall asleep at the bottom.

He will not let Rex take the princess when he’s in this state. He wants only for Kenobi to open the door so that he can fall back onto his floor and demand his son. Kenobi never gives him his son back. There is no longer any question that baby Luke is Kenobi’s child. The fact that he’s been produced by Anakin and Padme is a footnote in the broader history being made here.

Kenobi will, however, take Princess Leia, too, if left unsupervised. She still hates him—more than ever, really, but he doesn’t mind. He likes to lay the twins out together so that Leia’s jerky fussing will ruin Luke’s sleep cycles.

Kenobi is a man with no respect for the law in these parts. More jedi masters have to step in to get him under control. Master Koon takes the most pity on Anakin and gives him both of his children. The masters and the clones watch him stagger up with both babies and drunkenly return to their quarters.

A note is made to check on all three of them in fifteen minutes.

The twins, at 6 months old, have developed even more distinct personalities and hair. So much hair. Ahsoka puts Leia’s hair in pigtails and Leia will scream if anyone tries to adjust them or if she feels that they are falling out of shape.

Rex’s hands were once clumsy around ring-sized rubber bands. He is now an expert. He is such an expert that he can even make the occasional one stay in Luke’s slippery hair, which, of course, invokes an expression of betrayal in Luke that is so comical, Rex can’t see it without being brought to tears.

Luke hates him for this. He whimpers for his father—no, not that one. The good one.

These days, Kenobi is a cat who has gotten the cream.

The boy called him ‘dada’ before he gave the name to Anakin, and Kenobi nearly lost his life for it. He regrets nothing. He is technically barred from being around Luke, both by the other jedi and by Anakin specifically, but rules are things for other people in Kenobi’s world.

Anakin threatens him with bodily harm at every opportunity that he is not holding his daughter upside down.

She enjoys this. This is not just a daddy-thing to her either; she expects everyone to carry her like this. If not feet-to-the-sky, then at least draped over an arm, face-down like a sack of flour. She hums the way a cat would purr.

At nine months the babes are mobile and it is the worst thing that has happened to Anakin besides Padme’s death. They are not effectively mobile, but they are professionals at grabbing things and hauling themselves up to their chubby feet. Leia holds onto the fingers of anyone she can get and makes every brother who passes her walk her on their feet to her chosen destination.

Luke is a little slower.

He can get to his feet, but what he wants is to bounce there. If anyone tries to hold his hands, he clams up and falls down and doesn’t get up.

Anakin has begun negotiating with Leia to be more like her brother. She laughs at his face in great peels when he does this. She finds his serious expressions hilarious and wants to cuddle him anytime they appear which is great for domestic time and not so great for council or state meetings. Anakin has taken to appearing before these people with Leia latched around his ankle. Only her, though. Luke can’t bear being in the presence of so many bodies at once. He becomes overwhelmed and handles the pressure by going to sleep. Or crying.

For Kenobi, of course.

And when Kenobi is not around, they all may as well go start digging their own graves before the guilt propels them to do it anyways.

Luke is not a big crier. Anakin can’t understand him. They’ve had many conversations about telling adults when he needs things, all of which Luke elects to ignore in favor of trying to eat bugs and dig in sand.

The latter is the greatest sin that Anakin can dream of.

I just think that, given the opportunity, Obi-Wan would be the best grandpa ever and by best, I mean he would see his chance to have a baby and Anakin would end up chasing him around going ‘he’s MY mistake and MY responsibility, you crusty old fucker, give him back’ while Obi-Wan talks to Ahsoka about how nice the weather is.

#star wars #captain rex #Anakin Skywalker #Luke Skywalker #leia organa #Obi-Wan Kenobi #ficlet #fic #don't mind me I'm just over here doing shit other people have probably done already without a damn care in the world

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hotlineslasher · 3 years

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Interview With A Slasher

Rating: Explicit (I think?? I mean it’s smut)

Word Count: 2.8K

Warnings: Swearing, Sexual Content (Vaginal Fingering), Danny is a confusing bastard

A/N: I don’t want plot with my porn just feelings! This is my first fic I’ve ever posted pls be gentle with me I promise I’ll be better in the future and write less niche scorpio porn

AO3 link

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When you first set foot into the entity’s perverted playworld, it was a hellscape made worse by how straight-up confusing everything was. Sure, the entity keeps on coming up with new insanities to throw at you, but over time you’ve learned there are rules that make things bearable. That make things make sense. If x, then y. If you break the don’t-drop-god-pallet rule, you get left to suffer on the hook longer. If you don’t unhook your teammates before the entity creeps down to thrash with them, you probably won’t escape with your life... or your friendship. If you don’t heal Bill quickly, his wheezing will be everyone’s downfall.

And, of course, if you so much as look at a killer outside of the trials, you’ll be cut off from the group.

Though it made all the sense in the world for survivors and killers to hook up in between hooking, you were the only one out of your little group to do the deed with one of the proverbial devils in your hell. Survivors smooching survivors was completely commonplace but you knew if they found out the infamous ghostface had taken very... different polaroids of you, they’d take it as a betrayal. Other survivors who weren't already spoken for were fair game, but choosing to interact with any of the killers was a statement.

So, despite Danny’s whining and bitching, you had made sure to be extremely careful. Which meant additional rules for the two of you. One of which was no sneaking off from the campfire, no matter how hard you could feel him staring at you from across the burning logs. Ironically, you weren't exactly sure where the two of you stood in the less literal sense. One dirty affair was more than enough for you, so you hadn't so much as looked at any of the survivors like that since your first hookup with Danny... but you didn't know if the same could be said for him. I mean, as ridiculous as the situation is, it would be nice to know what you meant to him. With Danny, it was kind of hard to tell. On one hand, he'd been... interested in you from the start. Any time you were in a trial together, you were his obsession, and it had always been like that. He was less lethal when it came to chasing you, like he enjoyed the game of cat and mouse when you were the one playing it with him. On the other, as much as he loved to stalk you, he wasn't exactly forthcoming about himself. Whenever you tried to get to know him beyond the ghostface mask, he'd distract you, or deflect, or get magically pulled away to a trial. Your gaze drifts over to where Nancy and Steve are huddled together, looking the very image of cutesy. Oh, to pick sensible romantic partners like Steve.

“You okay, kid?” Bill’s gruff voice pulls your focus from the flames you’ve been staring at to avoid Danny’s gaze. Ironically, Bill is sitting across from you so now you have a small excuse to glimpse in Danny’s direction. “Bad trial?” The old man prompts.

Your shoulders pull up in a shrug, “I mean, when is there ever a good trial?” Your answer isn’t cheery by any stretch, but that’s one of your favorite things about Bill. Talking to him, you don’t feel any pressure to bullshit and act optimistic.

A husky laugh rattles out of him and immediately you feel more at ease, like you’re just hanging out with peepaw. “Fair point,” he nods. “Who was it? One of the more fucked-up ones?”

It actually makes you snort, because intuitively you sort of know which select killers he’s referring to. “Yeah, it was the clown. I swear to god, I inhaled so much of that shit my voice is going to start sounding like yours,” you smile, eyeing Bill with the fondness of grandpa’s favorite grandkid.

Bill rolls his eyes and it looks like he’s going to fire back some sass when suddenly Ace comes sauntering over to clap a hand on his back. “Sorry to interrupt, hot stuff, but I need you to come teach the new girl that trick against slugging.” Ace tilts his head towards where Feng and Elodie are sitting a couple yards away, both audibly pissed at having been left to bleed out on the ground.

“Oh, sure, sure.” Bill nods as he gets up from his seat, always one to have his priorities clearly in check. Another one of the unspoken rules. Someone needs some guidance in the trials, you give it to them without hesitation. You still owed Meg for teaching you how to slip into lockers quietly. “Wait— you uh, you gonna be okay on your own?” The old man is standing like he’s ready to go with Ace, but his eyes are hard and clearly telling you he’ll stay with you if you need him to.

Ace opens his mouth, probably to offer to keep you company, but you’re not like Bill. Waving them both off, your eyes fall on where Danny is crouched in the shadows. Your priorities are nowhere NEAR where they should be, you think, waiting for them to take a few steps away before you break your very cardinal rule: no sneaking away at the campfire.

His hands were on you immediately and your adrenaline ran hot in response. “You have to be quiet, Danny,” you reminded him quickly, keenly aware of his penchant for risky dirty talk.

“Aww, but I thought you hated it when I was quiet!” You couldn’t see his face behind his mask, but god, you could feel the dramatic pout. His fingers slid across your hips, pulling you into him aggressively. “Or do you just need some foreplay first?” He purred, one palm slipping down underneath your skirt to grab at the flesh of your ass. “Fuck, I love it when she puts you in this.”

“Danny!” You hissed, nerves ablaze with proximity-based anxiety. You were playing with fire by even letting him get this far and you knew it. Danny was the kind of guy who you couldn’t give an inch to because he’d take a yard and would make it feel so good you’d happily give him a mile no matter how many warning alarms went off in your head. “If any of them-“

“I know, I know, if any of them find out you’d be a pariah, blah blah blah... hey, I didn’t know you liked the old fucker so much,” Danny says completely casually, his palm smoothing over your asscheek absentmindedly.

You sigh, hating how you can already feel yourself melting a bit under his touch. “Feeling jealous?” You breathe, looking up into the black mesh that’s hiding his eyes from you.

He has the audacity to snort, the cocky son of a bitch. “Fuck no,” he chuckles light-heartedly. “You’re lucky I don’t spank you raw just for suggesting that.” You feel the points of his fingers dig into the skin of your ass with the threat. Suddenly his other hand is on your face, cradling your jaw gently. “I just wanna know more shit about you,” he says plainly, his two hands sending two very different signals to your touch-starved brain, both of them good.

You lean into the one that’s framing your cheek, hating yourself for how handsy you’re letting him be when you’re both close enough to hear Bill bark out directions. “Yeah? You wanna know who’s my bff back at the campfire?” It’s sarcastic and you know you immediately need to make up for it unless you want to tempt him into making you scream. You decide you’ll placate him by turning your face and pressing a kiss into his gloved palm. You think you catch the faintest sigh from him for your effort.

“I do,” he grunts as his hand turns to cover your mouth, his fingertips pressing into your cheeks. “I wanna know everything about you.” Coming from someone else, it might sound romantic. But Danny’s voice is dark, teetering on obsessive. From a different person, the words might paint a picture of lovely dates and idyllic late-night conversations. But from his masked mouth, they scream stalking. Looking at you when you don’t know he’s there, sifting through your belongings, hoarding candids of you that you’ll never know exist.

“So come on, is it the geezer? You know, thinking back on it, he does love to take hits for you,” Danny muses, his mood suddenly light again.

You roll your eyes, reaching up to pull his palm off your mouth when you feel his grip soften. “Sure, I guess Bill is my bff. I have to fight Ace for him though, so I don’t know how mutual it is,” you shrug. It’s irrelevant shit, you know it is, and you can’t see his face to make sure, but you suspect Danny’s listening intently to you anyways. Like he’d be happy to hear you prattle on about the social dynamics between the people he loves to gut. The undivided attention fills you with yearning and his gloved finger is in your mouth before the thought is even fully formed. You don’t know how much of your heat he can actually feel through the thick fabric, but based on how his fingers slip under your panties, it’s doing something for him.

“God, you’re such a slut,” he hisses, the fingers in your panties now prodding at your slit. “You don’t know how bad I want to pull out my dick and make you choke on it right now.” His arousal feeds yours like it always does and combined with the leather slipping between your folds, you don’t stand a chance. Fuck the rules. You lathe at his finger happily, but Danny has other plans and before you know it your mouth is empty. Your eyebrows pull up in confusion and he shushes you sweetly. “I wanna hear more,” he explains, his fingers inching towards your hole. “Tell me,” he urges, “tell me everything and I’ll make you cum, beautiful.”

His slow attack on you has you biting your lip and failing to decipher what he specifically wants to hear. “W... what do you want to— know?” You breathe, both of your hands finding themselves on his chest for support.

“Which one of them was your first friend here?” He asks as one of his long fingers penetrates you lazily. He wastes no time in establishing the sensual rhythm, but you know Danny, and you know it’ll all stop unless you play his weird games. Today, it’s whatever the hell this line of questioning is.

You blink, trying to come up with an answer while he massages your walls. “Meg,” you finally answer, your nails digging into the leather covering his chest. He doesn’t answer right away and you bite back a smile. “The redhead,” you clarify. Of course he wouldn’t know anybody’s names, duh, you’re letting a killer fingerfuck you right now.

Pleased that you’ve caught onto what he wants, Danny slips another finger into you and makes you keen like a teenager. “Who would you bring back with you, if you could go back to your old life?” Both the question and the spot his second finger rubs up against take you by surprise and you almost cry out. The contrast between how well you know each other’s most sensitive spots and how little you know about each other’s ‘old lives’ gives you a weird feeling in your stomach. “Shhh,” Danny taunts happily, “we have to be quiet, remember?” His smirk is pretty much audible as he throws your words back in your face.

You shoot him a glare in response but grab onto one of his outfit’s tendrils to hopefully try and ground yourself. “Who’s your bff?” You suddenly ask, taking you both by surprise. His fingers keep moving but it’s clear he wasn’t expecting you to flip his inquiry back on him. You can't blame him, you weren't expecting you to do that either. The quiet milliseconds feel like hours and you find yourself starting to sweat a bit more. Fuck, was that not okay? His fingers stay inside you, moving at their same rhythm, but you're to busy overthinking to keep climbing towards your orgasm right now.

“Amanda, probably,” Danny responds with a small shrug. You feel yourself start to breathe again. “Oh,” he giggles, “you wouldn’t know her name, right. The Pig,” he clarifies quickly before shifting his focus to your clit.

A sigh tumbles out of you as he rubs it with just enough pressure to make you sink your nails into the cloth of the tendril. Like always, Danny’s mind and body seem to be on two different paths as he starts plunging his digits in faster. “Danny,” you beg, desperately wanting a beat to think about the information he just gave you but not finding it in his new rhythm.

“Come on, you didn’t answer my second question. You’re lucky you look so fucking hot right now or else I’d leave you high and dry... well, maybe I will...” he threatens and you press your forehead into his chest, trying to communicate how badly you do /not/ want that to happen.

“Fuck, fuck,” you pant, brain whirring trying to remember his question. Honestly? It’d been so long since you let yourself think of your ‘old life,’ you didn’t really have an answer thought out. “I don’t— know,” you pull back to look at him through his mask, “I don’t think about my old— my old life anymore.” You’re not sure if it’ll piss him off because you’ve again failed to answer the question but Danny tends to like honesty so you pray he lets it slide. Because, fuck, his thumb on your clit like it is has you ready to drench him at any moment.

He’s quiet for a second. His head tilts. And then you hear his gruff sigh and suddenly his pace becomes even more lethal. Your knees buckle but his other hand wraps around your waist like a vice and you swear some of the tendrils seem to reach out towards you too. If you thought it felt heavenly before, it was nothing compared to how he was touching you now. Your own hand has to slap across your mouth to stop you from moaning like a whore. “Good,” he hisses, his voice low. “Don’t ever think about it,” he demands, “you’re here, now.” Your vision swims as you tear up, his assault on your heat making you shake. “You’re never getting rid of me, you understand?” His voice sounds obsessive again but it only gets you hotter.

You both know you’re going to cum any second, there’s no way you could properly respond to the insane shit he’s saying right now, you can barely even process it. So, instead, you choose to be risky again and move the hand that’s covering your mouth to his neck instead and pull his mask to meet your lips.

Your eyes jam shut as your hips seize and sharp jolts of white-hot pleasure wrack your entire being. You hope you’re quiet but honestly, mid-orgasm you can only hear Danny’s erratic panting. For a few precious seconds, while your body is flooded with endorphins from his ministrations, it’s just you and him. Your mouth pulls away slightly while you ride the orgasm but he closes the distance between you instantly, pressing his masked mouth to yours.

The blood pounding in your ears starts to slow down and your eyes open back up slowly. You’re so close you can see through the mesh and into his irises. His pupils are completely blown out and it gives him a downright feral look you know should really scare you. But it doesn’t. After all, that’s the real first rule you broke.

You pull away and lean your head on his shoulder when you start to worry he'll hear how your heart is beating out of your chest, your panting far quieter now though it’s still rugged as hell. “Who...” you pipe up when you feel his fingers slip out of you, “who would you...?” Your brain is still way too fuzzy from the hormones to fully articulate what you mean. Hopefully he gets that you’re asking his question back and doesn’t think you just sound like an idiot—

You feel his chest shake when he rumbles out a chuckle above you. From where you’re angled, you get to watch him bring his fingers up to his mouth from behind the mask. A small groan escapes him at tasting you and your chest soars with confidence. He thinks you taste good. Better than good, given how much time he’s spending savoring every last drop on his tongue. You almost forget about your question at the show, but you remember instantly when his raspy voice rattles out, “isn’t it obvious?”

You blink slowly and then suddenly you feel a swell of affection for him as you get his meaning.

Out of everyone, even the killers, you. He’d choose you.

#dead by daylight #danny johnson #DBD Ghostface #dbd danny #dead by daylight x reader #ghostface x reader #dbd fanfic #danny johnson x reader #danny johnson smut #danny 'jed olsen' johnson x reader #slasher #slasher community #slasher smut #smut writing

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twjournals · 3 years

Text

All For Good Reason

Warning: dark!Peter Parker x reader, both characters are of age, eventual dub-con, stalking, assault, violence

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: You have noticed something is not quite right about Peter Parker. A squeaky clean image, but always disappearing at the first sign of danger. You are determined to find out whatever he is hiding. Peter notices your interest in him. He thinks this is a game of cat and mouse. After all, you have your reasons and he has his.

This will be a new upcoming trilogy I will be working on! This will be a dark story so keep that in mind for future posts.

"Parker..." You tsked as you stared through the binoculars at him in the distance. "What are you up to?"

It was not what it looked like, well it was but it wasn't. One might call it stalking, but if you were being completely honest it was all for good reason. Ever since you had moved to Queens, you settled in quite nicely but one thing that did not settle right with you was your next-door neighbor, Peter Parker. There was nothing necessarily wrong with him, at least not as far as you knew, but there was certainly more to him than what was on the surface.

