#namely because the skull is a very very enclosed space

[esterigermaine]

Theory:

Honestly, I think the tadpole paired with extreme cranial trauma may have actually benefited durge in the initial aftermath of their injury.

#durge #dark urge #baldurs gate 3 #namely because the skull is a very very enclosed space #so the tadpole munching and cranial trauma likely gave the brain room to swell in the time right after their injury without killing them #i like to think the tadpole munched on the damaged bits that likely wouldn't regain function during the first week with kressa for my durge #like maggots eating dead flesh from a wound except a brain parasite #granted they probably ended up being durable as hell thanks to who their father is/what they are #in fact I'm pretty sure at least 70% of their survival os because of their dad #but the questions that come up because of omeluum's dialogue are certainly fun to consider #because a cranium so damaged is no longer the rigid protector it should be and instead lets things swell and/or be out of shape if needed #and with an injury this massive yall can't tell me there wasnt any swelling

[come-down-that-tree]

prologue previous

Come Down That Tree! (an aftermare story)

Chapter 14: Mä muxsa jaljaw sañ munäna ukampis kunatix uka waynax llijullijumpiw ch’allt’ata, ukatw mä juk’a amuyux mayjt’ayañajax wakisïna.

Nightmare slept fairly well, as he often did on such stormy nights. It was on these special nights he could almost feel the gentle touch of his mother.

He didn't know if it was because he slept squished against the bark and his brother, feeling thrumming energy coming from both or if it was the capricious screams of the sky somehow helping him ignore the rest of the world… therefore making focusing on the thin feeling easier.

Regardless of the raison, he relinquished the feeling. 

He knew he was safe and the tree was too. Nothing could pierce that warm bubble of safety.

He thought so at least.

Right in the middle of a peaceful lucid dream, the atmosphere changed.

He turns towards the dream version of the tree that stops its usual constant humming then, wordlessly asking what is the matter.

The only answer he has is a burst of wind that pushes him farther away rather suddenly. The light around dims and everything seems to try to make him leave. 

Why, he does not have a clue.

But after grumpily resisting for a while, he hears the tiniest sob he ever heard, right outside his safe space.

And once he spots the source...

A small and crumpled red figure, shaking on a burned flower patch.

He awoke instantly.

What greeted him was a world not yet fully awake, sun barely noticeable. Traces of the violent storm that must have lived through a good part of the night itched in the very earth.

He was truthfully soaked, cold water dripping from his clothes and from the branches above his head. The only warm source left being his twin, still huddled against his side and very much sound asleep.

Sleep was still slugging his thoughts but it did not stop Nightmare to notice something rather quickly.

Something woke him up.

And it was not a good kind of thing.

There was a strange "tower" slicing up his sight in two not that far from here.

There was a burned smell cloaking the air.

As calmly as a half awake mess could, he let his eyes follow the white-ish line pouring down the sky.

Until he reached the bottom.

Laying in a burned grass circle was something. 

Someone?

White and red.

Geno.

Time stopped and the daze vanished.

Nightmare sprang and ran to the other as fast as possible.

What happened? What happened? What happened ???

He skidded to a stop right next to the skeleton and confusedly stared at him.

The monster was unconscious, laying in a fetal position, all curled around his left arm. 

Arm that seemed… damaged.

His fingers were sprawled open, slightly shaking. The tips were blackened and rough. A red liquid seeping out of tiny cracks littering his fore-arm. 

What happened?

He carefully, oh so carefully, pushed him to rest on his back to assess the wounds better. 

Ice screamed along his back when he saw the cracks go up all the way to his chest.

Nightmare took a moment to steady his hands, which were shaking almost uncontrollably now, before pulling up the other's shirt.

He was greeted by the same mess as the last time he had bear sight of the ribcage. 

Looking at the holes made him feel near nauseous but he pushed past to observe if any new damage had been added when whatever happened happened.

The long crack line was barely here but it was here. Running along the thin ribs.

He quietly followed the path until it stopped right in the middle.

Nightmare sighed.

"It didn't reach his soul, that's good…"

His hands enclosed his skull for a second and a loud, loud, groan escaped him.

What exactly happened while he was sleeping…

A moment went by.

Full of hesitation and incertitude.

Until he decided against prodding Geno any further to try waking him up.

"Let's see how well it goes this time…"

He started by gently calling his name.

Then, when that didn't work, he carefully touched his good shoulder with the objective of shaking him awake, as gently as possible.

Now, that, that failed magistrally. 

But not in the way he thought it would. 

The grass was still wet and slippery.

And this whole situation made his movements a bit… hazardous.

His whole weight came to crush the poor injured man's rib cage, who, understandably, woke up screaming bloody murder.

Dream basically materialized right after, helping him sit back down on the ground and silently observing the situation.

They both stayed there, watching Geno curl up on himself and, for a lack of a better word, wimper. 

They wasted a minute to see if the other was conscious enough to not turn them into skewers.

He seemed so.

In fact, by the time the minute ended, the skeleton had calmed himself and was now sitting in front of them…calmly studying his damaged arm.

"Geno?"

He looked up, a lone eyelight, more red than he remembered, stared.

"Yes."

His voice was firm but weak.

Nightmare lost his words.

Dream chimed in for the first time of the day, shifting slightly closer.

"Can you move your arm?"

Nightmare watched with owlish eyes Geno raising his good arm to rub against the burned one.

He didn't answer besides a too large smile and a tilt of the head.

"Are you in pain?"

To that, he snorted.

"I'm in Spain."

"Meaning?"

"Super pain." 

The twins both winced before exchanging a glance.

"I know a guy downtown who could examine that if you would follow me there?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"It's noth' "

"Your arm is still shaking."

"Astute observer I see."

"Leaving it like that IS dangerous."

"I had worse and I'm still here."

"Do you actually have a good raison or are you going to continue wasting both of our time ?"

Even if the exchange had been full of calm and posed voices so far, Nightmare knew it wouldn't stay that way long with how it was going so he all but butted in rather ungracefully.

"Dream, brother, pal, do you remember that herb I chewed on that made me loopy for hours when we were kids?"

They had been exploring the neighboring forest at the wee age of 7 and found some "funny looking" herbs.

Nightmare decided it was his turn to taste test the new plant and he spent half a day feeling similar to the time he forgo sleeping for a week minus the tiredness and insensitive to most pains (they tested it).

Dream ignored him.

"I still remember where to find it and we both know our guest here won't go downtown without kicking, screaming and aggravating his wound."

If looks could kill…

His brother sighed before turning fully towards him.

"...fine. Go find some while I try to see what else we can do with what we have."

Nightmare glanced one time towards Geno, who showed no signs of interest in the current conversation and merely sat slumped on the ground, before breaking into a fast walk in the direction of the last known location of the loopy plant.

It didn't take him long to find some. 

The blue gray herbs that liked to grow under the berry bushes of the southern marsh.

Thoughts noisily attempted to scritch at the back of his mind but he skillfully tuned them and focused on the mindless task of tearing the herbs out of the ground, one by one.

Once the pile in his arms was big enough to last a few days if needed, he let his feet carry him back home.

The trip was over in a jiff.

Under the tree, rested Geno, his arm wrapped in clean white fabric. He had his eye squeezed shut, looking bothered.

Dream nodded once in his direction at his return and left without a word, to do who knows what downtown.

Nightmare didn't try to stop him and wondered if he would come back in a better mood.

"Geno, I'm back."

The monster nodded in his direction but stayed silent.

Nightmare held out his herbs and Geno looked at his hand warily.

"Eat, it will lessen the pain, I can at least promise that."

He watched the other's dubitative face but in the end, he shrugged and took the herbs.

The munching that followed was accompanied by such a grimace he couldn't help but chuckled.

"Come on, you drama queen, it's not that bad !"

"IT TASTES LIKE DIRT."

"Well…I mean… I didn't wash them so…"

Geno stared at him incredulously.

What. He gobbled so many down when he was a kid and he was fine. Others and their need for everything to be perfectly clean to be consumable. 

"You won't die from eating some dirt."

The injured guy just sighed and readjusted his position against the bark.

He sat beside him and let the other rest his head against his shoulder.

"It should start making effects fairly soon, bear with it for a moment.", he whispered.

A hum answered him but nothing more.

Geno was out like a light not even five minutes after.

end of chapter 14! Go to chapter 15?

@dragon-tamer-1 @shinechermont

Geno belongs to @/loverofpiggies Dreamtale, Dream and Nightmare belong to @/jokublog

#come down that tree! #chapter 14 #a bit longer than usual but by the end I was no longer feeling that inspired #pain is a good motivator XD #aftermare #Geno: has the weirdest trippy dreams ever #Night': enjoys his fluffy lucid dream #Dream: sleeps like a brick until he isn't #I now realize I'll have to write loopy Geno from Geno pov uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh #hope you enjoyed and have a good day!

[lordrandreaming]

WIP, BluJul

CW: Mpreg, nsfw don't like don't read! Thanks.

Blue tenderly rubs Julian's baby bump, his touch ghosting over the taut hump. Julian bit his lower lip, face flushing a deep red, his breathing picked up as Blue leaned over him.

Julian shudders as he feels Blue enclose space between them.

"I think you look cute all round and helpless like this.."

Blue hums, that lovey dovey look in his eyes. Julian laughs at Blue, hands cupping either side of his lover's face.

"Who said i was helpless, lover boy~?"

"Jul, once you drop something you can't pick it up.."

Julian puffs his cheeks and huffs at him.

"Alright, listen, just because that's true doesn't mean you get to point it out!.."

Blue laughs and so does Julian, they nuzzle heads affectionately before Blue catches his red-headed lovers lips with is own.

"Mm-... Mhn!.."

Blue's thumb rubs Julian's baby bump lovingly, Julian wiggles, eagerly trying to get closer to Blue. He notes this, and closes what space remained in between them.

His other hand appears under the bump, and slides downward, to the ever growing bulge just beneath the swell of Julian's abdomen.

The red-head's mouth opens, letting both Blue in, and a moan out.

"Hha-.. Ahn~.."

His steely blue eye closes as his baby blue eyed lover's tongue enters his mouth. Always tasting of chocolate, Julian never gets tired of it. He's been love drunk ever since they started being a item..

There's no resistance against the familiar invader, Julian's hands knead into the back of Blue's head, a shiver runs through him as Blue runs his fingers along his clothed length..

Blue keeps one hand glued to Julian's baby bump, rubbing and caressing. A wiggle comes from beneath the skin, causing the two to separate.

Blue pulls away, Julian is left panting. Saliva strands break and he's already falling disheveled..

"God, your so beautiful.."

He purrs, Julian pauses a moment, eye wide, before he bashfully laughs.

"Oh c'mon.. We're in the middle of it Blue~.."

Blue laughs and Julian moans as Blue grabs him through his pants. He starts kissing at Julian's neck, while the hand that was on the baby bump moved upward, to his tender chest.

It was barely hidden away from him, allowing Blue immidiet access. Julian gasps as cold fingers brush against a warm and perky nipple.

"So warm~.."

Blue hums, licking Julian's neck. A loud, and not very subtle moan leaves him.

"UhN-!!.. B-Blue-... H-Hah!.."

"Mmh~... That's it~.."

Julian shivers and drools a little bit as Blue's hand starts fondling his chest gently, thumb padding the perky bud in a clockwise fashion.

Julian writhes under Blue, who's taken to attacking his neck and simultaneously stroking him in the most teasing fashion.

"Hh-.. Aah-.. Ah-.. Blue-.. Demyan..!.."

Julian begins calling Blue's real name, making him smirk against his pregnant lover's neck.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

He gives Julian's booby a gentle squeeze, and a slow trace up his painfully hard boner through his pants. Julian's hands knead eagerly into Blue's spine, his eye rolling back in his skull.

"Hhh.. Hh.. Your gonna ruin my clothes by doing what your doing to me.."

"Im gonna ruin you by doing what im doing to you.."

Blue starts kissing downward, further undoing Julian's rather loose shirt, exposing his swollen chest. Blue can feel Julian's heart drumming against his ribcage, like a frantic bird in a wire cage.

"I could just eat you up, Jul.. Your so cute, i can't help myself.."

"Hh-haha.. What're you gonna do? Keep me pregnant forever?"

Blue laughs.

"Would you like that?"

Julian sputters a moment and is the darkest flush he could be.

"I-I mean-.. I like the attention.."

"I'll gladly love you like this well after out little apple seed has been born~.. Would you like that, my sweet ruby rose~?"

Julian nods his head.

"I-I would really like that.."

Blue smiles at him, that gleam in his eyes.

"Alright, it's settled~ I'll pamper you until you get sick of it~"

Julian laughs at him, shaking his head.

"Ooh, i doubt ill get sick of it~.."

#morioh writes 🌙 #mpreg #boys will be boys (nsfw 👀💦🍆) #dont like please dont read or interact im literally some dude writing gay fanfic abt my faves being knocked up #nasty messages to me wont get you anything but blocked so either swallow your venom and move on or be an ass and get blocked #BluJul 💙❤ #julian devorak #hiiii arcana fandom i bring you mpreg #more to come ✨ #wip also this is very unfinished haha #blue kazimir

[stewardofningishzida]

Heartwarming Story 1:  Bathtub Surprise!

A few days before my 10th birthday, it was business as usual. Though one day, my dog started barking and scratching at our bathtub. At first, we thought it might have been a lizard or something under the house. So, we paid it no mind, figuring it would crawl back out the way that it came in.

The next day, while I was at school, the dog kept barking and scratching. My dad went to go check and found 4 newborn kittens under our house. The mother had given birth under our bathtub a few days beforehand and had presumably gone off to hunt. He carefully passed my mom the kittens and she brought them into the house. Then, my dad set up a trap to catch the mom so she could be brought in safely to take care of her babies inside. He managed to capture her and took her inside. It turned out that she was a feral cat and incredibly fierce, but thankfully her maternal instincts were strong and she went to nurse her babies as soon as my parents left her alone in the spare room.

When I got home, I was told the news and quietly peeked into the room to look at the cats. Mama Cat shot under the daybed like a brown streak. The kittens were in a large cat bed sleeping. Within 2 seconds, I fell in love with all of them, including the mother. I cooed at them softly, but gave them space because I didn’t want to scare them. My parents said not to get too attached because they were only going to stay until they were big enough to be adopted. I was a bit disappointed, but happy that we at least had more animals for a little while.

Our dog, Muttley, was still curious, but we kept her away from the room to protect the cats. My mom’s old cat was also curious, but fairly calm. Kitty Kitty was a very relaxed calico cat. She had simply followed my mom home one day and stayed with her. So, Mom had adopted her. Muttley had come later as a Christmas present when I was 2 years old and she was a mixed-breed. We suspect that she had some terrier in her because she was very hyper and would occasionally hunt gophers in the backyard. We tried to discourage her and would place gopher repellent where we hoped that Muttley couldn’t reach while it could still keep gophers away, but she still had a way of finding the poor things. Despite that, she was a good girl and very protective of all of us. Being an almost 10 year old, I was excited about any animal and my heart had (and still has) plenty of room for more critters.

As the kittens grew, their unique features became more apparent. So, we decided to name them to differentiate between each of the little boys. One had a pink nose. So, we named him “Pinky”. Another was gray and very timid compared to his brothers. He was named “Mouse”. The third was named “Markie” because he had a black mark that looked like a skull on his forehead. Last, but not least, the runt was named “Smudge Pot” because he had a brown smudge across his nose and the region we lived in at the time was known for citrus production. A common tool used to thaw out orchards is called a “smudge pot”. Though now…we had named them and spent time with them.

Needless to say, we all got attached. So, putting them up for adoption was no longer an option. They were now OUR boys. As for the mother, she was still looking after them. We kept her too, but she was still wild. Mom named her “Mama”. She’s not too good with naming animals. Heh. Her bird was simply “Bird”, her cat was “Kitty Kitty”, you get the idea.

Eventually, the kittens were weaned and the animals all got used to each other. So, they were all allowed to freely roam the house. To give them fresh air even though all of the cats were indoor cats, we would occasionally let them wander around the patio because it was an enclosed patio surrounded by screen windows. We figured it was a good idea. Though Mama was smart. Far smarter than we had previously thought. For a few weeks, she was fine and we figured she had relaxed a bit around us. Then, one day she suddenly went wild on the patio, clawed her way through the screen door, and raced out. Smudge Pot, being curious, tried to follow, but Mom caught him. As for Mama, she escaped and never fell for any of the traps again. She seemed happier outside and would return periodically to glare at us while staying far out of reach. Meanwhile, we took care of and socialized her babies, adding them to our family

That’s how we ended up with 5 cats and a dog. Thank goodness we lived out in a rural area where we could get away with it. 😉 I have plenty of other stories about each of my animals and will share them accordingly.

#real life #cats #animals #stray cats #pet adoption #kittens

[courage-a-word-of-justice]

HypMic Pirate AU

Inspired by this fanart.

Notes:

This AU is not particularly fleshed out, as it was a very spur-of-the-moment thing. Feel free to expand on it as you wish and if there's something not accounted for, feel free to assume it is the same as the regular universe if it works.

The general structure of HypMic works pretty well with a setup like One Piece - you gotta admit that...

About three years ago, there was a legendary crew, known simply as Sirius - this was the alternate-universe TDD. However, due to Ramuda's meddling, Sirius parted ways. Prior to this, there were also counterparts to Naughty Busters, Mad Comic Dialogue and Kuujaku Posse in this universe, although they did not have names.

Ichiro: Captain of the Owl Pirates. Rather infamous in his own right as a ruffian on his own turf and as part of Sirius, but he's trying to make his crew just as famous as his own reputation. Wants to have a big crew where each member has their own special tasks, similar to One Piece, but so far he only has his brothers.

Jiro: First mate of the Owl Pirates. Will happily beat up opposing pirate crews for his brothers, although he still has to learn to rely on Ichiro less.

Saburo: Crew member of the Owl Pirates. Does a big chunk of the reconaissance and navigation work. Although both of his older bros dote on him, he doesn't really see it that way when it comes to Jiro.

Samatoki: Captain of the Skull Pirates. Formed a pirate crew to search for his sister (who, despite rumours spread by Ramuda that she was kidnapped by the Owl Pirates, left to join the government).

Jyuto: First mate of the Skull Pirates. Typically the mediator if Samatoki goes overboard (in more ways than one...), as well as the navigator. Maintains strong connections to the government, although he renounced his position under said government to join Samatoki.

Riou: Crew member of the Skull Pirates. The crew's main weapon specialist (and also their chef, much to the others' consternation...). Sleeps on the deck if he can help it, because he doesn't like crowding.

Ramuda: Captain of the Sparkle Pirates. An ally of the government. Openly dislikes Jakurai, despite not having much reason to. He claims he became a pirate to get all the ladies and the booze, but...nobody really believes that...

Gentaro: First mate of the Sparkle Pirates. The navigator, although sometimes he deliberately sends his crewmates astray for his own amusement. Has secret connections in many unexpected places that come in handy on occasion.

Dice: Crew member of the Sparkle Pirates. Secretly the son of the government leader and joined to get away from that lifestyle. Easily seasick, so Gentaro makes fun of him for this a lot and he swabs the deck quite a bit. The only times he's really reliable are when treasure, games, wagers and other luck-based events are involved...

Jakurai: Captain of the Wolf Pirates. The physician of the crew and thus has many connections from wandering the world. Not everyone knows this, but he used to assassinate people - due to the unstable position Yotsutsuji is in currently, he doesn't anymore.

Hifumi: First mate of the Wolf Pirates. An entertainer and multidisciplinarian, although he becomes timid when dealing with women (although not as much as he does in the regular universe). Doppo is his friend from his hometown and the two go way back.

Doppo: Crew member of the Wolf Pirates. A capable pirate...if he would just stop worrying about everything. The navigator and strategist of the crew. Sometimes gets depressed enough to self-inflict punishments, such as swabbing the deck and cleaning the toilets.

Yotsutsuji: Unofficial member of the Wolf Pirates. Currently in a critical condition, but in a state which even Jakurai can't figure out. It is said the government has a secret poison which was administered to him.

Sasara: Captain of the Manzai Pirates. A real jokester, but also surprisingly cunning - he can break into places without being detected by those more gullible than him (...such as Rosho, sadly enough). Has some beef with Samatoki, although he doesn't seem to remember what it was about.

Rosho: First mate of the Manzai Pirates. The navigator of the crew, but unflinchingly honest at times and can be easily duped if he's not careful. Sasara holds a lot of faith in him and the two go way back.

Rei: Crew member of the Manzai Pirates. Despite the fact he seems to have come from nowhere, only to suck Sasara and Rosho dry of their booze, they trust him enough with strategy and weapon duties (<-these are also his main roles). Secretly the Yamadas' dad, who likes to follow the adventures of the Owl Pirates in his spare time.

Kuko: Captain of the Dragon Pirates. Has some beef with Ichiro, although he doesn't seem to remember what it was about. Typically seen with a sword in hand, training, or less commonly meditating.

Jyushi: First mate of the Dragon Pirates. (How he became the first mate instead of Hitoya, no one really knows.) Also the navigator, who uses the stars rather than a map to navigate on clear nights. Commonly seen with Amanda in hand, although she can be a bit impractical for long sea journeys. Had an encounter with malicious pirates as a child and so speaks in a grandiose manner to people he's not accustomed to, as a defence mechanism. Sleeps on the deck if he can help it, because he doesn't like enclosed spaces.

Hitoya: Crew member of the Dragon Pirates. A former doctor-in-training (<-this is how he knows Jakurai), he is reliable to a fault...so long as his crewmates facilitate his occasional pickiness.

#HypMic #Hypnosis Mic #alternate universe

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Genji Heavy Industries (Part 8) Laser Pointer

Hahahahahahhaahahahhaha....

*deep inhale*

Hahahahahahahahahaha

The three men leaned against the shrine panting heavily. You helped Caesar and Chu Zihang load bullets as fast as you could. While Chisei looked out at the flames in the hall. The corpse guard specimen at the end of the hall had burned down like a wax candle to reveal a dark golden skeleton.

“What happened to you?” Caesar asked.

“I was called to another elevator. When I got in, it lost power and took me down to the lowest floor basement.” You were so tired that your hands moved automatically while your eyes unfocused. You shake your head to clear your vision and that sends pain shooting through the middle of your skull. You squeeze one eye shut against the pain and keep going.

“You’re hurt?”

“No… it’s just sequelae. From using my Soul Skill earlier.” You wave him away.

“Where’s Lu Mingfei?” Caesar asks.

“I don’t know. I thought he would have made it through the elevator with you.”

“The earthquake stopped the elevator.” Chu Zihang stood up, holding his Uzi, and looking down at you with his golden gaze. “Was that you?”

“Yeah.” You brace yourself on Caesar’s shoulder and stand too. 

Caesar whistles long and low through his teeth.

“Reports are coming in saying it was 6.5 magnitude.”

“Oh… I was going for 7.0.” You smirk. “Pretty close.”

"How many C4 explosives do you have?" Chisei suddenly asked. 

"Fifteen pounds, but the explosion doesn't seem to seriously injure them. If C4 explosives can't hurt them, then 'Royal Flame' can't do it either." Chu Zihang said. 

"The shockwave of the explosion can't hurt them, but the flames could be fatal to them. Look at that corpse guard. Mermaid oil is very flammable. They can be their own best fuel." 

Chu Zihang was stunned: "But they didn't burn immediately in the explosion just now." 

"That's because they're alive and the corpse guards are dead. The corpse guards are dehydrated. The sphinxes still have a lot of water in their bodies. They have to be in the fire for a long time before they burn up! The Mural Hall is a completely enclosed space, and this is the best place for a fire!" Chisei exclaimed.

"Smothering the sphinxes? Not a bad idea. But they could escape. If they can get in through the elevator doors, they can get out through them." Caesar said. 

Chisei pointed above the elevator door: "Above this kind of door must be a steel bar supporting it, we put a piece of C4 explosive there, powerful enough to blow that steel bar, the wall will collapse down, they have no way to escape." 

Chu Zihang calculated: "We can use a delayed fuse. One that can explode in twenty seconds. That would be enough time for us to enter the elevator shaft and hide outside the explosion range." 

Caesar thought about it: "Then we have to lure the group of them deep into the hall. The more concentrated they are, the better the burning effect." 

"No problem, I'll act as bait." Chisei said. 

“Bait?” You looked to Caesar for answers.

“The blood of Chisei is extremely attractive to them. When he dripped it down the elevator shaft, that’s what brought them down here.”

You nod, understanding.

“What brought you here by the way?” Caesar was leading you away to the armory room. 

“Someone threw a flare. All the other elevator doors were closed. I figured this had to be the only one that was open.”

“Ah.”

Caesar shut the door of the armory. “Alright, suit up. This will be the big push.”

Chu Zihang and Caesar moved between the rows of shelves. You stay behind to lean against the wall. “Give me a minute.”

It occurred to you that this might be the point where you died and whenever your life was in danger, you felt a deep appreciation of your own body. You remembered this feeling of fatigue when you pulled a sledge full of wood through feet of snow. You walked until your thoughts faded away, ignoring the pain and hunger and thirst, one foot after the other. Your body carried you. And thanks to your dragon blood, you recovered quickly to get up the next day.  So you knew this body was tired. But as soon as it ate and drank and got a nice rest it would perk up again.

But the one thing you could give it now was oxygen. You take slow deep breaths, filling your lungs completely, holding it a bit, and then emptying them completely. Your lungs would take that oxygen and revive your muscles for the fight.

Already, you could feel yourself reviving and stretched your arms over your head, feeling the rush of blood to your tissues. You rolled your shoulder and remembered lying on the floor looking up into the eyes of Z.

Z made you break that tank for a reason. You doubted it was to kill you and that gave you hope.

Caesar moved to the door and leaned against it to rest, running his hand over two rifles. 

 The bone-chilling, eerie sound of a giant python sliding against the ground came from behind the door. The group of sphinxes has invaded the mural hall. The only thing separating you from them is a layer of carved wooden doors. With strength like theirs, breaking such a door was no  effort, but this group of low IQ beasts has not yet noticed this room. After mutating, some Death Servitors will gain superb vision, hearing or smell, but the snake versions don’t get significant enhancements to their senses. Their golden pupils look hideous but they actually have weak vision. They have a sharp sense of smell but they’re intoxicated by the smell of blood in the hot air of the mural hall. As for hearing, these have basically zero. They’re more attuned to ground vibrations. As long as you stay still, they will have a hard time finding your hiding place. 

"What's their approximate number?" Chu Zihang asked in a low voice. 

Caesar’s eyes flared golden and the Scythe Itachi went out.

"More than a hundred. All of them have entered the mural hall and the elevator shaft has been cleared. They're eating the dead. I can hear them chewing away at the muscles, disgusting." Caesar said softly, "What's your assessment of the combat power of these snake-like dead men?" 

Chu Zihang thought for a moment. "A grade. Speed exceeds that of a zebra, tearing power is close to that of a lion. Strong cellular activity, so wounds heal quickly. The most vulnerable parts are the heart, head and nervous system. Severed limbs are nothing to them.” 

Caesar nodded: "I also think it is A-class. One on one with them, we’d have a disadvantage.”

You finally move to go arm yourself. “They’re dumb as hell, though. So there’s that.” You say.

The two men fall silent. “Did you fight them?” Caesar asked.

“Yeah.” You wrap a new belt that will fit multiple weapons onto your waist and cinch it up. These belts were made for men, so you have to use a knife to make a hole for the buckle. “Well… technically no. I made them fight each other.”

“How is that possible? You’re not even hurt!” Caesar looked you up and down. “And you still had plenty of rounds.”

“Well… I used my C4 detonator.” You tilt your head, unsure of what he wanted you to say. “I mean if they want to eat each other, I’m not going to get in the way of that.”

“Perhaps an S-ranked hybrid could take them on.” Chu Zihang said, thoughtfully.

It wasn’t like you were unprepared to fight those beasts. But how could you tell them that the ghost of your dead boyfriend appeared in an elevator to Hell and you went on a date with them in front of the big holding tank? The whole thing sounded silly. You knew how to fight them because Z had shown you how. But there was no way to communicate that.

"Do you trust that Japanese guy? He wouldn't have run away by now, would he?" Caesar asked in a low voice. 

"Since I chose to cooperate, I can only trust him, right?" Chu Zihang shrugged.

"It's rare for such a gullible character to have survived to this day." Caesar shrugged back, "He is something that bleeds dragon blood. Dragons are creatures without feelings. If their strength overwhelms you, they will definitely devour you." 

Chu Zihang did not speak again. 

"Okay, okay, I have no intention of figuring that girl out. To say the least, I quite liked her. She was so pretty ...... But it's best not to trust something that bleeds dragon blood." Caesar took a deep breath. 

You let out a breath. In a way, you agreed with Caesar. Z’s yellow eyes gave you a mix of fear and fascination. His kiss made your heart race. You always knew he was scheming something, but you never knew if it was good or bad or had nothing to do with you. And yet you couldn’t help but love it when he laughed. Was what you felt love? Whatever it was, it sure felt good. HIs hands in your hair in front of the holding tank. It felt good.

Your eyes suddenly went wide. “Bait.”

The memory of Z playing with the beasts using a laser pointer flashes through your mind and your face breaks out into a smile. You start pacing the shelves, looking up and down. “Did you guys see a laser sight anywhere in here?”

“What do you need that for? You’re a good shot.” Caesar asked.

“Yes, I need it for something else.”

“There should be one on an AK-47…” Chu Zihang said.

“I found it.” The name AK-47 stood for Avtomat Kalashnikova. It was a Soviet rifle and one you were familiar with, but this specimen looked like it was taken right from your childhood. It was aged, worn and a little rusted. Just like the one you used to use. You picked it up reverently, staring at it in silence while your heart filled with a strange warmth, like the sun coming up for the first time after a long winter night. Your hands caress the laser sight tenderly.

While many women were moved by cards, roses, jewelry and sweets, what moved your heart was the sight of this laser on a Kalashnikov. With this laser, you could live. You unscrew it and hold it to your heart with a smile coming over your face.

You turn to Caesar and Zihang who are eyeing you warily. But you can’t stop smiling. “Okay, I’m going to mark one of them with the Anesthesia bullet dye okay? Don’t kill that one.”

Z. He was a genius… You chuckle and join the boys at the door.

"Are you ready?" Caesar sighs softly.

You nod. You’re smiling as you load a single Frigga bullet into your empty pistol.  “Remember, don’t kill the one I mark!”

"Then let’s start!" Caesar slapped the button to open the door and stepped out in a big way. 

A Deadpool was lying on the overhang in front of the weapons hall door. Reflex speed multiplied after the snake mutation, so it immediately struck at the back of Caesar's neck. But Caesar had already determined its position through the use of Scythe Itachi and fired upward with his shotgun. The Deadpool Sphinx fell to its back.

The shotgun was extremely powerful but not penetrating enough. After the wounded creature landed, it rolled to get up and recoiled to strike again. Chu Zihang's crossbow penetrates its abdomen to pin it to the ground, and the two Sten submachine guns fired into its forehead until the two cartridges were empty. 

"No wonder everyone in the academy says you're a killer. I really like your kind of execution style." Caesar dropped the shotgun and pulled out two Sten submachine guns from the carry pouch behind Chu Zihang. 

"I'm not interested in bloodshed, but I know that showing mercy to something like this will only get us killed." Chu Zihang's right hand drew up another gun from the backpack Caesar carried. Chu Zihang carried Caesar’s guns and vice versa. It was a nice way to keep efficiently armed.  Chu Zihang looked at you in curiosity.

You weren’t using the laser sight to aim, but wiggled it against the ground as though fishing, whispering to yourself. “Heeere, Kitty, Kitty. Come here… I know you’re here…”

One of the deadpool that looked female with an ample golden chest and pretty eyes saw the red dot and opened her jaw ninety degrees to scream bloody-murder. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates. She slid her snake tail vigorously, physically pushing other beasts out of the way and leaving long gashes on them.

“There you are! Gotcha!” You fire a single anesthesia bullet. The red dye smashes between her eyes and paints her face crimson, clearly marking her. She covers her face with her claws in annoyance and wails in fury, associating the red dot with getting hit with a paintball.

You wiggle the dot in a zigzag pattern and she pounces on it with the anger of seven devils. Once you were sure you had her hooked, you scroll the red dot on the face of one of the deadpools who blinks once against the blinding laser light before its head is bitten clean in half by the female.

The spectacular result sends a burst of laughter from you. You loved him. You didn’t care if it wasn’t really love as others defined it. You loved Z. This was fun. This was fantastic!

You wiggled the point of light until she saw it again. She paused in confusion for a moment, her eyes burning brighter and brighter, then she was off again, galloping after the red dot and smashing into another of her own kind. The red dot danced on the back of her poor victim who had no idea that the attack was coming. The female deadpool with the red-dyed face tore through scales, muscle tissue and bone like a woodchipper.

Your laughter filled the whole burning temple. They were stupid! They were so stupid!

You had turned the female deadpool into a terror of her own kind. As she mowed through the crowded mural hall like a living blender, she left a trail of wounded behind her. The Deadpool, who were too cannibalistic and mindless to remember why they were there, immediately started to tear each other apart as soon as one smelled the blood of the other. 

It was an absolute bloodbath and you had only fired one non-lethal shot.

Caesar and Chu Zihang looked at you in stunned amazement. You looked back at them, crying with laughter. You didn’t have a birthday, but this was like a present, the best present you’d ever received. Z had buried this little Easter egg in the ground, hoping you’d find it. It was for you. No one else would get the joke!

#Dragon Raja

[nitrosplicer]

During a relatively warm period in the last Ice Age the climate in Chauvet, in south-eastern France was between 3C and 5C colder than it is today. The trees were limited to birches, Scots pine and juniper. The fauna included many species that are now extinct: mammoths, megaceros deer, cave lions without manes, aurochs and bears that were three metres tall, as well as reindeer, ibex, bison, rhinoceros and wild horses. The human population of nomadic hunter-gatherers was sparse and lived in groups of 20-25. Paleontologists name this population Cro-Magnon, a term that distances at first, yet the distance may turn out to be far-fetched. Neither agriculture nor metallurgy existed. Music and jewellery did. The average life expectancy was 25...

On a rock in front of me a cluster of red squarish dots. The freshness of the red is startling. As present and immediate as a smell, or as the colour of flowers on a June evening when the sun is going down. These dots were made by applying red oxide pigment to the palm of a hand and then pressing it against the rock. One particular hand has been identified on account of a disjointed little finger; another imprint of the same hand has been found elsewhere in the cave. On another rock, similar dots, making an overall shape, which is like the side view of a bison. The marks of the hands fill the animal's body.

Darkness.

Before the women, men and children arrived (there is a footprint of a child of about 11 in the cave) and after they left for good, the hiding-place was inhabited by bears. Probably also by wolves and other animals, but the bears were the masters with which the nomads had to share the cave. On wall after wall the scratches of bear paws. Footprints show where a bear walked with her cub, feeling her way in the dark. In the largest of the cave's chambers, which is 15 metres high, there are numerous wallows or depressions in the clay on the ground, where bears lay asleep during their hibernation. One hundred and fifty bear skulls have been found here. One of them had been solemnly placed - probably by a Cro-Magnon - on a rock plinth in the furthest reach of the cave.

Silence.

In the silence, the extent and size of the place begins to count for more and more. The cave is half a kilometre long and in places 50 metres wide. But geometrical measurements do not apply because one is inside something like a body. The standing and overhanging rocks, the enclosing walls with their concretions, the passages, the hollow spaces that have developed through the geological process of diagenesis, resemble, to a remarkable degree, the organs and spaces within a human or animal body. What they all have in common is that they look like forms created by flowing water.

The colours of the cave, too, are anatomical. The carbonate rocks are bone and tripe coloured, the stalagmites scarlet and very white, the calcite draperies and concretions orange and snotty. Surfaces glisten as if wet with mucous. A massive stalagmite has grown (they grow at the rate of one centimetre per century) to look somewhat like a stomach's intestines, and, at one point in their descent, the tubes suggest the four legs, tail and trunk of a miniature mammoth. The reference could easily be missed and so a painter, with four brief lines in red, has brought the tiny mammoth nearer.

Many walls that might have lent themselves to being painted on have not been touched. The 400-odd animals depicted here are distributed as discreetly as in nature. There are no pictorial displays as in Lascaux or Altamira. There is more emptiness, more secrecy, perhaps greater complicity with the darkness. Yet, although these paintings were made 15,000 years earlier, they are, mostly, as skilful, observant and graceful as any of the later paintings. Art, it would seem, is born like a foal that can walk straight away. Or, to put it less vividly (everything is vivid in the dark): the talent to make art accompanies the need for that art; they arrive together.

...

Most of the animals depicted in Chauvet were in life ferocious, yet nowhere is there a trace of fear. Respect, yes, a fraternal respect. And this is why in every animal image there is a human presence. A presence revealed by pleasure. Each creature here is at home in man - a strange formulation, yet incontestable.

John Berger on Chauvet's Cave Paintings. 12 Oct. 2002, www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2002/oct/12/art.artsfeatures3 (emphasis mine)

#john berger #cave paintings #chauvet #long post #save #texts #art

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

libera nos a malo chapter 9: At St Patrick’s Purgatory

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina Rated for Mature Audiences Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content Chapter 9/21

<< chapter 8+

chapter 10+ >>

libera nos a malo masterpost+

This was quickly becoming an adventure that Miranda had no intention of recounting to her pious mother. As she coaxed her boat, the patient Molly Brown, through the moonlit waters of Lough Derg, intent on excavation and theft, she was almost ashamed of herself. If her mother ever found out that she’d come to the holy site on Station Island as little better than a cat burglar, she wasn’t sure she would ever live down the shame of having disappointed Monica Rose so severely.

The bitter night wind whipped through her cloak, and she pulled the traveling blanket more closely around her shivering body, pushing all questions of morality aside for another day. She’d been hired to do a job. She’d see it through to the end���and let the priest sort it out in confession for her later.

“No perfume tonight, Topolina?” Dante Sanguini asked. The pale moonlight made his face shine with an unearthly glow, and his constant shifting in his seat bespoke his discomfort on the water.

“Not while I’m working.” Miranda’s attention was divided between her companion and keeping the little boat upright with all his squirming. “I don’t guess you could hold still until we get to the island, could you?”

“Over this lake? No. And if I liked you less I would not have agreed to pass over this cursed water in the first place. Let alone twice in one evening.”

“Sorry about that. But I think you’ll find that I kept that difficulty in mind when I set your fee for tonight.”

“Si, you were more than generous. But I will be happy to leave this place behind.”

“Agreed.”

The water was choppy, and by the time she landed the boat ashore, even her usually stalwart stomach was queasy. Dante stumbled as his feet hit dry land, and he shuddered visibly, apparently as uncomfortable on the island as he’d been on the water. Miranda flattened and folded the boat as quickly as her numb fingers would allow, and by the time she had it stowed in a tunic pocket, the vampire had recovered himself.

She braced her feet on the frozen ground to cast her disillusionment charm. An unpleasant, fuzzy feeling began in her toes and crept up her spine, where it settled at the base of her skull. It was disorienting to be unable to see her arms or legs as the charm caused her body to effectively disappear, but invisibility cloaks were as expensive as they were unreliable.

“May we proceed?” Dante asked impatiently, his voice emitting from a shapeless fog that hovered around her.

“Let’s get this over with,” Miranda replied.

In spite of the wind, there was a silence covering the island that felt accusatory to Miranda’s guilty conscience. As she trod over the dead grass, the soles of her feet pricked inside her boots. Over the tops of the barren trees, the cloister and the church gleamed in the moonlight; their modern renovations a sharp contrast to the feel of the ancient earth on which they stood. The arched sign emblazoned with St Patrick’s Purgatory reminded Miranda more of the entrance to a theme park than a hell-mouth. As they went under the sign, the stinging in her feet became impossible to ignore. Acting on some impulse she did not understand, she paused beneath the arch and pulled off her boots and socks. The earth froze to her skin, but at least the damned pricking stopped as she spread out her bare toes in the frosty dirt.

“What are you doing?” the vampiric fog demanded softly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

She could sense Dante’s disapproval, but they did not waste time arguing. As they moved over the well-kept path, she stuffed her boots into her knapsack. The lake lashed at the shore behind them, and even though she knew they were invisible to any mortal inhabitants, she could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Soon her feet were numb, but she could not bring herself to put her boots back on, as though her pain might make up for some of her sacrilegious intentions.

As they drew closer to the interior of the island, the lurking church and the surrounding trees blocked some of the wind. Miranda trotted silently over the path towards the curved labyrinth that was their destination. The vampiric fog kept pace with her easily, pricking her skin where it brushed her, even under the cover of the disillusionment charm. When they reached the edge of the maze, the fog solidified, Dante’s polished shoes crunching the brittle gravel into dust. Miranda released her charm, shaking off the magical invisibility and numbness as they darted through the twisting path towards its heart.

“Do you feel any better?” Miranda asked.

“No. Worse,” Dante replied.

They reached the center of the maze, and Miranda took the compass that Octavius Pepper had given her from her pocket. It was made of heavy brass, and etched with markings she’d been unable to decipher in the short amount of time it had been in her possession. Its arrow started to swing back and forth, moving languidly but showing no indication of settling anywhere. While they waited, Dante scuffed his shoe in the gravel, and his lip curled to reveal a single, pointed canine.

“Well?” he prompted.

Miranda opened her mouth to tell him to relax when the ground split open. Cursing, she reached blindly for Dante as she clung to the compass, even as the metal began to burn her hand. One of the vampire’s sinewy arms wrapped around her waist, hauling her roughly against his wiry frame. She put her arms around his neck, and though the rubble crashed over them, they glided slowly down into the darkness. The memory of the cave under the One Wood Church and its vengeful Spirit was at the fore of her mind, taunting her with its horrors. She buried her face in Dante’s shoulder and forced herself to breathe.

They landed lightly on a rocky floor. The moonlight filtered down through the gravel and dust that had been kicked up by the cave in, sickly and obscured by the depths. A tremor went through Miranda’s body as she realized how deep they must be, but she was determined to keep control of her mind tonight. Dante pressed his cool lips to her temple, and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before releasing her. She dusted herself off quickly, and pulled her wand from her sleeve.

“Lumos,” she cast.

Dante hissed and flinched back from the light. “Must you?”

“We can’t all see in the dark like you.”

“Figlio di puttana,” he muttered.

“What was that?” she asked archly as she watched the wildly spinning needle of the compass.

“I said, which way do we go now?”

“I’m working on it.” The needle stopped all at once, pointing into the darkness. Miranda lifted her wand to see a narrow cleft in the rock, barely wide enough for them to pass through. “Fuck. Why do I keep taking these underground gigs?”

He laughed and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as though they were going for a stroll in the park. “For the money. And the company.”

His good humor was contagious in spite of her discomfort with the enclosed space and the gravely dirt that cut into the soles of her feet. “Excellent points. Tell me one of your yarns so that I won’t think about being trapped in this pit for all eternity.”

“Nothing would please me more. Have I told you about the first time I was in France?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Excellent.” Dante let go of her arm to enter the passage before her, but his calm, melodious voice betrayed no concern about the danger inherent in their current situation. “It was in 1389. I remember, because it was the year I turned fourteen, and we were escorting La Contessa Valentina Visconti to finally be wed to Louis de Valois. She was as kind as she was beautiful, and whatever part of my heart that was not full of my path to knighthood was full of her.”

“You rogue. Did you steal her from Louis?”

“No. Everyone loved Louis, especially Valentina. It was enough to love them both from a distance, and to serve them. Life in Melun was good for a long time. I learned to ride, to fight, to write poetry, and to make love to the ladies of the court. I was quick at my studies and unimportant enough that I could slip away to explore on my own.”

“That sounds ideal.” The blue light from her wand cast dancing shadows on the wall, and there was a dread curling in the corner of her mind that one of those shadows would turn into a cat like the Spirit of the Mine. She pushed it down the best she could and listened to Dante’s voice. “Then what happened?”

“I saw battle and earned my knighthood five years later, in the year that Charles was born. I also met two men who were to change the course of my life, each in his own way.”

“Who were they?”

“One was a minstrel, a servant of Louis. His name was Herbelin, and I could have listened to him sing forever. We met in secret of course, but I was good at keeping secrets, even then. And it was amusing to watch the ladies swooning over his dark curls and merry laugh, knowing who it was he moaned for when there was none but the moon to see.”

“How delicious. And the other?”

“Was Nicolas Flamel, and of course his good wife Perenelle.”

“The man who made the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“The very one. A knight off the battlefield is little more than an errand boy, and there were many messages and manuscripts that flew back and forth between Nicolas and the royalty of France.”

“Did you ever get to see the stone?”

“I did. In fact…Cazzo!”

Dante disappeared, and Miranda had not taken a full step before she fell into the dank pit after him. She flailed once, but when she could not find the vampire in the darkness, she changed tactics, gathering her magic to cushion her fall and relaxing her body to be ready to roll when she hit bottom. The impact with the dirt floor knocked the wind out of her, and she coughed as she rolled into a crouch. Nothing leapt out of the darkness to pounce on her, except for a courtly vampire who graciously helped her to her feet.

“Are you in one piece, Topolina?” he asked with a dashing smile.

“I’m fine.” She wiped the dirt out of her eyes, and her hand came away bloody. “Mostly fine. Do you want to take care of that?”

His eyes turned completely black, glowing with an unearthly fire. “Ho un debole per te.”

He ran his tongue over the wound on her forehead, a feral growl rumbling from his throat as he lapped at her blood. The gash tingled, healing under his Undead magic. A familiar thrill went down her spine as he nuzzled the side of her neck, grazing her flesh with the cold pressure of his lips, followed by a single, teasing canine. Guilt and desire tangled together inside her, and she stepped back a few paces to give herself space to breathe. She and Dante had been skirting the line of what even her flexible morality would call decent since they’d arrived in Ireland the night before, and angry as she was with Severus, she still wasn’t certain she wanted to cross it.

“We should keep going. There’s no telling what all is down here,” she said.

He extended his canines to their full length, and lisped like an actor in a melodrama, “I think you know exactly what is down here. Children of the night. My friends.”

As if in answer, a swarm of bats swooped down from the ceiling, chittering as they buzzed their new companions. Miranda ducked as they passed close to her head, hoping they would not tangle themselves in her hair, while Dante lifted his arms, welcoming his familiars. The bats danced around the vampire until Miranda started to laugh, and then flew off into the darkness beyond.

“Va bene, there is the smile I like to see,” Dante said.

“It’s good to have something to smile about,” Miranda admitted, turning her attention back to the compass. The arrow was pointing firmly in the direction the bats had taken. “It looks like your friends know the way.”

“As they should. Andiamo.”

The path was rough with brittle rock that crunched and snapped under them as they followed its twisting progress. Miranda knew without looking that her feet would be bruised and bloodied when they made it back to the surface, but some instinctive part of her brain insisted that she continue as she was. The longer they walked, the rougher the terrain became, snaking upwards at a sharp incline. Pacing her breathing became more difficult, and her fears were ever at the edge of her consciousness, tempting her to panic.

“I think you were telling me about the Philosopher’s Stone?” she panted when the imaginings became too much to bear.

“Allora, the stone. I only saw it once, when I was assisting Nicolas and Perenelle with their travel preparations. There were many who would have liked to claim the stone for themselves, and it required both an Obscuro and to be tucked into Perenelle’s petticoats in order for them to slip away with it.”

“Where were they going in such a rush?”

“It was not the where that was the trouble, it was the who. Madama Bonne had a taste for the stone, and she was less than pleased when she was unable to put her hands on it.”

Miranda had met Bonne de Valois once. It had not been a pleasant experience. “I can imagine. How is madama these days?”

He laughed. “I would steer clear of Italy for another decade or so, were I in your shoes.”

“Thanks for the warning. What happened to Herbelin? Did he become a vampire too?”

“No. He did not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not as sorry as I was. But I should go back to Louis. He was the beginning of the end.”