He had always been nothing less than nice whenever you encountered him, in class and outside of it. Well, when he did come to class or stayed through a one. It surprised you how Peter was even passing college. Your family had even gone as far as inviting him and May to dinner on a few occasions, almost every time ending early with Peter hauling ass get out of there and into the night. That was the thing about him. He was almost always in a hurry to be somewhere. Maybe that was where you just needed to mind your own business, but you could not help but wonder why he was always in a panic.

That was how you ended up here sitting in your car, staring through a pair of binoculars for the second time since this week. You had to get to the bottom of his madness. It was dark out, the only source of light being the street lights and the lights to very few businesses that were still open on this street. You did not understand why Peter would come out to this side of the city. You did not feel comfortable being out here even if you were locked up in your car.

You watched as Peter disappeared down a dark alley casually. You dropped your binoculars with a sigh, setting them in your lap as you stared at the dark path he went down. Why did he seem on a mission? What could possibly be down there? You leaned back in your seat, propping your knees up against the steering wheel. It was time to play the waiting game.

You sat in silence, keeping an eye out for him but you never saw him again. You were at mental war with yourself. Should you go looking for him at this point? What if he was hurt? But he was fine the last time you followed him here. What if he was in trouble? He was more capable of taking care of himself rather than you trying to help.

Fuck, why would you come out here? You thought to yourself. You could have just minded your own business, but no you just had to know what Peter Parker was up to.

The clock on your dash rolled as time went on. You gave in. The last time you had left, but this time you were more curious than ever. You were mentally cursing at yourself as you opened the car door. What were you thinking?

You started across the street, walking toward the alley and hugging yourself from a mix of fear and the chill of the cool night. The street was quiet. The silence made it creepier than it would have if people were on it. You peaked down the alley but it was empty.

You forced yourself to keep moving, walking into the alley and looking around you, taking in the overstuffed dumpsters and open air. You sighed, letting your arms fall as you gave up your search. He was gone wherever he was.

You snapped from your thoughts when you heard tires shrieking nearby. You panicked as they began pulling down the alleyway, quickly ducking behind one of the dumpsters and trying to stay as quiet as possible.

You listened to the slide of the van door and the sound of multiple men getting out.

"What are you doing?" A deep voice harped.

You heard a gun cock and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand to keep silent. You suddenly regretted ever leaving the house. "I thought I see someone."

"Stop fucking around. We have work to do." The man snapped, throwing something at the guy. At this point, you were holding your breath. "Probably just a raccoon or something."

The guy finally gave in and you had no choice but to listen as a lock broke off one of the doors to a building.

"Come on. We don't have all night."

The men hoarded into the building, filling their bags full of everything they needed. All you had to do was wait and they would be gone before you know it.

"Well well, what do we have here?" You jumped when a man spotted you out with his flashlight, pointing his gun at you. "Go on. Come on out." He demanded, nudging his gun.

You were scared to move. You couldn't seem to get your feet working properly to carry you.

"Let's go!" He raised his voice and you flinched, quickly sliding out from behind the dumpster. He grabbed your arm, gripping onto it as he pulled you close to him. His gun pressed into your back.

"Hey, boss! Look what we got here." He stiffened a laugh as he dragged you along toward the entrance.

The boss man came out of the building, his eyes falling on you and taking you in. You could feel his eyes scanning along your body. The longer he stared the more naked you felt even though you had clothes on.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?" He smiled a smug smile, circling around you as he kept his eyes on you.

"I-I-"

"Now don't be scared. We're not gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk." He assured you.

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat. "I was just looking for my friend." You answered honestly.

"Your friend? Out here?" He looked around, stretching his arms out with a stiff laugh. "I highly doubt that."

The man at your side pressed his nose into your hair, breathing in your sweet scent. You tried to move away, but he pressed the gun harder against your back.

"You can consider me your friend." He smirked as his head was still pressed to yours.

"I won't tell anyone. I honestly didn't see anything I swear." You started to plead but the man in front of you put his hand up to mute you. You closed your mouth instantly. You did not want to push your luck.

"Trying to leave so soon hm?" You watched as he stepped closer to you, closing the open space between the two of you. "Not having fun?"

He pushed the guy off of your side. "Go make yourself useful."

He scowled as he walked off to help the other men. "You always get all the fun."

You looked down as he towers over you. "Please don't hurt me." Your voice was quiet as you spoke. You could not bring yourself to face the consequences of coming here.

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours. I'll take good care of you." He smirks as he pushes you up against the brick wall behind you and pinning you there. You definitely had been at the wrong place at the right time. You made a mental note if you even made it out alive, you would never follow Peter here ever again.

"Please..." You closed your eyes tight as his hands rubbed up the curves of your body.

Before his hands could get any higher, you feel a gush of wind knocking the older man off of his feet onto the pavement. You fluttered your watery eyes open, blinking back the tears and looking around to see what was going on.

He groaned as he shuffled back to his feet and grabbing you by your throat, squeezing it tight. "Do you think this is a fucking game? Who else is out here?"

"I-I don't know." You clawed at his wrist, pleading to him.

"Don't lie to me!" He yelled as he pulled you off the wall in an attempt to slam you back against it.

"I swear, I don't-" You begged but a flash of red and blue cut you off, sent him flying against one of the dumpsters nearby.

Your eyes stared at the person in front of you, dressed in a red and blue suit. Spiderman. You tried not to be in such shock, but you could not help yourself. You had always heard of the hero, but never had you seen him this close.

His stunt had gained the attention of his other men. Spiderman shot his webs, trapping the older man to the dumpster when he tried to get back to his feet.

He turned to look at you, noticing the other men resurfacing from the building. "Go." He instructed.

He didn't have to tell you twice. Your feet had found the strength before you had even found them. You ran as quick as your feet could carry you out of the alley, stopping for a moment to glance back at all the commotion. You had to make sure he was at least okay even if your mind screamed for you to keep going. You were impressed at the sight of all of the men webbed to the van after they had taken their beating. Spiderman shot his last web over the man's mouth who yelled threats at him before turning to make eye contact with you.

You wanted to thank him, but your voice was lost behind all the adrenaline pumping through your veins. For if it wasn't for him, your own stupidity would have had you dead.

He stood up straight while trying to catch his breath. Even though you could not see his eyes underneath the dark fabric, you knew his eyes were staring right back at you. You gave him an apologetic smile before you ran back to your car, vowing from this point forward, you would never follow Peter Parker into the dark again.

#dark!peter x reader #dark!peter parker #dark!tom holland #peter parker #dub con #peter parker series #dark!peter parker series #spiderman x reader #dark!spiderman #peter parker one shot

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whumpshaped · 2 years

Note

I saw you mention a drabble with assassins and so I raise you: an assassin is supposed to kill someone, maybe someone high status or maybe not- but the person they’re supposed to kill just begs for their life instead of fighting back, says to please not kill them, that they can be useful, that they can follow orders, etc- so assassin kidnaps them and keeps them as a fun little whumpee :). ~🐸

hmmmmmmmm thats very tasty and almost perfect for what i had in mind anyway so.......

trigger warnings: assassin whumper, humiliation, guns, threat of murder, fear of death, implied kidnapping

"Now, hiding won't do you any good. If anything, it'll just make me angry."

Whumpee cowered in their oversized closet, both hands clamped over their mouth to make sure that their erratic breathing wouldn't give them away. There, in the dark, surrounded and feeling suffocated by all the silky smooth and ridiculously expensive fabrics they'd been hoarding made them swear to all that was holy that if they got out of this alive, they would donate it all, they would change their corrupted ways and live an honourable life.

They jumped as something crashed against the door keeping them out of sight for now, pressing their back further into the wall. Please, no. Not like this.

Another crash, and the lock gave out, letting the door slide open agonizingly slowly. "Don't tell me that high profile Mx. Rich Bastard is hiding in the closet like a little kid? I know you people don't tend to have either a spine or morals, but come on now, that's embarrassing." Whumper stepped into the small space and grabbed their target by the shirt, shoving them outside with force that sent them landing face first on the floor. "Some people got a bone to pick with you, boss. Honestly, the 206 bones you have wouldn't be enough to satisfy all the people who want you dead."

Whumpee tried to crawl away from their personal doom, the actual, real hitman that had been sent for them, but the fear was too much. They completely froze up, essentially letting their killer walk over and put a gun to their head without any trouble. It was only when they were looking down the barrel that the words started flowing.

"Wait!" They put their shaking hands up in a clear show of surrender, their wide, terrified eyes finding Whumper's amused and confident ones. "W-Wait, wait, please, how much did they pay you? I can double it! I can triple it!"

"Are we really going down this route? Bribery? That's what your kind is good at, I suppose." Whumper smirked. "What you lot are never good at it stuff like this. Begging on your knees. Being at someone else's mercy. It freaks you out, doesn't it?"

"Of course it does, you're shoving a gun in my f-"

"Ah," Whumper interrupted, cocking the gun and making Whumpee shut up at once. "See? Always jumping to aggression when things don't go your way. That's not good, Whumpee. You need to communicate in a calm and respectful manner if you want people to listen." They tilted Whumpee's chin up with the barrel of the gun, forcing them to look at them instead of the painfully dangerous piece of metal in their hand. "Eye contact, boss. Now, what do you say instead of throwing a temper tantrum?"

"P-Please," Whumpee breathed. "Don't do this... Please, I- I don't want to die, I get it, I get that I was a horrible person, I'll change, I-"

"Change? You?"

"You have to believe me, please. I can change. I can be a good person!" They vaguely gestured to themself while still keeping their hands in the air, desperate to somehow convince them. "I mean- I can follow orders too, I'm not just some stupid and arrogant CEO! I can listen, I can learn, and fuck, I learned my lesson today. Please."

"My job is to get rid of you, you see..." Whumper dragged the gun up their cheek and patted them a few times, making Whumpee flinch. "Now, I could get behind you changing as a person and leaving this all behind, donating all your assets and keeping a low profile."

"I'll do that!"

"But," they pinned them with a look, and Whumpee shrunk in on themself, realizing they spoke out of turn again, "as part of my job, I have to make sure you never come back. That you're dead."

"I c-can disappear... I really can, please... I won't give you any trouble, you won't regret this, and if- if you ever deem it so that I broke this arrangement, you're free to kill me."

Whumper chuckled. "I'm not only free to kill you right now, but I've been paid to do exactly that. Come on. No. The arrangement is as follows: you shut your stupid mouth and come with me, so I can keep an eye on you and make sure that you really change."

#the bad scribbles

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lerrryyyyy · 3 years

Text

Shiketsu!Izuku AU

With hints of possible krbk and tddk in the future. Mostly focuses on friendship between Izuku & Katsuki, as well as throwing the people around them for a loop with their dynamic.

(This is more of a one-shot idea… but I doubt I’d get around to actually writing this properly so I’m just gonna turn it into a post)

Also ft sassy Izuku who he grew up having a close relationship with Katsuki.

He’s more confident, a bit more blunt, and though still being a soft cheerful boy, he does adopt a few of Katsuki’s behaviours.

Not yet sure if Izuku is quirkless or if he has a non-physical quirk. And I’m undecided on why he’s in Shiketsu, but that’s not that important.

Set during the Provisional Exams.

Bakugo initially ignores everything around him, only interacting with his group of friends - mostly with Kirishima. But when Yoarashi approaches their group, his mood instantly changes. He asks where the other Shiketsu students are.

Yoarashi - obviously a bit confused at the question - points at the group making their way towards them.

1A shifts warily when a competitive grin spreads across Bakugo’s face and, before anyone could stop him, he launches towards the Shiketsu students with a loud scream of “DEKU!”

1A dreads the train-wreck about to happen, but one of the Shiketsu students dashes forward to meet Bakugo’s attack and deftly grabs his arm and flips him.

But Bakugo seems to be ready for this and shifts his body so he could off-balance the other student, but the latter pulls away before Bakugo could complete his move.

It all happens so fast that, by the time anyone moves to stop them, the exchange has already ended with the Shiketsu student using his own momentum to latch onto Bakugo’s back.

“Why can’t you ever greet me normally, Kacchan?” The boy asks with a pout.

Bakugo snorts and, much to his classmate’s surprise, he lets the guy cling to him as he walks back to get the case for his hero costume. “I had to make sure you weren’t slacking off or I would’ve beaten your ass to the ground.”

”The last time we sparred, I wasn’t the one beaten to the ground, Kacchan.”

“Then why don’t you get off my back and I’ll--!”

Before they could continue their conversation, however, Aizawa’s sharp tone cuts through the air. “Bakugo.”

Bakugo clicks his tongue, but the Shiketsu student lights up in recognition.

“Kacchan! Oh my All Might, Kacchan! Kacchan! Your teacher is Eraserhead!”

This seems to catch Aizawa off-guard - not many people knew him after all.

“I already told you that, dumbass.”

“But Kacchan! Why didn’t you get me an autograph?!”

“Fuck off. Ask him yourself.”

“Aha! So you’re the infamous Kacchan!” Yoarashi exclaims loudly. “Midoriya has told me about you!”

“Don’t call me that, you fucking extra!”

1A is just basically shocked to see Bakugo actually having a friend who was used to his attitude and takes his threats with a smile. A friend who seems to be the complete opposite of him.

Also imagine a little interaction where Midoriya sees Kirishima and greets him.

“You’re Kirishima-san! It’s so nice to finally meet you! Kacchan talks about you a lot!”

Kirishima perks up. “He does?”

“No I fucking don’t! Shut up!”

While waiting for the exam to start, some of 1A talk to Izuku and try to get to know him, intrigued by his relationship with the explosive member of their class. But the introductions are cut short as the examiner starts explaining the rules.

When the arena opens and examinees start to split up, Midoriya wishes them all luck before running off with his schoolmates.

“Good luck, UA! See you later, Kacchan! Be nice to your classmates.”

“Fuck you, Deku.” He yells while sending him the middle finger.

But he doesn’t get far when Midoriya calls him again.

"Hey Kacchan!” Bakugo turns around to see Midoriya on that noisy Shiketsu extra’s back, smiling angelically while sending him the rude gesture in return as they fly off. “Bye!”

The other Shiketsu students choke on air, staring at the green-haired boy in shock. "Midoriya!"

Several of 1A snicker at the angry scream that escapes the depths of hell that was their classmate’s throat.

“I like your friend, Bakugo.” Uraraka manages to say between giggles.

“Whatever.” Bakugo growls while stomping off, with Kirishima and Kaminari rushing after him.

Later, before the 2nd part of the exams, Todoroki happens to overhear Yoarashi and Midoriya talking - the topic being him. His fist clenches when he hears the former compare him to Endeavor. He starts to walk away when he picks up on Midoriya’s words.

“Todoroki-san isn’t Endeavor. Yoarashi-kun, if you’re gonna dislike him, dislike him for himself. Not because of his father.”

“But I do! He was rude during the recommendation test! Just like when Endeavor—"

“You’re comparing them again. You don’t have to bring up his father when you’re upset with Todoroki-san.” Midoriya sighs. “Really, Yoarashi-kun, I’ve heard people say ruder things to you, but you don’t bear grudges like this against them.”

He gives the taller student a look that was almost a mix between exasperation and admonishing. “Just... try not to let it influence you during the exam, okay Yoarashi-kun? You have a tendency to be unknowingly petty.”

Yoarashi splutters at the accusation but doesn’t refute it.

During the rescue portion of the exams when Gang Orca attacks. Yoarashi and Todoroki still argue.

Midoriya notices this and tries to intervene, but Gang Orca’s minions distract him from doing so. Thankfully, Bakugo, Kirishima, and Kaminari arrive at the scene.

Bakugo tells Kirishima and Kaminari to help in the evacuation. They ask what he’s planning, but he’s already off fighting the ‘villains’. They are momentarily frozen in surprise and awe when Bakugo and Midoriya seamlessly work together in fighting the hoard.

Then a flame tornado - courtesy of Inasa and Todoroki - rises around Gang Orca. It holds the hero at bay, but the tornado subsides quicker than expected. Bakugo and Midoriya take that opportunity to fight Gang Orca - their formidable teamwork impressing the hero.

But the timer soon goes off. After a bit of gushing (because of course he can’t help himself from fanboying a tiny bit), Midoriya approaches Yoarashi and Todoroki and gives them a look. With the way Yoarashi shamefully avoids his gaze, Izuku could guess what happened.

He sighs and approaches Todoroki to help him up - which surprises the two.

“Midoriya?” Yoarashi speaks up.

Midoriya ignores him. “Hey, Kacchan, sorry but can you help Yoarashi-kun up? I’ll take Todoroki-san.”

“Tsch... you owe me.”

When Bakugo has Yoarashi leaning against him, he grunts. “Congrats, airhead, whatever the fuck you did, you upset Deku.”

Yoarashi could do nothing but tuck his chin ruefully.

While Izuku takes Todoroki to the medics to get looked over, Todoroki breaks the silence.

“Did you mean what you said? About me not being my father?”

“Y-you heard that?”

Todoroki stares at him intensely, making Midoriya squirm a bit. “... well? Did you?”

“Oh, uhm, yeah... Endeavor-san is Endeavor-san and Todoroki-san is Todoroki-san. You’re your own person. It just seems unfair to dislike you because of your father.”

Todoroki jolts slightly, his voice going cold and defensive “What do you mean?”

Midoriya almost jumps at the change in his tone. “I mean, who Endeavor is isn’t who you are, and I don’t think people should base their judgement of you on who your father is or what he’s done before.”

Todoroki looks at Midoriya - his expression now unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that seem contemplative.

“You’re strange.”

“Ah, sorry I—“

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

“O-oh... thanks?”

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Just an omake/extra kind of thing: Todoroki approaching Bakugo before boarding their bus.

“Bakugo.”

“What do you want, half-and-half?”

“Your friend is interesting.”

“Ha?! Deku? The hell did he do this time?”

“He has some... intriguing opinions. I’d like to talk to him more. Can you get me in touch with him?”

“What the fuck?!”

#bnha #bnha deku #tododeku #kiribaku #midoriya izuku #bakugo katsuki #platonic bakudeku #shiketsu izuku au #au rants #i wanna write this but i doubt i ever will #so now its just a post lol #fanfics

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

Dragon Bakugo's darling escaping to the forest where a Fae Shouto awaits....