All at once they found themselves in a tiny room of packed dirt, the ceiling of which was so low that both of them had to stoop. A flickering green flame coming from an unknown source lit the space, revealing a mattress of rotting straw, a decaying bowl and spoon on a sagging shelf, and little else. The walls were painted with faded pictures in the ancient Celtic style, and between the crosses and saints were letters spelling out texts too worn to read.

“This is the place,” Miranda said, sliding the compass into a pocket.

Dante’s canines were showing. “I was afraid of that.”

“We’d better work fast.”

She chanted the incantation that Mr Pepper had drilled into her a few days earlier, singing through its chromatic tones in a clear, silvery voice. A white light burst out of the tip of her wand, wrapped itself around the straw mattress, and lifted it off the floor. Another light joined the first, piercing the floor under the mattress until a thin crack appeared. Dante flexed his fingers as they stretched into evil looking claws, and crouched over the crack in the floor to dig into the dry dirt. Miranda’s body flashed hot and cold as she struggled to keep the bed aloft, sweat rolling down her face and neck. The green light began to spin, causing her stomach to lurch. A buzzing chatter droned in the room, and she felt fingers curling around her ankles. She looked down in horror, but saw nothing. Then she blinked, and saw the gnarled hands pulling on her legs; but when she blinked again—there was nothing.

She fought down the urge to scream as Dante jerked a heavy length of rusted chain from the hole he’d dug. He stumbled backwards, grunting as he landed on his backside. Miranda waved a shaking hand, sending a spell to push the dirt back into the hole, then she lowered the bed with a thunk. Still trembling, she opened her bag for Dante to shove the chain into. His teeth were bared with the effort, a red-tinted sweat covered his brow, and his hands look like they’d been burned.

“Are you alright?” Miranda asked as she closed the bag tightly around the chain.

“Never better,” he snarled.

“Are you going to need a drink before we go back over the water?”

He his eyes flashed with a black, hungry fire. “I appreciate the offer, but if I were to start drinking from you now I doubt I would be able to stop. The sooner we get off this island, the better.”

“No shit.”

Miranda took out the compass, stamping her feet in an attempt to shake off the feeling of ghostly fingers. The needle started spinning again, and showed no signs of stopping.

“You don’t think we have to go all the way back down, do we?” she asked.

“We are close to the surface now,” Dante replied. “I can dig us out if need be.”

She paced towards the far wall, unable to remain still any longer. A spiral drawn in a dull red caught her attention, undulating in the flickering light. She traced a careless finger over it, and the spectral flames engulfed her. A scream welled up in her throat, but when she opened her mouth she could only choke on the sulfurous smoke. Hands grabbed at her ankles and wrists; and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And then there was darkness.

*****

Miranda’s body was terribly sore when she opened her eyes again. She was lying on a narrow bed with clean, coarse sheets and a warm, quilted blanket; and she could feel that someone had taken the trouble to wrap her feet in bandages. The small room was plain, with a crucifix on the facing wall and a little window letting in bright, welcome sunlight. A desk with a lamp and chair completed the space, and her arsenal of pistol, knife, and wand was laid out neatly on top of the desk. Her knapsack sat safely beside the bed, apparently untouched. Wincing, she pushed herself up, meaning to check the bag for their night’s work, when the door to the room opened.

A man in a rough brown robe and worn sandals entered. His curly brown hair was tinged with gray, and his lined face wore a friendly smile. She guessed he was about her father’s age, and his green eyes were bright and kind. He carried a tray set with a teapot and cup, brown bread, and a steaming bowl of soup. Her mouth started to water and her stomach to growl at the homey aroma.

“Good morning, lass,” he said, placing the tray on her lap. “Welcome to Station Island. I think you’ve had quite a time of it.”

She gave him a bland smile. “Good morning, Father. It was about what I expected it to be.”

“I’m no priest, only a simple friar. Brother Ronan, at your service.”

“Thank you.”

Brother Ronan turned to pull the chair out from the desk and bring it to her bedside. While he was busy with his task, she quickly cast a silent revelio venenum, musing that she’d been spending so much time with Severus his habits were rubbing off on her. Her instincts told her that Brother Ronan was trustworthy enough, but his casual acceptance of her magical artifacts—along with her missing vampire—were enough to give her pause.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said between grateful bites of the hearty soup. “I’m Miranda Rose.”

“Rose you say? You aren’t from County Cork by chance, are you?” he asked as he sat down in the chair to keep her company while she ate.

“Originally, yes. But my line of the family has been in America for four generations now.”

“America? I was there once. It’s a fine country. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I’d not be sorry to visit again someday.”

His easy manner prompted her to be more direct.

“May I ask you how I came to be…wherever it is we are?” she asked.

“This is the pilgrim’s dormitory. I found you and your friend on my way in from Matins. There aren’t many of us here in the off months, but we like to say the hours together in the main church even so.”

“What happened to my friend?”

“I thought it best to give him a room in the basement.”

She raised her eyebrows, but kept her tone even, wondering if she was going to have to Obliviate the friendly friar. “Are you a wizard, Brother Ronan?”

He laughed as though she’d told a fine joke. “Me? No, not at all. But your friend is not the first vampire I’ve seen in my life, nor are you the first witch. He helped me bring you here, and I gave him a bottle of the sort of drink he needs, and a room in the cellar for the day. It was too close to dawn to risk taking you both off the island.”

“Why are you helping us?”

“It’s my duty to help those who need it. I suggest you eat and rest as much as you can for now.”

“Will we be allowed to leave tonight?”

“You’re not a prisoner, Miss Rose. You and your friend may leave at any time.”

His kindness prompted a new wave of guilt, but she carefully concealed her shame.

“Thank you Brother Ronan. We appreciate your help.”

“I’m glad I was here to give it. Is this your first time to Station Island?”

“It is. My first time to Ireland at all, actually.”

His voice took on a note of pride like a fond parent. “You should come back in the summer. Everything is green and you could do the actual pilgrimage then. I suspect you’re hearty enough.”

“The pilgrimage?”

“Three days of fasting and prayer, and the pilgrims visit all the old hermitages of the saints.”

“That sounds grueling.”

“It is. But people come by the thousands to do it. Have since the old days.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She finished her tray, and Brother Ronan took it, wishing her a good day on his way out. She forced herself to wait to a count of fifty before opening her bag, where she found the rusted chains lying, unharmed. After she’d resealed the sack and warded the door for good measure, she slept again. Her dreams were strange and troublesome, but she could not remember them when she awoke later that afternoon.

Gathering her wand, she went down the hall in search of the loo, taking advantage of the communal showers when she found it. She managed to heal the scrapes on her feet with a few quick spells, and the hot water did wonders for the aches in her muscles. A quick Scourgify made her clothes once again fit for company, and she padded back to her room, refreshed.

Her fingers itched for a cigarette, but she decided she would rather find Dante before indulging in a smoke. After pulling on her boots, she gathered her things from the desk, made her bed, and left a generous tithe in Irish pounds on top of the pillow. The empty dormitory was as simple as her room had been, decorated with candles, crucifixes, and saints painted in the Celtic style. When she reached the cellar, she cast another revelio, which illuminated a door at the end of the hall in a faint blue light. She knew better than to startle Dante when he was sleeping, and she let her feet fall heavily on the floor as she approached. When she reached the door she rapped on it sharply.

“Come in,” came Dante’s voice from within.

The windowless cell was in total darkness, though she could feel Dante’s eyes on her. He flicked on the desk lamp in deference to her mortal vision as she closed the door. An empty bottle and a bloodstained cup sat on the desk near the lamp. Dante was lounging on the bed like a lazy cat, apparently none the worse for wear after their mishap. His clothes and person were clean, and the burn marks on his hands were gone. He rose as she came into the room, putting his hands on her shoulders when they met.

“You are well?” he asked earnestly. “When the hell-mouth overwhelmed you I feared you would be more permanently injured.

“I feel alright,” she replied, shivering at his touch. “A little sore, but alright. What happened?”

He was running the fingers of one hand up the side of her neck, and his eyes were turning black with vampiric lust. “You didn’t expect the chains to go without a struggle did you? Generally hell-mouths dislike being robbed.”

“That’s why they pay me the big money.”

“I’ve always admired your durability.”

His hand tightened on the back of her head, and he crashed his cold lips into hers. She returned his kiss with guilty fury, her body thrilling with the way that his lips turned from ice to fire as they absorbed her warmth. The tingling chill from his touch crept over her skin, causing her to tremble, and she clung to his shirt as he seared a trail of savage kisses down to her neck, where her pulse was beating wildly.

“Does your offer of a drink still stand, Bellissima?” he purred.

“Yes,” she gasped before she could think better of it.

There was a pair of sharp pricks, and then a heady rush of ecstasy as he drank from her. It was as intoxicating as she remembered it—but even as her body sang with pleasure, it was Severus’s name on the tip of her tongue, Severus’s arms she wanted to be holding her, Severus’s lips she craved on her skin.

Dante, ever the gentleman, brought her down carefully, ending the vampiric kiss and healing the wounds on her throat with his agile tongue. Her mental protections were useless against Legilimency of the blood, and she had no doubt that the vampire was well aware of the man whose name was lodged in her heart. He guided her to sit on the bed, and rummaged in her knapsack until he procured a bottle of Blood Replenisher, the contents of which he tipped into her mouth. She nearly choked at the taste of the elderflower and lemon—Severus had created this variant of the potion to suit her personally, and his care for her was yet another lash of guilt.

When she’d gotten it down, she sagged against the wall, wishing she could cry that she might gain some relief from the feelings balled up in her chest. Dante pulled out a pair of cigarettes for the two of them, lighting them with the touch of an elegant finger.

“Perhaps it is time for you to tell me about Severus,” he said wryly after they’d both taken a bracing drag.

She let out a dry laugh. “What can I say? He’s an ass. He’s good at chess, potions, and dark magic. He likes to read and has a voice like sin.”

“No wonder you like him. What’s the problem then?”

“The problem is he’s sunk so deep in the war that’s coming that it’d take a miracle for him to come through it alive. I don’t think I can stand to lose someone like that. Not after David and Isaac.”

“The war is already here. Why don’t you convince him to run?”

She shook her head. “No. I think leaving would kill him, or at least his spirit. He has to see this thing through to the end.”

“That’s a shame. You might have wished for a more sensible partner.”

“I might have wished for a lot of things. I’m sorry to disappoint  you.”

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. “No, Topolina. No apologies are necessary between us. Allora, I was telling you about Louis.”

She was grateful for the change of subject. “Yes. Please finish the story.”

“Louis came to a bitter end,” he said, a sad smile spreading over his shapely lips. “His enemies in the Burgundian court sent assassins after him, attacking him in the middle of the street one November night. Valentina never recovered. She died of a broken heart not a year afterwards. Herbelin and I stayed with young Charles, intent on helping the boy regain some order and beauty in his court. And we were successful, for a time, until a fever took my Herbelin from me.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”

“Life was bitter to me then, but I feared death too much to seek it from my own hands. And as Charles started to play at war, I believed that my time would come soon enough. I thought that it had after the battle at Agincourt. But there are scavengers on a battlefield, and one of them found me.”

“Was he the one who made you a vampire?”

“Yes, but not, I think, on purpose. As he drained me, I latched onto his wrist, biting him in my frenzy. He left me for dead, but enough of his blood had entered my veins for me to rise again.”

“Fuck. What did you do?”

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Just what you’d expect. I wandered the countryside in a rage until I found my way to Nicolas’s door. I might have killed him, and Perenelle too. But he tucked a bunch of mistletoe behind my ear, and it brought me back to my senses long enough for him to take me to Madama Bonne.”

“I wish he’d led you to a better Mistress.”

He shrugged. “There are worse, believe me.”

There was a light knocking at the door, and Miranda and Dante vanished their cigarettes before opening it to admit Brother Ronan. If the friar was at all surprised to find them together, he did not show it, for which Miranda was grateful.

“The sun’s down,” Brother Ronan said briskly as he handed each of them a dark bottle. “Best if we get the both of you on your way before anyone starts asking questions.”

“Thank you for your help,” Miranda replied. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, lass. But if you’ll remember me in your prayers now and then I’d be grateful to you.”

“That I can promise you.”

He led them through a winding hallway that opened at last near the shore. The wind was quiet tonight, and the lake was like a mirror of black glass. Miranda pulled the Molly Brown from her pocket and murmured the spell to make her seaworthy. Brother Ronan whistled appreciatively.

“That’s a nice bit of magic,” the friar said.

“I’m fond of it myself,” Miranda replied.

“And if I never saw a boat again, it would be too soon,” Dante laughed.

Brother Ronan held the boat steady while the witch and the vampire climbed into it. When they were ready, he gave it a firm push, and his sandaled feet splashed into the lake as the boat began to cut through dark waters.

“God bless you both!” he called, giving them a final wave before turning and hurrying back towards the church and his brothers.

“As if I didn’t feel guilty enough,” Miranda sighed.

“You must learn to overcome such frailty,” Dante chided, opening his bottle and drinking deeply of its contents.

“You’re probably right.”

Miranda tugged the cork from her bottle and gulped down the cold water inside, parched from the effects of the Blood Replenisher. They were quiet for a time as the Molly Brown made quick progress over the calm lake. Every inch away from Station Island was bringing her home to the problems she’d left behind, and she felt no closer to solving them.

“Did you ever love anyone after Herbelin?” she asked suddenly.

The vampire gazed up at the clear, star-filled sky. “Oh. Many times, Topolina. Some I have left. Some have left me. Some I have laid in the grave.”

“But how can you stand it? Or does it stop hurting after the tenth or the twentieth or the hundredth time?”

He took her hands and his, and the expression on his face made her wonder if he knew her heart better than she did herself.

“It always hurts,” he said. “Every time.”

“But is it worth it?” she persisted.

His dark eyes were wise in his youthful face, and they sparked with a mirth that all his centuries of loss could not dim

“Yes,” he replied. “Every time.”

*****

Station Island is the location of St Patrick’s Purgatory, which has been a pilgrimage site from the middle ages. It is also supposedly and entrance to Purgatory or Hell, depending on the legend. The pilgrimage is as grueling as Brother Ronan describes, and continues to this day. It is performed barefoot, which is why I have the magic of the place prompting Miranda to take of her boots and socks in this chapter.

The adventure of the One Wood Church and the Spirit of the Mine is told in chapter 24 of Moonlight: The Tale of the Three Miners.

Dante is telling Miranda the brief history of Louis, duc d’Orléans (1372-1407) , and his wife Valentine of Milan (1371-1408). Their son Charles, duc d’Orléans (1394-1465) is the author of the Valentine’s Day poem that Severus was musing over back in chapter seven.

Matins is one of the hours of prayer, traditionally said in the middle of the night. It’s the longest of the hours.

Figlio di puttana: Son of a bitch (Dante is cursing at the light, not Miranda) Cazzo: Fuck Ho un debole per te: I’m weak for you Va bene: Good, okay, alright Andiamo: Let’s go Bellissima: Gorgeous Allora: So, then, well

*****

<< chapter 8+

chapter 10+ >>

libera nos a malo masterpost+

#pro snape #ocappreciation #snape x oc #severus snape fanfiction #inmyownlittlecorner5

[imagine-darksiders]

Algeō

Chapter 3 - Separation Anxiety

Algeō - ‘I am cold.’              ‘I am neglected (left in the cold).’

Tags - Darksiders, Darksiders 2, Monster x reader, Terato, human/monster relationship, female reader, ghost, spectre, possessiveness, lonely reaper.

-------

Since the very dawn of time, humanity has discovered that there is an inexhaustible list of things to be afraid of.

Some are terrified of the dark. Some find being in enclosed spaces unbearable whereas many have an understandable fear of the hidden things that lurk in the deep recesses of the ocean.

There is, however, one thing that ties together almost every human on Earth.

It is an instinct, a primal, learned behaviour passed down through thousands of generations. It is the collective fear that almost every human being possesses. It is the fear of death.

The concept rather than the act of dying itself is what haunts mankind’s waking nightmares and you would be lying if you said the very prospect of nonexistence hasn't sent a shiver through your body at some point in your short, little life. Such a fear is as rational as it is inescapable, as you're finding out now.

Your fingers tremble around the cold, brass doorknob that presses into your back as you stand, frozen in place, too wary to take your eyes off the hovering spectre even for a moment. Just like you, the rest of the house remains perfectly still, the very air itself seeming to hold its breath whilst you and the monster of Shadowbrook face one another, neither of you daring to make the first move for fear of setting the other off.

The only indication that time is passing by comes from the rays of evening light that seep through cracks in the building's walls and glint off each little shard of crystalline glass scattered about at your feet.

Back still planted firmly against the front door – your one and only escape route – you finally find the willpower to lick your chapped lips, wondering if they were already dry before the giant ghost had scrawled its name in the dusty floorboards.

Numbly, your wide eyes slide down its deep, indigo robes to the ground. Even in the fading light, you can make out the clumsy letters that spell out one of humanity's most deeply rooted fears.

'D E A T H.'

No matter how much you try to swallow it back down, anxiety rises steadily from the pit of your stomach to the back of your throat, all the while unbeknownst to you, the monster is having a similar reaction.

It isn't stupid. It saw how you backed away from it and up to the door the second you registered the significance behind its name. You connected the dots, your eyes bursting with startled clarity and it had to watch as you took in its skeletal features and tattered hood and felt the eerie cold seep into your bones. It was helpless to stop you from drawing the conclusion it knew you would reach after learning who's presence you were in. That was why it was reluctant. That was why it didn't want to tell you. Because it can't bear the clenching of your jaw, the elbows you press into your sides and the horror that sweeps across your face. There isn't a human it's met so far that hasn't been terrified to find themselves staring up at the Grim Reaper.

Fear, it supposes, is a suitable response.

Yet the fear rolling off you in waves and choking up the atmosphere stings worse than the others had.

Its glowing eyes focus on the subtle movement of your hand, the one hidden behind your back and quivering so much that the rusty old handle rattles audibly. You flinch as the creature's wings droop dejectedly.

'Hypocrite,' a tiny voice in your head reprimands, recalling how only minutes ago, you'd wondered how anyone could possibly fear this bizarre but gentle creature. You had even told it you wouldn't be afraid of its name.

But then....it isn't the name itself that frightens you. Rather, it is the knowledge of what you're currently cowering before that sends ice crawling up your spine. The knowledge that Death is no longer simply a state that waits for you once your time on earth runs out. Now, you know the truth.  Death is real. It lives in your university town. And it is far more than the dark notion you contemplate late at night when the weight of the world bears down on your weary shoulders.

Gulping, you do what you assume is natural for people to do when they face the Reaper. You wonder if it's your time.

It had to have heard the knob rattling, you realise, judging by the way its skull bows and those brilliant pinpricks of light wink out and leave you staring up into black sockets once more. Unable to gauge whether it would be best to leave slowly so as not to provoke it, or make a mad dash for the front gate, you begin to twist the door knob.

The beast's fingers twitch and you hold your breath....but it doesn't move and the fact that it is no longer looking at you doesn't instil as much courage as you thought it would. Breath held prisoner in your lungs, you feel the latch click and, carefully, you pull the door open towards you a crack. Instantly, the frigid, night air bites at your exposed wrists and reminds you of the awful weather outside. When you left the university to come here, it had begun to snow. Now, judging by the wind howling in your ear and the chill that settles under your skin, things have taken a turn for the worse which perfectly reflects the situation inside Shadowbrook.

Heart doing a spot on impression of a sledgehammer, you pull the door out a little further until there's barely enough to fit your leg through. Having stared at the monster a little too long, you blink hard and let out a trembling exhale, shuffling one foot towards the gap.

The moment it notices you’re moving away from it, the beast looming overhead bursts into motion.

With a speed you hadn't expected, it hurls itself at the door and presses the flat of its enormous palm on the wood, slamming it shut and ultimately wrenching the knob from your hand. 

Startled, you bark out a shout of alarm and stagger away from it, boots squeaking noisily on the marble floor.

Almost as if it had anticipated the panic its movement would cause, the skeletal beast twists its neck around, skull snaking its way down towards you as an anxious croon wheezes out from behind its mandible.

You don't, or rather, you can't think straight, the echo of the door slamming still rings out through the manor's vast hallways and corridors and hangs in the air like a requiem bell, reminding you that you're sealed inside an old, decrepit house with a creature that doesn't seem keen on letting you leave.

As it had last night, claustrophobia rears its ugly head and all too desperately, your body decides it wants out.

Turning your back on the croaking skeleton, you grab your torch up from the floor and make for the questionably sound staircase at a sprint, leaping around the broken chandelier and proceeding to take the steps two at a time, driven by the adrenaline that pounds through your veins. Perhaps if you had stopped to think for a moment, you'd have remembered that despite its name and appearances, this 'Death' hasn't lifted a finger to hurt you. As it stands, such a recollection doesn't cross your mind as you run, too busy obeying that well-buried instinct that tells you you're being chased and compels you up the stairs and onto the landing. On the floor below you, the creature chitters its distress before following you up.

In no time at all, you can feel that chilled breath on your neck, hear the swish of its cloak right in your ear and a fresh burst of energy takes hold of you. Barrelling down the first, dark hallway to your left, you pay little mind to the moth-eaten, red carpet, nor the paintings hanging off the wall that stare impassively as you're pursued, safe as they are behind their canvases.

Suddenly, as if in answer to a prayer you hadn't even uttered, a doorway appears up ahead, gaping open invitingly. Following blind impulse, you angle your feet to the right and make a sharp turn, speeding through the opening at the last second. Something like logic reminds you to grab the edge of the oak door once inside and shove it with all your might just as the spectre glides to a stop and its skull appears in the gap. A shriek leaps out of you and you give the wood a final push and it thuds closed, the latch clicking securely into place. Still frantic, you fumblingly search for a lock but find the door is too ancient to have anything other than an empty keyhole that peers up at you innocently, oblivious to your plight.

It's all you can do not to trip over as you retreat, backing away from the door without taking your eyes off it until you hit the opposite wall next to a window and promptly slide down onto the floor, drawing your knees up and encasing them in trembling arms. You expect the door to come flying off its hinges at any moment as easily as the basement ones had. So it comes as a surprise when the seconds tick by and nothing happens.

Only a dull thud interrupts your ragged breathing and pulls a gasp from your lips. You squeeze your eyes shut, unaware that the sound wasn't made in an attempt to break into your sanctuary. It was simply the monster – Death – letting its forehead fall defeatedly against the wood, a bony hand braced on either side of it.

---

'No, NO, N̴͎̏Ȯ̵͓! Ṇ̶̼̱̗͌O̶̮̯͌́ͅ' It wants to wail but knows that doing so will only frighten you further. This prospect also prevents it from crashing into the room just to get to you.

Everything had been going so well! For the first time in its miserable, lonely existence, the monstrous form of Death had thought it did something right for once, something that made it deserving of a friend.  But no.  As usual, it had ruined everything. Once more its nose burns with the stench of your terror and it longs for your dazzling perfume instead. At least then it wouldn't be reminded of the monster it had been made into. 

Ashamed to admit it, even to itself, Death had panicked. The front door had opened and the prospect of losing sight of its only friend, especially so soon after seeing her again, had spurred it into slamming the door shut on her, keeping her stuck in here like....like...

'Oh, Creator...' The beast's eye sockets widen momentarily before they scrunch together and its forehead presses harder into the door, a hiss of air escaping from between its fangs.

It had trapped her in here, the very same thing those other humans had done out of malice and mischief. Of course...Of course she would be afraid of Death. It had behaved no better than her tormentors.

Mortified at the realisation, the Shadowbrook monster absently strokes its fingertips down the door its human has hidden behind and can't help but feel that being back at square one is the very least it deserves.

---

From your side, the light scratching on wood is far more sinister.

A shiver ripples through you and suddenly, you wish you hadn't discarded your hat and gloves so hastily because the room you've found yourself in is colder than death. You pause, and then your face twists into a grimace at the comparison.

Several more seconds tick by and during it all, you can still make out the faint, green glow of the spectre's lanterns creeping in underneath the door and every now and then, a muffled whine reaches your ears as well.

'What the Hell is it waiting for?' you wonder. It had seemed pretty intent on catching you earlier, so why suddenly give up the ghost? … Another grimace, preceded by a soft groan. ‘Well, no sense in just sitting here.’ Sniffling, you peel your head from your knees and hesitantly glance about, taking in your surroundings. You’re in a bedroom. And a rather garish one at that.

A worn, four poster bed sits against the wall to your left and what were once pink and orange, throw pillows are now coated a sooty grey thanks to the thick layer of dust clinging stubbornly to their surface. The rosey duvet meanwhile, has managed to retain most of its vibrancy, as if it has been well used, though you don't really dwell on this particular tidbit of information, distracted by the rest of the room. As with most of the house, there are also portraits hung up on each of the four walls, cold-faced aristocrats, gentlemen you don't recognise with rotund stomachs and bushy moustaches and several others that depict sour ladies, all dressed up in their finery. None of them have any semblance of a smile on their faces. Not that you can especially fault them, for you yourself are feeling pretty damn grim right about now and the cold certainly isn't helping to improve your mood. You take a moment to shoot a glare at the open window you've sat beside before turning back to continue your surveillance of the door. A slow beat passes and you glance at the window again.  The urge to smack yourself in the face arises. 

Sparing the door a wary look, you carefully inch your way onto your knees and stand up, teeth pushing harshly into your bottom lip. There's more than one way to escape Shadowbrook, it seems.

The fact that you're on the second floor doesn't occur to you until you're standing by the window, fingernails digging hard into the sill as you peer outside. The snow has come in force, and thanks to the relatively dry week Sculborough has had, it settles over everything like a thick, white blanket. For some reason, this sparks a thought and your mind finds itself wandering back to the blue, argyle blanket laying in the entrance hall. Gradually, your grip on the windowsill loosens. The blanket... 

Your head turns back to the door. It – Death – had given you the blanket to keep you warm in the basement. As if on cue, another gentle rattle slithers under the door, almost pleading in nature and you wince at the pang it sends through your chest. Still, you can't stay here forever, and from the way that giant, floating skeleton had kept you from walking out the door, you wager leaving is not something it wants you to do.

But why not? Before, you assumed it had just been a lonely, old ghost and got attached to the first person that wandered into its home. Now you know who it is, however, you aren't so sure.

As quietly as you can manage while wearing clunky wellington boots, you place one foot on the sill and grasp the frame's edges, mindful of the broken glass that sticks out like jagged teeth. 

It is Death. Does that mean it wants your soul?

Hoisting yourself up, you glance back, worried that the monster can hear how viciously your treacherous heart is thumping. Nothing emerges from the doorway though, and you soon pull yourself through until you're sitting on the outside of the windowsill, exposed to the cold wind that nips at your face and ears.

If the monster does want your soul, why not just....take it?

'Maybe it doesn't work like that,' you ponder, gulping down at the long drop below. ‘Jeezus, I’m gonna break my neck...’ Even the layer of fresh snow covering the ground will do very little to cushion your fall. 'Maybe it can't kill people directly, so it has to wait until an accident happens, or something like that.'

But then, why save you from the basement? It could have waited until you starved, or froze...

Wriggling your toes, you ease yourself forwards until you're balancing right on the edge, fingers moving to rub at your knees in an attempt to soothe your own nerves.

Suddenly, something catches your eye, a flash of skin beset by two, red dots blinking up at you from the juncture between your thumb and forefinger. Another memory surfaces; the memory of how distressed it became when you went into that crawlspace, as if it knew a snake would be down there, had even tried to pull you out before you were bitten and then, when you showed it the bite and told it you needed to seek medical attention, it helped you.

Sitting there on the window ledge, hair becoming damper and damper thanks to the heavy snowflakes, you feel your resolve begin to waver. Is it really so hard to believe that your first assumption about Death was the correct one, that the solitary resident of Shadowbrook is just...lonely? What reason has it given for you to fear it? Aside from its name and how it looks...

'Never judge a book by its cover.' One of the first morals you'd ever learned springs to mind and you snort, contemplating whether your younger self would be ashamed to learn that you'd forgotten this lesson so readily.

“What am I doing?” you murmur to yourself, staring down at the near-lethal drop that beckons you to tip forward, the call of the void. Heaving out a long, tired sigh, you throw your head back to watch the dark clouds roll by overhead, every one of them carrying the promise of a snowstorm. “I must be losing my mind.”

Right then and there, you decide that whatever awaits you back in that manor house, it has to be better than a drop that could either break your legs or spine, or both.

With little else you can think to do, you bend your leg up and place the heel of one boot up on the sill, attempting to shove yourself backwards through the window and into the bedroom again.

Unfortunately, the damp wood you're sitting on has other plans. As you push off with your heel, it suddenly slips and your leg goes flying out, the sudden jerk providing enough momentum to pull the rest of your body with it, and although you flail to grab hold of the ledge, you aren't quick enough to stop your backside from sliding off after your legs. A piercing scream jumps off your tongue as you start to fall only to jerk to an abrupt stop when the hood of your jacket snags itself on a rusty nail sticking out of the windowsill.

Just as you're about to thank whatever builder did such a shoddy job of hammering it in properly, you feel the nail shift, overburdened by the weight of an entire person tugging it down.

Too afraid to spin around and grasp the ledge lest any movement hasten your inevitable fall, you can only dangle helplessly in the air.

If you weren't so busy gulping down past your feet at the long drop, you'd have heard the immense crash and splintering of wood, followed by a frantic howl from somewhere overhead. And then, all too soon, the nail finally releases its measly grip on the sill and once again, you're plummeting towards the hard, frosty ground.

There isn’t even any time to scream as gravity takes over and your stomach whacks into your sternum. 

Eyes clamping shut, you await what’s sure to be an excruciating impact. 

Rather than feeling your knees shatter out from underneath you however, your entire body suddenly lurches to a jarring halt as the jacket is pulled taut around your neck again to the point where you're certain you're about to choke, the metal zipper pressing sharply into the underside of your chin.

The fact that you aren't actually hurt slowly sinks in and for a few seconds, you just sway back and forth in mid air before finding the nerve to peel your eyes open and look down, seeing that the ground still hasn't risen up to meet you.

Confused but not entirely ungrateful for the momentary pause in your descent, you crane your neck back to look up, fully expecting to see yourself hooked on yet another loose nail. Instead, your eyes land on familiar, bleached-white knuckles and you suck in a sharp gasp, realising that the monster's long appendages have curled themselves around the collar of your jacket and hold you suspended in a vice-like grip.

“Death!?” you squeak, incredulous, receiving a throaty rumble in return. Only the creature's sinewy arm is visible from the shoulder down, the rest of it too large to stuff itself through the window. It bursts out a series of fast, nonsensical clicks from inside the room and the urgency behind them prompts you to haltingly reply, “Yeah! Yeah, I'm okay!” although you have little to no idea what message it was trying to convey. Still, your response seems to have settled the monster somewhat, as not a second later, it begins to retrieve its arm and lifts you along with it, up towards the open window whilst you hang uselessly from its iron grasp.

Back in the old bedroom, Death could not be more agitated if it possibly tried.

Both wings are still flared out above its back, spinal vertebrae quivering and pupils flashing bright before going dim again as it tries to wrestle with a roaring spike of protective fury that rings throughout its skull. Its ribcage heaves, expanding and contracting underneath the heavy cloak but as it pulls you level with its head and sees for itself the shivering, bleary-eyed but very much alive human hanging from its fingers, it sags with visibly relief, although the eye sockets remain open wide as it lifts you carefully through the large window, mindful that it doesn't accidentally knock you against any glass shards sticking out of the frame.  Its friend had been hurt enough for one lifetime.

The thought strikes a possessive chord in the monster and the moment you're clear of the window, it curls its free hand around your torso, releases your hood and presses you as hard as it dares against its shoulder, long neck bending around so it can nuzzle gently at the back of your head. You are its friend. You said so yourself.

You flinch at the sensation of the creature's rigid nose bone nudging at a spot behind your ear and stroking repeatedly up and down until your hair is thoroughly ruffled. Teeth chattering from more than just the cold and the fall, you make a tiny noise of protest, pushing against its shoulder and thankfully, it obliges your quiet request, drawing you away as it swivels around to the four poster bed, one of its wing bones almost knocking over a picture on a nearby dresser.

As you gape up at the face of Death itself, a modicum of fear creeps back into your heart. This time however, you stubbornly knock it aside. Regardless of its namesake, Death has spared you from a nasty fall and - not for the first time - quite possibly saved your life. Ironic and bewildering, yet it is the truth, and you can't help but feel you owe the grim haunt an apology.

Gently, as if it worried that putting you down too hard would cause you to shatter, the monster places you on the end of the bed, decades-old springs creaking loudly in complaint.

When it pulls back and you can get a look at its face, you're surprised to see its eye sockets have dipped into an unmistakable scowl, an expression that has you shrinking back and ducking your head, thumbs twiddling anxiously in your lap. Willing yourself not to break eye contact, you try to find the right words to say. Suddenly though, Death's jaw opens a little and its features turn tender with a sigh, inexplicably spilling cold air out of its mouth and cooling a nervous sweat that glistens on your brow. Along with the weary exhale, its sockets slip shut until they're little more than black, horizontal lines indented into the skull. It fascinates you that something so rigid can also be so expressive.

Once again, its eyes flicker open and you find yourself held still underneath a bright, white gaze and moments later, the creature's tongue slithers out of its mouth to taste the air. “Sss...sccccaaa...,” it hisses, brows furrowing in obvious frustration that the word doesn't come as easily as it wants it to. Teeth snapping once, it tries again, “Scc-ccaaaareeed....”

Belatedly, you let out the breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding in and tremblingly reply, “Yeah, I-...I was scared.” At that, a hushed growl rattles the bed frame and the Shadowbrook monster shakes its skull from side to side. Before you can grow too worried about the haunting sound though, it tapers off into a low, croaking whine and Death raises a hand to its chest, fingers splaying purposefully over its bony sternum. This, it taps a few times and reiterates, “Scc..aa.aaareeed.”

Its meaning is indisputable and your face opens up with recognition.

“You were scared?” you whisper, the cold momentarily forgotten.  

Instead of a vocal response, the creature lowers its gaze to the floor and nods, seemingly embarrassed to have admitted such a thing.

“But...” Dumbfounded, you shift forwards on the bed to try and catch a glimpse of its shining eyes. “But why?”

A soft huff escapes Death's nose and it flicks its attention back up to you, simply croaking, “Fff..reeehhnd..” as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Understanding dawns and in place of the god-awful fear you'd been struck with minutes ago, a wave of sorrow and guilt washes through your stomach, settling there uncomfortably and refusing to budge.

“You were scared I’d get hurt?” 

It grumbles, slowly bobbing its head. 

“Because...I’m your friend?” 

This time, its nod is far more confident. 

“God, I feel like such a jerk,” you mumble, rubbing your eyelids with the pads of your fingers and prompting the skull looming over you to tilt sideways, unfamiliar with the modern colloquialism. “Ever since I came here, you've been nothing but nice to me...” Raising your head, you offer Death a lopsided grimace, not quite finding the will to smile. “You got me out of the basement, gave me that blanket because I was cold...And you really saved my bacon just now! I can't believe I was gonna jump out of that window to get away from you...”

The creature's shoulders droop at that and you have to quickly reassure it, waving your hands in the air, anything to stop the hurt rumble from bubbling up its throat. “Oh, no, no! Don't - It – It's alright! I'm not gonna do that again, I was wrong.” You trail off, brows furrowing. “I was wrong about you, and I'm.... I am so sorry.”

Death's pupils flash, uncertain if it had heard you correctly. Before it can issue a questioning warble however, it suddenly stiffens as one of your dainty, little hands reaches out and you cup its cheekbone in a warm palm, your thumb sweeping reverently along the cold, rough surface beneath its eye socket.

The touch is so unfamiliar, so strange and unexpected that for a moment, Death is struck dumb, completely at a loss. Seconds later, it realises why the action feels so foreign. This is the first, soft touch it has ever received; a somewhat sad revelation but true nonetheless. As you go to pull away, it clicks worriedly and chases after you, turning its skull to press even harder against your palm, eye sockets clenched tightly shut.

A little surprised, you let out a breathless chuckle and bring your other hand up to rub a few fingers along its solid jawline, drawing forth a shudder from the giant skeleton which travels from its wings down to the tips of its finger bones that rest on the bed to either side of you.

Seemingly unsatisfied with the minimal distance between you, the monster closes what little space remains and touches its forehead to yours, ignoring the way your hands fleetingly tense.

“Ssss....ssssss......” It's hiss tapers off into a huff and it tries again whilst you wait, staring straight into the darkness of its nasal passage. Eventually, it manages to form a broken yet recognisable word. “Sssst-aaa-yy?”

It isn't a demand, you recognise, more of a request. A plea.

Its sharp fingernails ghost possessively over your thighs and you gulp, wondering if you should indulge it at all. Would agreeing to stay for a while make it less inclined to try and keep you here? Resolving to cross that bridge when you get to it, you sigh and pull yourself up onto your knees, shuffling backwards to create a gap so you can peer sternly up into its eyes. Although Death appears troubled by the loss of your proximity and it  pursues you across the bed, it soon stops when you hold up a palm and tell it, “Wait,” with as much authority as you can muster. It still leaves you flabbergasted that a creature so much bigger, stronger and older than you will obey a tiny human if asked to. Having earned its attention, you tilt your chin up and fix it with a stern look. “If I stay for a few hours, you have to promise me something.”

There isn't even a beat of hesitation before it nods vigorously.

Steeling yourself, you go on, “I leave when I want to leave, and you don't try to stop me. Okay?”

Death hesitates, then twists its head around to stare pointedly out the window as it lets out a worried chitter.

“Hey, look at me.”

Frowning, it swivels its neck back around towards you, hoping you understood its reluctance.

“You're worried because of the snow?” you guess, getting an affirmative rumble from Death. “Well, don't be. I'll be perfectly fine. I get you're looking out for me but I do not need you to protect me from the weather, alright?”

Giving off a skeptical grunt, it nevertheless relents, skull bobbing a few times.

Happy enough with this, you finally drop your facade of mock courage and let your lips curl into a smile, albeit a shaky one. “So, you'll let me go if I want to?”

Once again, the beast falters, everything in it screaming that you're to be nearby at all times or terrible things are sure to befall you, the world is, after all, a cruel and dangerous place. Certainly no place for a speck of light such as yourself to be alone in. And yet....Inhaling these thoughts and trapping them deep in the back of its mind, Death reminds itself that you've been perfectly fine coping on your own without its interference up until now. Well, excepting the situation with the basement....

Torn, the creature realises you're still gazing up at it expectantly and it blinks, disarmed by your friendly, open features. Death pauses.

Friendly....

Friend....

If it still had lips, it would stuff its teeth into them and grimace. You are its friend. And although it hasn't had much practice with them, it knows that friends don't keep other friends trapped in decrepit, cold houses against their wills.

Perhaps, it thinks, if you aren't willing to stay with it indefinitely, you'll allow it to come with you. With this idea taking root firmly in its mind, the Shadowbrook monster chuffs, pleased with itself, then clacks its teeth together, nodding firmly and concisely. It almost trills when your face lights up with a toothy grin to rival its own permanent one. “Ok, great!” you chirp, hopping off the bed and brushing past the creature's robes, trotting for the door. “Come on, it's freezing in here. Let's go find that blanket, shall we?”

Watching you go, its skeletal features fall and its brow bones knit together as something nags at it, something that has gone unsaid. It floats after you and leans its skull down to nudge gently at the small of your back, its teeth bumping into your thighs at the same time.

Startled, you turn around to find Death withdrawing its head and peering down at you, hands fumbling awkwardly with one another and scratching at its knuckles, nervous behaviour if ever you'd seen it.

“Death?” you gulp, wondering if it had suddenly changed its mind about the deal. Your fear spikes as it drops its jaw open and a wordless hiss slips out. “What, uh...what is it, pal?”

“Sssss..ssrrr....Srrrr!...”

It winces, the effort of forcing a word up its throat without the use of a larynx proving oddly painful. However, it must say its piece and noticing your timid frown compels it to simply try harder.

“Ssssssrrrriiieeeee.. Soorriiee,” The sound comes out as little more than a pitiable wail.

Just as it tries to speak again, you surprise it by stepping closer and resting your hand on one of its rawboned knuckles. Snapping its jaw shut with a loud clack, Death attempts to swallow before remembering it physically can't, so it merely stares down at your tiny appendage, feeling the warmth under your skin bloom out and seep into its bones.

“I'm sorry too,” you whisper, “And, if you want, I’d like to get to know you a little better.” 

For a time, you and Death just regard each other whilst a strange connection begins to forge itself out of the ashes of a lonely house in the woods. You remain blissfully unaware of the bond being made, but Death...

Death feels it as strongly as it can feel your hand on its and in that old, derelict bedroom with the broken window and grimy walls, it knows it isn't alone anymore.

---

Hey guys, if you like my stuff, please consider supporting me on Kofi. 

I love the stuff I do and will of course continue to do it. A little act of kindness just does wonders for an artist’s motivation. <3 

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #darksiders au #Reaper form #Death #separation anxiety #reader #reader x death #terato #monster #ghost #fluff

[azdoine]

So let’s talk about them cherubs.

I think it’s no secret that Calliope and Caliborn have always been deeply gendered characters in Homestuck, but (beyond fanart and enthusiastic headcanons) I personally haven’t seen a lot of engagement with their characters on that level. The most comprehensive readings of Calliope and Caliborn that I’ve seen have always been through the lens of metatext (Calliope and Caliborn as fandom avatars) or religion (Calliope and Caliborn as Gnostic figures).

With that in mind, I want to talk about the ways in which Calliope and Caliborn are gendered in Homestuck, and offer my own amateur reading of Calliope as a trans allegory.

Full disclosure, I love the epilogues, but I won’t be engaging with them here -- I view them as extracanonical, which is to say, I’d like to talk about them and their own presentation of Calliope’s story in another post.

Also, it’s Homestuck, so, you know. Sex, death, violence, and bigotry under the cut:

If we’re to read Calliope as a trans allegory, then we don’t need to look very far for evidence, because the text is very straightforward in suggesting it.

Almost as soon as we meet Calliope in the flesh for the first time, we’re confronted with the bleak reality of her desire for a more feminine embodiment:

'Callie Ohpeee’ serves as an aspirational figure for Calliope on multiple levels. Most obviously, she’s a vehicle for Calliope’s self-insertion into the wider world of paradox space and the alpha timeline (i.e. her self-insertion into the story of Homestuck); Callie Ohpeee is able to freely and directly interact with the elements and characters of the story that Calliope adores, while Calliope cannot. Somewhat less obviously, Calliope’s trollsona also serves as a way for her to imagine herself in non-caliginous relationships (which she desires on some level, but she feels she has been denied by her biology).

However, Calliope’s trollsona isn’t just a vehicle for her relationships and engagement with other people. Calliope’s trollsona is also key to the way in which Calliope desires to relate to herself.

Calliope desires to be attractive and feminine for her own sake: she desires to be beautiful and pretty, and her trollsona serves as the vehicle by which she satisfies this desire.

Calliope’s trollsona is quite literally her idealized feminine self, and so her relaxing “solo cosplay” sessions bring nothing more to mind than a trans woman privately enjoying a feminine presentation in the closet, as many trans women have. Her costumery and face paint imply clothes and makeup, and Caliborn takes on the role of a patriarch or patriarchy that tries to control her.

Ultimately, though, Calliope’s embodiment desires are cosmically validated by the unfolding drama of paradox space. Calliope is tormented by the apparent fact that she isn’t and can’t be Callie Ohpeee, but nevertheless, she successfully inserts herself into the lives of the alpha kids and the unfolding of the alpha timeline, forms the kinds of relationships that she wants, and receives the regard that she wants. She dies and takes on the form of her trollsona in the dream bubbles, and even when she’s physically reborn as her cherub self, she’s still “Callie” to Roxy, a meaningful nickname that goes basically unspoken.

Pretty straightforward, right? A trans girl learns that she and her body aren’t unlovable, makes friends and forms bonds as her true self, and escapes the reach of the forces that once abused her.

FEARFUL SYMMETRY

Before we can close the door on a trans reading of Calliope, we also have to consider Calliope and Caliborn as a pair, and not least because the two of them literally share the same body. Fair warning, we’re only going to get more speculative (and more indulgent) going forward.

Calliope and Caliborn are presented, at least superficially, as absolute and dichotomous opposites. They are two spirits that cannot coexist at once within the same body; their respective attitudes and temperaments couldn’t be any more different, and they are, of course, Muse and Lord: quintessentially passive and quintessentially active.

However, Calliope and Caliborn aren’t so different as one might think. Despite Caliborn’s violent protestations to the contrary, they share key characterizing interests in the likes of shipping...

...and art:

Caliborn is infamous for his disgust and anger with the absurdity of paradox space (i.e. his anger with the text of Homestuck itself), but Calliope is easily provoked into displaying the exact same petulant frustration with the direction of the story and the unfolding of events around her.

Calliope and Caliborn are consistently unified within the text -- not as incompatible opposites, but as two sides of the same coin. In Complacency of the Learned, Calliope and Caliborn are personified in the singular, androgynous Calmasis. In his chess match with Calliope, Caliborn disguises his king as his queen, and vice versa, signifying a mutual transgression and inversion of gender; Caliborn steals Calliope’s hemotyping and typing quirk, just as alternate!Calliope does the same to him, in a mutual appropriation not just of quirk (i.e. voice and presentation), but of blood, or life. On the level of the body, Caliborn’s skin is inextricably marked by the green that signifies Calliope, and Calliope is inextricably marked by Caliborn’s skull: the deaths-head he would inflict upon all life (and a hyperrealization of the masculine or unfeminine bone structure that troubles many trans women).

Most significantly, Aranea indicates to us that Calliope and Caliborn actually began as one being, which then went on to fracture into a male and female aspect, striving with and against each other -- a creation myth for gender and sexuality itself, in the vein of Plato’s Symposium, Rabbinic lore on Adam and Eve, and (rather topically) Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

With their fundamental unity in mind, we can read Calliope and Caliborn not just as ‘brother and sister’, but rather as two identities, personas, or aspects of one person. This is why, for example, calling a cherub by one of their two names brings that personality to the surface -- because, on a literal or symbolic level, it constitutes the active validation of that personality and identity, and the abject denial of the other.

Does all of this suggest a bigender, genderfluid, or otherwise non-binary reading of Calliope and Caliborn? Maybe, but let’s keep going, first.

Aranea’s exposition tells us that even adult, mature, ‘binary’ cherubs are still figures of gender duality, inversion, and transgression. Mating cherubs take on the forms of dueling cosmic serpents -- the sex act occurs between two hyperreal phallic symbols, suggesting male homosexuality in specific and queerness more broadly. It was Calliope’s biological father who ultimately submitted to their biological mother, and thus it was Calliope’s biological father who laid their egg, while their biological mother was the one to fertilize it, revealing the separation of sexual anatomy and power relations from gender among cherubs.

The gender dualities, inversions, and transgressions at play can still exist within cherubs who are, by all accounts, decisively male or female in gender identity -- despite the lack of of any way to assign them a sex or gender from the outside. 

The dueling personalities within each young cherub are siblings to each other, but they are also different possible selves that the cosmically-transgender cherub might become as they grow to adulthood -- just as the dueling alternate selves of so many other characters can illuminate their own internal conflicts. In Homestuck, the inner life is always prone to manifest in the outer life, again and again.

I TRAGICALLY LOST A SISTER TO MURDER

Having established a reading of Calliope and Caliborn as two identities within one person -- as ‘Calmasis’ at odds with themself, containing multitudes and torn between them -- we can move on to look at the way Calliope and Caliborn relate to each other, and to gender, in order to get the bigger picture.

Caliborn introduces himself to us as undyingUmbrage, a username of largely straightforward meaning. His umbrage -- his anger, irritation, annoyance, or offense in the face of the world -- is neverending, everlasting, and eternal, and so too is his own life. Caliborn is immortal, allowing him to carry his rage forward forever.

If Caliborn’s username is simple, then Calliope’s is more sophisticated, which fits their characters. As uranianUmbra, her title invokes most obviously Uranus the planet and Urania the heavenly muse, but also the ‘uranian’, Karl Ulrichs’ antiquated title for gay men and trans women: those with an anima muliebris virili corpore inclusa, “a woman’s soul enclosed in a man’s body.” As the umbra, or darkest shadow, she invokes the Jungian shadow archetype, the suppressed, unconscious, or rejected aspect of the self.