I went with more of an Elf!Todoroki, for the sake of AU differentation, but I’d like to think any variation of Todoroki is an awful variation of Todoroki in their own, special way. And Bakugo… I don’t have to say anything about him, right? He’s his own problem, in any scenario.

Title: Lost and Found.

TW: Mentions of Captivity, Blood, Dehumanization and Mentions of Bodily Harm.

At the time, you’d been sure that no place in the world could be worse than Katsuki’s den.

Getting away was all that mattered. You didn’t have a destination, you didn’t plan, just a window of opportunity and enough food scrounged away to last you a little over a week, the time it’d take to walk to the nearest village and beg for hospitality, whether or not you were marked by a beast. Even if they cast you out, you were sure it’d be an improvement. Even if you were a starving, filthy nomad, you’d be a starving, filthy nomad who wasn’t another gold coin in a dragon’s hoard - you’d be a monster, but one that didn’t belong to another. You wouldn’t be Katsuki’s mate, you wouldn’t be his captive. You would be free, and in the moment, that was all that mattered to you.

But, that was before the village did cast you out. Before you realized that you wouldn’t just be a starving nomad, but an exhausted one, too, a freezing one. Before you learned that there were monsters who wanted to do far worse things than collect you out there, monsters that didn’t look like what they truly were.

Monsters like Shoto, and his sharpened, true, frustrating arrows.

You barely recognized him, like this. You’d only seen him on the rare occasions when Katsuki (a royal in his own right) chose to host company, inviting diplomats from the harpy flocks and the wandering tribes of satyrs, from the merfolks in the South and the elves, like Shoto, in the North. You’d never spoken to him, never shook his hand, but you’d recognize those mismatched eyes anywhere, the graceful way his hair cascaded down to his waist, uninterrupted save for the occasional braid to keep it away from his face. His decorative sword has been traded for a bow, his hand-crafted robes and jewels for furs and faded fabrics, but there wasn’t much you could do but look at him, stare up as you desperately tried to pry his arrow from your sleeve, where it kept you pinned to a tree that refused to let you go despite your silent prayers and weak kicks to the trunk. If Shoto noticed your distress, if he cared, he didn’t make an effort to show his concern. He didn’t make an effort to show much of anything, as he came to a stop in front of you.

“You’re not a stag,” He said, his monotone drawl portraying nothing, save for the barest hints of disappointment. Your fear dissipated in a matter of seconds, lax caution and irritation taking its place. “I wasn’t hunting human.”

“And I wasn’t trying to be hunted,” You replied, giving another futile jerk to the arrow shaft which, yet again, refused to budge. Shoto watched as your body slackened in defeat, but he didn’t move to help, his eyes only widening a fraction when you threw him a glare and a snarl more befitting of your former captor than yourself. “If you don’t mind, I need to keep moving. I don’t have time to be…” You trailed off, trying to find the words for your current problem before failing, simply gesturing vaguely in his direction, instead. “I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to slow me down, you might as well put one of those arrows in my head, too.”

At that, Shoto let out a soft chuckle, as if your panic was something irrational and unreasonable you were foolish for putting on display. But, he stepped forward all the same, running his fingertips idly over the engravings scrawled into the wood of the arrow, every rune glowing with a faint, silvery light as they made contact his skin. For a moment, his touch did nothing, but a second later, the point dulled and retracted, the weapon falling into his waiting palm without the slightest bit of resistance. “They’re enchanted,” He explained, taking your hand, helping you to your feet as he spoke. “Once they find their target, they’ll only release when prompted by their crafter. It doesn’t make the injury any more fatal, but the blood trail is useful.” He paused, scanning over you slowly. Taking in your tangled hair, your bruised skin, your tattered clothes - once flawless silk degraded into something rough, something primal, a material that hung off your form as lifelessly as a funeral shroud. Taking in you, and the fact that you didn’t belong in a forest so pristine, so picturesque, it could only be elven. “But, you were not my target.”

“You better fucking hope they weren’t.”

Instantly, you went rigid, your grip tightening around Shoto’s hand and your body fighting the urge to press itself against his side, but Shoto remained unaffected by the abrupt gust of wind, the sound of heavy footsteps, the sudden intrusion to your conversation. Rather, he merely glanced at Katsuki - awful, terrible, monstrous Katsuki. Shoto’s inhumane traits were subtle, hidden, found in only the furrs of ears and the points of fangs and the whispers exchanged between him and the animals, but Katsuki’s were blatant, apparent for the world to see and cower beneath. He didn’t try to hide it now, either, his golden scales flickering in the sunlight and his wings flared out behind him, each twice the length of his arms and spread in a clear sign of aggression, one you’ve had the chance to see far too many times. One you’ve had to be far too scared of for far too long.

“If there’s a mark on my mate that I don’t remember putting there,” He went on. “Assume you won’t leave these woods alive. I don’t take kindly to other people trying to tarnish the things that clearly belong to me.”

Idly, Shoto glanced between you and Katsuki, between the victim and the supposed victor. “I was under the belief that a dragon’s mate was something to be safe-guarded,” He started, his grip tightening around his bow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’re no longer in your territory, are we? I can hardly say this human looks very guarded, either.”

“(Y/n) got away from me.” It was a minimalistic excuse, one that accepted blame as much as it denied it. He edged forward, crossing his arms, and Shoto was quick to react appropriately, tucking you behind him in a single swift, continuous movement. “They got lost. No one would wander into your domain out of their own volition. Return them now, and you might still have a domain for your prey to wander into, when we finish speaking.”

This time, Shoto adressed you, his tone bordering on bored. “Does he always make this many threats?” He asked, throwing you a glance over his shoulder. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were beginning to sound rather hollow.”

Katsuki bristled, baring his teeth at the insult. Rather than continuing to hold himself back, he allowed himself a long, ragged breath before his expression hardened and he approached Shoto in earnest, barely bother to meet the man’s eyes before pushing him aside with one clawed hand and taking up your wrist with the other, dragging you from behind your protective barrier and against his warm chest, his pulse beating heavily enough for you to feel through layers of muscle and bone. His anger was still focused on Shoto, on the threat, but his nails bit into your skin, drawing blood and earning a swallowed down scream you nearly failed to suppress. There’d be more later on. You’d run away before, but never for so long, and Katsuki wasn’t going to ask for an apology and shove you back into your gilded cage without another word. You’d be lucky to see sunlight in the next year, let alone retain enough strength to seek it out yourself.

He’d always said he wanted to protect you, that you needed him to protect you, and you’d gone against that, you proved you could survive without him, even if his looming presence had made it difficult to thrive. You proved you didn’t need him, and already, Katsuki seemed prepared to make it so you would.

So wrapped up in your own thoughts, you didn’t notice Shoto shift, his posture straightening and his bow rising, barely giving Katsuki the time to wrap an arm around your waist before three arrows were knocked, pulled back, and aimed, ready to find their home in Katsuki’s eyes and stomach and lungs, not fatal wounds for a creature so strong, but ugly ones, even for Katsuki. “I want to keep that,” He muttered, his tone as apathetic as you’d come to expect. “And unlike you, I don’t let my toys wander beyond my reach.”

There was a growl on Katsuki’s part, a scowl on Shoto’s. You weren’t sure which to be more unnerved by. “You’re making a very, very bad decision, Todoroki.”

All he did was cock his head in response, perfecting his aim by less than a hair’s width. “At least I’ll be alive enough to make it.”

Without further argument, Katsuki released you, but you didn’t turn, didn’t run, didn’t think until you heard his wings clap against the air, until you were sure he was gone and he wasn’t coming back, not right now. As soon as you could no longer feel his heat on your skin, you collapsed, Shoto letting his bow slacken and catching you before you hit the ground, hardly batting an eye at the effort. You couldn’t bring yourself to resist, to fight, only burying your face in his tunic and thanking him, words of apology and gratitude spilling over your slips as he merely hummed, brushing your hair out of your face, his smile coming to press against your scalp. “It’s alright,” He whispered, his thoughts just barely loud enough for you to hear.

“I’ve always wanted my own pet.”

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riddleblack246 · 3 years

Photo

For @scoobydean and @destielsecretsanta2020

“This could be nice for Jack.”

“’My First Christmas’. Cas, this is meant for babies.”

“It’s still his first Christmas with us.”

“That mean we should get one for you too?”

“If you’d like.”

Read below for some Team Free Will 3.0 holiday head canons~!

After everything goes down with Jack makes use of his new abilities, Sam and Dean are much more willing to fight to keep him with them. He initially wonders if it is because he’s “useful” to them now. The brothers promptly inform him that no, it’s because this is the first time where they can all feel safe enough to take a breath. Sure, they’re still hunters. But after everything they’ve been through, they all deserve a chance to enjoy life without constantly looking over their shoulders. And so Jack stays.

As promised, he brought back those that were loved and lost. Obviously everyone is relieved and thankful, but that is most clearly seen in the return of Eileen and Castiel. Sam and Eileen are quick to pick up where they left off. Castiel, however, is a bit more hesitant. He didn’t expect to ever see Dean again. He truly thought he wouldn’t have to know Dean’s feelings and when he confessed, he felt he could live with that. But now he’s suddenly back in this world, aware of his existence and the knowledge that he told the man he’d been in love with for over a decade how he felt. But Dean doesn’t allow him to panic for long. Enveloping Cas in his arms, he’s squeezing the angel’s vessel so tightly that he can barely get out the words. Nonetheless, he does and finally returns the sentiment that Castiel never expected to hear.

“I love you too, Cas.”

And now to dig into holiday centric joys!

By the time Christmas rolls around, the bunker’s primary couples have developed a sense of routine. Eileen has finally moved in and Dean and Castiel have eased into a comfortable romantic domesticity. And for the first time in a while, there are no hunts to investigate or major threats to take on, and the Winchesters found themselves able to celebrate the holidays in a way that they hadn’t had a chance to in some time (save for the Mrs. Butters stint).

On the first of December, Dean sits down in the library and begins to make a list, trying to figure out exactly what was expected of a traditional Christmas. When Sam catches him, he expects scoffs of disagreement or just bored indifference. Instead, he supplies the idea of inviting some people to the bunker.

“What, Sammy? You want to throw a Christmas rager?” (The statement does earn him an eye roll)

“No. I just thought it might be nice. See everyone together.”

Neither of them explicitly say why it would be nice, but they know the relief that would come with seeing each person they never expected to see again. Dean tasks his brother with making a guest list and sending out an e-mail to those on it (because Dean draws the line at trying to make actual invitations).

The response is overwhelmingly positive and soon enough, they’re fielding constant texts from Garth, asking if it would be okay to bring his kids, and e-mails from Donna, offering to bake a multitude of requested holiday treats.

Amidst holiday planning, the group allows themselves to give into expectations of the season. Jack and Castiel are largely in the dark of what is or isn’t part of the holidays and while Dean, Sam, and Eileen aren’t the most immersed, they do have an idea of what is to be done and are admittedly eager to dive in.

One of the first things on Dean’s list is to decorate a tree. He even insists on cutting one down himself, as aside from various times he had to cut and sharpen his own stakes, it’s something he’s never had a chance to do. Sam, reluctant to join him, tells his brother to have fun. In the spirit of “giving”, Dean bring Cas and Jack along, assuring Sam and Eileen that they’ll “be a while ;)”. They return some hours later with a tree that rivals the Rockefeller Center and relief in the fact that they have two celestial beings to transport something of that size. Decorating it is another story.

After digging through the bunker and finding that, no, the Men of Letters did not hoard Christmas ornaments or wreaths or any such things among their piles of artifacts and cursed objects, the groups decides to get a little shopping done. They initially hit a big box store for a bunch of basics - lights, tinsel, various colored balls (Dean makes several jokes about this), but as the month goes on, all of them are guilty of picking up random items to decorate with while out.

Eileen delightedly shows her boys a Christmas pyramid she bought and is quick to tell Jack that he can’t light it whenever he wants, as forgetting about it could result in burning down the bunker.

Sam buys all of them advent calendars, each dedicated specifically to every member of the bunker. Dean doesn’t comment on Sam’s shift toward the holiday spirit, not only because he’s happy that his brother has allowed himself to be more joyfully invested in things, but also because every day for the month he gets to appreciate a new and weird specialty bottle of hot sauce. Sam’s own contains different types of tea, Eileen’s has jam, Jack’s has little LEGO figures, and Castiel’s has coffee.

Jack nearly gives Dean a heart attack one morning when the man wakes up to find a nutcracker as tall as he is in the crow’s nest. Jack tells him all about finding it in a shop he and Castiel passed when getting supplies and insisting that it was a perfect thing to have for the bunker. Dean looks to Castiel and knows the angel would have been too soft to say no. Then again, he knows he would have been just as guilty.

Castiel begins buying ornaments for people in the bunker. Even with Dean teasing him about it, he does buy a “my first Christmas” ornament and puts a photo of Jack inside that Eileen helped him print out. He finds that he is particularly fond of ornaments that contain photos and begins to buy ones for that explicit purpose.

Dean doesn’t necessarily have a type of decoration that he finds himself buying outside of what they have, but he is fond of the lights. He usually insists they stay on as long as allotted, urging whoever is the last to go to bed to turn them off (though it’s usually himself).

When it does snow, Dean is eventually irritable about it with Sam and Eileen in a similar boat, though to a lesser degree. Shoveling snow out of the way of the bunker’s entrance is a pain in the ass and none of them love the chore of getting treads on their respective tires. But seeing Jack’s fascination with it - and realizing that it’s his first time encountering snow, they find themselves softening.

After getting help in clearing access to the bunker, the group spends much of the day outside. There is an unspoken agreement that they want Jack to experience all the great enjoyments of snow and it honestly brings out the kid in them too. They build a mediocre snowman (Sam takes the heat for his poor artistic skills), make snow angels (the jokes about Castiel doing so get old within five minutes), have a snowball fight (Eileen is fucking ruthless and not above putting snow down jackets), and creating makeshift sleds to race. The sledding is what ultimately makes them go back inside. Garbage can lids are hard to steer and after Dean eats it by running into a tree and loosing a tooth, even Cas fixing it doesn’t resolve the choice to go in. Nonetheless, the accident doesn’t stall the mood, as Dean insists on introducing Jack to one more awesome component of the Traditional Snow Day - the hot chocolate at the end. Said hot cocoa almost results in a fight when, after Dean makes enough for all of them, Castiel reluctantly admits that he doesn’t care for it, and Dean and Jack nearly come to childish blows over who gets his mug. Later that evening, Castiel makes sure to thank Dean privately for allowing Jack to have it. ;)

Now, when it comes to cooking, Dean likes to consider himself pretty well-versed. Baking is another story. The preciseness that’s required is what gets him. Sure, he can be meticulous, but he’s always been more of a “little of this, a bunch of that” kind of guy over exact measurements, which leaves a lot more room for error when it comes to baking. But after going on a “Gilmore Girls” binge with Castiel (the couple constantly debates the superior show of the former and “Dr. Sexy, M.D.”), he can’t help imagining a scene of tenderly showing Cas how to roll out dough and mussing some flour in his hair and watching the angel lick the spoon in a way that borders on pornographic. The day after watching, he’s searching for cookie recipes and telling Castiel to dig out some aprons.

As is the Winchester way, this expectation does not come to fruition. Cas, as he thought, didn’t know a thing about cooking or baking. But Dean pictured being able to guide him, to do all the romantic shit you see in Hallmark movies. Instead, the angel is complaining about not being able to just will the baked goods into existence, standing in the way when Dean needs to get any kind of ingredient, and getting flour on every fucking surface in the kitchen. Things reach a boiling point when Cas pulls the cookies out of the oven, sans oven mitts, and for a brief moment, Dean’s brain operates on a panic reflex and snatches the tray from his hands. The result is their hours of baking scattered all over the floor, a dented baking sheet, and second-degree burns on the hunter’s hands. He’s huffing and cursing and he fully expects Cas to scold him and point out the obvious fact that he’s an angel and such temperatures have no effect on him. But instead, he watched Castiel pulled his hands from the faucet (having immediately shoved them under there after he burned himself) and tenderly brushes his finger tips over the wounds. Dean feels the familiar sensation of healing flesh, something he hasn’t felt in a bit and he’s silent as Cas brings the newly healed skin to his lips and presses a kiss to his palms. The irritability baking had brought them is gone. Dean lets Cas wave the kitchen clean and they decide to just go out and buy Christmas cookies instead. Later that evening, Cas’ lips taste like ginger and Dean finds that the reality is way better than the fantasy.

They ultimately end up hosting the party that started their shift into the Christmas spirit a few days before the actual holiday. After all, they know most of their friends prefer flying over driving and it might be a lot to ask them to come out on the actual holiday. But their concerns of traffic and irritated guests soon fly out the window in the face of so many familiar… well, faces. Hugs never stop coming and despite everyone’s claim that gifts would not be necessary, everyone knows that’s bullshit and a pile beneath their ridiculous tree grows with every teasing comment and expression of happy holidays.

Speaking of the tree, Castiel is quite pleased with his holiday crafting and the other members of the bunker share that sentiment. Since the angel discovered the photo-insert ornaments, he had taken it upon himself to spend random periods during the month finding photographs of each important person in their lives that he could and putting them into such items. Everyone takes joy in searching for their own picture. Claire comments that he picked a terrible one of her, but Cas hears her quietly asking Dean if she could take it home with her, as it features her and Kaia pressed close in a hug. Charlie adores her’s and insists that she wants to make the same craft, but only if they do it together. Everyone quietly appreciates the ones made for those that aren’t present to appreciate them. Jack ensures that Mary’s ornament has prime placement. Eileen hugs Sam when she catches him looking at Kevin’s for a while. Dean makes a point to kiss Castiel privately after finding Bobby’s nestled among some tinsel. Everyone agrees that their the best decorations in the place.

Hunters and those that know them have never been known to operate on a normal schedule, so it is nearly three in the morning before the bunker clears out. Some have elected to drive home if the trip was relatively easy. Others have settled into the many spare rooms that the bunker holds. Once all the gifts have been opened, the eggnog’s been drunk, and everyone has eaten their weight in treats, only Dean and Cas remain in the quiet bunker. They sit together in the library, positioned on one of the many extended seats they’d brought out to fit their guests. The lights of the enormous tree are still on at Dean’s request and Castiel can’t help staring at the way the different colors still look so beautiful on him. He glances up at the other decorations strewn about. The bows, the poinsettias (Garth had brought something like ten of them), the holly, the- He spots a familiar item of decor. He’d seen Sam and Eileen equally position themselves under it in wait of their partner, always stopping them with the insistence that a kiss must be administered before they continue on their way about the bunker. Lazily, he nudges Dean and points to the archways between the crow’s nest and the hall that leads to the bedrooms.

“Is standing beneath that a requirement for kissing?”

Dean follows his finger and huff out a laugh. Even though they hadn’t been dating long, they’d been together for so many years that he knows the angel is teasing. He turns to meet his eyes, smiling at the way the lights almost change them from blue to a rainbow of color.

“What, you want to kiss under the mistletoe? Now?”

For a moment, it seems as if he’s considering the offer. But instead, he shakes his head and reaches a hand up to cup Dean’s cheek. He knows that he could have kiss Dean under there the same way Eileen and Sam do. But he knows they’re different. Dean is a lot of thing and as much as he would deny it, one of those things is private. Their relationship is simultaneously new and so so ingrained into their life. Affection was always something there, just beneath the surface. And while he had the thing he desired for so long, that doesn’t mean he feels the need to push Dean into a realm of affection that just isn’t fitting of who they are together. Leaning forward, he captures Dean’s lips in a kiss. He tastes like eggnog and candy cane.

Castiel understands all the more that happiness is in the being. And he no longer fears his joy. Because he can’t imagine being happier than holding Dean beneath these lights and knowing that they still have tomorrow and so many days to come. There is no better present than that.

#destielsecretsanta2020 #scoobydean #supernatural #Destiel #saileen #saleen #jack kline #my posts

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caitsyoi · 3 years

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I have a lot of thoughts on the WLF and the Seraphites, which means I think I'm going to break them down into smaller posts like I have been doing with my map posts.

So, this post is going to be about the Seraphite prophet. Specifically, I collected every picture of her that I knew of in game. I've also shared my thoughts about the depictions of her and her origins. If that is your sort of shit, click below.

This is probably the most common pose you see her in, whether it is a painting (like in this post) or carved into trees. She is also almost always depicted in a simple white shirt, and her hair is always braided. In most pictures she also appears to be middle aged.

The depictions of her do vary a bit, which makes me wonder if they have any actual pictures of her. One of the core beliefs she preached was the importance of moving away from modern technology and back to nature. Did she throw away any cameras, and all the pictures of herself?

She is often portrayed leading others, with the sun behind her head or behind her raised hand. Some real Holy Spirt stuff, basically. Or maybe I just think that because I was raised catholic...

"May she guide you" is a super common Seraphite saying, usually said when people part ways. One interesting thing is you often see these words before entering a dangerous area, whether that is the sky bridge or a contested area of Seattle (more on that later, but you can see my post about the layout of Seattle here).

This is one I almost missed, located on the building between the two sky bridges. The Seraphites sure lugged a bunch of stuff up there: all that wood for the bridge/structures/ladders, rope, nails, and paint. Not to mention food, weapons, and and stuff to sleep on. In another post I'll probably talk more about Seraphite society because it is just so interesting to me.

We don't know a whole lot about her. She was a prepper before the Outbreak, but she prepped enough to feed all the survivors from her community. This is all based of a scrap of a newspaper you can find in the tunnels. I wonder just how much food she hoarded though. There are four named areas in the NW part of Seattle that formed Scar Island: Queen Anne, Magnolia, and two other areas I can't quite read. Did she have enough to feed all these suburbs, because holy crap how big was her house? Did she have a warehouse of food somewhere?

Then again, she also preached reliance on nature and not machines, and her followers were quick to listen to her because she did so much for their community. She likely pushed them all to farm, and had enough food reserves to cover them until they could get things up and running. Also, a number of people probably fled or were killed in the early stages of the outbreak, so there probably wasn't as many people to feed as you would think.

Her followers choose to stick with her in the NW part of Seattle, which lead to some tension with FEDRA. Then, after the WLF took out FEDRA, the competition over land and resources lead to the on and off war with the WLF that was going on when Ellie got to Seattle. This was about 25 years after Outbreak Day, and it's not known how long FEDRA was in power, or how long this war with the WLF was going on. At some point, flooding turned NW Seattle into an island (which probably helped fuel the belief that she was a prophet even more), and it seems like that occurred before the WLF replaced FEDRA.

My guess is that FEDRA ran the QZ for anywhere from 5 to 15 years (based on what we know from the game). All the while, the Seraphites grew in size and power. It's not known when exactly she died, but we know she was executed by the WLF at Martyr's Gate, so she died once FEDRA was out of the picture.

Now, Seraphite soldiers make a pilgrimage to Martyr's Gate, and it's an area that is won and lost in battle relatively frequently. Seraphites can leave these prayers in any of their temples, but this seems like a special place that you only bring a prayer to once. For whatever reason, they focused on this truck for their shrine. They built a wooden structure over it (they friggin love wood), and they brought a fuck ton of white flowers (this is another common thing you see with her).

Lev states that she didn't teach violence, that it wasn't included in the scripture. Perhaps this is true, the little we know of her writings make them seem like more of a self-help book ("Only when weak may I carry my true strength"), and she also probably spoke a lot about the need to live free of machines and rid the world of "demons".

Regardless, and perhaps in response to violence from FEDRA and the WLF, she did turn to fighting. I guess that could fall under self-reliance though.

In some of these paintings she definitely seems more aged, which makes me thinks that she was around for many years. Someone like Lev or Yara were probably not born or too young to remember her, but she would be in the memories of many Seraphites (there are around 1,000 of them when Ellie gets to Seattle).

An interesting thing about these paintings is that they are all found outside of Seraphite territory. Granted, we only see the southern and northeastern parts of Seraphite Island, but I don't recall seeing any from the places we do visit. Instead, on the island you tend to see a lot of carvings of her in trees (more on this later).

The Seraphite religion is one of expansion. It's necessary to branch out in order to clear the land of the demons. She probably preached about saving people too, although that seems to have been corrupted by the Elders (more on them later too). Both this and the first picture from this post were from Capitol Hill, on the way to the TV station. Definitely WLF territory. In these cases, "Feel her love" is probably more of a threat than a call to conversion.

So, what do we know about the Seraphite prophet? We know she preached that the outbreak was a punishment for our reliance on machines, and the only way to get rid of this plague is to clear the world of demons and go back to living simply. We know that she lead her community, and was martyred by Issac during their still ongoing war with the WLF. We know that much of what she taught was then corrupted by the people who took power after she died. That's why when I talk about the Seraphites next, we'll be talking about the Elders.

#If you read this whole thing you are now my people #Was her name Sera or something?#I wonder if Lev still believes #Heygaymayday wrote some ficlets about Lev in the future and I sometimes think about those #the Elders are dicks just fyi #the cults of us #the last of us 2

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5lazarus · 3 years

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Ultramarine

Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride.

Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident.

Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais!

A big thank you to @potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Felassan drowses in the marketplace, listening to the gossip and basking in the bright sprint light of the Durgas Durgen’len. The Valley of the Children of the Dwarves marks the frontier of Mythal’s demesne, but is no less busy for it. Thaig-crawlers anxious for a Stone-milk fix bring the treasures of their houses. Elves from across the empire come to hawk their wares for the Stone’s blood, and under the Dread Wolf’s supervision, the two species live in uneasy coexistence under the Sky. He is a better procurator than Dirthamen, people whisper, but is that really a high bar to exceed?

Felassan shifts against the cool marble pillar of Mythal’s temple gate and keeps listening. One trader has come from Arlathan, seeking lyrium milked from the heart of the Titan itself. Another has high ambitions of dealing with the Dread Wolf himself, for a fragment of the Titan’s heart. Another is wondering what kind of money could be made out of the Children of the Stone’s need for the blood of their own god. Felassan lazily opens an eye at that. Fen’Harel does not want speculators driving the cost of living up, and is in rather tense negotiations with Mythal for a cleaner way to treat her new stone-children. He takes down the woman’s face: marked with Andruil’s vallaslin, but blue, so moderately wealthy and looking to buy her freedom soon. He resolves to arrange for her to meet an accident soon, but not too soon--he wants to see where she leads to.

“They could be useful, you know,” Andruil’s agent is saying. “Not just as miners, not just for their pretty little crafts. Since they need that fix, they can be controlled. You just need to mine enough lyrium and water it down to milk, and after a generation, you can train them into whatever you want. That’s what the Titans do to them, after all. Why not us? At least we’re brighter. And war’s coming, anyway.”

Felassan opens his eyes and stirs. He makes a show of warming his hands, trying to look like an indigent trader and less like the Dread Wolf’s spy. “War’s always coming, lethallin.”

The woman says, “Not like this. Of course, Mythal always stays neutral.”

“Hail the Adjudicator,” Felassan says pointedly.

Andruil’s agent rolls her eyes. “Hail the Adjudicator. I suppose news makes it to the frontier slow. Sylaise invaded Dirthamen’s lands last spring. Their champions are currently fighting it out for control of Dirthamen’s lapis lazuli monopoly. She’s declared that all colors of the sky are hers, and especially the stones that make blue.”

That’s remarkably stupid, Felassan thinks: but she has always been vain and foolish. He makes his excuses amiably, and heads out to tell the Dread Wolf. At the market’s gates he finds another of the Dread Wolf’s loyalists and sets them to track Andruil’s news-spreader. He ambles through the narrow streets, dodging clever halla guiding floating aravels to their destinations, and slinks into the Dread Wolf’s personal residence. As he suspects, he is still at home. He could hear music drifting from an upstairs window. He knocks on the door, and a hand emerges from the window to throw down the keys. Grinning, Felassan catches them, and lets himself in.

Felassan says, “I suppose you’ve heard the news. Sylaise has trademarked the color blue.” He has come bearing gossip straight from the caravansaries, right to the Dread Wolf’s headquarters—a cheap apartment at the outskirts of Mythal’s newest colony, Durgas Durgen’len. Solas has moved recently; Felassan glances up at the blank ceiling and notes he hasn't had the time to start drafting his starry mosaic yet. The Dread Wolf himself is sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk, reading a report and laughing. Solas grins. He hands Felassan the lyrium tablet. “Alas, not entirely--you know I was planning on painting my ceiling?” Felassan looks down at the tablet. It’s a trade manifest. “I put in a massive order of lapis lazuli seasons ago--and it arrived safely this morning, despite the current trade war. Sylaise may be fighting for the mines, but production cannot continue when there is war going on. So we have the largest supply of lapis lazuli in all of Elvhenan. And the All-Mother wrote me that they’re running low on blue pigment in Arlathan--so Sylaise will not have enough ultramarine paint to finish that magnificent dome she was planning for her palace.” Felassan reads through the trade manifest, impressed despite himself. The Dread Wolf preens slightly. Whoever named him pegged him perfectly. He does so like to be praised. He says, “I suppose you started hoarding pigment when you heard she started the project. So we’ll make some money. But what about Andruil? Her spy’s doomsaying war and talking about--shaping the stone-children with lyrium itself, turning them into a whole disposable workforce. How are negotiations with Mythal?” The merry mood dampens. Solas taps the crystalline music player, and the song shifts. It sounds like lyrium, except cleaner and somehow sad. He says, “The dwarves listen to this. They play it on their own crystal communications array. I’ve tracked two in the Valley, and there are at least three more. Beautiful, isn’t it? Unthinking, but with its own natural harmony.” Felassan thinks it sounds like waking up in the bright morning, tousled in the sweating arms of a still-drunk lover, when he untangles himself from the sticky sheets and picks up the abandoned wine glasses, knocked over but unbroken on the floor. It sounds like flicking a wine glass, slightly hungover. It sounds like the last time Solas let him stay over. Felassan coughs, a bit embarrassed; the lyrium song caught him. Fucking dwarves: he still doesn’t understand their enchanments. “What do you want me to do about the spy? Kill her?” The Dread Wolf looks meditative. “No. Not yet, at least. We do not need to give Andruil more reasons for war, and if we need to escalate let us have one of Mythal’s temple guards do it. If she’s talking about shaping flesh, she’s been talking to Ghilan’nain. And we know Ghilan’nain has been talking to Mythal.” He smiles thinly. That answers that, then. Negotiations with Mythal are not going well, and this petty war between Sylaise and Dirthamen covers up something nastier. The alliances between the Evanuris are shifting, and that leaves Fen’Harel and their people in the lurch. The Dread Wolf says, “If Andruil wants Mythal’s little stones, she will have to come to me first. Sylaise’s vanity will not be the reason for outright war. I will speak to her and Dirthamen both, and then we shall see what hand she plays next.”

Mythal’s court is terrifying. Felassan trails Solas, who has traded his usual homespun tunic for a more impressive set of lyrium-inscribed leather armor. The lyrium sings as they walk, and Felassan can almost taste the words. Solas projects an aura of calm authority, with a testier threat of violence underneath. It’s the lyrium, somehow. The Dread Wolf is manipulating it. When they approach the throne, Felassan kneels but Solas only ducks his head. Insane, Felassan thinks. He’s caught wind of an incipient civil war so he’s decided to tease Mythal. What a fucking madman. Mythal sighs. “Get up, you fool.” Felassan glances at Solas worriedly. Solas says laconically, “She means you.” Hurriedly he rises to his feet, blushing. Mythal shakes her head. “I have always said the People are too quick to bend the knee. I expect more pride from your people, Dread Wolf.” Solas gestures at him to retreat to his back. Felassan gladly slinks back into the shadows, and scans the hall for potential enemies. It is empty but for the lyrium ostentatiously woven into the very brickwork, shaping the earth into a temperature-controlled paradise. She could pull at it and made the whole palace implode, but Solas could as well. Even Felassan could give that a try. He realizes, slightly shocked, that the All-Mother trusts the Dread Wolf, as much as she is capable of trusting anyone. The All-Mother rises from her throne and stalks down to greet her favorite. She places one claw on his shoulder and caresses his face with another. The Dread Wolf stiffens but does not draw back. “My child,” she says fondly. “You’ve come to ask about the blue war, then.” “It’s a particularly idiotic reason to start a civil war,” the Dread Wolf says. “Particularly since I have enough ultramarine pigment to last out Sylaise’s monument to her own stupidity. And my workers have found a lapis lazuli cache in the Durgas Durgen’len, so we will be able to shift productive in the valley from lyrium to paint readily enough.” “Your workers,” Mythal says. “You mean my workers.” Solas says, “I do not own them.” Felassan tenses. When he was manumitted, Solas swore never to hold another in bondage, even the durgen’len. They are his workers only because they toil under his supervision, and Solas is quick to point out that he pays them and encourages their economic freedom beyond his holds. Mythal is doing this deliberately to upset him. Felassan knows how much Solas resents how Mythal keeps her hands on the reins of her freed slaves. He knows how much Solas resents how that is still how the court thinks of him, encouraged by Mythal: the All-Mother’s freed slave, her Dread Wolf—and not even his workers are safe from her clutches.

Solas says, “My man found one of Andruil’s agents, spreading rumors of war in the marketplace—and worse, suggesting we splinter the autonomy of your little stones, and addict them to their stone-milk to keep them pliable. You know Ghilan’nain put that into her head, and Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted. She dares too much, we cannot—“

“Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted?” Mythal is amused. “Dread Wolf, you’re the one who put her eyes out.” Solas opens his mouth and closes it. Felassan looks down at the ground. He has never seen him at a loss for words before. It is less satisfying than he imagined. Mythal laughs. “Trust in my judgement, as you always have. Ghilan’nain may overreach but her experimentations with lyrium and my new subjects will do Elvhenan no harm. These…weapons are soulless, but not at a risk to our own souls.”

“You do not know that,” Solas says. “Is this why you have allowed Sylaise’s hostilities to increase? Are you looking to test her new experiments in this petty war? Nevermind her…trademark,” he sneers. “We will begin production forthwith. This war will stop here.”

Mythal says, “War is inevitable. Winning is not. When will I next see you at court?”

Solas leaves seething, Felassan dogging his footsteps. Felassan follows him home. It is clear that he is upset. Felassan himself is more frightened than angry, but the gods are different than the rest of the People, even ones like the Dread Wolf, who had been born a spirit made enslaved flesh.

Solas lets him enter his home and finds a bottle of wine. He pours them both a glass, hands shaking, and settles back in his desk chair.

Felassan drags the chair in front of his desk and places it next to him.“I thought you were going to fight her,” he says. “I thought you were going to snap and yell at her.”

Solas says, “Drink.” He leans forward in his chair, pride demon eyes staring him down. Felassan wishes he would blink. He looks away and drinks the thick, sweet red wine that tastes too fresh, too close to the grape. This was a wine to get drunk to, not to drink.

He casts about for something to say, anything to move that stare away. Ghilan’nain and her grotesqueries are not an option. Solas will not respond if he tackles the issue of Mythal directly. Finally, he tries, “You’d think she’d do something about Andruil’s spies.”

Solas quirks an eyebrow. “Why would she? She’s paying her.” Now he leans back. The gold night is slating through the apartment’s window and lends a shimmer to his skin. Felassan watches him sip. The apartment might be small and a bit rundown, but Solas has arranged himself impeccably, glorying in the natural light. He is a god, he is Mythal’s procurator, he is a lord in his own right: and he is still ever the artist.

“What,” Felassan says.

“Oh yes,” Solas shifts in his chair, gesturing with his glass, “the All-Mother has spoken, before witnesses—yourself included—that Ghilan’nain’s experimentations with lyrium and Mythal’s own little stones are for the good of Elvhenan.” He barks a bitter laugh. “You know the dwarves sing a hymn to their own children, about the promise of Mythal’s freedom? Let me show you.” He waves a hand at the crystalline radio and once again the music plays, the odd echoing that vibrates within the nose and the smallest bones in the ear and the jaw.

Felassan closes his eyes and listens as the voice of the Stone reverberates, “Ir sa tel’nal, Mythal las ma theneras. Ir san’a emma. Him Sola evanuris. Da’durgen’lin, Banal males elgara. Bellanaris, bellanaris.”

Solas says, “She uses me to keep them placid, promising them their freedom—freedom of thought, through their imagination, but they will never freely walk under Elgar’nan’s sun. I have no love for the Children of the Stone. I find them lacking in understanding. What can be gleamed, by people who do not dream? But no one, for all the horror they have wrecked with their earthshaking, deserves Ghilan’nain. Mythal promised me my freedom. That should be extended to all the workers under my control.”