As such, Calliope identifies and codes herself both as transfeminine and as Caliborn’s allegorical shadow archetype -- a part of himself that he can neither accept, acknowledge, or escape, perpetually haunting him. In-universe, Calliope names herself after Uranus’ topspin, and the ‘English’ of a cue-ball that it echoes -- thus, she implicitly identifies herself and the trans feminine uranian with the cue-ball that threatens Caliborn and Lord English. She symbolically establishes herself and the trans feminine as Caliborn’s only intrinsic vulnerabilities!

And on some level, Calliope tells us all of this! Because while Caliborn wants to destroy Calliope, she hopes to make him like her:

Calliope manifests a sincere investment in so many of the things that Caliborn orbits at a distance. Thus, to Caliborn, she represents a threat from within to his ability to maintain distance, because on some level, she serves as a manifestation of his own desire to draw closer. She confronts him with the reality of his own desire, or at least, with the latent possibility of his own sincere investment -- she serves to remind him that anyone who can waste as much time on creating Homosuck as he does is both an invested creative and sincerely invested in Homestuck on some level.

And it’s much the same on the level of gender, too. Calliope serves as a sincere reflection of the gender identity that Caliborn can only orbit at a distance. It was, after all, Caliborn’s idea to swap the king and queen chess pieces, and to disguise them as each other. Calliope lashes out at him because he cannot do so earnestly: because Caliborn makes a shitty twist out of his insincere production, because he can’t commit to swapping the places of the king and queen, and because he abuses Calliope’s willingness to swap the pieces (because he abuses and misdirects her inclination to gender transgression, and by extension, betrays the premises of his own idea).

This is why Caliborn kills Calliope’s dreamself instead of predominating over her in the conventional way -- not just because it’s easier and more convenient for him, but because his predomination would mean “consuming” her personality and “integrating” with it. It would constitute an integration with his shadow archetype, and thus, on some level, a partial destruction of the persona and ego he has established for himself. To Caliborn, as pathological as he has become, any level of integration with Calliope represents an existential threat, and so he has to cut her out of himself like a cancer.

But even having cut Calliope out of himself, Caliborn cannot escape her. By cutting her out of himself, he has defined himself around the hole she has left in him -- he has permanently divorced himself of the opportunity to integrate with her or accept what she represents. While both Caliborn and alt!Calliope take up each other’s typing quirks as a sign of victory, Caliborn takes Calliope’s quirk as a way by which he can signal his ‘wholeness’:

And this is, of course, complete bullshit and posturing of the highest order. Andrew Hussie not only directly characterizes the conflict between Caliborn and Calliope as an inner conflict within him, but he also tells him that his only path to maturity and personal growth was through integration with Calliope.

Not to be denied, Caliborn continues to constantly assert the self-justifying completion and authority of his masculinity, for himself and for others...

...but even so, he still can’t help but betray himself and his own idealized masculinity:

Masc4masc, Caliborn certainly isn’t! In his creative endeavors, he telegraphs his ultimate disgust for masculinity. He needs to draw out the femininity he wants to see in men -- he acts out gruesome, hateful misogyny against women, but even as he murders so many of the women of his manga or otherwise ejects them from his story, he’s still compelled to recreate femininity and symbolically recreate womanhood within the male cast he has left behind.

And he’s not just motivated by homophobia and a disgust for men who are intimate with other men! Nor is he just motivated by a desire to place these feminized characters below him. Just as Calliope does sincerely with her Callie Ohpeee trollsona, Caliborn is compelled to feminize his own self-insert, the crude rendition of Lord English he creates for his own satisfaction. Given free reign to depict himself and insert himself into his story however he likes, Caliborn opts to turn away from the full thrust of hypermasculinity, and he makes himself beautiful and gorgeous.

And as soon as he does so, Caliborn’s repressed attraction to Calliope erupts again:

This isn’t just the matter of blackrom incest that the text superficially suggests; even on a purely textual level, due to the alien nature of their relationship, Caliborn only barely regards Calliope as a sister, and he certainly has no problem with objectifying and sexualizing all of the other women he hates.

No, Caliborn has to repress his attraction to Calliope because, given their shared form, his attraction to her as a woman necessarily constitutes an implicit recognition that he could be attractive as a woman, and his body could be attractive as a woman’s body.

Caliborn can never accept that, and he’ll never directly address it or engage with it. He’ll never think about what all of this means for him, or act on his idle fantasies. The time for turning back is well behind him.

He is, now and forever, exactly the kind of angry and disaffected chud who will never unplug from 4chan or stop masturbating to awful trap hentai. He has deliberately imprisoned himself within the teleology of his own self-confirming hegemonic masculinity, and he thinks it is glorious.

THE DEMON IS ALREADY HERE

To fully understand Caliborn, of course, we need to understand Lord English.

If Caliborn has imprisoned himself within his own assertions, then Lord English is the embodiment of those assertions, and Caliborn’s transformation into Lord English is his ultimate apotheosis: having murdered his shadow and excised her spirit from within himself, his transformation enables him to excise her from without. His ascension allows him not only to purge Calliope’s visage from his body, closing off the possibilities once implied and allowed by his youthful and androgynous form, but also to recreate, reconfirm, and relive his victory over Calliope at every turn.

To understand what I mean by that, let’s look at the characters and components who go into Lord English, starting with Equius.

Equius, is, of course, a long-form joke character about the pathetic contradictions of hegemonic masculinity. In his pesterlogs, he opens every line with blatantly phallic imagery...

But when he actually tries to handle said phallus in real life, his titanic strength prevents him from doing anything but destroying it:

And the same goes for one of his horns, which he has apparently broken off. The autocastration symbolism is not subtle, and about the mildest thing we can conclude is that he’s a chronic, addicted masturbator who has compromised his own sexual performance.

He’s also textually obsessed with upholding the racial hegemony of the Alternian civilization...

...but his obsession with hierarchy and dominance quickly collapses into a thin pretext for his barely-suppressed desire to submit to those who are higher than him on the hemospectrum...

...and to those who are lower than him!

Equius is a character intrinsically lined to the collapse and self-destruction of masculinity and male sexuality, which is topical enough that we might end there. However -- and there’s no nice way for me to say this -- we also need to establish that Equius is a necrophile and a sexual predator, too.

@mmmmalo and others have written intriguingly and at length about reading “blue beauties” as a cipher for “sexualized corpses” in Homestuck, but for Equius, it’s about as textual as it gets. Equius is explicitly sexually and romantically interested in Aradia even after her death, and his necrophillic attraction is only reinforced by the symbolism: he constructs an unliving replacement body for her, which parses most obviously as a symbolic embalming and restoration of her corpse, and he treats it like a love doll even as it’s uninhabited and lifeless. He seeks to literally transform her body into a “blue beauty” by the transfusion of his own blood, which (given the color-coding of troll body fluids) parses as a clear insemination joke about his genetic material.

We might excuse his attraction for various fantastic mitigating factors -- Aradia is, after all, still ‘alive’ in a kind of undead state -- but Equius’ more general sexual predation cannot be so easily ignored. Aradia is chronically depressed and in absolute need of the service that Equius can provide, which he uses to take advantage of her and to compromise her bodily autonomy and judgement with the device he covertly implants inside of her.

Equius is undeniably a sexual predator who constructs women’s bodies in order to further his own domination, and his own motif of sexual self-destruction and inversion puts the final dark twist on his story. He is brutally dominated by Gamzee, suffocated to death until his corpse is blue in the face, and ultimately prototyped together with AR. He finds a unique fulfillment as he becomes the object of his own desire, when he is transformed into his own cybernetic “blue beauty”.

It’s not hard for me as a trans woman to see certain tropes at play, but for those of us who aren’t up to date on foundational transmisogynistic screeds...

Today the Frankenstein phenomenon is omnipresent not only in religious myth, but in its offspring, phallocratic technology. The insane desire for power, the madness of boundary violation, is the mark of necrophiliacs who sense the lack of soul/spirit/life-loving principle with themselves and therefore try to invade and kill off all spirit, substituting conglomerates of corpses. This necrophilic invasion/elimination takes a variety of forms. Transsexualism is an example of male surgical siring which invades the female world with substitutes... The projected manufacture by men of artificial wombs, of cyborgs which will be part flesh, part robot, of clones – all are manifestations of phallocratic boundary violation. So also the behaviorism of B.F. Skinner and “physical control of the mind” through the use of implanted electrodes by such scientists as Delgado, are variations of monstrous male “motherhood”.

-Gyn/Ecology

Blanchard believes that autogynephilia is best conceived as misdirected heterosexuality. These men are heterosexual, but due to an error in the development of normal heterosexual preference, the erotic target (a woman) gets located on the inside (the self) rather than the outside...

Autogynephiles are men who have created their image of attractive women in their own bodies, an image that coexists with their original, male selves. The female self is a man-made creation. They visit the female image when they want to have sex, and some became so attached to the female image that they want it to become their one, true self...

-The Man Who Would Be Queen

But hey, does anyone else remember that time when ARquius got upset and envious because he couldn’t lactate like a mother would?

EXTREMELY SUBTLE.

As for Equius’ fusion with the AR, or Auto-Responder, we come to Dirk Strider.

Dirk Strider is, if anything, the furthest thing imaginable from the autoerotic subject that Equius presents: he is not so much attracted to another self as he is utterly repulsed by himself in his own totality.

Dirk Strider is a self-loathing, self-destructive, self-mutilating gay man, caught in the grips of a kind of hateful narcissism. He is not overtly trans-coded, or related to the trans feminine, but his male homosexuality ties into another, subtler form of trans feminine horror, one which Jake suggests in aside:

Dirk Strider presents the horror of the destruction of the self and the destruction of manhood more generally, both in the service of the satisfaction of others and in the fulfillment of self-hatred. He creates and destroys himself with abandon. In Unite/Synchronize, it’s Dirk who willingly decapitates himself to cross the gulf of space and time between him and Jake, and he allows Dave to decapitate him and destroy his ‘unbreakable’ katana with Caledfwlch -- the uranian cue-ball sword that destroys masculinity -- in Collide.

And keep in mind that when Dirk decapitates himself, it’s Lil’ Hal who looks out from his severed head:

Holy castration symbolism, batman! Remember that Hal’s shades are a part of ARquius’ own phallic imagery:

Lil’ Hal is a phallic specter that terrorizes both Dirk and Jake on the individual level, as well as in their relationship with each other. He drives Dirk’s Brobot-self to greater aggression, he’s aggressive, condescending, and cruel with Jake in general, and he apparently manipulates events to force Jake to kiss Dirk’s severed head -- which, if we’re taking the castration metaphor seriously, basically means he forced Jake to give Dirk head. Classy.

Is it any wonder that Dirk is so compelled to lop Lil’ Hal off of himself and out of his life, no matter the ethics or implications for himself? Hal is the perfect storm and culmination of all of the worst things Dirk sees in himself, and the omniscient apotheosis of his own detatched, ultramasculine, hypercompetent, ironic persona -- all despite being treated as a 13-year-old by the text, an immature and incomplete version of Dirk.

Remind you of anyone else?

Dirk and Lil Hal are in this respect a brighter mirror of Calliope and Caliborn: they are a self divided for whom the better half has softly predominated.

Dirk probably hasn’t literally castrated himself to destroy his masculinity in the way that Caliborn has literally destroyed his own femininity; Dirk and Hal certainly aren’t so explicitly gendered or trans-coded as Calliope and Caliborn are, so it’s more difficult to read them and their relationship as trans-coded. (Unless you want to read Dirk and Hal that way, in which case, hell yeah, go forth and be valid, and link me your fanfiction, please.)

Nevertheless, Dirk’s symbolic castration and literal rejection of lil Hal represents, if nothing else, a rejection of and predomination over his most toxic aspect (and his most toxically masculine aspect), and the gruesome excision of such from his life.

But while Dirk has left his worst half behind, his worst half has gone on to supercede him: entering into union with Equius, and by extension, Caliborn.

And what of Gamzee, the most important character in the entire comic?

Well, Gamzee is, of course, another mirror to Calliope and Caliborn. Like Calliope and Caliborn -- our allegorical Calmasis -- Gamzee is caught in an erratic duality between two possibilties.

Just like our Calmasis, Gamzee vacillates almost all through life between two fundamentally different personas. At the time of his introduction, he was someone basically passive, agreeable, and kindly -- even lovable, to the point that he still has his fans and stans to this day.

Of course, as time went on, he became more and more aggressive. Even against the backdrop of his largely passive behavior, his increasing aggression culminated in his many infamously depraved and murderously violent outbursts: a transition not incidentally marked (among other things) by his rejection of the green (and Calliope-coded) sopor slime that once helped to pacify him, and his radicalization at the hands of his future self (in Lil’ Cal).

In his typing quirk, Gamzee likewise alternates between Calliope’s lowercase and Caliborn’s uppercase:

Definitely no themes of duality here, nope!

Most tellingly, even in his ascension to Lord English, Gamzee is also halved, just like Calliope & Caliborn: Gamzee is bisected such that only half of him enters Lil’ Cal, while half of him is left behind, utterly broken and irrelevant.

But if Gamzee is a reflection of Calliope and Caliborn, then what else does this piece of shit clown have to say about them?

Well, like Calliope, Gamzee is quite involved in his own constructed persona -- but unlike Calliope, he’s almost never regarded as anything but disgusting and pathetic.

No amount of face paint can cover the scars across his face, and instead of covering himself up, his costume only accentuates his own body, exposing himself in the most pornographically aggressive and perverse way possible.

Even in making himself into a clown he reaches towards something inherently absurd; something that has no existence in itself save for how comical and disgusting it is to others. His aspirations and imitations render him a walking joke and a figure of corrupt terror.

And most horribly and grotesquely, if Calliope and Caliborn are a trans allegory, and Gamzee is any kind of reflection of them, we know exactly what kind of warped and fictitious trans archetype Gamzee is:

Gamzee suggests himself as a serial killer, and he’s one who hordes corpses and steals trophies from his victims, at that.

But there’s one more person we need to look at in this gruesome sequence: Doc Scratch, another parallel to Calliope in this incestuous slurry of signifiers. In Doc Scratch, the man with the uranian cue-ball head, we see even Calliope’s most harmless, silly traits taken to their most nightmarish and oppressive conclusions.

It’s Doc Scratch who selectively warps troll culture in order to create the world and the culture that Calliope loved so, and who meddles in the alpha timeline as he so desires; it’s he who shows just how perverse and oppressive omniscience can be, transforming all her scrapbooks and her labors of love into his own exhaustive account of the cosmos, turning her love of her favorite characters into his own callous disregard for objects to be manipulated. When he uses her own thoughtful tone, it only telegraphs menace.

And, most darkly for our own analysis, Doc Scratch is a sexual predator and a pedophile.

Almost from the start, he’s undeniably sexualized as a threat in his conversations with Vriska:

Even his omniscience is sexualized by his own words, casting the light of his awareness as a phallic presence invading and penetrating the unknown:

Vriska is an unreliable narrator, of course, and we might not want to read too deeply into Doc Scratch’s words. Scratch is certainly quick to assure Rose that he’s not a predator in his conversations with her...

...but as always, the gulf between what Doc Scratch says and what he means is almost insurmountable. Doc Scratch tells Rose that he has no biological means of reproduction, but he is a conglomerate of and a vessel for multiple sexual beings, and even the castrated may experience sexual pleasure and pursue sexual ends.

Most tellingly, Doc Scratch only tells Rose that he isn’t attracted to her “in the way she means”. From an entity known for wordplay and lies of omission, this constitutes a tacit admission that he IS attracted to her in some way that she isn’t asking about.

Aradia explicitly characterizes his interference in her and Kanaya’s lives as ‘grooming’...

And he does much the same to Damara:

Doc Scratch is an undeniably sexual and sexualized threat.

We might ask how, exactly, he’s supposed to be attracted to Rose and the other young girls he victimizes -- and certainly I think he’s a sexual voyeur in the general case, but I think he’s also an even more abstract and pedophillic threat.

Doc Scratch is a copy of Lil’ Cal, given life and omniscience as a First Guardian; he is the child’s toy which was once fawned over by a puppet pornographer, and he is a child-sized man. He titles himself after the Scratch process which allows children the chance to grow up, but which also transforms adults into children; he presents the absolute perverse sentimentality of all adult transgressions into the realm of childish things.

This alludes to Caliborn, of course, as the boy who cannot escape his childhood, but it’s also sexologically linked to toxic trans feminine archetypes...

Blanchard (1991) started with the idea that some cases of male-to-female gender dysphoria and transsexualism are fundamentally motivated by an ETII, in which natal males who are otherwise sexually attracted to women eroticize the idea of being women to such an extent that they want to become a woman themselves. Freund and Blanchard (1993) later extended this idea to an analogous ETII that might motivate some pedophilic men to impersonate or fantasize about being children.

It is fitting that the most compelling finding of our study—that autopedophilic men sexually attracted to girls tend to find it sexually arousing to imagine themselves as a girl—reflects the likely confluence of the two ETIIs that had been proposed many years ago: one that involves locating an individual of a different gender within one’s own body, and the other that involves locating an individual of a different age within one’s own body.

...and it’s also a searing indictment of Calliope.

To cosmic entities such as her and Scratch, how can other people be anything but objects, tools, and characters to be abused? Before the power and knowledge they might come to command, how can other people be anything but insects?

To Scratch and Calliope, how can other people be anything but children?

Even as Calliope becomes a mere player within the story of paradox space,  Doc Scratch accuses her of a fundamental and unwholesome transgression. She lets go of the condescending oversight she used to hold over the alpha timeline, no matter how kindly and well-meaning she was, and she descends from the omniscient authority of her lonesome ivory tower, but Doc Scratch still names her as an offense to herself and to others. Her desire to be a person is cast as a perversion, a deviance, and a sickness.

SBURB is a game her kind was never meant to play, after all. It’s a coming-of-age narrative not meant for her.

Ultimately, Doc Scratch himself is a fundamental accusation against Calliope: he is a grail of the souls who signify some of the most horrible gendered narratives and trans feminine narratives we can imagine, animated in mockery of Calliope as if to say: “this is you”. Equius, an autoerotic, necrophillic predator, and Hal, an aggressive, intellectualist meddler; even Gamzee, who is both a murderous pervert and her own adoptive father, a normative role model who is anything but.

And when Caliborn rises to prominence and Lord English births himself from the corpse of Doc Scratch, it’s nothing less a recreation of the traditional predomination that Caliborn has denied himself. To Caliborn, Lord English is the sign of his own victory: he may see the souls within Lil’ Cal as like-minded role models to emulate and assimilate, or as hateful and loathesome symbols of Calliope to be crushed under his will, but his predomination allows him to take both options without interrogating himself, just as he’s gone without interrogating everything else he wants. 

And to Calliope, well, if Doc Scratch was an accusation against her, then what could be more horrible to her than Lord English? He has destroyed Doc Scratch and symbolically ended her own perversions, but only through the act of being born.

The only alternative to the horror of being Doc Scratch is the terror of being Lord English; the only alternative to the horror of being Calliope is the terror of being Caliborn.

ISOLATION

I could navel-gaze for hours about the potential symbolism of Lord English, but I think it’s time to return full circle to a somewhat more grounded look at Calliope.

If Calliope, Caliborn, and Lord English cast light upon each other, then what does alternate!Calliope have to say about them?

Having naturally predominated and standing as a singular figure in the furthest ring, Alt!Calliope serves to illuminate the alternatives to Caliborn’s false victory: in all the alternate possibilities illuminated by the dream bubbles, we see that Calliope can naturally predominate over Caliborn, but not vice versa.

Alternate!Calliope strongly suggests to us that Calliope is inherently stronger than Caliborn, and she tells us that Calliope and Caliborn share the same strength: she tells us yet again that Calliope and Caliborn are two sides of the same coin.

She suggests to us that, in a sense, Calliope and Caliborn are just Calliope -- that Calmasis, upon achieving integration, will simply view herself as Calliope, and Caliborn will lose because he was never the true self.

So why, then, does Caliborn win in the alpha timeline? Is it just an arbitrary time loop, a timeline plucked from the frothing sea of paradox space and arbitrarily validated by the happenstance of the immature Caliborn’s power over time?

No, I certainly don’t think so; I’d like to think that the principle of AURYN applies even here. Caliborn wins out over Calliope because they’re Doing As They Will -- because, even on the level of our trans allegory, they both have reason to want Caliborn’s victory. Even on the level of our trans allegory, Calmasis needs to be Caliborn.

Alternate!Calliope tells us that she had to become strong because she had no-one else to comfort her, and I think suggests two important points of interest:

Firstly, that alt!Calliope serves to reflect Calliope’s inner drama, just as Calliope serves to reflect Caliborn’s inner drama. Caliborn fears and loathes the possibility of being like Calliope, the sentimental degenerate and weakling that she is, and Calliope fears and dreads the possibility of becoming alt!Calliope. Calliope fears that even if she rejects the hateful accusations that are Doc Scratch, and rejects the teleological future of Lord English, her only alternative is to be like alt!Calliope: someone who has won, and who has become herself, but at the cost of isolation, distance, and loneliness, without humanity, connection, or kindness.

In other words, Calliope fears her victory would mean her little green skull is always going to be a miserable Federal Fucking Issue, for herself and for others.

Secondly, that Calliope’s relationships with humans are in some sense the vector by which Caliborn came to dominate. Alt!Calliope won because she had no-one to take comfort in, and thus she had to be strong on her own, but I think the flip side of that is that alt!Calliope was able to be strong, because she had no relationships that could weaken her -- she was more insulated from the toxic ideas of the cultures that came before her. No one could so much as accidentally insinuate to her that she wasn’t good enough or pretty enough as she was, save perhaps for Caliborn -- and certainly Caliborn would have been malevolent, but he would have had less in the way of the language and systematic ideas to be the hateful and cultivated misogynist that he became in the alpha timeline.

In other words, alt!Calliope doesn’t have any reason whatsoever to worry about her little green skull in the first place.

But there’s another much more straightforward reason why Caliborn had to win, too:

If we’re supposed to take Calliope and Calliborn as two facets of a whole more generally, let alone as a specific trans allegory, well... they may have been two personas, or even two people, but they are confined to an existence as a single player. The cherub session likely never could been anything but a single player session; the cherub session was always going to be a dead session.

And whether it’s a fundamental fact of SBURB or just an idea in Calliope’s head -- one of the ideas she’s likely constructed with the human cultural biases she’s obtained by osmosis -- Caliborn is someone who can win a dead session, and Calliope isn’t. How could a Space player, a patient creative, succeed in a test of frantic, timed destruction? How could a passive Muse succeed where even an active Lord would struggle -- how could a woman succeed where even a man would struggle?

Only someone like Caliborn could ever possibly win. Perhaps Calliope reflects Caliborn as the person he desperately wishes he wasn’t, and she is the shadow that lies outside of his hateful and constructed self, but as a precarious supergiant hangs overhead and the light of Skaia gutters out, Caliborn reflects Calliope as the person she desperately needs to be, and he is the self she has to construct for herself.

Caliborn kills Calliope’s dreamself not just because he desperately hates her, but also because she has to allow him to supercede her, and he is the kind of person she needs to be: because SBURB is unfair, Skaia is unfair, and he can escape the desolate waste of her life, while she cannot.

And so it happens that Calliope is exiled from the real and cast to the unreality of the dream bubbles, while Caliborn grows monstrously beyond himself, self-mutilated and cancerous.

People have commented on the obvious romantic symbolism at play in Calliope’s return to life in the real...

...but it’s not just the power of a love that saves Calliope. Love is powerful and transformative, but love alone isn’t magical. It isn’t even the power of a magical macguffin ring that saves Calliope, either, because a ring is never just a ring, even when it is magical.

What redeems the possibility of Calliope’s existence is recognition and freedom.

TL;DR: ‘Caliborn’ is Calliope’s deadname.

#homestuck #calliope #trans calliope #homestuck analysis #homestuck meta #effortpost #self-indulgent complete bullshit

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Taking a Ride (baon)

Summary:   The weather is sunny and Edge takes Stretch out for a ride on his motorcycle for the first time.

Notes: Yeah, there is still one chapter left of ‘Reaction Shots’ that is giving me havoc, but I really needed some of my sweet, soft boys in love. So we got this. 

Tags: Spicyhoney, Original Undertale Characters, Established Relationship, Fluff, Motorcycles

part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read in on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

The polished body of the Harley gleamed as Edge walked it out of the corner of the garage, closer to the opened door. He set it on the kickstand, then worked to fasten the cooler above the saddlebags, strapping it down firmly.

He’d already taken the bike out a few times this summer. Not to work, although that was less about being concerned over a professionalism and more about not wanting to give the protesters outside the Embassy an easy target.

This would be the first time he’d ever taken Stretch out and the combined excitement and trepidation over it was fluttering in his soul. Confident as he was in his driving skills, that knowledge battled with his need to keep Stretch safe.

And, well. He wanted Stretch to like this, he really did.

That morning he’d spent too long making far too much food for two people on a picnic. He didn’t care; he wanted Stretch to enjoy their lunch, to enjoy the entire day, and yes, his first ride on a motorcycle. He wanted Stretch’s joy more than anything.

Still, Edge didn’t look up at first when the door to the house open, taking a moment to finish with the cooler.

“how do i look?”

Edge glanced up and went still, driven to speechlessness. He finally had to turned away because otherwise the only trip they'd be making was back up to the bedroom.

Stars, he looked good.

He never had an issue with whatever Stretch chose to wear. Clothing was for his comfort and if he preferred sweatshirts and tracks pants, then the only request Edge had was that they were clean.

But to see Stretch in his clothes, simple clothes to be sure, a black t-shirt that clung in a way that his usual shirts did not, outlining his rib cage, emphasizing the delicacy of his bones. Tight jeans hanging low on his pelvis, held up with a borrowed belt, the skull buckle carelessly settled off to one side. And in a pair of Edge’s boots, the dark leather encasing his legs all the way up to his knees.

He looked like an invitation but unfortunately, they didn't have time for Edge to accept it.

“You look fine,” Edge said, gruffly, and Stretch’s grin told him that he was not fooled. Edge wagged a finger at him in a ‘come hither’ gesture. “Over here, please.”

Obediently, Stretch did, and if there was any illusion of him being a mirror to Edge, it was quickly broken in his stride, too eager by far and he bounced on his toes as he waited impatiently. From the bike seat, Edge picked up a leather jacket. It was plain, with several zippers, but no studs or engravings, nothing declaring him to be a ‘road hog’ or anything else ridiculous.

Stretch gave him a questioning look but slid his arms in when Edge held it up. “I know, it’s warm out, but we’ll be going at a decent speed and I don’t want you to get chilled.”

“thanks, mama bear,” Stretch laughed. He let out an exaggerated yelp when Edge flicked him on the back of the skull then let his fingertips trail tickishly down his cervical vertebrae.

His outrage melted into laughter as Edge held up a helmet. There were plenty of excellent helmets on the market and Edge nearly bought one of the sleek ones that would have matched his own, only in Stretch’s preferred shade of orange. But the moment he’d seen this one, he knew that no other helmet would do.

It was a full-face helmet, with all the safety features that should be demanded in any helmet, but this one had a cartoon chicken detailed on the top, looking as though it was clinging for dear life.

Stretch stood dutifully still as Edge slipped it over his skull, fussing with the buckles and straps until he was satisfied it was on properly. It brought their faces within kissing distance, but for once, Edge didn't bridge it. A kiss would lead other places and today, they already had someplace to be.

He stepped back, studying his handiwork.

“Is that too tight?”

“nope, it feels okay, babe.” Some of the sparkling humor in his eye lights melted into seriousness. “are you sure about this? you’ve never wanted to take me out in your bike before, i won’t be mad if you changed your mind.”

“I’m sure,” Edge said, firmly. It would be far too easy to take Stretch up on that entirely too generous offer and he was not going to allow himself any further down the path of overprotectiveness than he already was. The flutters of his misgivings were not going to hold them back.

He quickly fastened on his own helmet, then swung a leg over the saddle of the bike, settling in, “All right, love, right behind me now.”

Stretch did, much more awkwardly than Edge, and his booted feet found the pegs that Edge indicated.

“Arms around my waist,” Edge told him. He exhaled as Stretch wound his slim arms around him, his hands clasped just above his belt buckle.

“isn’t this called riding bitch?” Stretch asked suspiciously.

“Are you going to argue the term doesn’t apply to you?”

He could hear the grin in Stretch’s voice. “nah, just wanna make sure the terminology is gonna be right on my twitter post.”

“Hang on, love,” Edge said. He hesitated, then added, softer, “I really hope you like this.”

He started the bike before Stretch could say anything. The roar was loud as a gunshot in the enclosed space of the garage and Stretch jumped a little, his arms tightening. Edge gave him a moment to relax, booting up the kickstand then goosing the gas and they were off.

On the residential roads of New New Home, he kept to a slow pace, scooting along at the posted speed limit. Once they were past the security checkpoint and he turned onto the main road, Edge twisted the throttle and the Harley roared in approval, leaping to follow his direction and speeding down the road.

The motor thrummed between their legs with the promise of its power, the wind cascading past them and even over the noise, Edge could hear Stretch’s delighted laughter.

“I knew you’d like it,” Edge called. Perhaps Stretch heard him, perhaps not, but after a time, Edge decided that liking it was probably not the correct phrase. Stretch was very obviously loving it, leaning easily with him into every turn and swerve as he navigated along their route. The roads were still fairly empty, the hour was early yet, and traffic was never terrible out by the Monster territory, anyway. It made it easy to give into the urge to go faster, not recklessly so, never that, but the blow of the wind encouraged him as much as Stretch’s delight, the convulsive way his hands tightened above Edge’s belt goading him on.

Around them, the scenery blurred by, far different even than in his convertible. He followed the dark strip of asphalt beneath his wheels, the flash of the dotted yellow line, and around them were trees heavy with greenery, houses giving way to fences and crop fields as they made their way further from the city, and their shadow followed behind them.

At one point, they slowed behind a truck laden with hay bales and Edge passed it with a roar of the engine. If the driver was startled by the skeletal hand that Stretch waved at him as they passed, he didn’t show it. He only waved in return, a glowing cigarette clenched in his teeth and the dog sitting next to him watched them pass with ear-perked interest.

The truck was left quickly behind them and Edge felt a soft weight as Stretch settled his head lightly between his shoulder blades. The entrance to the park was in sight, so if he was getting weary, the timing was perfect.

The booth at the entrance was unoccupied and there was only a weathered sign with a list of rules nailed up on it, remind guests that no glass containers or alcohol was allowed, and asking visitors to discard their litter appropriately. None of that would be an issue for them and Edge guided the Harley down the unpaved road, the wheels kicking up a little gravel as he followed the path to the place he’d discovered a week before. He’d been careful to plan every aspect of this trip, leaving nothing to chance, and when he pulled up to the copse of trees and picnic tables set up beside the shimmering vista of the lake, he was glad of the planning.

The view was a lovely one, a field of shaggy green grass and Queen Anne’s lace surrounding the tables and metal barbecue grates. The lakefront was more stones embedded in mud than beach, somewhat uninviting for a swim but perfect as scenery for a picnic, the blue water met the sky in a blur and small, weedy islands dotted the shimmering surface.

Edge stopped the bike, taking a moment to retrieve his kickstand pad so the bike wouldn’t sink into the soft ground. The moment it was secure, he climbed off, turning to help Stretch…who nearly flung himself into Edge’s arms, almost sending them both to the ground.

“that was so cool!” Stretch gushed and even through the tinted visor of his helmet, Edge could see the bright, delighted glow of his eye lights. Quickly, Edge unbuckled his own, setting on the bike saddle as he helped Stretch with his. The ridiculous thing was still in his hands when Stretch began smothering him with kisses. Edge let the helmet fall to the soft ground, cupping Stretch’s jaw in his gloved hands and deepened those too-quick touches. The slide of Stretch’s tongue against his own was like coming home, he could almost taste his husband’s joy, sparkling in the sweetness of his mouth. Until Edge finally drew away with a gasp, stepping back for a little necessary cool air.

Deserted the park might be, for now, but they were still in a public place.

Stretch didn’t chase after him, the bright delight of his eye lights had muted into hazy desire. It was asking too much of Edge to look at that without taking hold of it, and he turned away, focusing on catching his breath as he turned back to the bike.

“Picnic,” Edge started roughly, then paused to clear his throat, “I packed a picnic, give me a hand?”

In no time, they unfastened the straps holding the cooler and Edge carried it over to the picnic table that was shaded by a large tree, the long feathery fronds trailing from its branches sheltering it from the sun.

He watched in amusement as Stretch hastily tugged off his boots and socks, rolling his pantlegs up to his knees. He winced his way across the rocks in bare bone feet to the water, splashing his way in. From his yelp, it was still chilly, but it didn’t stop him from wading into his ankles, bending over to inspect the water with interest.

“there’s tadpoles!” Stretch called, and Edge shook his head, pulling off his own boots to join him. After a moment of thoughtful hesitation, he stripped off his gloves as well. The growing heat of the day was making the leather uncomfortably sweaty already.

The smooth pebbles lining the shore kept the bottom from being too muddy. Edge dutifully inspected the tadpoles while Stretch chattered about their lifecycle, waiting until he was engrossed to cup a handful of cold water, applying a judicious amount of blue magic to keep it from seeping through his bones long enough to drizzle it into the back of Stretch’s collar.

His yelp was inspiring, as was his outraged glare. His sudden smirk was better and then it was a war.

They were both dripping by the time they made their bedraggled way back to the picnic table, Edge having taken the brunt of a blue-magic induced wave of water, surely calculated to be high enough to soak him to the top of his skull. Meanwhile, he’d simply pushed Stretch backwards into the water and his indignant yowl as he fell would be a fond memory for some time.

Stretch shook himself like a dog, stripping off his t-shirt to reveal a tantalizing amount of gleaming damp bone before letting it plop wetly to the ground. “thought we were having a picnic, not swimming.”

“Why not both?” Edge shook his head, wringing out the t-shirt to hang it on the end of the table with his own. “Helped to work up an appetite.”

“i was already hungry,” Stretch retorted, but his grin was one of pure happiness. “all right, edgelord, show me the goods.”

“I am,” Edge said, lightly, running a finger over his exposed ribs. It was worth it to see that soft haze rising in Stretch’s eye lights again, but he relented. “However, if you mean food, then sit down and we’ll eat.”

First, he handed over a bottle of hand sanitizer, which made Stretch roll his eye lights, but he used it obediently. Edge was unrepentant; who knew what microbes were in that water? They’d both be showering when they got home, but for now, sanitizer would do.

Next, he pulled out the food he’d prepared, and he knew why Stretch was giggling before he was done. There was more than enough for the two of them and then some, sandwiches and three different kinds of salad, strawberry-lemon cookies with bright pink icing and jug brimming with lemonade in the same shade. There was even a small plastic container of deviled eggs and Stretch quickly popped one into his mouth, sighing happily as he chewed.

“hope you don’t mind leftovers for the next few days,” Stretch said, already reaching for another egg.

“You mean I’ll have to eat with you again? The horror,” Edge murmured, but Stretch was already two bites into his sandwich. There was less leftover than he might have guessed, fresh air and exercise lending them both an uncommon appetite. While they ate, the return of the silence after their horseplay must have been a signal of sorts to the wildlife. Squirrels returned to the tree branches, chattering and watching warily from above. From the rustling underbrush came a squat bird, light brown feathers tipped with a darker shade, and chicks followed behind it. Stretch stopped chewing, watching with wide sockets as it walked on, unconcerned about the skeletons at the picnic table even when Stretch carefully took a picture, and soon they vanished into the field on the opposite side.

“that was a pheasant,” Stretch whispered, fingers tapping furiously on his phone as he uploaded the picture.

“Are you afraid she’ll hear you?” Edge asked, amused. “Let me assure you, she knows she’s a pheasant.”

“you’re such a shit,” Stretch grinned. His expression turned to a pensive one, “you know, you can raise pheasants, i hear the eggs taste lighter than chicken ones—”

“And we will end that discussion on a no, you can’t,” Edge interrupted sternly. He softened it by carefully picking up Stretch’s free hand in his own, a rare moment of their fingerbones bare against each other as he drew it up to his mouth to lightly kiss his knuckles. “Only think of how jealous the chickens would be.”

“yeah, good point.” Stretch turned his hand in Edge’s grip, fingertips brushing his jawline before he pulled it back and finished his sandwich. By the time they were done eating, two other cars had passed them going down the road, one of them honking while the occupants waved excitedly at them. None of them stopped, but Edge was unwilling to wait for one that might, packing up the cooler with the leftovers.

“time to head home?” Wistfully, but without argument as Edge nodded. They were far from New New Home and Edge wasn’t about to risk meeting any unfriendly Humans today.

Stretch was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Their t-shirts were dry, their jeans mostly so and the wind on the ride home should finish that job. All too soon, they were in their boots and jackets, Stretch pausing to take another picture of the lake and trees, and the climbing sun cast the shoreline in golden warmth.

It was all too easy to step up behind Stretch, wrapping his arms around his husband and murmuring against his skull, “I’m glad you had a good time.”

Stretch tipped back his head, their faces close enough that Edge struggled not to let his eye lights cross. Teasingly, “i never said i did.”

“You never need to,” Edge whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth, another, “I can see it all over your face.”

A soft contented hum answered that and stealing another kiss was irresistible. Finally, Edge sighed and let him go, walking back to the bike. That was enough, already almost too much, and he thought ruefully that the first few miles were going to be uncomfortable ones for his jeans.

“edge?”

Something about the way Stretch said his name made him pause, turning back to him. There were so many ways Stretch had to smile, the sharp, sardonic one when they’d first met, his wide grins, his amused smirks. The softer, shy one he wore now was a rare treat, gifted only in solitary moments between them.

“i had a good time.” Quiet sincerity, as rare as that smile.

The rush of love that Edge felt for him in that moment was dizzying, overwhelming in its sweetness. He stepped forward, sealing it with another kiss, trying to wordlessly import the depth of his emotions, felt the echo of it returned to him.

Then he drew away, murmuring to his love, “Let’s go home.”

In moments they were back on the Harley, the wind howling past them. Stretch was warm pressed up behind him, his arms tight around Edge as they rode off, the sun following along beside them.

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

just a very tipsy bit of June and Dante bonding because idk if it’s clear how much I fucking love their relationship :’) look, it’s something actually sfw this time!! :D :D :D

“Dante...” June’s voice was only vaguely slurred, in the way of one well in practice being inebriated. “Fuck, marry, kill-”

“Kill.”

“That’s not how it goes!”

“Myself. I haven’t been this bored since the Signs movie night.”

“Shut up, play the stupid fucking game. It’s better than sitting here.”

Dante rolled his eyes, admiring the way the whole room wavered as he did so. “Okay. Who?”

“Beethoven-”

“How old do you think I am?”

June narrowed their eyes. After one long moment, they obviously decided thinking in this state was too much work, so they just shrugged their narrow shoulders with a noncommittal grunt.

“Nice to know you care so much,” Dante grumbled. “One hundred and sixty three this year. Now you know.”

June made a noise half way between a cat coughing up a hairball, a snicker, and a giggle. Dante decided hazily to call it a snicker; he liked his head attached to his neck. “You’ve aged well,” they managed to get out after a moment.

“Wish I could say the same,” Dante said pleasantly.

“Oh, fuck off. The amount of times I get mistaken for a fucking prepubescent-”

“Until they see your face.” Dante laughed, a bit too loud for the enclosed space. He remembered the poor mortal woman the other day, who had asked June where “her” parents were, until June had turned around with their face of cutting sharp angles and ire and the woman had almost fainted on the spot. 

“Fuck off,” June repeated darkly. They drained their wine glass for the....... 14th time tonight? Dante looked at the multitude of empty bottles on the floor. They’d gone through five. Six? Given it took two to get a single demon tipsy, it wasn’t that bad. That.

Dante couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself go this far. A bit of a buzz, yeah. Not the-world-looking-vaguely-alive-and-also-kind-of-sparkly-in-a-way gone. He had responsibilities. People to look after. A reputation to uphold. But now Jesse and Vrox were safely in Hell, the rest of the pack, too. No strays running around causing trouble. A night of peace. Weight off his shoulders. It was... nice.

“Funny,” he said.

“What’s?” June didn’t look up from their wine glass, tilting it so the remaining drops glinted like rubies in the dull light through the windows.

“Think I’ve forgotten how to relax,” he admitted.

“Doesn’t fucking surprise me. You’re not a soldier anymore, Dante. I don’t think you’ve got that through your thick skull yet.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”

“You almost got yourself killed-”

“Aw, you do care.”

“- and left me with ruling over the Kennels, alone? Get fucked. Never happening. I will drag you out of a warzone myself.”

“You did. Literally. Drag me”

“Damn fucking right I did.” June tossed their glass aside - getting a few flecks of darker red on the couch - and grabbed the remaining bottle, forgoing the glassful now in favour of drinking straight from the bottle.

“Do you know what it feels like to be hellgated when you’re not ready to be hellgated?”

“Y-”

“It’s not a great feeling.”

“What are you, an infant?” 

Dante snorted. “A one hundred and sixty three year old infant...”

“Alric,” they both said at the same time, which caused a chorus of uninhibited laughter, even and especially if the subject matter involved a 13 year old hellhound who died via cult and who now routinely ate people.

“You know what?” June said suddenly, breaking off their laughter. “Are you ready now?”

Dante struggled to remember what they’d just been talking about. “What?” he said, a bit apologetically.

“Useless.” June flicked wine in his general direction, missing by a few metres and splattering more red on the carpet. Their lounge was beginning to look like a sweet-sour crime scene. “Are you ready to be hellgated?”

“Not... really...”

“Fantastic!”

Before he could process the level of sarcasm dripping off that one word, June had sprung up, staggered only a little to find their balance, grabbed his hand and dragged him forward - into pure darkness.

Dante didn’t like hellgating. Having to do it every day for one hundred and thirty four years straight didn’t make him any fonder of it. It reminded him of dying all over again, all sensation except a faint sense of consciousness flooding away - because that was exactly what was happening. At the end, his physical self re-formed around his consciousness - or what was left of his soul, he didn't know. He was grateful for one thing, and that was that he was a demon. This was natural to him. If he was mortal... well, it would take a lot of skill and care from whatever demon was with him to re-form him afterward. And while June was definitely skilled, they were always running a little low on care.

The moment in the consuming, absolute darkness could have lasted a second or a year for all Dante knew, but when it did end, it gave way to a hillside dotted with a few flowering weeds, sloping into a pine forest. The cold air instantly shocked more alertness into Dante’s brain.

What was more surprising than the sudden change of scenery, or that June had willingly elected to go outside, was that Dante recognized it. 

“Is this-?”

“Where we first met?” June was fastidiously adjusting the cuffs of their dress shirt. Their waistcoat was also decidedly slanted. “Yes.”

Alarm show down Dante’s spine. “June, are you - okay? Being here? I know-”

“Don’t you fucking dare try and mother me, Diệu,” June said through clenched teeth, without even looking at him.

Dante winced. “Don’t call me that, chết tiệt. That name is dead.”

“Like the rest of the past, yes? I’m fine.”

“Alright, alright.” He held up his hands as a peace offering and looked around. He could see glimpsed flecks of buttery yellow lights between the trees below, a few brave fireflies spiraled out into the open. One seemed to like June’s shiny dark hair, following them as they sank down onto the grass. He hesitated, but followed suit.

“Did I ever thank you for that?” June asked.

He glanced at them. They still weren’t looking at him, instead staring into the fringe of dark trees.

“No,” he said truthfully. He had never expected, wanted, or received any gratitude from them.

“Good.”

Dante smiled and leaned into them playfully, making them hiss and swipe at him with their nails, the blow going wide. Not on purpose. Absolutely not.

“How much do you remember?” he asked.

For once, they didn’t comment on his gentle tone. Their eyes grew a bit distant, lost in the past that was not as far gone as either of them liked to admit.

“Not very much, after...”

They didn’t finish. They didn’t have to.

Dante shrugged off his jacket. It was made of heavy, thick, green fabric, leftover from the Vietnam war. It was one of the few he hadn’t participated in, but the jacket had belonged to a friend of his who didn’t need it anymore. He started to drape it over June, but they recoiled with a hiss.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Dante said impatiently. “You’re shivering. Take it.” He wrapped it around them none too gently, clamping it shut with his hands for a moment so they didn’t try to shake it off.

June’s frosty stare turned into a glare, and Dante couldn’t help but start laughing: they were so small and the jacket was so big it was like a tent on them, and with just their face poking out from the collar, they looked like that alien from the movie Jesse liked... E.T. But angrier.

“Get,” June said, very delicately, “your hands off me.”

Dante obliged, and his guess proved right, as after their initial hate mode wore off, June kept the jacket on, though they did pull it down off their head and put their arms in so they looked more respectable.

“Are you happy now, mother?” June grumbled.

“Much,” Dante said with a smile, reaching over to ruffle up their hair. The firefly spiraled wildly away, and this time, June’s swipe connected. He didn’t mind.

“I don’t know why I interact with you,” June sad, still grumbling, as they fished their cigarette packet out of their pocket. Dante frowned at it, but June pointedly ignored him. “Got a light?”

“No.”

“Dante,” June said, mock-patient tone undermined by their snapping fingers. “I know you always carry a lighter. Give it to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I will say it again.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll get you in a headlock.”

“Di-”

“Shit, fine! It’s in the second pocket down in the jacket.

June lit their cigarette like the happy little nicotine gremlin they were and tossed the lighter back to Dante. They took a long draw, the tip burning like a red firefly, and exhaled grey into the cold air.

Silence fell. A breeze tried its best to raise goosebumps on Dante’s arms, but he ignored it. The rustling in the trees, the beating of tiny wings, and the crackle of June’s cigarette were the only sounds.

“I do remember you,” June said, quietly. “You were in your hound shape. Your eyes were red. They lit up the entire clearing. But I wasn’t afraid. You smelled like... home. A home I’d never known about.”

Dante looked at them. In the light of the crescent moon drifting through the clouds and the aftermath of six bottles of red wine, the hard lines of their face seemed to have softened a bit, their mouth holding what could have been a smile.

“I know that home now,” June added. “It smells like shit and most of it is on fire. Not what I expected.”

Dante laughed. “Was I what you expected?”

“Only when you give me a light and buy me dinner,” they said with a grin.

“Guess I have to do that, then.” He inched closer to nudge them with his elbow, but he didn’t move again, and after a stiff minute, June put their head on his shoulder.

Grudgingly.

He’d take it.

#June #Dante #my OCs #my writing #Dante was 28 when he died #in case anybody's wondering #he still looks 28 #also NO DANTE. #I AM NOT. LEARNING. VIETNAMESE FOR YOU. #NOT NOW #OKAY. #NO. #sorry for typos #y'all know I suck!!! #god i fuckin hate math

[hungline]

needle to skin

pairing: jihope  genre: angst, tattoo shop au, rated m  warnings: needles, terminal illness  words: 1800 

summary: “Shouldn’t you finish the tattoo?” Hoseok chuckled. 

Jimin pouted. “If I do, then you’ll never come back.” 

Hoseok pet his hair. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see me again.” 

⇢ part five of jihope bingo 2016 

Park Jimin’s favorite customer was Jung Hoseok.

Every two weeks, Jimin could expect for the athletic, tall, honey blonde man to walk through the doors of his tattoo parlor. A bright, wide smile always accompanied his entrance and was usually aimed at Jimin first before the honey blonde man would move on to quickly greet the other tattoo artists.

Then all too soon they would be cooped up together in one of the back rooms, various sketches in hand, talking body locations, size, colors, and prices. Jimin felt that he couldn't get closer to Hoseok if all they did was talk tattoos. And Jimin wanted to get closer to the mysterious, seemingly happy man who constantly visited his tattoo parlor.