Felassan throws back his drink and sets his glass on the desk. “Pour me another one,” he says. “So. What are we going to do, to stop this war? Because that is what you intend to do. To make the need for these lyrium-worked stone weapons redundant. What do you need me to do?”

Solas is taken aback for a moment, though he should know better. He was the one who left him, after all. Solas reaches for him. Felassan leans into the touch reassuringly, knowing Solas is already making excuses, a moment of weakness, a moment of sentimentality, he has been alone for so long. They lock eyes, Felassan thinks let me stay over again, let me love you but the music changes pitch and Solas gets out of his chair to turn it off, and then shifts to the kitchen for better wine.

They spend the night strategizing how to prevent a war, but when Solas goes to bed, he chooses to go alone.

Arlathan is resplendent for the peace summit, but the Dread Wolf’s retinue is glorious in their wonderfully-dyed ultramarine silks. It is a statement and it is a bold one, and Felassan is feeling smug, because not only are they, the former foot soldiers of Mythal’s army, wearing an entire kingdom’s worth of cash on their backs—they also look magnificent in blue.

“You’re strutting,” Felassan tells Solas, beautiful in a blue tunic and a woven gold scarf.

Solas laughs. “Look at them, watching,” he says happily. “I see Sylaise’s little spies chattering away—the Dread Wolf has enough ultramarine to turn out his own court, and spare. I love this pageantry. Next time, if we live to see another time, I will ask the dyers to dress the cloth like peacocks. And then we truly will put on a show.”

Felassan was more referring to how he was walking so everyone would look at his ass, which was certainly one of the nicest he himself has ever seen, but he does like the idea of both of them done up in turquoise and gold, glittering in the sunset. Solas rarely dresses well outside of court, preferring the anonymity or alternate political statement of plain dress. But the message here is clear: the Dread Wolf carries enough wealth, independent from Mythal, to stop a war.

They process into Mythal and Elgar’nan’s palace, which is of course overheated. The ritual of welcome is interminable. Mythal is clearly amused, Elgar’nan is already drunk, one of Falon’Din’s slaves attempts to trip Solas’ herald, and Sylaise glowers the whole time. Solas is simply serene. Felassan does his best to arrange his face, but he’s best at parties, not the cult aspect of life as a servant of an immortal godking. When he first hit on that bombastic new recruit in the barracks, this was not how he thought it would end. He really had thought they would all be dead before then.

Eventually they are released to Solas’ own wing of the palace, much smaller than all the other children of Mythal and their co-rulers. There Solas will arbitrate the terms of the peace agreement between Sylaise and Dirthamen. Even for a former slave—and a rumored bastard child—the quarters are grandiose. An obsequious slave branded by Andruil’s insignia informs them that Sylaise specially redesigned them in line with the latest fashions, and then makes a quick gesture with his hand as Solas enters. Felassan catches it: pinky and pointer up, middle and ring finger touching the thumb. He’s made the sign of the wolf at them. He’s asking for help.

“Rubies,” Solas says. “Gold. Far too gaudy.” They stand in the atrium, bejeweled and overheated, with rooms all along the courtyard. The Dread Wolf’s retinue—loyal soldiers, clerks from across the caste system, kitchen staff and cleaners—all stay close. The heat is overwhelming. The red seems to shimmer in Arlathan’s bright light

“Well,” Felassan says. “It’s gaudy, but it’s a peace offering from Sylaise. Anyway, you’re one to talk. You’re wearing enough blue dye to buy an army.” He brushes against Solas, trying to get his attention, and Solas leans into the touch and then abruptly moves away. For fuck’s sake, Fen’Harel, Felassan thinks. For once I’m not trying anything.

“Which is the point,” Solas says, refusing to look at him. “This though,” he waves a dismissive hand, “is a migraine. But the expense and insult to Sylaise for redesigning apartments she so kindly put together…”

Felassan says, “I think some of this is colored glass.” He flicks a particularly obnoxious cut gem over the threshold of the drawing room. It resounds like lyrium-song, but even more distorted, haunting and hot in his ears. It’s red lyrium, and the retinue pauses and draws together quickly.

“Touch nothing!” Solas barks. “Pack up your things. This is red lyrium, and it corrupts what it touches.” He shakes his head. “Unsubtle. This is a gift from Sylaise, but at Andruil’s prompting.” He puts his hand on Felassan’s shoulder. “I must ask a favor from you, my friend. Stay close to me. I need you to be my slow arrow, to catch Andruil out.”

Felassan remains Solas’ only guard. The rest work quickly to calculate and capture the red lyrium contamination in their quarters. He’s nervous. Normally the Evanuris are more subtle, but Andruil has changed since the war. He tells him about the sign Sylaise’s slave made and Solas just looks smug, choosing to keep the story to himself. Of course Fen’Harel has spies in every court, of course Fen’Harel knows who needs him before they even do, of course Fen’Harel doesn’t communicate anything beyond need-to-know even to him, his personal guard. He thinks, not for the first time, that Solas is a hard man to love. At least Solas knows that too.

The peace summit is boring. Sylaise puts on a show, decked out in lyrium-woven silver and lapis lazuli, which makes her brilliant red hair shine gold and rather disruptive. Dirthamen is more severe. His graying hair is braided with silver thread, making the red in it even more distinctive, and the lyrium-silk he wears whispers the impressions of all that he has seen. At this point Felassan has ceased to be rattled by how very much Solas looks like him. Fen’Harel keeps his head shaved because it is anonymous and convenient, and also because it makes him look even less like his rumored half-siblings.

The children of Mythal gather around a round table. Solas opens negotiates. Felassan is bored. There is so much lyrium in the room, it thrums in his sinuses and he is afraid his nose will bleed. The conquest of the Durgas Durgen’len has brought plenty to Elvhenan. The excess is rather grotesque, and while Felassan likes grotesque—why else would he be in the Dread Wolf’s retinue?—the other Evanuris are a bit much. Absolutely no one in the room brings up Andruil or Ghilan’nain’s name, but their presence is felt.

The meeting ends after Solas successfully convinces both to sign a nonaggression pact that includes reporting to the other when they begin outfitting for war. They can track the movement of Andruil’s experimental soldiers that way, though the clause does not require them to inform Mythal. They have enough spies. Solas has them sign the contract in blood laced with lyrium, providing his own knife.

“Ah,” Sylaise says. “Fen’Harel’s fang. How cute. Did my mother give you that?”

Solas smiles coldly. “My father, actually. I have never asked how he received it.” Score, Felassan thinks. Sylaise has always been a fucking idiot.

Dirthamen says, “You’ve never asked?”

Solas says, “It was his once and is mine now. I rather think I have made written is backstory.” He glances at the contract, slowly drying on the table.

Felassan says helpfully, “In your blood. Literally.” Solas catches his eye and they both begin to grin before he looks away hurriedly. “Now, everyone will know, that it is at this daggerpoint that war was averted and peace brokered between two of the greatest powers of Elvhenan, and the nation’s supply of blue dye restored.”

Solas says mildly, “I should add that Mythal has asked me to draft legislature making it clear that colored dyes themselves cannot be patented, though of course ratios and forms of manufacturing may remain trade secrets to the craftsman.” He bows slightly to Sylaise, who visibly grinds her teeth. Felassan can hear the squeak.

Dirthamen says, “Good. If you will excuse me? I must tender my regards to our mother. She and I have much to discuss.”

Solas says, “Give her my love.” He means it, too. For all that Mythal has wrecked, Solas has always loved her. He may have removed the mark from his face—and Felassan’s too—but the writing is in the blood, as the saying goes. The vallaslin can never truly be erased.

Dirthamen leaves and Sylaise follows hurriedly, and Solas leans forward, elbows on the table, steepling his hands. He rubs the bridge of his nose, staring at the contract.

“Nicely done,” Felassan says. “Dirthamen came very close to acknowledging you as his brother. You might’ve alienated Sylaise, but she was always a lost cause.”

“I’m not,” Solas says sharply. He drops his hands. “As you know. But it’s interesting that he has an audience with Mythal. Perhaps Andruil approached him first, rather than Sylaise. Perhaps this all was yet another game of hers, testing to see how easily her children fracture if she chooses to leave Elvhenan unattended. Or perhaps they’re simply gossiping together, as a mother is wont to do, with her only son.”

Felassan says, “Fine. Forget I said anything. Sorry. But no one’s tried to kill you that well yet. The red lyrium was a cheap shot, but Sylaise has always been cheap. What now?”

Solas says, “I need to clean my dagger, file some paperwork, and see when Sylaise will try to kill me again. I hope, for your sake, that it happens so soon, because I can see that you’re bored.”

“Nothing like an assassination attempt to liven up a peace treaty,” Felassan says. “If you would try to risk your life in more entertaining ways, I would not complain.”

Solas says, “Don’t worry. Andruil’s slave, the one you saw? He invited us to a party. He’s working for the Forgotten Ones. Things will get entertaining yet.”

Geldauron throws the best parties. Everyone knows that. It’s because he’s no longer corporeal, so he focuses on the vibes of the space, to bring everyone’s desires to fruition. He is also a wonderful musician, because he is music and thought becomes music, and he knows how to sing everyone’s desires into a wonderful piece. Felassan is excited, because Solas is his favorite person to get fucked up with, and while both of them will have to pretend to be sober, the night promises to be fun.

Geldauron throws the best parties. He’s also a fucking asshole. The two return to Solas’ quarters to prepare—Solas changes his clothes and Felassan smokes instead. He lounges on Solas’ bed, watching him dress. Solas swaps the cloth leggings for blue-dyed leather and a gold-edged tunic. Picking up a wolfskin, he turns to Felassan, only to catch him ogling his ass. He raises an eyebrow.

Felassan says, “Good choice. But if you take those off you’re not getting back in them any time soon.”

Solas snorts. “I doubt it is that kind of party.”

“We could make it that kind of party.”

Solas grins. He says, “No.”

“I thought you like mixing business and pleasure,” Felassan says. He takes a drag and, concentrating, blows a smoke ring toward him.

Solas’ smile fades, and he returns to the mirror, adjusting his collar. “Not now,” he says. “I cannot afford to be so reckless anymore.”

Felassan sees himself, desirable in the mirror, and Solas looking frustrated. He says, “Why did you ask me to come along?”

“Because I trust you,” Solas says readily. “Because I care about you, and I will behave more cautiously so I may keep you safe. As you would to protect me. And that is why I must ask you—stop this. I am your commander now. It’s inappropriate concerning our differences in rank. We might no longer be slaves, but I have certain responsibilities.” He stops, seeing Felassan laughing in the mirror. “What?”

Felassan sidles up and puts his arms around him. “You’re so full of shit,” he says fondly. Solas stiffens, and then relaxes. “Sure. I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

“I,” Solas begins, and then stops. “Yes. Thank you.”

Felassan thinks, you want me to persuade you, don’t you? You’ve always enjoyed being courted. But tonight, I’d rather not. It’s my turn for some flattery. I’m tired of being hung out to dry. He pushes him away and goes to the door. “So,” he says. “Where in the Void are we going? Didn’t Geldauron get rid of his physical form? This is a trap, isn’t it?”

“We wouldn’t go if it weren’t,” Solas says. “You asked for adventure, and I am glad to deliver.”

They have to take three different eluvians and briefly melt into the Void to get to the spot in the Abyss where Geldauron has shaped according to his munificent Will. Melting always makes Felassan have to piss, but there are no bathrooms in the Abyss. Geldauron eschews such mundanities.

Felassan grumbles, “Subject and object, actor and acted upon. Easy to say when you’ve jettisoned your bladder to become a fog of resentment and envy. That still smells like piss.”

The Abyss, triggered by Felassan’s desire for shape, sense, and a toilet, warps. Tiles, Felassan thinks. Please. A nice hole in the ground to piss in. I’ll take a tree. Solas waves an idle hand, and a cobbled path appears out of the blankness. A white threshold opens at the end. From there they feel the vibrato of lyrium-song, electric and hungry. Felassan shivers. Carefully they step on the path. Halfway up, Felassan stops.

“What do you think will happen if I piss off the map?” Felassan says. “Into the Abyss?”

Solas pauses. There is mischief in his eyes. “We know that Geldauron will not bother to manifest anything to accommodate our corporeality.”

Felassan squints into the blankness. “If I conquer his Will with my Will, it won’t bounce back.”

“It would be purely an experiment of magical energy,” Solas agrees. They stare at each other.

Felassan says, “I bet you I can aim farther than you.”

“There is no distance to measure,” Solas says. “It’s the Void.”

“Coward,” Felassan says. “Don’t you need to take a piss too?”

Solas looks exasperated. One more taunt, Felassan thinks, and I’ve got him. He’s never been able to back down from a bet.

“I bet you I can Will it farther than you, and get rid of the smell,” Felassan says. “And, anyway, there’s not going to be anywhere more private to take a piss than our personal pathway through the Abyss. Especially if we’re walking into a trap. Unless you want to weaponize your bladder.” He pauses. “Is that why Geldauron smells like piss?

“Geldauron stinks because as he lost his physical form, his body relieved itself of all its former functions. He captured himself in the moment of his dying renewal. Unfortunate, but to be expected for one as foolish as he,” Solas says, amused. “But to your question—are you saying you think you can piss magic?”

Felassan says, “Wanna bet?”

The lyrium-high hits them both as a physical force as they pass the threshold, and Felassan’s heart skips a beat as it thrums through his body, teasing his sinuses and twinging behind his eyes and ears. Solas takes a deep, steadying breath, and Reality begins to vein, blueing the whiteness into shadowy shape. Felassan sniffs: lightning, storm clouds, fertile earth, and—that’s it, just the hint of piss.

He whispers, “I think I found Geldauron.”

Solas chokes back a laugh.

The slightly stinking vibration that is the Forgotten One Geldauron wraps around them and gives a token attempt at conquering their Will. Solas brushes him off as if he were a fly. Felassan thinks very hard, shit piss shit piss shit piss fucker—and the buzzing stops. Geldauron backs off, giving off a sense of being decidedly rumpled. Felassan is smug.

“Greetings, the Will that is Geldauron,” Solas says. There is a touch of irony to his voice.

Geldauron arranges the particles of the voice into a throat, complete with tongue, lips, teeth, and vocal cord. Felassan eyes it with disgust, Solas with interest. Felassan has always thoroughly enjoyed having a body, and has never understood why the Forgotten Ones gave up their form to vibrate in the Abyss—and, of course, the fact that they backed down from fighting the Pillars of the Earth when thousands were dying in those earthquakes does not incline him to being kind. Solas, though, has always liked to experiment.

Geldauron says, “Welcome to the Void. I see you’ve brought a guard.” Felassan stands up a bit straighter and attempts to look intimidating. The vibration that is Geldauron twinges. “You wouldn’t trust your old friends?”

Solas says lightly, “I especially wouldn’t trust old friends. How’s your lyrium-mining operation going?”

“Better, if you’d give me the workers.”

“Which I would, if you added basic safeguards to your mindvision. The Abyss is still Evhenan, and follows the same operational safety protocol as part of the empire.”

Geldauron scoffs. “Anaris is still pissed you backed out of the deal. He’s looking for a better buyer.”

Solas says, “Anaris caused the death of three hundred and twenty-nine elvhen miners from my home province. Not every man has the ability to project, with utmost confidence, the certainty of their own mortality while handling certainly noxious substances. Is he here?”

Around them the party swirls in blasting lyrium-song and crystal colors, and Felassan closes his eyes to feel the Will solidify as the voices sing. He is not drunk and only a little high, but there is a hive and there is the mind and there are infinite and only two hundred people in this Void, just vibing, and six at least are vining around each other, flesh to plant twirling photosynthesis, and he tastes—

Solas says, “If you think your profit margin outweighs the worth of any freethinking person in my employ, I will override your thought-form myself.” He puts a hand out and grips a shoulder as he forces Geldauron to take shape, Will snapping Will back into Reality, and Felassan shakes himself and watches as the old god flashes into a form, snarling, and then unravels again. Showing up the host at his own party, Felassan thinks. That’s a mistake.

He steps in, to back him up. “Can you still be the Will when others have more Will than you?” He waves a hand through where Geldauron’s vibrato played. There are others staring at them, taking physical shape, and now the Abyss becomes a black castle, lyrium roots twinging at their feet. The air is hungry. He suppresses a shiver.

“Cute,” a voice drawls, and then there is a body to match: the slave Felassan saw, who warned them about the red lyrium in their quarters. Then the vallaslin melts away and he grows taller, face sharpening and eyes narrowing, pupils elongating to slits.

“Anaris,” Solas says neutrally. Felassan looks at him quickly. There’s history here. The most physical of the Forgotten Ones is unearthly handsome, as aesthetically perfect as a monument, and thus completely unfuckable. Judging from the slight tension in Solas’ posture, Fen’Harel once disagreed. Felassan checks a sigh. He looks at Felassan. “Give us a moment. I’ll meet you near the path.” Felassan pauses, because leaving him alone with the Forgotten Ones is ridiculous, however ridiculously overpowered Solas is, but Solas gives him that cold Fen’Harel look so he backs off without trying to argue. There is never any point. He never listens, and out of the few arguments Felassan has ever won with him, it has only been because Solas has already decided to agree. He bows slightly, only to make him uncomfortable, and wanders off into the Void. Maybe they are just meeting to talk over labor disputes. Maybe it is something more—but it is not every night that Felassan finds himself partying in the Abyss, and so he intends to take advantage of it while he still can.

Felassan has a crowd of sympathetic quasi-corporeal spirits surrounding him, and they all pet him and tell him he is right. He is drunk and this is the Fade leaching into the Abyss to massage his desires into reality, but that does not spoil it.

“I am done with bad bosses,” Felassan announces to the crowd. “Bad bosses who say they love you and take you along to arbitrate weird labor disputes with their exes and then cut you out of the interesting part. Bad bosses who when they’re promoted above you stop sleeping with you but keep you around anyway. This has been a centuries-long break-up and I deserve better.”

A Compassion spirit says, “You should tell him. Communication is always key.”

Felassan wails, “But he told me!”

The spirits rustle. The Compassion spirit looks slightly less sympathetic. A spirit of Authority and their friend, one of Geldauron’s lackeys who couldn’t quite eschew their form entirely, say in unison, “Is it the debasement that you like?”