Jimin wanted to have more conversations with Hoseok, but unfortunately, this was how mostly all of Hoseok’s visits to the parlor turned out. He had had a crush on Hoseok for the longest time and had been planning to ask him out soon, but something always held him back.

Somewhere in the recesses of Jimin’s mind, he wondered how Hoseok was able to pay for all these tattoos. He generally did his best to give Hoseok the cheapest price since he knew that Hoseok’s constant visits would pile up and make up for any skimping prices they had decided on. Either way, Jimin was incredibly curious about Hoseok’s line of work or if he was jobless due to his many, clearly visible tattoos. He tried his best not to think about where Hoseok got the money from because each option was much worse than the one before it.

The two now sat in Jimin’s work room, Hoseok sitting upright on the chair that resembled a couch while Jimin sat on the stool beside it.

“So this is what you want?” Jimin wanted to clarify that this was the specific tattoo Hoseok had decided on.

The honey blonde shot him a wide smile that knocked his breath away. “Yes, that one.”

Jimin blinked and pushed his hair back, acting as if he wasn’t affected by Hoseok and his beautiful smile. “On your chest, right over your heart like we discussed?”

Hoseok nodded again. “In your handwriting, please.”

“In my handwriting? You know it isn’t that great, right?” Jimin was confused.

“I’ve seen your handwriting, Jimin.” Jimin felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of his name coming from Hoseok’s lips. “This is my last tattoo and I want it to be special.”

Jimin froze. “Last tattoo? You didn’t mention that?”

Hoseok chuckled, the sound rattling around in his throat before echoing out into their small enclosed space. “It isn’t like I have much room left for another one, Jiminie.”

Jimin didn’t even notice the way Hoseok’s voice faltered on the word “room”, instead becoming distracted by the way his face reddened from the endearing name Hoseok had just used. Of course, Jimin should have expected this day. Hoseok was tattooed practically everywhere and Jimin knew each one of his tattoos like the back of his own hand. He had, after all, sketched and tattooed each one into Hoseok’s skin.

Underneath Hoseok’s cuffed pants were the leg tattoos of flowers, skulls, designs, and watercolors that Jimin had worked on for a year. The tattooed sleeves that ran up from Hoseok’s fingers to his shoulders were clearly visible thanks to the sleeveless shirt he wore. Jimin had spent two years getting those tattoos in the correct sizes, color, and placement so that they would look well and un-jarring together. He couldn’t believe that this simple tattoo on Hoseok’s chest would be his last ever.

Jimin smiled sheepishly then. “Well I suppose, but here, let me just write it down for you so you’re sure.”

Hoseok nodded, not really caring about how Jimin’s handwriting looked like, just as long as it was Jimin’s. Jimin tore a blank page out of his sketchbook and hastily drew out a rectangle with the words “best before” in it followed by the date of March 17, 2016, which had passed a few days beforehand. He wrote as neatly as he could and showed it to Hoseok after he was done. Hoseok gave him a wide smile and told him it was perfect.

“Which reminds me.” Hoseok’s voice made Jimin look up from his materials. “Since this is my last tattoo, I just wanted to know.”

Jimin waited for Hoseok to continue, cracking a smile when he did.

“How are you a tattoo artist with no tattoos? Everyone else in the shop has some, even Yoongi.”

Jimin smiled sheepishly and pulled the bottom of his shirt up, revealing the line of fire that tickled the bottom of his navel. “I have one, it’s just not visible is all.”

“Flames?” Hoseok’s eyes were wide as he traced the line of fire with them.

“It’s actually a dragon. It starts on my thigh and ends right about here,” Jimin held a finger up to his leg that was level with his crotch. “Maybe I’ll show you it sometime.”

The idea of showing Jung Hoseok his hidden tattoo excited Park Jimin. It would mean that Hoseok would have to see Jimin in only his briefs, an idea that left Jimin’s senses rattled. His thighs in question began to shake as he thought about what certain scenarios would result in Hoseok seeing him so under-dressed.

“Yeah, maybe,” Hoseok shot him a bright smile. “I’d like that.”

Jimin turned back to his materials again and double-checked that he had everything ready. He had plenty of ink. His tattoo gun stood at the ready. His arrangement of needles were enclosed in their unopened packages ready to be used. His cleaning supplies stood reliably behind the tattooing materials on his tray of tools. Jimin was definitely ready.

The whirring sound of Jimin’s tattoo gun then rang around them as Hoseok took off his shirt and laid back on the chair. Jimin pulled on a pair of gloves and dived into tattooing the “best before” label usually found on boxes of food right above Hoseok’s heart.

“Do you want to tell me what this tattoo means?” Jimin didn’t want Hoseok to stop coming by the parlor and if this was going to be his last tattoo, he wanted to know what it meant.

Hoseok smiled, so used to the pain of a needle drilling into his skin that he wasn’t really affected by it now. “It’s the day I got diagnosed.”

Jimin retracted the needle from Hoseok’s chest, completely stunned and unsure of how to react. “Diagnosed?”

Hoseok smiled, his eyes glinting with some unknown emotion as he watched Jimin’s begin to water. “I have cancer, Jimin. I’m going to start chemotherapy soon.”

“I’m so sorry, Hobi,” Jimin felt his heart break in two as his world began to crumble when he said the words, the tears suddenly cascading over and onto his cheeks.

Hoseok reached up to wipe his tears away. “Don’t cry. It’s life, Jimin.”

Life wasn’t fair and Jimin was definitely going to punch whoever had decided to let this happen in the face for both himself and Hoseok.

Jimin set his tattoo gun down, tore off his gloves, and leaned over Hoseok carefully to hug him, wary of the almost finished tattoo on his chest. Hoseok immediately threw his arms around Jimin, not caring about the stitch of pain in his chest that had erupted from his unfinished tattoo. Maybe the contact was a bit too much, considering Jimin was supposed to be giving him a tattoo and Hoseok was shirtless, but Jimin didn’t really have the decency to care. Hoseok had just told him that he had cancer and Jimin had to take action before it was too late. He had to make the best of whatever time Hoseok had left, he wasn’t about to let that opportunity go. So he clung tightly onto the older man beneath him, wishing that he could help him in any way possible.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hold you in my arms like this,” Hoseok murmured into Jimin’s neck, making the dark-haired boy blush unceremoniously.

“I’ve wanted the same thing, Hoseok,” Jimin’s voice tickled at Hoseok’s jaw, flustered and breathless because he was not believing his luck.

“Jimin,” Hoseok’s voice rang out in the silence of their enclosed space.

“Yes?” Jimin didn’t want to let go but he pulled back a bit to look Hoseok in the eye.

“Shouldn’t you finish the tattoo?” Hoseok chuckled.

Jimin pouted. “If I do, then you’ll never come back.”

Hoseok petted his hair. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see me again.”

Jimin burrowed his head into Hoseok’s neck as a result. “Will you go out on a date with me after I finish this then?”

“Jimin, I don’t think that would be wise. I have cancer now. That would be unfair to you if we became romantically involved.” Jimin didn’t miss the way that Hoseok’s voice rang with longing.

Jimin shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’ve liked you for two years. I’m going to make the best of what I can with whatever time you want to give me.”

“Jimin…” Hoseok didn’t really know what to say.

“Please, Hoseok? Technically you’re not a customer anymore, so I’m very much able to go on a date with you without it affecting my work,” Jimin didn’t care if his begging was whiney. He wanted Hoseok to agree.

Hoseok bit his lip. “I don’t know, Jiminie.”

“One date, it’s all I’m asking of you. If it doesn’t work out after that, then that’s that,” Jimin stuck out his bottom lip, very aware of the feeling of Hoseok’s bare chest beneath him.

“And what if it does work out?” Hoseok questioned the younger, seemingly tattoo-less man on his chest, his fingers digging into his waist as he held him.

“Then we’ll see what happens then,” Jimin smiled, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

Hoseok nodded his head then. “Okay, Jimin. I’ll go on a date with you. But finish my tattoo first!”

“Wait, but is it okay to give you this tattoo? I mean you’re sick after all,” Jimin hesitated, knowing he had to finish the job since he had already started, cursing himself for not asking before he had begun.

Hoseok muttered his reassurance into Jimin’s hair then, “My doctor said it’d be okay. You’re fine, Jimin. Just finish!”

Jimin smiled, his eyes crinkling up as well in happiness. His lips brushed across Hoseok’s jaw before he sat back up and grabbed his tattoo gun once more to complete the tattoo.

Even though there were butterflies in the pit of his stomach, Jimin’s hands were steady as he scrawled across Hoseok’s heart, leaving his mark on Hoseok for the rest of his life.

#jihope #networkjihope #btssunshinenet #bangtan bookclub #kwordsmiths #prettyboysnetwork #btsguild #betareadernet #bts #angst #p:hoseok/jimin #f:nts #s:jhb16 #m: fic

[authorscarlettstclair]

Chapter IV - The Contract

Less than an hour after leaving the Acropolis, Persephone stood outside Nevernight, pounding on the pristine, black door. She'd taken the bus here and it had nearly drove her insane. She couldn't sit still. Adonis' words wound through her mind, stirred up all her fear and anxieties about what the mark on her wrist could mean. Was this ink bracelet an impossible challenge? Was it something that would bind her soul to the Underworld if she failed or refused him?

She was about to find out if someone would just answer this damn door!

"Hello!" she called. "Anyone there?"

She continued to pound on the door until her arms hurt. Just when she thought about giving up, the door was yanked open by the ogre who had been staffing it last night. Persephone stumbled into him and quickly pushed away. The same ogre who had manned the door last night now stood in front of her. In the daylight, he was even more gruesome-looking. His thick skin sagged around his neck, and he stared at her with small, squinted eyes.

"What do you want?" His words were a snarl and it wasn't lost on her that he could crush her skull with his hand alone.

"I must speak with Hades," she said.

The ogre stared at her and then slammed the door closed.

That really pissed her off.

She banged on the door again. "Bastard! Let me in!" She yelled.

She'd always known ogres existed, but she'd learned some of their weaknesses by reading a few books from Artemis' Library at school. One of them? They hated being called names.

The ogre tore the door open again and snarled at her, blowing his stinking rot-breath in her face. He probably thought it would scare her away—and it had probably worked on others in the past, but not on Persephone. The mark on her wrist drove her. Her freedom was at stake.

"I demand you let me in!" She stomped her foot, and her fingers curled into her palms. She considered how much space was left in the doorway. Could she get past the huge creature? If she moved quick enough, his girth would probably throw him off balance.

"Who are you, mortal, to demand an audience with the God of the Dead?" The creature said.

"Your Lord has placed a mark upon me, and I will have words with him."

The creature laughed, beady eyes shining with amusement.

"You would have words with him?"

"Yes, me. Let me in!"

She was growing angrier by the second.

"We are not open," the creature responded. "You will have to come back."

"I will not come back, you will let me in now you big, ugly ogre!"

Persephone realized her mistake as soon as the words were out of her mouth. The creature's features changed, as did his patience. He reached out, grabbing her by the neck, he lifted her off the ground.

"What are you?" he demanded. "A tricky little nymph?"

She clawed at the ogre's steel skin, but he only pressed his meaty fingers deeper into her skin, so she dropped her glamour—she had no choice. She was sure this thing had killed many nymphs. As she changed and her horns became visible, the creature released her as if she burned.

Persephone staggered, and inhaled deeply. She pressed a hand to her tender throat, but managed to stay on her feet and glare at the ogre in her true form. She barely knew this form—long, bright white hair cloaked her body, and her horns were long and slender with a slight twist.

The ogre lowered his eyes, unable to look upon her light or meet her bright, eerie eyes. It wasn't common for lesser creatures to look upon the Divine.

"I am Persephone, Goddess of Spring, and if you would like to keep your fleeting life, then you will obey me."

Her voice shook as she spoke. She was still shaken from being handled by the ogre, and she also felt frantic. The mark on her wrist was on fire, but she also felt a thrill surge through her as she stood up to the creature, barring her way into Nevernight. It fed her enjoyment of her true form and the power she felt. The words she had spoken were had been her mother's, used at a time when she'd made threats against a Siren who refused to help her search Persephone when she wandered away. In reality, Persephone had only wandered behind a nearby shrub. She overheard her mother's crude words, and filed them away, knowing that without powers, words were her only weapon.

The door opened, and Persephone came face to face with Hades. She couldn't breathe. She'd spent all day remembering what he looked like, recalling his elegant but dark features, and yet, her memory was nothing compared to the real thing. He wore a suit similar to last night's, but the tie around his neck was loose, and the buttons of his shirt fell open at the neck, exposing an expanse of chest she found enticing. It was like he'd been interrupted in the middle of undressing.

Then she remembered the woman who had wrapped her arms around his waist. Perhaps she had interrupt them.

She took great satisfaction from that thought, even though she knew she shouldn't care.

"Lady Persephone," he said, his voice was heavy and seductive and she shivered. No one had ever used that title with her.

She forced her eyes level with his—they were equals, after all, and she wanted him to know it because she was about to make demands. She found him studying her, his head tilted to the side. Being under his gaze in her true form felt strangely intimate and she wanted to call up her glamour again. She had made a mistake, been so angry and so desperate for a meeting with the God of the Dead, she'd exposed herself.

"Lord Hades," she managed with a curt nod. She was proud that her voice did not shake, though her insides did.

"My Lord," the ogre said, hanging his head. "I did not know she was a Goddess. I accept punishment for my actions."

"Punishment?" Persephone questioned, feeling increasingly exposed in the daylight outside the club. It took Hades a moment to peel his gaze from Persephone and look upon the ogre.

"I laid my hands upon a Goddess," the monster said.

"And a woman at that," Hades added, unhappily. "I will deal with you later."

Then Hades stepped aside.

"Lady Persephone," he said and let her enter Nevernight. She was left in the dark as the door closed behind her. The air was heavy, charged with an intensity she felt deep in her core, and thick with his scent—spice and ash and deep earth. She wanted to inhale, filling her lips ha with it. Instead, she held her breath as her heart raced in her chest.

Then he spoke against her ear, his lips brushed feather-light over her skin. "You are full of surprises, darling."

She inhaled sharply, and twisted to face him, but when she did, Hades was no longer near her. He had opened the door and was waiting for her to enter the club.

"After you, Goddess," he said. The word wasn't used mockingly, but it was full of curiosity.

Again she slipped passed the God into the club. She found herself on the balcony overlooking the empty club floor. The place was surprisingly immaculate. She turned and saw Hades looking at her, then he descended the stairs and she followed.

He crossed the floor, heading for the winding stairs and the second floor. She hesitated.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He paused and turned toward her. "My office," he said. "I imagine that whatever you have to say to me demands privacy?"

She opened and closed her mouth, looking around the empty club.

"This seems pretty private."

"It isn't," he said, and turned without another word and headed up stairs. Again she followed. As they came to the top of the steps, he took a right--away from the room she'd been the night before--toward a black wall, elaborately embellished with gold. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it. Two large doors bore the image of vines and flowers curling around Hades' bident, raised in gold relief. The rest of the wall was patterned with floral designs in gold.

She probably shouldn't be so surprised that the God of the Dead chose to decorate with flowers--the narcissus was his symbol, after all.

Her eyes were drawn to Hades as he opened one of the gilded doors. She was not eager to be in an enclosed space with him. She didn't trust her thoughts or her body. This time, he called her out.

"Will you hesitate at every turn, Lady Persephone?" he asked.

She glared. "I was just admiring your decor, Lord Hades. I did not notice this last night."

"The doors to my quarters are often veiled during business hours," he replied, and then indicated to the open door. "Shall we?"

Once again she gathered her courage, and approached. He didn't leave much room for her to pass, and she brushed against him as she stepped into the room, conscious of her horns. She hadn't had to worry about them often. Most facilities were built to accommodate Divine horns, but Persephone's were very tall.

She found herself in Hades' office.The first thing she noticed were the windows that overlooked the club floor.

He can see everything, she realized.

There were no windows to the outside, but despite this, the space was warmly lit and oddly cozy, even with it's marble black floor. Maybe it had something to do with the marble fireplace against the far wall. A couch and two chairs made a lovely sitting area, and a warm fur rug only added to the oddly comforting aesthetic. At the far end of the room, elevated like a throne was a large obsidian slab that acted as Hades' desk. From what she could tell, there was nothing on it—no paperwork or pictures. She wondered if he used it at all or if was just for show.

Immediately in front of her was a table upon which a vase of blood red flowers rested.

More flowers, she thought, and rolled her eyes.

Hades closed the door, trapping her in his heat. She closed her eyes against it. This was dangerous. She should have confronted him downstairs where there was more space, where she was better able to think and breath without inhaling him. His boots tapped against the floor and her body grew taunt, blood coursing with electricity.

Hades stopped in front of her. His eyes scoured her face, lingering on her lips for a split second before lowering to her neck. When he reached out to touch her, Persephone's hand clamped down on his arm. She knew from yesterday that the God of the Underworld was warm, but it still surprised her.

Their eyes met.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," she said, and he nodded, carefully pulling his arm free of her grasp. He crossed the room, Persephone assumed to put distance between them.

Then she remembered she was in her true form, and started to raise her glamour.

"Oh, it's a little too late to be modest, don't you think?" Hades said, piercing her with those beautiful dark eyes. He tugged his tie free and she watched it slip from his neck.

She lifted her eyes to his. He wasn't smirking like she expected. He looked...primal. Like a starved animal who had finally cornered his prey. She swallowed and hurriedly said, "Did I interrupt something?"

She wasn't sure she wanted an answer. Finally, the corner of his mouth lifted. "I was just about to go to bed when I heard you demanding entrance to my club."

Bed? It was well past noon.

"Imagine my surprise when I find the goddess from last night on my doorstep.

"You knew," she accused, she stepped farther into the room, feeling both angry and embarrassed.

"I recognized your magic as Demeter's, but you are not Demeter." Then he tilted his head like he had earlier. "When you left, I consulted a few texts. I had forgotten Demeter had a daughter. I assumed you were Persephone. Question is, why aren't you using your own magic?"

"Is that why you did this?" she demanded, removing the bracelet she'd used to cover the mark on her skin, and holding up her arm.

Hades smirked.

Actually smirked.

Persephone wanted to attack him. She clenched her hands at her sides to keep from vaulting across the room.

"No," he said. "That is the result of losing against me."

"You were teaching me to play," she argued.

"Semantics," he said with a shrug. "The rules of Nevernight are very clear, Goddess."

"They are anything but clear, and you are an asshole!"

Hades eyes darkened. Apparently, he didn't like being called names any more than the ogre did. He pushed away from the desk striding toward her. Persephone took a step back.

"Don't call me names, Persephone," he said, and then reached for her wrist. He traced the bracelet all around, making her shiver. "When you invited me to your table, you entered into an agreement. If you had won, you could have left Nevernight with no demands on your time. But you didn't and now, we have a contract."

She swallowed, considering what he had asked of Mrs. Levidis' husband. What darkness would he pull from deep inside her?

"And what does that mean?" Her voice was still biting.

"It means we must choose terms," he said.

"I don't want to be in a contract with you," she said between her teeth. "Take it off!"

"I can't."

"You put it there, you can remove it."

His lips twitched.

"You think this is funny?"

"Oh, darling, you have no idea." The word darling slide across her skin and she shivered again. He seemed to notice because he smiled a little bit more.

"I am a Goddess," she tried again. "We are equals."

"You think our blood changes the fact that you willingly entered into a contract with me? These things are law, Persephone." She glared at him. "The mark will dissolve when the contract has been fulfilled." He said it like that should make it all better.

"And what are your terms?" Just because she was asking didn't mean she was going to agree.

Hades jaw was tight. He seemed to be restraining himself. Maybe he wasn't used to being ordered around. When he lifted his head and stared down at her, she knew she was in trouble.

"Create life in the Underworld," he said at last.

"What?" She hadn't been prepared for that, though she probably should have been. Wasn't her greatest weakness her lack of power? An irony considering her Divinity.

"Create life in the Underworld," he said again. "You have six months—and if you fail or refuse, then you will become a permanent resident of the Underworld."

"You want me to grow a garden in your realm?" she asked, shocked. She considered her options at this point, and could only think of one reply--a threat.

"If you steal me away to the Underworld, you will face my mother's wrath."

"Oh, I am sure," he mused. "Much like you will feel her wrath when she discovers what you've so recklessly done."

Persephone's cheeks flushed. He was right. The difference between them is that Hades didn't seemed at all fazed by the threat. Why should he be? He was one of the three--the most powerful Gods in existence. A threat from Demeter was a pebble thrown.

She straightened, raising her chi and meeting his gaze head on. "Fine."

Then she felt the pressure of Hades hadn't on her wrist like a shackle and tore her hand free.

"When do I start?"

Hades eyes glittered. "Come tomorrow. I'll show you the way."

"It will have to be after class," she said.

"Class?"

"I'm majoring in Journalism. At New Athens University."

Hades looked at her curiously and nodded his head. "After class, then."

They stared at each other for a long moment. As much as she hated him right now, it was hard not to enjoy the sight of him.

"What about your bouncer?"

"What about him?"

"I'd prefer he not remember me in this form," she said, indicating to her horns. Then she called up her glamour. It relaxed her a little, to be in her mortal form. Hades watched the transformation as if he were studying the form of an ancient sculpture.

"I'll erase his memory of you...after he his punished for his treatment of you."

Persephone shivered. "He did not know I was a goddess."

"But he knew you were a woman and he let his anger get the best of him," Hades said. "So he will be punished."

Hades said it matter-of-fact, and she knew there was no arguing and then asked, "What will it cost me?" because she knew who she was dealing with, and she had just requested a favor from the God of the Dead.

His lips twitch.

"Clever, darling. You know how this works. The punishment? Nothing. His memory? A favor."

"Don't call me darling," she snapped. "What kind of favor?"

"Whatever I want," he said. "To be used at a future time."

She considered this for a moment. What would Hades want from her? What could she possibly have to offer him? Maybe it was that thought that made her agree, or the fear that her mother would discover she'd showed her true form. Either way, she said, "Deal."

Hades smiled and she felt it deep in her gut.

"I will have my driver take you home," he said.

"That's not necessary."

"It is."

She pressed her lips together. "Fine," She gritted out. She didn't really feel like taking the bus again, but the idea that Hades' would know where she lived was unsettling.

Then the God clasped her shoulders and leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The move was so sudden, she lost her balance. Her fingers tangled into his shirt to steady herself, nails grazing the skin of his chest. His body was hard and warm and his lips were soft on her skin. When he pulled away, she couldn't gather herself enough to be angry.

"What was that for?" she asked, her voice a quiet whisper.

Hades maintained that infuriating smirk, like he knew she couldn't think straight, and brushed a finger across her heated cheeks.

"For your benefit. Next time, the door will open for you. I'd rather you not piss Duncan off. If he hurts you again, I will have to kill him, and it's hard to find a good ogre."

Persephone could just imagine.

"Lord Hades, Thanatos is here to see—oh—" A woman entered his office from a hidden door behind his desk. She was beautiful. Her hair was parted in the center, and as red as flame. Her eyes were sharp and brows arched, lips full and lush and red. All her features were pointed and angled. She was a nymph and when she looked at Persephone, there was hatred in her eyes. It was then Persephone realized she was still standing close to Hades, her hands tangled in his shirt. When she tried to pull away, Hades hands tightened on her. "I did not know you had company."

Hades didn't look at the woman. Instead, his eyes remained on Persephone. "A minute, Minthe."

A minute? What more could he have to say? Persephone didn't see Minthe leave because she couldn't force her gaze away from Hades.

"You haven't answered my question," Hades said. "Why are you using your mother's magic?"

It was her turn to smile. "Lord Hades," she said, drawing a finger along his chest. She wasn't sure what made her do it, but she was feeling brave. "The only way you are getting answers from me is if I decide to enter into another gamble with you and at the moment, it's not likely."

Then she took the lapels of his jacket, and straightened it, her eyes falling to the red polyanthus flower in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I think you will regret this, Hades."

She touched the flower and Hades eyes followed the movement. When her fingers brushed the petals, the flower wilted.

Previous Chapters at: https://my.w.tt/4g95nDLL0T

#Hades x Persephone #books about love #books about gods #greek mythology #greek mythology aesthetic #greek mythology retelling #retelling #love #romance #a touch of darkness

[webcricket]

The Wake-Up Call

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 3961

A/N: One-shot written for @narisjournal-blog Lizzie’s 300 Follower Challenge with the prompt – “Breakfast hadn’t prepared her for today’s events.” Whether human or angelic, sometimes all a heart needs is a wake-up call to admit what existed therein all along. And breakfast, of course – it’s the most important meal of the day. Equal parts humor, angst, suspense, and fluff.

Breakfast hadn’t prepared you for today’s events. Your eyelids fluttered open to a black void. At least you hoped the lack of light was because of its total absence in whatever hell hole you’d landed in and not something worse. A high-pitched ringing lambasted your ears, interrupted by a low involuntary gurgling groan vibrating in your throat as you botched a dizzying attempt to clamber upright into a semi-vertical position. The headache you’d nursed all day – the result of sheer exhaustion coupled with an empty stomach – had attained a whole new level of excruciating pain. You clawed at your ears, the source of the piercing buzz. You were fairly certain the intense noise originating from within your skull was your brain attempting to escape your cranium from the inside out; the gelatinous grey matter deciding just then it was unwilling to tolerate the inhumane conditions of this day any longer. You couldn’t blame it for trying, however ill-timed the endeavor. Dismissing the clearly concussed nonsense flitting through your conscious mind, you reasoned the renewed ruthlessness of the throbbing and noise probably had more to do with the massive bruise forming on your temple and the sticky liquid oozing from your split eyebrow and stinging your dark-blind vision. You groaned again – the act of thinking hurt.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Castiel called out to you; his gruff voice echoed off the walls of the room – at least you supposed it was an enclosed room based on the reverberating acoustics.

“More or less,” you mumbled, dabbing at your bleeding brow with the base of your palm to redirect the flow of blood before dragging yourself across the floor toward the sound of rustling fabric. You figured there was less chance of vertigo-induced fainting and the resultant further head trauma if you remained mostly recumbent as an intimately close captive of gravity. No use aiding and abetting in your brain’s prison break. That, and since falling through a trap door disguised as a perfectly ordinary appearing floor mere moments ago, you had a few trust issues to work out about the perceived solidity of solid surfaces.

“Good,” the word fell oddly strained off the angel’s tongue. He grunted in a manner strongly suggestive of profound agony.

“Cas?” you cried out in alarm, pulse amplifying to a tinny whine in your ears with a rush of adrenaline.

He answered with a wet gasping cough.

You risked rising to your knees to crawl the remainder of the distance to him. Your fingers grazed the rubber sole of a boot, following the attached ankle, calf, and knee as guideposts to his body proper. Shuffling forward, you knelt in a disconcertingly large and viscous puddle. Fingertips ghosting over his thighs, you reached up and out into the darkness. Touching his shuddering chest, you located and cupped his face in your palms, pads of your thumbs smearing the tacky fluid collecting at the corners of his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he sputtered, rather unconvincingly. Weakly grasping at your wrist, his fingers were cold and trembling. “Are you certain you’re alright? I-I didn’t recognize the sigil until it was too late. I should have known this was a trap.”

“Nothing a little Aspirin won’t cure,” you dismissed his concern, your own worry for him more pressing. You felt his brow – his vessel going clammy with shock – shock he shouldn’t be experiencing as a celestial being. You gingerly palpated his torso until your fingertips hit the sharp spike of steel rebar protruding from his lower abdomen. You reflexively gasped as he moaned in response to your grim discovery. Judging from the current of blood gushing out around the entry point of the serrated shaft of metal, it had nicked or punctured something major. “Fine? You call this fine?” You shrugged out of your jacket and, wadding it into a tight ball, applied firm pressure to the wound.

“It’s-” he grunted.

“You’re bleeding out. Why aren’t you healing?” you cut him off, swallowing a sickening surge of fear at the thought of losing the angel. Up until now you took for granted there would be plenty of time to find the courage to tell him how you felt. Time to show him how much his kindness and care meant to you. Time to explore the budding emotion that caused your heart to flutter whenever he was near.

“The walls, I-,” he choked, abdomen racked spasmodically, lungs seized by an agonal pang of anguish as they flooded with fluid.

“Shh,” you soothed, voice cracking, “don’t talk, just…just try to relax. I’m right here. I need you to stay with me.” You instinctively reached for his cheek. Inclining forward, you rested your forehead against his as the convulsion passed. “Please Cas,” you whispered, salty warm tears overflowing to rain upon his skin, “please. Promise me.”

He sucked in a rattling breath, covering your hand with his own, giving your fingers a feeble reassuring squeeze. He would do anything in his power that you asked of him – anything – and he deeply regretted the extant matter of his dying was entirely out of his control. He refused to lie to you. “Sam…Dean…will find us,” his voice emerged a faint murmur muffled by the blood ascending his gullet. “They’ll double back…any minute…find us.” He had to believe they’d find you. Rescue you in time. The alternative was unacceptable.

“Any minute,” you sniffled agreement, nodding into his brow. Assuming, your brain opined, they haven’t fallen victim to a similar trap. The angel needed help now. You couldn’t wait for rescue that might never arrive. “Hey Cas-?”

His fingers twitched in acknowledgement

“Suppose those numbskulls need us to rescue them. Can you see any way out of this place?”

The pitch black room was rapidly growing darker to his angelic sight. The sight that allowed him to read with clarity his death sentence aglow upon the four walls – intricate warding sigils carved into the cement and designed to paralyze the healing power of his grace and render him essentially mortal – an angelic death trap unseen by you with your constraints of human perception. Blinking, he returned his gaze to your red-rimmed unfocused eyes – the vibrant warmth of your soul washing over him in the gloom. He watched a single tear pool and spill over your lashes. Hope – it was his favorite quality in humans – your most endearing virtue and most vexing fault. How many times had you stubbornly maintained hope when all appeared lost? When he saw none? He looked again to the walls and saw it – directly behind you – a defect in the outline of a door. No lock, no knob, no way to open it. Only hope.

“Angel?”

His vessel’s heart began to race in a futile attempt to circulate the blood that didn’t fill his veins any longer. He knew he should tell you about the door. Maybe there was a way out. More likely it was only a way in. And right now he selfishly needed you to hold him. Needed the comfort of your touch. He was scared to die alone and in the dark. There was so much he needed to say and so little time. “Y/N-” He felt himself falling, your name the final softly spoken sentiment on his tongue as consciousness failed him. Fingers sliding from the bare flesh of your arms, he tried desperately to hold on, to anchor himself to your presence, to somehow express to you the breadth of the love he held confined within his heart before its final beat.

“Cas!” you sobbed, catching him and cushioning his head as he slumped and crumpled limp to the floor.

* * * * *

You blindly bashed at the motel alarm clock in a vain attempt to silence the bass assault upon your eardrums. It kept insisting you awaken, even after you yanked the cord from the outlet in a delirium of rage and launched the whole contraption into the oblivion otherwise known as the middle of the room.

“Y/N.”

It seems someone, at some point, had told the abrasive timepiece your name, and you were not at all amused. “Leave me alone!” you moaned into the lumpy pillow, the actual syllables emerging from your throat in the garbled and incomprehensible groaning speech characteristic of the half-asleep human.

“Y/N, you overslept. Again.”

Now the damn thing was judging you. You popped open a dry sleep-crusted eye, blinking against the harsh early morning light spilling in from the spaces between the drawn curtains.

Castiel stood at your bedside, apathetic blue eyes squinting back at you.

“Ugh!” you groaned, yanking the blanket over your head and burrowing deeper into pillow. “Why?”

The angel cocked his head in thought. “It’s already past 7AM,” he suggested in answer to your vague query.

“Cas,” you mumbled, tone undulating to a drawn out whine as if this would instill greater meaning to your question, repeating, “why?”

Cas looked off to the left, jaw clenching as he tried, very hard, without intruding upon your private thoughts for clarification, to determine what, precisely, you wanted him to say. You had a way of confounding him he found at once frustrating and delightfully charming. Flummoxed, expression softening diffidently, he simply offered again with a shrug, “You overslept.”

“Under-slept,” you corrected. “As in, not enough, short of, needed more.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed. “Over implies too much of something. And your irritable mood definitely suggests that this is not the case.”

You were fairly certain the angel just called you cranky. From anyone else, you would have taken it as an insult and retorted with a demonstration of precisely how grouchy you were capable of being when provoked. But with Cas, you knew it was innocent observation. Sitting up with a huff and throwing off the covers, you jammed your fingers into your eye sockets to rub away the vestiges of sleep. Your fingers moved to massage the headache kindling into existence at your temples.

“Sam and Dean went out for breakfast.”

You looked over at the angel and yawned, “And you’re still here.”

Eyes narrowing, he glanced down at himself then back to you, mumbling, “I appear to be.”

You snorted a laugh. “I mean you didn’t go with them.”

He shook his head, fingers fumbling in his pockets. “I thought-”

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, mouth stretching in another lazy yawn as you watched his methodical search.

He produced a granola bar from inside his suit pocket, offering it to you with a small proud smile. “I thought you might be hungry too.”

“Um, thanks Cas.” You turned the foil-wrapped bar over in your fingers, noting the labelled expiration date of nine years prior.

“You’re welcome,” he beamed. “Uh, Jimmy had it in his pocket when-,” he prattled, gesturing at himself “-you know. I’ve held on to it all these years just in case.”

The gift was so sincere, you overcame your skepticism about the bar’s vintage and ripped the corner of the package open. The brown congealed mass inside was rock hard and definitely going to break your teeth if you tried to consume it. You bit your lip and peered up at the angel. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings. You needed a distraction. “Hey, you know what would be great with this?”

His eyes willingly glinted.

“A cup of coffee. I think I saw a machine in the motel office. You mind grabbing me one while I hop in the shower?” It wasn’t food, but you hoped the caffeine would help your aching head.

“Of course.” He turned to leave the room.

“And Cas?” you called after him.

Fingers poised on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder.

“When you come back and forget to knock and walk in to find me half-naked, don’t act so dumbfounded. You’re not fooling anyone.”

The angel’s cheeks flushed as he scurried out the door.

* * * * *

“Grigori,” Cas growled when Sam peeled the sheet back to reveal the cold corpse resting beneath – the grey human husk marred with purple bruising and layer upon layer of distinct scars on the arms where the angelic abomination had fed upon the human soul within for years. “They’re supposed to be extinct.”

“Yeah, well, not so much,” Dean griped, motioning for Sam to shroud the body. “Looks like those dimwitted dicks upstairs let more than one of these soul-suckers slip through the cracks. Is anyone surprised? Anyone? No? No one?”

The angel cast Dean a grim glare.

Your stomach rumbled.

“Seriously?” Sam arched a brow at you.

Evidently brutally tortured dead bodies and the antiseptic smell of the morgue did little to deter your hunger. You rolled your eyes, muttering in your stomach’s defense, “You could’ve at least brought me back a bagel or something.”

“Hey, you snooze you lose, sweetheart.” Dean smirked.

“Dean,” Cas chided, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“I heard that’s just a myth perpetrated by the cereal industry,” Dean countered.

“Says the man who thinks bacon is a food group,” you argued.

“And cheeseburgers,” Cas helpfully suggested.

“They are, grouped on a plate, with extra fries.” Dean’s green eyes twinkled in self-amusement.

“Guys!” Sam scolded, wagging his jaw at the deceased. “A little respect?”

Your stomach rumbled louder. “Sorry,” you sheepishly pressed your palm to your belly.

“What about the granola bar I gave you?” Cas questioned.

“Not that granola bar?” Dean exchanged a knowing glance with his brother as he picked up the coroner’s report.

Cas looked up between them, a confused cock to his head.

“The one you’ve been trying to pawn off on us for years,” Sam clarified. “The one I’ve personally tried to throw away, what? Seven or eight times now?”

“I stopped counting,” Dean added, skimming the report.

“You didn’t actually eat it, did you?” Sam’s forehead creased in genuine concern.

You shook your head, raising your eyes to meet the angel’s wounded blues. “Sorry Cas, it’s-” You fished the stale bar out of your pocket and offered it back to him. “Well, whatever it is, it was a still nice gesture and I appreciated it.”

“Says here they scraped creosote oil from her skin.” Dean’s gaze lifted from the notes, redirecting you back to the case.

“But the police report said the body was found in a seasonal cabin, miles from town.” Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless he moved her,” Cas reached under the sheet and carefully lifted a shriveled hand. Stooping, he brought her fingers to his nose and inhaled.

Dean’s features twisted in horror.

Stomach acid churning, you turned away, fighting a wave of nausea.

“What is it?” Sam inquired – significantly less grossed out by the action than the rest of you.

“It’s specifically the type of preservative used as a flame retardant,” Cas explained.

“Like-” you gagged “-like the stuff they use to treat lumber?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded, delicately folding the woman’s hand to place it under the sheet, “exactly like that.”

“We passed an abandoned lumber mill on the way into town last night,” you pointed out.

“I’d say that’s as good a lead as any.” Dean tossed the file aside. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

“Get them out of here!” you whisper-screamed, tugging on Dean’s jacket sleeve. A young man and an even younger girl lay restrained and unconscious on dingy cots, wandering in the dream-world created for them by the Grigori. An array of giant rusted, but nonetheless menacing, metal saw blades hung from the walls around them. You recalled the boy’s smiling picture from a missing person’s poster you saw at the police station earlier. With any luck they could both be saved. If it had only been weeks, not years, since they were taken perhaps they were still strong enough to survive.

Sam rushed to cut the young man’s bindings, gently cradling the boy’s frail frame in his arms.

“Now!” you ran ahead, sending a subdued shout of further instruction over your shoulder before Dean could launch a protest. “Come back for us.” You disappeared through the same door Cas vanished through moments ago.

The murky hall streaked with eerie horizontal beams of dust illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight. The footprints on the freshly disturbed sawdust strewn floor indicated Cas had gone right. You readjusted your grip on your angel blade, holding it at the ready as you as you ventured ahead. Cas? you prayed, not wanting to risk alerting the Grigori, if it was here, to your presence. Cas? Where are you?

Cas heard your prayer as he tarried at the far end of the hall, calloused fingertips distractedly tracing a sigil burned into the wooden beams there. It seemed at once familiar and foreign to him.

The angel stood transfixed as you approached him. You flattened a hand to his shoulder. “What is it?”

“I don’t-” he mumbled, his fingers following the winding lines inward to the heart of the strange sigil, unable to stop himself from completing the pattern, “-know.” Blinding light blazed from the charred symbol, radiating from the center outward and stinging your vision. Cas’ blue eyes flamed in reflected horror. Too late, he pivoted and tried to shove you backward out of danger. The floor hinged beneath your feet. Unbalanced, you stumbled forward into his arms, both of you tumbling tangled into the abyss. He did the only thing he could do to protect you then – wrapping his arms about you as you fell, he twisted your bodies, using himself to buffer you from whatever fate awaited below.

* * * * *

“No, no, no! Don’t you do this, you hold on! Castiel, you’re not going anywhere; do you hear me?” You smoothed the angel’s hair, his head rolling limply in your worrying hands. A thready uneven pulse still quivered in his neck.

A metallic lock disengaged behind you with an almost imperceptible ting.

Rocking to your heels, you turned to confront the sound. You squinted against the bright light suddenly pouring through the crack of a door. Holding a hand up to shield your eyes, your heart leapt into your throat in the hope it was Sam or Dean looming outside the entry in backlit shadow. Instinct told you otherwise. Dark-adjusted eyes struggling to locate your lost weapon, you saw the angel blade glinting well out of reach. You scrambled to your feet, grasping a stray piece of the same steel rebar that impaled Cas as you rose. Placing yourself squarely between the door and the fallen angel, you waited.

“Ah, how splendid!” the dark figure bellowed with laughter. “Fresh fodder and a foe bagged together. And to think I believed after billions of years I’d seen everything.”

“Who are you?” you wielded the rebar in front of you, beginning to discern the figure’s sneering features as your sight adapted. You had a good idea it was the Grigori. You also had no immediate plan and needed to stall.

The man chuckled again, flicking his wrist and sending you careening like a ragdoll sideways into the wall.

This did nothing to improve your headache. Smashing face first, you collapsed into a bloodied heap.

He strolled across the threshold into the room, squatting over Cas to admire his handiwork with a smug grin.

The Grigori misjudged both your resilience as a hunter and your devotion to Cas. Head spinning, you slithered up the wall, brain becoming vaguely aware and kindly sharing its notice of the winding imperfections in the concrete below your fingertips. Sigils. They were sigils. Of course! No wonder Cas couldn’t heal. And that meant maybe…you clutched at the rebar and hoped. Lurching forward, you plowed into the Grigori, using the force of your body’s momentum to propel the piece of steel through his ribcage, skewering his vessel’s heart.

Gasping in sheer surprise, fingers clawing useless at his chest, he keeled over backward, powerless, doomed to die by his own trap.

Summoning the last of your strength, willing yourself to not to pass out in spite of the odd hollow and simultaneously fuzzy sensation overtaking half your skull, you staggered to Cas. You picked up his ankles, drawing them up to your waist and locking his feet within your elbows, you leaned heavily backward, dragging him inch by excruciating inch from the room. When the final strand of his hair traversed into the safety of the sigil-less room beyond, your knees buckled. Curling up beside him, you wrenched free the rebar penetrating his abdomen. Thankfully you couldn’t hear the moist sucking sound the metal made as it tore through his vessel’s liver over the ringing in your ears. Steel clattering to the floor, you succumbed to the overwhelming desire to close your eyes and sleep.

* * * * *

A steady beep pulsed as a distant echo your dream. You reclined against a tree – the bark smooth and soft where it touched your back. The verdant grass lush and cool beneath your legs. The sun shone warm on your skin. The sky above stretched infinite and blue.

“I think she’s waking up.”

“Be quiet, Dean.”

You looked down to see the hand embracing yours and opened eyes you didn’t realize were shut.

“Y/N?”

You blinked and Castiel’s concerned features slowly came into focus. Trembling with effort, you reached up to try to caress his scruffy chin to prove to yourself he was real. He grasped your fingers midway and drew them to his lips to place a tender kiss thereupon. He seemed to surprise himself with the action.

“You’re alive,” your voice cracked hoarsely.

He nodded, a subtle smile curving his mouth and softening his blue gaze. “Thanks to you.”

You winced when you tried to smile, the shattered bones in your cheek crackling.

“Try not to move,” he frowned at perceiving your pain, brushing the backs of his fingers gently over your face, grace tingling to sooth but not mend your injury. “I’m not strong enough to heal you yet.”

“I’m fine,” you tried to laugh, which was an even worse idea than smiling based on the shooting pain radiating from your fractured ribs.

“Liar,” Dean teased from the end of the bed. “Good to have you back, kiddo.” He gave your foot a light squeeze, somehow knowing this was the only body part of yours that didn’t hurt.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And nice work back there. You’ll be happy to know those kids are going to make a complete recovery too. We’ll leave you to get some rest and you’ll be out of here in no time.” He nudged his brother toward the door.

Cas moved to rise.

You caught the angel’s wrist and he settled back into the chair as Sam and Dean left the room.

He sat quietly for a while, fidgeting with his focus as he grappled in silence with everything he wanted to say to you. He peered around at the drab medical machinery of the room, spent a few minutes scrutinizing the ceiling, and few more contemplating the linoleum floor tiles before his attention drifted to you.

“I-” you both spoke at the same time. He nodded yieldingly.

“Cas, I thought-” Tears welled in your eyes.

His hand found yours.

“I thought I lost you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Holding your palm to his cheek, he relaxed into the warmth of your touch.

Your fingers tickled the dark curls at his temple. “I can’t lose you, angel. I-”

“I love you too,” he finished your declaration, eyes gleaming wet as he gazed back with shared affection. He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, whispering into your skin, “Now rest, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

#lizzie's 300 challenge #castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel reader insert #castiel x y/n #castiel fluff #castiel angst #cas x reader #cas x you #spn reader insert #you x cas #reader x cas #castielxreader #castielxyou #you x castiel #reader x castiel #castiel oneshot #castiel fanfic #cricket writes cas

[littlegoldenbirdie]

Kaiju, kings and monstrous things

Just call me Monty Python, ‘cause here comes the spam! ...Dunno if it’s spam if it’s your own stuff, though...

-------------

Anime Ghidorah and Lovecraft

Some folks call anime Ghidorah 'Space Cthulhu'. By 'folks', I mean 'me'. But lately I've learned that there's another cosmic horror that fits him better. Allow me to introduce The King in Yellow, Lord of the Interstellar Spaces, Hastur the Unspeakable. The evil elf-looking minister dudes worship Ghidorah and fear his very name to the point where even the bravest will only whisper it VERY reluctantly. That's where the 'Unspeakable' part comes in, for to speak his name is to gain his attention, and if you gain his attention... Well, it's been nice knowing ya, and try not to scream too loudly as you die. And now I ask you, what is yellow but gold that has lost its lustrous sheen? Take away Ghidorah's shiny fabulousness and he's yellow like a frickin' banana.

And here's the creepy thing about Ghidorah. He's technically not here at all. He's somewhere else, somewhere not in this dimension. He sticks his head(s) through a hole in space and time in order to screw around with us, safe and secure in the knowledge that we cannot reach his body, let alone harm it, and what we CAN reach (necks and heads) is intangible like a holographic projection. Or he can just warp reality so everything we send at him goes somewhere or somewhen else. "The Great Old Ones had shape, but that shape was not made of matter. When the stars were right, they could plunge from world to world, but if the stars were not right they could not live." Lovecraft wrote that statement, so let's analyze it. "Not made of matter"? Then they were made of energy, presumably. So is he. "If the stars were/were not right"? That's fancy talk for saying if the right conditions were met. Ghidorah must be actively summoned into our universe (chanting works, because hey, he'll hear ya like I said before), and then one of the minister dudes must use his own body as a focus/tether for him to channel his power through. Kill that guy and you bind him to OUR reality (i.e. you've got him dead to rights). Once he is bound to our reality, he's actually extraordinarily weak and fragile. Still, it cannot be denied... "It is a fearful thing to fall into the grasp of the Living God!"

KOTM Ghidorah's frozen hell

Being sealed away in Antarctica had to have been AWFUL. I mean, his natural environment is freakin' OUTER SPACE, so has he even seen an enclosed space before, let alone been in one? He's used to vacuum and zero-gravity as his normal environment, so their opposites must feel as unnatural to him as they themselves feel to us! Moving through air must feel like moving through water. He probably has this deep, irrational fear in the depths of the back of his mind that the ground will swallow him up. That's how gravity must make him feel. Being locked away in frozen darkness, ice pressing in on him from all sides, unable to spread his wings, unable to so much as twitch... If he was sane when he went into the ice, he probably wasn't once he got out.

And now for some more science-y stuff

If King Ghidorah gets his nutrition from radiation, why would he bother having a stomach? Evolution is cruel to anything not completely necessary, be it organs, limbs or even biological processes. So eating food must still have some purpose for his species. I imagine Ghidorah pups would need to supplement their species' usual diet of radiation with actual food to provide extra energy to fuel growth. Once fully grown, they would no longer need to bother with it, save to occasionally indulge in a tasty snack for the heck of it, or perhaps to aid/speed up healing from particularly bad injuries. Eating returns to being necessary when they reach old age. The elderly would need to supplement their radioactive diet with actual food as age causes their metabolism to slow down, like a battery running out of juice. In the end, their fantastic regenerative capabilities turn against them in a losing battle to survive as long as possible. Their body would cut its losses bit by bit, giving ground to Death in an effort to preserve the most important parts. The end would first come externally as limbs and senses weaken and fail. Organs would follow, one by one. Dead flesh would rot around the still-living bits inside. Eventually the brain would be the only thing left, intact and functional. Capable of thought for a frighteningly long time after everything else is, well, gone. But eventually it would fail as well, just as slowly as the rest, thoughts slowly fading into nothingness. So if your interstellar travels should lead you to discover the skull of a Ghidorah, even if that skull should be bleached white by age and time, smash it to shards and smear whatever it may contain across the landscape. Trust me; its owner WILL be grateful for your actions.

#kaiju #anime ghidorah #lovecraftian #ghidorah kotm #alien biology