Felassan pauses. “No. Yes.” He thinks. “No. Just the presence. I could handle the profession. I can! I am. But mixing business and pleasure?”

Suddenly, out of the Abyss, comes Solas’s voice, and then Solas’s presence. He says, amused, “Anaris is not my ex. How have you managed to get drunk off the Abyss? There is nothing here.”

Felassan flushes. Solas offers him a hand and helps pull him up. Felassan says haughtily, “I find the Nothingness very intoxicating.” Solas’ eyes crinkle, and Felassan hangs onto him a second longer before Solas gently lets go. Felassan says, “Someone manifested the drunk. Not me.”

Solas says, “Yes. Compassion, or Authority, manifested your current state of inebriation. Not any of your desire to taste oblivion.”

Felassan says, “Yes, that’s right. Everyone brought oblivion to me.”

Solas chuckles. “Ridiculous.” He takes hold of Felassan and walks him into the blackness. “Place more drunk,” he whispers. “We’re being followed.”

Felassan stumbles. Solas leans over to catch him. Felassan whispers in his ear, “Anaris? Geldauron? Ghilan’nain? Which one of your enemies is it today?”

Solas’ lips brush his cheek. “Andruil,” he mouths. He presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, and Felassan draws back, furious. Solas closes his left eye quickly, barely even a wink: Felassan whirls around, and Andruil jams a needle into his neck, and then he is falling as Solas backs away, eyes flashing with Mythal’s lightning.

“Where the fuck is that fucker?”

Felassan is rudely shaken awake. “Easy, easy,” he grumbles, putting his hands out. Anaris, beauty distorted by frothing rage, slaps them away. Felassan sits up, takes stock: he is sitting on the worn stone path out of the Abyss, hanging over the Avoid. Anaris looms over him. Fen’Harel is nowhere to be found. Felassan decides to play dumb. “What fucker?”

Anaris says, “That fucker. Your fucker. Fen’Harel.”

Felassan objects: Solas hasn’t let him fuck him since Mythal made him a god, citing the power differential. That, of course, has not stopped them from flirtation, tension, and angst, and Felassan is occasionally jealous that Solas seems to fuck everyone but him—Anaris, really?—but that all goes to say: Fen’Harel is not his fucker. He opens his mouth to say all that, but Anaris shoves him roughly to the ground.

“He’s mine,” Anaris says.

Felassan props himself up on his elbow. “Yeah. I had a nice talk with a spirit of Compassion early….” He looks over his shoulder, trying to find the entrance to the Abyss where Geldauron’s party was. There is nothing, which makes sense, because this is the Abyss. He shrugs. “Really, he’s no one’s but his own. Built his own brand on that. Terrible commitment issues, and not the most appropriate commander—you need to learn to let him go—“

“The fuck are you on about?” Anaris stares at him. “He broke our fucking contract. Mythal ordered him to sell us her workers, he backed out. And now he’s sitting on an entire kingdom of gold because of Andruil’s stupid gambit—biologic-fucking-weapons. Not like he’s doing anything useful with those dwarves. May as well test them out in one of Sylaise’s petty wars.”

Felassan stares up at him, disgusted. “They’re not weapons,” he says. “They’re people. Just because they don’t dream…we threw down the Pillars of the Earth and scorn them for making machines of their own people. We can do better than that.”

Anaris says, “Did I ask for moralism? No? Gods. You’re definitely one of his followers, ugh. Does he keep you around for his conscience?” He shakes his head. “I’m done with that shit. Geldauron said—whatever. Where the fuck is he? He owes me money. He broke our contract!”

Felassan thinks, I’m done with this shit. He rubs his aching head wearily. “I think Andruil took him.” He isn’t quite sure, but he thinks Solas was trying to protect him. He’s never been very good at letting his guards guard him, but Felassan is rather glad to still be alive. Doubtless enough time as Mythal’s thrall will teach him to let others die.

Anaris swears so loudly and angrily the path, which is itself a thought form, shakes slightly. Felassan eyes him warily. He points in a random direction. “I think they went that way.” A doorway, shining brilliant with white light, opens up onto the path. Felassan considers it. The wondrous thing about living in a malleable reality is that if one Wills hard enough, it comes true. Felassan wants Anaris to fuck off and find Andruil, so the gateway appears. “Nice,” he says aloud.

Anaris sets off. Felassan lays down on the floor, which obligingly broadens so his limbs won’t dangle into the Void. This is the sort of mess only Fen’Harel could get embroiled in. He thought they were just investigating a trade embargo, then a war, and now it’s a labor dispute. He pities himself and his aching head a little bit longer, and then rolls to his feet. “Right,” he tells himself. “Let’s get him out of there.” With that, he walks into the light.

The Void opens into a dark forest, somewhere south of Arlathan—Andruil’s demesne. The earth is warm and welcoming below his feet, and the trees press closely, watching his back. Felassan can hear the night-birds sing, bats chitter their paths through the darkness, and the ever-present insect scream. He looses a breath. He walks through the material world reassuringly, touching a tree or caressing a leaf as he goes. Anaris’ deep footprints mark an angry path through the mud. Felassan tastes the rain-rich air: it has rained before and it will rain again. Andruil will be quite damp.

A clearing with a warm fire opens up through the woods. Felassan hears Andruil’s laughter. Obeying his prey instincts, he hurriedly clambers up a tree to get a better view. Solas is trussed up, hands and feet bound, leaned against a tree. He is entirely nude, covered in mud, and looking a bit scratched up and tired. Felassan raises a hand and waves at him from the canopy. Solas looks up, makes a face, and looks down quickly.

Andruil says, “No. He’s mine. He ruined my bioengineering program and now my mother expects me to pay out of pocket for the trials. We’re going to test the red lyrium armor on him first and present him to her as a gift. You can use him when we’re done with target practice.”

Anaris stomps his foot. “He broke our contract and bankrupted half the Forgotten Ones—and you promised us you’d invest. I claim him, in the name of the Abyss.”

Solas, temporarily forgotten, begins to chew on the ropes binding his wrists. Felassan stifles a laugh. Intervening now would be suicide. He’ll wait for the right moment.

Andruil says, “Fuck off. Your Abyss is nothing.” Literally, Felassan thinks. It is an abyss after all. “He is mine to do what I wish. After what he did to Ghilan’nain, his life is forfeit.”

Solas mutters, “Notwithstanding what she did to me and mine.”

Anaris says, “Ghilan’nain isn’t here to pursue her claim.” He strikes a pose. “By the All-Mother’s law, there is only one recourse. A duel of honor!”

Solas says, “How flattering. And the winner gets my entrails. One does love to see the letter of the law followed.”

Andruil kicks him over; Solas takes the blow and falls with a grunt. She says, “Fine.” She draws her magnificent bow, reinforced with lyrium mined from the heart of the Titans itself.

Solas calls out, “Sylaise made her armor—there’s a flaw just above the right hip, where it curves to show off her shape. The silverite is weakest there. Stab well, my friend. And quickly, if you do want my entrails.”

Andruil shrieks, “Shut up,” but Anaris blurs, skin tearing into bear hide and his skull elongating into a bestial mix of lizard, bear, and elf. The two gods wrestle; Solas hurriedly rolls out of their way, towards the tree Felassan climbed. His nose is bleeding from the kick in the face, and his bottom lip is swollen. He holds up his wrists, and then twists them, easily slipping a hand out. He gestures: throw down a knife.

Anaris is stabbing wildly at Andruil now, trying desperately to get at the weak spot at her right hip. Andruil has her hands fixed around his throat. Felassan passes down the knife, unwilling to get involved in the carnage. Solas, rather than cutting through the bonds at his feet, stabs it into the grass and leans over the hilt, hiding it from view. He puts his hand back into the loops of rope, and waits.

“Try a sixty-degree angle,” he suggests idly. “No, twist the knife, if you please.”

Andruil’s hands fall from Anaris’ neck and he stands up, baring his bruised throat at the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf stares at him, amused. Anaris says, “Dead.”

Fen’Harel says, “Unlikely, but you are welcome for the break. Twist her neck to make sure. You owe me your victory, Anaris.” He smiles, teeth showing. Above, Felassan shudders slightly. He’s left his wolf’s teeth in—normally he eschews mixing shape as gauche. “She would have killed you outright, if I had not helped. You owe me my freedom.” He makes a show of displaying the ropes around his wrists.

“Go fuck yourself,” Anaris says angrily. “Fuck off, you halfbreed whoreson slavey bastard. I will burn my mark into your flesh, you imbecilic—” A gold-tipped arrow protrudes from his throat. His eyes widen, he tries to scream, but his knees crumble. Anaris collapses to the ground. Andruil, eyes flashing blood, drops her bow.

“My victory,” she says. “I never lose.” She presses a hand to her bleeding side and stumbles over to Solas. He scrabbles back, but she has him cornered against the trunk. Felassan pulls out his own bow and aims.

Andruil prints her bloody hand onto Solas’ face and pushes his head against the tree. Quickly he tugs his hand free of the ropes and grabs at the knife he hid, stabbing at her back. The armor dents the knife, and Felassan sees Solas begin to panic, but then she coughs in his face and falls over.

“Fuck,” Solas says. Felassan jumps down and quickly cuts the ropes at his ankles. Solas slowly pulls himself up, massaging his feet. “They’re in uthenera now, dreaming their wounds away.”

“And you’re naked,” Felassan says.

“And covered in the blood of my enemies,” he returns, holding his hands out. “Like one of Andruil’s own slaves.” He wipes at his face, but only succeeds in smearing the blood across his face. “Let us go—before they wake.” And so, they escape. Felassan tells everyone Solas chewed through the ropes, because that is better than the alternative: being drenched in the blood of your enemies, naked and afraid.

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Note

OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO CONTINUE THE DROWNED SERIES, IT'S SO DAMN GOOD

Thank you for the ask, it makes me excited to see that people are still interested.

Drowning Part 10

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate @sunflower1000

This one is kind of short, and probably makes no sense, but it starts to explain the story line a bit more and what my goal is with Supervillain (and perhaps the reason I am not having him rescued... yet 👀). Anyway, not edited.

Ask games for this series are here and here.

Masterlist

Warnings: referring to person as "it", altered state of reality, dehumanization, muzzled, talk of surgery, weaponizing a human, fear

"Okay thank you for your cooperation," the director said as he stopped the recording. He looked up, smiled, and began to pack away his things- an array of various instruments to enable both Villain and Hero's voices to be clearly heard all the way at the Hero Facility.

"Yeah well, I expect my pay within the next two days," Villain crossed his arms and swung his leg over top of the other one.

"That may not be-"

"Director. I am doing this for you guys. I have my record cleared, Hero in my custody, and a billionaire. I don't need to this for you guys."

"But you are in love with the cash," Hero chimed in, rolling her forestry green eyes. Not with attitude or snarky annoyance, but out of pure loathing.

Villain shot her a glare the second she closed her mouth and stood up, pacing. "I want my pay, fifty-thousand for a mere conversation isn't something you come by everyday," he said, rubbing his hands through his blonde mane.

"Yes but-"

"The only reason it was fifty-thousand," Hero interrupted the director. "Is because you pushed it that far." She didn't exactly understand her exasperation. After all, she agreed to do this with him- not that she had a choice. She was, in fact, thankful for him for breaking her out of the facility, even to the point of restoring friendship.

"Well they consented..." Villain's voice trailed off as he stopped his aimless walking. He sneered, a mischievous look dawning on his face. "I could, just for the record, break Supervillain out of his cell easily. Actually, I bet a novice could."

The director stiffened, fingers tapping the screen on his phone, prepare to call the authorities. Hero smiled slightly. After her aided escape, the heroes didn't bother to recapture her or Villain. And it was all because her rescuer threatened the Hero Facility if they tried to reclaim her. It was like he controlled the heroes- and maybe in a way, he did.

"Okay you will get the money! Write him a check or cash him over some. I don't care, just give it to him."

Villain snickered at the director's desperation and fear.

Hero watched as a young girl scribbled a check and handed it to Villain. Then, after than transaction, the whole team wrapped up and left without another word.

"Hmm," Villain said, eyeing the check he possessed.

"What do you want for dinner?" Hero asked, repeating the lines her current maid position required of her- not that she had to, Villain was not strict enough to enforce rules, but cleaning and cooking seemed to put his explosiveness at ease.

"Nothing. I have a date."

A date?!

"You have a girlfriend?" Hero chuckled. "Who is the unlucky damsel?"

"That's besides the point, but she is quite pretty."

"How long have you been dating?"

"This is our third date within the course of two months."

Two months... that was duration of time since she and Supervillain were kidnapped.

"Not that consistent then," Hero commented instead of voicing her curiosity.

"She works as a nurse, so she is quite busy," Villain replied, folding the check and placing it in his jean's pockets.

"I see," Hero replied. "Where is your date? Please tell me you are not taking her to McDonald's."

"That coffee date in the park sounded great," Villain replied. "Then I was thinking Taco Bell."

"No, no, no!" Hero scolded, pushing herself to her feet. "You are not taking this poor girl on a date to a fast food restaurant. You are a billionaire, Villain. Take her to one of those places where they serve an ounce of food for thirty dollars and spoil her."

Villain blushed, pulling at his fingers nervously. "You know a couple months ago I thought I would be taking you on a date."

"Me too," Hero sighed, placing her hands on her hips.

"I guess life took a turn, didn't it?"

"Yes," Hero replied, extending her arms and wrapping Villain in an embrace. Before she let go, she whispered:

"Torture was in that turn to, wasn't it?"

Villain's muscles tensed, he coughed and pulled away. "See you tonight," he said and ran up the stairs to go get changed.

《~~》

All at once, a piece of light, a string of consciousness sprouted through the dark unconsciousness of the patient's mind. It swirled, bombarding lidded eyes with intolerable brightness. They strained, trying to shut, but it was as if the motor lost control- or gained control, depending on which side of the metaphor you are one.

Then the light formed into various shapes, some holding objects of humanoid form whereas others were cubical, rectangular and circular- making the world around the patient pixelated and blurry. Colors rounded to the basis of their hue- cyan swirling into blue, pale yellow whisking itself into an off-white- until the world was a pallette of bland coloring.

The noise, lolling in a sense, but also increasingly obnoxious. Beeps and rings, rumbles and grumbles, but all the vowels and consonants equaled a series of off-tune words, some faded, others marked with clarity.

Not safe, were the only cognitive thoughts. Not safe not safe not safe. He tried to thrash, anything to get away from the looming danger, though his protruding limbs were too weak, will devoid of any resolve.

More sounds rumbled and purred around him as equally slow restraints grappled at his arms and legs- or were they fast paced? The man didn't know. The perception between reality and unreality was dim, as was his ability to process sleed and direction. Heck, he didn't even know his own name, just the anticipated danger.

He coughed, or tried to, some form of blockade in his mouth inhibited any sound, cough or otherwise, to escape. Tears pricked at his eyes, later streaming down his cheeks- he wanted to go home. Home to that dank apartment that couldn't seem to leave his very intellect. He wanted home, needed home...

The shapes around him once again began to evaporate, but this time instead of mixing into like shades and tones of color, they all shifted to one mass of brown-colored mud before it all vanished into blackness again.

《~~》

"Vitals?"

The doctor's voice ran throughout the room as nurses scrambled to check Supervillain over. The room soon sung with a chorus of "Good".

"Then everyone is dismissed other than Doctor and Medic," a new voice, equally as authoritive yet significantly much more of a feminine type.

All the nurses practically galloped out of the room as a hoard, not daring to look at the woman who just stepped in.

"Leader," the doctor greeted the woman. "What brings you here?"

"I've come to look at the project. I heard it just underwent surgery?" The lady spoke, walking up to the bed where the unconscious patient rested.

"Yes, knee replacement surgery," the doctor replied, joining Leader by the bed. Medic appeared across from them, tenderly rubbing her fingers over the supervillain's hand.

"Fifteen hours on the table," Leader continued to speak, observing Supervillain with contempt in her gaze. "Why?"

"We had to replace the entire knee cap with a newly engineered material made from cells of donors and a type of substance formed from titanium to enhance strength and durability. Then we had to connect the nerves and ligaments to the knee so he can control it like normal."

"Also known as a high-tech prosthetic? Why, may I ask, did my project have to get one?"

"Broken knee..."

"Shattered, Doctor," gray eyes darted around to meet the doctor's humble brown ones. "Not broken, but completely shattered. It needs to be fully operational by the end of the month."

"Ma'am, the recovery is going to be rough-" the doctor tried to protest.

"We have serums for that," Leader groaned, throwing her head into the air.

"It is not safe to drug him with much. His cells and blood need to adapt."

"I don't care. I put a lot of time and effort and money into this project. The enemy is going to launch an attack soon, our spies have gathered enough data to anticipate it by the end of the month. You have been soft Doctor, in his training."

"It's been working," the doctor reasoned.

"It's submission, not training. Ever hear of conditioning?"

"I have done some research into it and I believe that we need to take a more-"

"Yes you are right," Leader smiled. "I don't want a bodyguard. I want a weapon with one, single purpose. Eliminate Hero."

"I don't get that," Medic spoke up, her voice soft, yet filled with courage. "Why get rid of Hero when she is not the enemy?"

Leader chuckled, eyes thinkling. "What an ignorant little girl, so cute though. Did you do your make-up today? Hmm." The baby talk rapidly switched to a more serious tone, "She is a threat, even bigger than this newfound enemy. The moment she joins sides, which we know she will, the odds will be... let's say any attempt to stop them will be suicide."

"We contained her once before..."

"She will be mad, you'll see," Leader acquired a distant look in her dreary gray eyes. "Start weaponizing it. Immediately."

《~~》

Run.

Duck.

Jump.

"I love you."

"Love you more."

Punch.

Supervillain was panting for breath by the time he collapsed on the ground, exhausted to the highest extent. Sweat beaded around his hairline- recently trimmed in a convenient, yet flashy style, with a lightning bolt shaved into the side.

"I love you."

"Love you more."

Supervillain groaned, rubbing shaking hands over his face. Turn it off turn it off turn if off...

Everyday started with a morning workout in the gym. The gym had a track running around the whole thing with obstacles for him to duck under and jump over. The center only had a punching bag and a benchpress, but equally sweaty and daunting.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker rang, signaling that Supervillain could leave.

Once, of course, training was done.

Workouts weren't training, they were extra credit designed to get him further, to get him a higher GPA.

The doctor entered the room, so Supervillain stood up- respect, expected and therefore delivered.

"How many laps?"

"Twenty-five, sir."

The doctor took note of that on his clipboard, frowning before asking his speed.

"5 miles per hour, sir."

This time, the doctor smiled. "Good," he praised, then looked at the benchpress.

"Three hundred pounds," the doctor tapped the dumbbell with his pen, still grinning widely. "Nice work, but yesterday you did three-fiftey."

Supervillain whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. He failed he failed he failed he failed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, proceeding to walk towards the nearby intern to receive the needed correction.

The intern raised her hands, holding a contraption of metal and leather, and slipped it into Supervillain's mouth. He whimpered upon feeling the cold metal slid onto his tongue. A leather strap held it in place, tightly buckled in the back of his head. From that extended more leather that went over his nose. A chain was linked through the nasal strap, more cold metal on warm skin.

Abruptly, he was pulled forward. The metal pinched that nerve- the one that always ached from the commonly given treatment.

The intern pulled him into yet another white room.

Yet this one contained the most dreaded torture implement.

#supervillain whumpee #heros and villains #writing #surgery #drugged whumpee #drugged villain #captivity whump

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theres-an-impulstor-among-us · 3 years

Note

Vaunna my beloved ❤

After your amazing Wels and Hels armorstand scene on my server could I get Wels and Hels story? Please? 👉👈

Oca my beloved ❤️

This is genuinely one of my favourite oneshots I’ve written. I just love the Wels/Hels dynamic so much.

Also this is technically a sequel to the last one I wrote so go read it here if you like! This one does make sense without it tho

...

It’s been a few weeks since the server has seen an evil hermit incident, and even though most of the hermits have let down their guard, Welsknight hasn’t. He hasn’t stopped being vigilant since his last encounter with Helsknight. He knows that his evil counterpart is out there somewhere, waiting for another chance to kill him.

Wels knows he can’t give him that chance.

One morning, while out in the desert, grinding for sand, Wels keeps spotting movement out the corner of his eye but every time he looks, he sees nothing. At first, he thinks it’s just the desert playing tricks on his mind. But his knight training tells him not to be so quick to jump to conclusions.

Eventually, he decides to put most of his stuff in a chest and go have a look, just in case. He leaves his valuables in the chest and explores the immediate area, looking carefully for any threats.

He hears the sound behind him and twists to the side, a split second before a figure appears out of nowhere and attempts to shove him to the ground.

Wels jumps back a few steps and raises his diamond pickaxe, realising too late he accidentally brought it instead of his sword. “Helsknight.”

His evil counterpart grins. “Hey, Welsy. Your face is looking great.”

Wels’s hand automatically rises to his cheek, where the burn scar from their last encounter still sits. “Thanks. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you, of course. It’s time we have another little battle, don’t you think?”

Normally, Wels wouldn’t hesitate to stay and fight. But he doesn’t have a real weapon and his inventory is practically empty.

So he bolts back towards his chest, intending to grab his sword for a proper battle. But then he realises he may be running directly into a trap, so he changes direction.

However, at that moment, the ground under his feet gives way, sending him tumbling down into the hole below.

His fall seems to last only a few seconds but it must be far; when he hits the ground, pain explodes through his whole body. He’s fallen very far.

A second after he lands, he hears a splash from nearby and glances up. With the sunlight streaming through the hole, he can see a figure emerging from a single source block of water to his left. His heart skips a beat.

“You idiot!” Hels snaps, tossing the bucket at the wall. “You triggered the trap too soon! I wasn’t out of the way yet!”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Wels’s voice is strained from pain but his anger is unmistakable. “You’re right; I should have been able to avoid the secret trap you set up for me. Dang it. But hey, at least I’m not now stuck in a hole in terrible pain with next to no resources! That sure wouldn’t be ideal!”

Hels glares at him. “Quit it with the sarcasm. This is all your fault.”

Wels feels indignance boil inside him but he forces himself not to rise to the bait. His rational mind knows there’s no point arguing with Hels. “Whatever. I’m gonna see if my friends will come save me.”

He taps out a message to the server asking for help, and within a minute, he gets replies from both Etho and Joe.

“They’re on their way,” he says. “You may as well relax, cuz we’re not going anywhere ‘til then.”

Hels huffs and sits down a few blocks away from Wels, crossing his arms irritably.

They sit in silence for a long time. The sun crosses the sky above them, marking the end of the morning and the start of the afternoon.

After a while, Wels decides to try and be practical. He checks his inventory; all he has on him is his diamond pickaxe, sixteen obsidian, a flint and steel, a single piece of bread, and some seeds. Nothing particularly useful. There aren’t enough blocks to pillar out, and Wels can hardly move while sitting, let alone standing, anyway. He could make a nether portal, but what would be the point? There’s no way he can survive better in the nether than in this pit right now.

He glances up. “Hels, do you have-.”

“I don’t have anything on me, useful or otherwise,” says Hels immediately.

Wels knows this means he doesn’t have food on him either. He can tell from the pouty expression on Hels’s face that his counterpart is hungry. Even though Wels’s hunger was reduced somewhat by the fall, he decides to be the bigger person.

He breaks his loaf of bread in half and offers the bigger part to Hels, who eyes him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

Frowning confusedly, Wels replies, “Giving you some bread.”

“Why?”

“...because we both need food?”

“Yeah, so why don’t you just eat it all? You’ll be fuller.”

“But you won’t have any.” Wels shakes his hand. “Just take it.”

Hels continues to scowl at him. “Is it poisoned?”

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Wels flicks the piece of bread into Hels’s lap and starts slowly eating his own. Out the corner of his eye, he watches Hels carefully inspect the bread before taking a hesitant bite. Finally satisfied that he isn’t being tricked, Hels starts to gobble the bread.

Wels watches him curiously. “Why would I try to poison you, Hels?”

Hels shrugs. “We’re enemies, isn’t that what we do? Try to kill each other?”

“No,” Wels says. “That’s the way YOU see our relationship. I never wanted to be enemies with you, you know.”

“Really? Wasn’t it you who started all this?”

“No, you literally turned up out of the blue and dropped me in a hole one day. Then I destroyed you in a rap battle. Remember that?”

“I remember the hole,” says Hels. “Don’t remember losing any rap battle.”

“Uh huh.”

The two fall into silence as they eat. Wels continues to watch Hels, who has already finished his half of the bread.

“Can I make an observation?” he asks after a few minutes.

Hels huffs. “No but you’re gonna do it anyway.”

“You’re not used to the concept of sharing, are you?”

“Sharing?” Hels sits up straighter, a possessive look appearing in his eyes. “I don’t share anything! Nothing!”

“That’s not what I meant,” says Wels. “I meant the concept of people voluntarily sharing things with you.”

Hels glares at him for a moment longer, before relaxing visibly. “No. Back in my dimension, it’s every person for themselves. You protect what you’ve got cuz if you don’t, you’re gonna lose it forever, so people hoard their stuff like it’s made of gold. I never got attached to anything cuz I knew it’d probably get snatched away from me sooner or later. I-.” He breaks off as he registers Wels’s expression. “Oh, don’t you dare pity me,” he growls.

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are, you’re looking at me like I’m an abandoned baby dog or something.”

Wels raises an eyebrow. “Baby dog? You mean a puppy?”

“Shut up!” Hels growls again and huffily turns away from his counterpart. “I’m not a stupid puppy for you to adopt and train! If I get the opportunity, I WILL kill you. I would gladly leave you here to rot if it meant I could get outta this stupid hole. In fact, the only reason I’m not beating you to death right now is because you’re my best chance of getting out of here alive.”

A pause follows his words.

Eventually, Wels sighs. “Sometimes, it’s so easy to see that you’re all the worst parts of me combined.”

To his surprise, Hels doesn’t respond. His arms are folded but Wels can’t see his expression, can’t see that his counterpart’s eyes are misted over.

Hels is frustrated with himself; Wels has insulted him many times since their first meeting so why did that one little remark hurt him so much? Why has it brought him to tears like this?

Maybe it’s because Wels’s remark forced him to remember that he’s not his own person. He wasn’t born organically; he was brought into existence by a combination of Wels and a weird cloning machine. The nature of his “birth” means he isn’t a real person. He’s just a copy of Wels, made up of all the parts of himself that he hates.

Maybe that’s all he’ll ever be.

A soft groan brings Hels out of his thoughts. He glances to the right and sees that Wels’s condition has deteriorated; his skin has rapidly paled and he’s clearly struggling to breathe.

As Hels watches, Wels reaches a shaking hand into his inventory and weakly throws an item to Hels, who catches it and turns it over. It’s a flint and steel.

Hels glances up in time to see Wels drop some obsidian down beside him as well. “Go, Hels,” he rasps. “Make a portal and go back to the nether.”

Hels blinks, his mind racing as he tries to figure out the catch. “What are you doing? Why did you give me this?”

“So you can escape. My friends are coming for me but I’ll probably die before they get here. If you’re still here when they arrive, there’s no telling what they’ll do to you. Just go while you still can.”

After a moment, Hels narrows his eyes. “Are you tricking me? What’s the catch?”

“Nothing,” Wels insists weakly. “Just please, go, quickly.”

“No, seriously. Why are you so insistent I leave?”

“B-Because…” Wels hesitates, taking in a shaky breath. “Because it’s getting dark and the mobs will be coming soon and I don’t want you to die. If I die, I respawn. You don’t.”

Hels stares at his counterpart in confusion. “You… don’t want me to die?”

“Of course not. How many times do we have to-.”

He breaks off as he tries to stifle a pained cry. The fall damage he took is starting to catch up with him now.

The groan of a zombie sounds from nearby. Hels’s eyes widen with fear.

“Go, Hels!” Wels’s voice cracks. “Please!”

Looking deep into his counterpart’s eyes and finding nothing but fear and desperation in them, Hels turns and creates a portal on the very edge of the pit, lighting it up with the flint and steel.

He glances back at Wels one final time, before disappearing through the portal.

Wels closes his eyes, breathing a shallow sigh. His counterpart should be safe; if he’s anything like Wels himself, he knows how to survive on his own.

As the mob sounds start to surround him, he feels a calm sense of relief. He knows he’ll respawn back in his bed, and at this moment, he doesn’t care that he’ll lose the items he has on him right now. He just wants the pain to end.

…

Hidden safely in the nether, Hels clutches the flint and steel his counterpart gave him. He can’t stop staring at it; it represents the sacrifice Wels made for him. The first time anyone has been willing to lay down their own life for him. He can hardly believe it even happened at all; the concept of loving someone enough to want to protect them even at the cost of their own life is completely foreign.

As he’s puzzling this out, a message appears on the communicator he stole from Wels during their last confrontation. A message he knew deep down was coming, but one that still catches him off guard.

Welsknight was slain by zombie

#hermitcraft #helsknight #welsknight #Vaunna writes

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trekkele · 3 years

Note

Pre-canon Azula assassinates Ozai and frames Iroh for it?

Wow y’all really have me entirely figured out today. This is also less about that and more about…idk even.

“In the beginning,” Ursa said, sweeping the flame from the candle into the palm of her hand, guiding it counterclockwise with her finger, “when the fire benders where only dragons and the people huddled cold at the base of their mountain, the first snow fell. The people could not understand the ice that fell from the heavens, grey clouds hiding Agni from them.”

The tiny flame burst into sparks, drifting slowly down to her palm. Azula wondered if her eyes were as wide as Zukos, as bright with the flames' reflection.

“But in this village there was a girl, whose eyes had long been turned to the top of the mountain, who’s heart held a coiling flame” her mother traced a heart with two fingers, and the flame followed. “She did not fear the snow, or the cold it brought, but rather the way her people had lost their fire in the face of Agnis Shrouds.”

“And so she began the trek up the mountain, passing by the frozen stream and the trees bowed under ice, until she could see her village, tucked into the whitened valley, spread below her feet. And she sat down to wait.”

“Wait?” Azula asked, lip curling. “I thought she wanted to find a dragon? What use is waiting.”

Ursa smiled, tiny flame dancing, running up and down her palm as her fingers guided it. “The dragon was not used to strangers on their mountain. The girl knew they would see her, and come. Knowing how and when to strike,” the flames seemed to burn deep in Ursa’s eyes as Azula watched it form a tiny dagger, “is just as important as knowing where.”

Zuko gasped as the dagger flame changed to a bow flinging arrows, two swords crossed, and finally a vial dripping flame.

“And when the dragon came, the girl was still warm, and rested, and had arranged herself as though they sat in the finest sitting room, silks and tea,” Azula pulled a face that made her mother’s shoulders shake, the flame between them flickering, “and mochi all before them.” Azula grinned even as Zuko snickered. Mochi was a much better diplomatic tool than tea, even if tea was traditional.

“The dragon landed softly in the snow, settling in with wings tucked behind them. “You do not belong here” they said, rumbling like an earthen flame* and breathing colored sparks to the air. “And yet I am here.” the girl said.

The dragon glared at her, fierce and foreign. It was odd to see anger in the face of a serpent. The girl did not shake, or apologize. “Why.” the dragon swept their tail over the ground, snow piling on either side of its path, “Why have you climbed this mountain”

The flame in Ursas palm grew wings, rising slowly between them, “My people grow weak with fear. Agni has been hidden to us for the weeks of this storm and they fear or spirit has grown angry, or distant.” The dragon huffed, disdain dripping like flames from their fangs. “Did not the Great Sun bless you with fire? Do not your veins flow like the blood from a Sparked Mountaintop?” the girl still not shake. “The turtle lions blessed us with Agni’s spark, but we do not know how to use it.” she said, hands folded in her lap. The fabric of her coat was warm with her anger, but the dragon could not see the heat of her palms. He could not hear the anger in her voice.

“What the spirits did or did not give you is none of my concern, now leave me. I must return to my hoard.” Ursa lowered her voice when she spoke for the dragon, rumbling with something below her tongue. Zuko shuffled closer to Azula, who leaned closer into him.

“Your hoard?” The girl asked “are gold and coloured stones so precious that you would deny the chance to become the first master to a new class of student?” the dragon laughed. “What foolish stories do you tell of us? My hoard are my children in their eggs, and my hoard is my family. I would deny the chance to become legend for them.”

“The girl was clever, and quick, and stood before their wings could unfold. “My hoard is dying.” the dragon paused. “My hoard is dying and I am here to teach how to live.”

The dragon shook out their wings, rising to their full height and glaring down. The snow had begun to fall again, and if the girl closed her eyes, she thought she could smell the smoke from her village, the panicked silent breaths of people who could not see the sun. “I cannot leave my hoard.”

“I can.” the girl said, standing in the snow, praying to a spirit buried in clouds. “For as long as I need to.”

“Why you, little spark-bender?” the dragon said finally, their student starting to shiver.

The girl did not rejoice in her success. There was never a place for failure in her plans. “Someone had to.” she shrugged, and followed the first dragon master up the mountain.”

Ursa let the flame in palm burn down, placing it gently back to the week when it was no more than a spark.

“What happened to the village?” Zuko demanded, hands around his knees.

“The girl came back and taught them how to fire bend, using what the master showed her. Once they could learn to manipulate their chi, the villagers always felt where Agni was, and always knew they were close to them.”

“What happened to the girl.” Azula did not demand an answer. She did expect one.

“Well, the legend says she traveled to other villages and taught them to fire bend as well. And once she settled down, her children became great and powerful benders, till Agni blessed on with the wisdom to unite our people. But now,” Ursa waved the candle shut, “it’s time for bed.”

—-—

Later, after Azula learns what burnt skin smells like, how the ashes taste on her tongue, Iroh stands next to her in the garden.

The guards are uneasy. They are unnecessary too, but Azula will make allowances for their skittishness.

No one trained them to fight dragons, after all.

“Why.” Iroh asks, and Azula is tempted. It would be so easy to crack, right here, and scream her grievances to the world. To the sun, its chosen heir lying burnt on white sheets, fists clenched around his loyalty and heart weeping.

Why. She thinks instead of a girl, and a mountain, and facing a monster that is suddenly an ally in the face of greater threats.

She thinks of a heart, filled with coiling flames.

“Someone had to.” She says, eyes turned towards the sun. It winks lower over the caldera cliffs, sky clear and blue.

—-—

She never tells him how it easy it actually was.

Her Uncle does not want to know.

—-—

Ursa does not ask Why. Her mothers return to the palace is a quiet thing, hastened by the servants who remembered her and the courtiers who eyed the royal children with pity and unease.

Zuko uses their pity. Azula uses the unease. They want neither, but they will not waste what is given.

Ursa does not ask. She sits in the garden, lets Azula huff and throw scrolls and braids little twists in her hair till it is piled like black silk on her head.

Once, she holds Azula's hands in her own, and lets a flame dance over their palms. “My only regret,” she says, eyes steady even as the wind sweeps between them, “is that you did what I did not.”

“Would you have?” Azula does not want the answer. She needs it, desperately, but she doesn't want it.

“If I had known half of what he would become, the sun would not have risen on him after your first breath.”

Ursa does not ask. She does not push. And she does not expect Azula to mourn her actions.

Azula is not surprised. No one ever expects a dragon in a woman’s skin.

But she's since learned to see the glint of fangs in her mothers smile. She sees it in the mirror, after all.

[send me an ask of ‘I wish you would write’ with a story idea and ill react. I’m very suggestible, clearly]

#I wanted to frame this with something to explain Azulas state of mind #The thing is depending on the timeline I don’t even know if Iroh would get in trouble for it?#Especially if you consider who would support him within the FN and why #Or how #like I’ve said before the last thing ou want during a global war is an internal power vacuum which pre canon Zuko or Azula in the throne #Would probably get you #Ursa cant take the throne if Ozai annulled their marriage #Which he might have for efficiency #Unless this is pre-pre-canon #And Ozai gets Merced by a six yr old Lula #…i can see it #In case anyone is wondering Zuko is also down for murder in this au #Ozai just didn’t plan on Azula being #Should’ve burnt both kids at once pops ¯\ _(ツ)_/¯#royal fire hazards #Asks #ficlet #flash fic #listen if you hate it you can send another ask #…or if you love it? You can send another?#avatar aus

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forsakenbysinnoh · 4 years

Text

Random Headcannons for the Demon Bros that no one asked for.

~Lucifer~

Lucifer never refers to God by name, only ever saying "He" or "My Father".

Despite how he may act, he's proud of his brothers, of their independence and strength. His pact mark reflects that, his own star surrounded by the six of his brothers.

With that, he can also be very worried about his brothers. Being an avatar of a sin is a title that can be won. He makes sure no other demons besides his brothers hold that title.

He has a dark sense of humor that can go unnoticed or be mistaken as threats.

Despite his reputation of being controlling, he's actually rather tired of it. He was forced into this position to protect his loved ones, and to try to figure out how to function after losing the war. Sometimes a part of him wants to be told what hes supposed to do, rather than deal with the mess of making it up as he goes along.

The most scarred of the brothers, especially along his chest and back. When he has to, he hides it with illusions, otherwise he doesn't show his skin.

Takes his debts and what he owes people very seriously. It's why he rarely asks for help even in small things.

Is the only one who can force a pact on an unwilling participant.

Isn't afraid of being controlled, but is scared of losing control to the wrong person or partner. It takes a lot of trust to let him drop the reins in a relationship.

Despite turning into a wolf in the 'Paws and Claws' event, I think the best animal to represent him would be a black unicorn.

~Mammon~

Mammon can be kind of a choosing beggar.

Forgets to be empathetic sometimes and can say some callus things. Sometimes it's good as he can be an outside observer in a situation and see things objectively.

His schemes are mainly to pay off debts. No one is quite sure where he keeps accumulating so many from.

Many people call him a coward, but in reality he's a pacifist. He'd rather run than fight.

Unless you get him hot headed, in which case the gloves are off.

Despite this, he's actually one of the most powerful brothers and can usually win a fight with anyone but Lucifer.

Very agile. Is a natural at parkor and free running.

He doesn't have a high opinion of himself, and his self esteem is in the garbage.

Def has a praise kink tho.

If he's really mad at you, he'll pretend you don't exist. He's not one to get into screaming fights, but he's passive aggressive.

I think a golden dragon with a hoarding tendency fits him well lol

~Leviathan~

He's a big nerd. King of nerds. Absolutely owns it.

Levi actually draws a lot of fanart but never shows it to anyone. He's very jealous of others talent and considers his own art bad.

Def has the Devildom equivalent of Tumblr.

Sometimes can be a fandom gatekeeper/hipster. Likely stems from a place of "I liked this before it was popular and got ridiculed for it. Now it's cool and you're taking over my interest."

Super long theories on current shows with in-depth analysis and pulling info from anywhere he can. Be prepared for his cork board on FNAF.

Sometimes Levi forgets other people have feelings too, especially when he's excited about something, and hurts them by accident. Usually goes back to apologize later when he realizes.

Loves to listen to someone nerd out, even if he's not interested in their interest, he likes them and how passionate about.

He's memorized the TSL books and movies. They are his biggest passion and he loves them so much.

He's a self shipper, ships himself with his favorite wifus and husbandos (he has both) and takes those "which character are you?" Quizzes all the time.

Knows how to code and hopes to make his own game one day.

Snake tends to be the go to for Levi, and I think a lizard or another reptile makes sense. They tend to scurry away from most creature, except for those like them.

~Satan~

(My boy so I might be a little biased/rambling here)

Satan was made after Lucifer lost the war, but he started growing in Lucifer's heart before then.

Satan is the only demon/angel that was not made by God directly, and he feels that effects his relationship with others.

He's not good at empathy, and it's a skill he's still working on.

Satan was the serpent in the garden who caused Eve to fall. He thought it was very unfair that God would refuse humanity knowledge, the one thing that he values above all else.

As he was developing/learning from each of his brothers, they each gave him an item that was important to him that he still keeps. Even Lucifer.

Keeps control of his emotions which can lead to violent outbursts if pushed far enough. No one has seen him completely unhinged except Lucifer.

Loves adventure books/series, especially long ones with intricate plots. Murder mysteries are his absolute favorite. Dislikes the 'Love triangle' trope a LOT.

Likes to listen and create stories.

Very magically adept. He knows many advanced spells and always has a hunger to learn more. Probably has made quite a few spells himself.

Cat. He's a cat. There was no competition here. His spirit animal is a kitty and I love him for it.

~Asmodeus~

Asmo, despite being the avatar of lust, cares about consent a lot. He wants his partners to feel good when they're with him, not like they're afraid or helpless.

Well, unless that's your thing, in which case he'll make sure a safe word is in use ;)

Knows a lot about sex. If you have any question he will be happy to answer it without making it seem awkward or taboo. Though he will flirt and offer to show you himself.

He's very confident in his body and looks. Asmo knows he's a catch and good looking, and wants to keep it that way.

Doesn't mind showing off his scars from the war and wishes he could help Lucifer with his perception of his scars.

He will NOT have anyone body shamed in his presence.

Has ALL the gossip. He knows who's sleeping with who, what relationship drama is going down where, and keeps up with it daily.

Gender roles? Who is she? Being beautiful is for anyone.

He shows affection through touch. This makes him come off a bit needy and he tends to invade other's spaces.

There's more to lust than just sex though, it's pure, unrestrained desire. Desire to learn, to hurt, to take revenge, to love and be loved. He can sense someone's deepest desires and loves to bring that to the surface.

This is why Satan is one of his favorite brothers, there's a lot of pure emotion in him that he keeps covered up.

I think a Siren would fit him best, able to draw out what people desire the most.

~Beelzebub~

Beel has a soft heart. He cares a lot for his family, even when he's mad at them.

His kindness has gotten other demons trying to take advantage of him, which is why he tries to hide it behind a facade of being a big brute.

He's a cuddler. Beel is touch starved and wants nothing more than just to hold someone close and know they love him.

Nightmares are a constant struggle for him. He still blames himself for Lilith's death and not being strong enough.

Unless Belphie is around, Beel has a hard time sleeping.

Like Mammon, Beel a pacifist, though he's usually a little more willing to throw his weight around when needed.

When Lucifer isn't around, Beel is the one to try and get his brother's on the same page. If it's a lost cause he'll just leave for some comfort food.

Unless it's a serious matter, in which case it'll be one of the few occasions he yells.

Is self conscious about the food he eats and how everyone sees him as just the big grunt who loves to eat.

Beel is basically a pitbull. He seems scary and dangerous on the outside, but really he's just a teddy bear.

~Belphagor (spoilers)~

(I'm still a little salty that Belphie here killed me. Just as a warning lol)

Belphie's powers include sleeplessness and inducing a weekend nap. He either never sleeps or is sleeping for several hours.

I don't know why but I'm betting he'd be good at Uno.

Hates being confronted by his mistakes, would rather pretend they didn't happen in the first place

Asks for piggie back rides from Beel when he's too tired to walk.

He's the only one who can get Beel to sleep without nightmares. No one is quite sure if that's cause of his powers, or if he just is good at comforting his brother.

I see him as being good at poems. Soothing words that have a rhythm to them. You listen to him speak and before you know it you're asleep.

He brushes off most kindness as fake and doesn't trust anyone.

The most comfortable hoodie. Hugs are warm and soft.

Animal: a small fluffy cow. You know the ones I'm talking about. Fluff central.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcannons #headcannons #obey me satan #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #personal headcannon

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theskeleton-system · 3 years

Text

A Fungus Dangerclaw Masterpost

This is a post about Fungus' relationship with every Grumpus on Snaktooth;

Filbo

•definitely stumbled upon Fungus while looking for Liz

•was initially friendly toward Fungus, until Fungus took it personally and chased Filbo out of the woods, growling and claws beared

•when Fungus inevitably stays in town with the others, Filbo is rightfully so still apprehensive, but as Fungus warms up to him, he warms up to Fungus

•Fungus never learns his name, but knows the word Mayor, so calls him that (it is a constant Filbo Confidence Boost [tm])

Wambus

•would meet Fungus when they'd have come to town

•Fungus has absolutely attacked Wambus, he's the biggest man in town and Fungus believes in fighting for dominance, so he attacks him to become the Alpha of town lol

•Wambus doesnt like to make eye contact with Fungus due to this very event

•Fungus does eventually calm down when Wambus lets them rummage in the farm sometimes; it turns out Fungus is handy for digging holes to plant more crops

•after a while of Fungus trusting Wambus, she starts bringing sticks to the farm and burying them in hopes of growing crops too

•Wambus eventually decides he's adopting them. No arguments.

Beffica

•is morbidly curious of Fungus (that feeling is mutual)

•Beffica has absolutely kept Fungus in her cave out of storms, and so is probably the closest thing to a friend at first to Fungus

•she likes to paint his claws, and he loves to watch her do it, he also loves picking out the colours (pink is his favourite)

•Beffica will sit Fungus down and gossip to them while she paints their nails and brushes their fur, Fungus has no idea what she's saying, but likes to feel included and picks up on some words

•the few words he's learnt from Beff are "Squeeb", "Like", and "OMGee"

•Beffica does understand that Fungus can be dangerous, and she knows when to stop pushing their buttons

Gramble

•Gramble met Fungus in the middle of the night, when they broke into town to steal supplies

•Fungus DIDN'T attack Gramble, only because he's smaller than Fungus and therefore not deemed a threat

•when Fungus stays in town, they become enamored by the barn, and the Bugsnax there (because Fungus refuses to eat them too) and hangs out in the outdoor pen with them

•Fungus inevitably imprints on Gramble and begins following him around and bringing him Bugsnax that are very hard to catch (cheepoofs, grapesketos, lollives, scoopy banoopys) and Gramble is Confused.jpeg

•Gramble learns to trust Fungus when the first fight breaks out at the party (The "that's why your wife left you" Scene) and Fungus defends Gramble, literally standing between him and Wambus

•now Gramble accepts Fungus as family, and is just mildly frightened of them

Wiggle

•with Fungus constantly following Gramble around, it was only a matter of time until they met Wiggle

•Fungus took one look at her and was prepared to fight a bitch, but when Gramble stopped them from attacking her, they stopped being aggressive

•Fungus definitely wants that pink fluffy scarf around Wiggle's neck, but hasn't devised a plan to steal it yet

•Fungus doesnt understand how instruments work, so when Wiggle starts playing her banjo, Fungus is simultaneously frightened and interested

•Fungus begins loving listening to Wiggle's music and starts hitting the ground in percussion with the music

•Wiggle will never pass up on an adoring fan of course, and starts teaching Fungus how to make music, Fungus learns nothing, but is happy to have attention

•Fungus has ended up with the Banjo before, and absolutely tried to eat it

•(Fungus has worn Wiggle's glasses before and was fully prepared to wear them forever)

Triffany

•Triffany would find Fungus in one of the ruins, probably lost

•Triffany would be confused, but curious

•Fungus trusts Triffany quickly, as she's sensible and knows a feral creature when she sees one, so takes her time

•Fungus likes to try and help piece history together with Triffany, but obviously he has no idea what he's ever doing, so he isn't really much help

•Triffany's accent is completely foreign to Fungus, so they can have problems understanding some of her pronunciations, however, they absolutely adore her accent and loves listening to her talk

•Triffany is most likely the Grumpus who brought Fungus to town, probably to show Wambus the creature she adopted, and ask Floofty if any of this makes sense

•Fungus likes to chew on bones Triffany gives him, it helps sharpen his teeth and subdue his pure, feral rage

Cromdo

•Fungus would take a VERY long time to trust Cromdo, due to his sleezy nature

•Fungus absolutely wants whatever Cromdo is selling (because they're a hoarder) but doesn't know of the economy, only knows stick. Fungus will buy material objects with sticks and leaves or Cromdo will die

•a sick part of Cromdo wants to sell Fungus to Floofty for science, but knows that would be the second most illegal thing he's ever done (Grumpus Trafficking is no joke-)

•Fungus would probably want a tie, let's be honest

•to Cromdo, Fungus is like a cat, running around scratching the walls and knocking things off of tables

•Cromdo isn't afraid to scold Fungus, and Fungus will learn to listen in due time

•despite the tension and issues the two have, Fungus does it to show care for Cromdo, everyone knows this but Cromdo

•Fungus likes the word "Pal"

Chandlo

•Chandlo is Fungus' favourite. No questions asked.

•he found Fungus in a tree and brought him home to Snorpy, like gay people do

•"Snorp-dawg, I found a cryptid!"

"you WHAT"

•Fungus appreciates Chandlo so fucking much

•didn't attack for same reason as Gramble (small = not a threat)

•Chandlo likes Fungus because they're a hard-core survivor of the wild, and Chandlo vibes with that

•Fungus originally likes to watch Chandlo work out, finding it fascinating; but eventually starts joining in when Chandlo offers

•Chandlo just wants to keep this feral creature, that is all

•Fungus learns so many words from Chandlo, that he accidentally turns Fungus into a feral version of himself

Snorpy

•Snopry is (rightfully so) terrified of Fungus

•what is it? What's it gender? Why does it barely speak? How much sentience does it have? DOES IT WORK FOR THE GRUMPINATI??!

•but of course, Chandlo wants to keep it and Snorpy can't say no, so he ends up playing babysitter when Chandlo is gone

•Fungus, on the other hand, is enamored. Obviously-

•Fungus understands so little when it comes to Snorpy, all these conspiracies and big words and intricate connections, Fungus has no brain

•Fungus likes to listen though, and likes to look at the conspiracy board (also likes to hoard all the red string lol)

•of course Snorpy warms up to them, mostly when Floofty starts trying to steal them for experiments; Snorpy feels a newfound need to protect this gremlin from his mad scientist sibling

•Fungus just likes the attention

Floofty

•Floofty kidnaps Fungus for experiments (not clickbait)

•I mean, can you blame them? How does Fungus exist? A completely feral Grumpus in a society of modernized, evolved, civilised Grumpuses? They gotta know how Fungus works

•however, Floofty underestimated Fungus' energy, and now they're shouting at a gremlin, who is barking back at them

•Floofty loses so much sleep over keeping Fungus in one place.

•"fascinating...your survival instinct is completely intact- stop chewing my leg."

•Floofty tries to teach Fungus basic language, but learns the next day that Fungus forget everything they learnt

•Fungus doesn't know what to make of Floofty

•Is this good or bad? Friend or foe?

•if Floofty has to hurt Fungus to get what they want, they WILL be attacked (i.e taking blood or testing pain level)

•sometimes Floofty just snaps and throws Fungus into a river to "experiment" if Fungus can swim

•Fungus does like the attention though

Shelda

•Shelda is one of the only Grumpuses that Fungus shows concern and care for OPENLY

•He gives her gifts of sticks and rocks and leaves, and he'll throw a tantrum if she won't take them

•he likes to sit next to her while she meditates so she doesn't get lonely 😳😳

•the only problem with this is that Fungus is easily bored, and will start making noises and bumping rocks together

•and it's very distracting when you're trying to meditate

•But Fungus knows this and tries to behave as best as they can, they wanna make Grandma Shelda happy

•they become a part of Shelda's little fanclub, and listens to her wisdom despite not knowing ANYTHING she's saying

•he pretends he knows, nodding and agreeing all the time

Eggabell

•Eggabell, being a doctor, just wants to get her hands on Fungus to take care of him

•I mean, he's messy, and covered in mud and sticks and leaves

•he probably has the Grumpus equivalent of mange

•he DEFINITELY has fleas

•and she just wants to sit them down and clean them up

•but Fungus isn't having it, and is actually a little scared of Eggabell, as they don't know why she wants them to stay still

•Fungus will learn to trust her, and let her take care of the fleas and rabies and mange

•and when he does, he will never leave her side afterwards. He'll recognise she made him feel better and constantly want her attention

•He may get a little distracting for her sometimes, but she knows he means well

•also, because Fungus is a good listener, Eggabell airs her problems out to them, she knows they don't know what she's saying, but it's nice to rant to them while they eat a whole tree, bit by bit

Lizbert

•there isn't many opportunities where Liz and Fungus would interact sadly, however, I feel like if they did they would get along far too well

•Liz bringing Fungus on adventures around the island? Fungus showing Liz little cave systems they've found so she has shortcuts around the areas? Makes my heart ache-

•Fungus wants the hat, give her the hat Liz-

•because Liz is such a simple name, it would most likely be the only one Fungus would learn

•I can imagine Liz getting distracted from studying Bugsnax and instead studying Fungus, until Filbo or Egg reminds her she has more important things to do

•Fungus is incredibly agile, and I can imagine them scaling trees or cliffs and finding a safer route for Liz to take

•Fungus is Liz's emotional support adventure dog

The Journalist

This would be in terms of if Fungus was a character you'd meet;

•You would meet Fungus in Sugarpine Woods, but somewhere far away from Chandlo and Snorpy.

•Fungus would flee from you once spotted (sorta like the Snaxsquach, but not at certain times).

•You would then have a quest to ask around to see if anyone knew what this Grumpus was (and you would receive a resounding "no").

•The puzzle would then be figuring out how to cohearse Fungus into trusting you, which would be with sticks and rocks, making a pile of them to bait Fungus from hiding.

•Once you would have their trust, you would still have quests to complete before they move from their spot and follow you to town, this would include collecting more sticks and rocks, and finding Bugsnax so Fungus can have friends.

•They'd communicate these quests very poorly, you would probably have to rely on the quest descriptions to figure out what the objective is.

•After enough errands, Fungus would make a happy noise and start following you around. Then, if you walk into town, you approach Filbo and he takes Fungus off your hands.

•When you return to Snaxburg, it's in anarchy as Fungus has gotten out of control. Your next objective is "survive". Eventually, through sticks, rocks and leaves, you calm Fungus down enough for them to live in Snaxburg without killing anyone.

•However, some side-quests would involve Fungus, and the other residents having to deal with them now.

I had this neat idea that all this is optional, you don't have to even do the main quest for Fungus because they weren't supposed to be part of the expedition and know no one. So why interview them, not like you can anyway. You can escape Snaktooth with all the normal residents and leave Fungus on the island, then their fate would be left unknown (but man I'd feel guilty for it 😟).

#this shit became an essay im so sorry #i guess i needed to info dump #four hours of writing...#watch this flop #and then watch me cry lol #Bugsnax #Grumpus #Grump-sona #Grumpus OC #Fungus Dangerclaw #i hope you guys like this though 👉👈

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