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versaphile · 7 months

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I will never kill anyone again: The Big Fall

Followup to my previous thoughts on Vash's "I’ll never kill. Ever again." I'm 90% sure that the previous "kill" he's referring to is the Big Fall and the countless deaths that resulted. I think he considers those, thanks to Nai's manipulation, to be directly his fault. Blood on his hands personally.

And this is why. The tally marks he makes in the SEEDS03 cell. They're not, as first seems, tallying the number of days he's held prisoner. In fact, as Brad takes 2 weeks to go through the rubble of SEEDS05, and adding a few days on each side of that, Vash is only in the cell for 2-4 weeks at most. We directly see him carving all the marks over the course of three nights and two days.

I can't find the post that first talked about this, but Luida has been asking Vash to think about what he can do, what he's useful for. And the only thing Vash has been useful for in his short life to that point is inadvertently causing the deaths of millions of people and some unknown number of plants.

So going back to the comparison of canons again, we have to consider the Big Fall in those timelines. In all of them, of course, Vash had no idea what Knives was planning until it was too late. From an external perspective, Vash has no real culpability. The Big Fall was Knives' crime.

In 98, there is no Tesla, and we see very little about dependent plants. Instead The Big Fall is driven by more straightforward child abuse. Steve treats Vash and Knives as monsters and abuses them, and Knives classifies all humans as threats as a result. After the twins flee the ship, Rem stays behind and saves the rest of the fleet, but her ship explodes. While we don't directly see the Big Fall itself, 98 in general ramps down the death count and it seems like most of the ships were able to land safely. We see the reverse thrusters firing because of Rem's actions.

98 Vash loses Rem and he loses his home, but almost everyone else survives. Vash stays with Knives after the Big Fall, and 15 years later, Knives makes the gate guns. Knives declares his intent to use them to destroy what's left of humanity. It's at this point that Vash has had enough. He rejects Knives and explicitly states that the deaths from The Big Fall are on Knives alone.

In the manga, it's all driven by what was done to Tesla. And the casualties are horrific. Rem saved some by staying behind, but she did not save basically everyone as happened in 98. It seems that the vast majority of the fleet was destroyed, 802 confirmed destroyed and at best only 198 ships surviving at all.

But again, after all that, Vash stays with Knives. He stays with him for 80 years. In Vash's words, "Time passed slowly. We didn't part, but we didn't grow any closer either. [...] I knew I couldn't leave him." What finally forces them apart is Knives massacring an entire village to save Vash himself. And again, it's "how many people do you have to kill?" Manga Vash does not take the blame for the Big Fall either.

Which brings us back to Stampede Vash. And here is the difference. Because Vash shared the access codes, and that revealed Tesla (the motivation for the Big Fall) and provided Knives with the ability to sabotage the fleet. So Vash has two points of blame.

And that's even before Knives puts the blame on him again in "To A New World." Not only did Vash reveal what happened to Tesla, not only did Vash provide the means to destroy the fleet, but Knives HAD to kill every human (and still HAS to) because Vash himself is too human. It's no wonder that was the final blow to Vash's sense of self.

So in "Millions Knives", when Vash says "I will never kill anyone again"? Vash absolutely feels that he has killed. He has millions of dead on his hands. Knives' actions are his responsibility, his fault. Vash carries the guilt, maybe more so because Knives rejects any guilt for those deaths.

Interestingly, that very much echoes how Vash, in the beginning of the manga, has already been "responsible" for mass deaths via July. We start the manga with Vash carrying that burden. In Stampede, Vash starts out with that burden but from the Big Fall, and then July happens on top of that, with the extra salt in the wound of Knives guilt-tripping him about the Big Fall in a brand new, awful way.

I think when season 2 starts, with the Ericks storyline, in a way we will also be seeing Vash as he was after Dragon's Nest. Carrying the deaths of millions, and now not just responsible for them by accident, as an accomplice, but directly through his failure to safely release the Energy Cube in space. And carrying what he believes is Knives' death. A far, far darker Ericks than we saw in 98 and the manga, where Vash didn't carry The Big Fall, and didn't even fully remember July, and he knew Knives was out there, alive and well.

#trigun #trigun meta #trigun stampede #trigun maximum #trigun 1998

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blackjackkent · 7 months

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Arrival at Amkethran!

This general location is the Calishite desert, so I believe this is something of a return home for Rasaad, since I think he was originally Calishite before the business in Athkatla.

All Caden knows is it's hot as hell - and he's been to hell, so he should know. He's tired of being hot. He feels like he hasn't stopped sweating since they killed Irenicus.

Luckily, he has a new lovetalk from Aerie to distract him!

:( OK, not a very cheerful one.

(This was a bit of an odd one actually, and I wasn't thrilled with the dialogue options I was given for Caden. But here we go.)

They stop for a rest a little outside of the village, curled up by the fire as the desert temperatures plunge with the disappearance of the sun. Aerie is nestled into Caden's side and stirs restlessly, her pale eyes tracking aimless paths along the night sky.

Caden wants to reassure her...but the truth is that the weight of everything that happened in Saradush is starting to come home to him too. So many dead, so much destruction. And some of it, inescapably, because of him and his presence, even if he did not strike the blows himself.

So his voice is a little hollow, full of weary exhaustion.

She shifts, turning her head to look up at him, and then frowns and rolls over so she can press her palm against his cheek.

How can he explain it? He feels no kinship with these other people and yet they are dead because they are like him, because Yaga-Shura flattened a city in search of him. And the rest of the world thinks he is a monster capable of such devastation himself. He shakes his head uncertainly and speaks, trying to sound as steady as he can.

Perhaps she mistakes that careful control for apathy, because she sits up on one elbow and looks at him with sincere concern.

He feels a sudden flare of frustration that he hates himself for; he knows she means well with her concern, but he cannot find the words to speak of those deaths in a way that is sufficient. He does not know how.

Please, my love...please let it go. Please let me sleep. You know I am not capable of such cruelty, of not caring what became of them...but I can't...

I can't...

He tries to look away from her, to curl into himself, but she grabs his face in both her hands and forces him to look into her eyes. And he sees the fear there - the fear not of him and what he can do, but of what will be left of them when they have survived this neverending sea of brutality.

My love, if I let myself feel everything that has happened since Athkatla...I will fall apart. And then we are all doomed.

He swallows, forces himself to smile and presses his fingertips to her lips. Perhaps she is right. She doesn't know the depths of what he is feeling - not yet, not until he can figure out how to speak of it - but she is right that he must focus on what is good, what is right, what is him, lest he lose himself altogether, and lose her as well.

She searches his expression for a moment, and then seems to relax a little and nods. Shifting, she pulls his arms around her and settles back into their bedroll, her body curled into the curve of his side. And he closes his eyes and tries to put out of his mind everything but the reality of the moment, her warmth and the slow rise and fall of her breath, the subtle thump of her heart.

But neither of them - none of them in that camp - sleep soundly that night. All of them, in their dreams, see the flames rising from Saradush's walls and wonder what lies ahead.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 2 #caden of candlekeep #this was a strange one lol #the game clearly meant it to come after a sleep but it triggered when we arrived in the new city instead #so aerie's like “sleep well!” and then we're just standing there #oh well

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silkling · 3 years

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Could you do a fic where High tide finds out how bad M.E.C.H is after Optimus shows up on the deck of his ship because the ground bridge is down and High tide is the closest, I don't see much of him so I wanted to ask

I’d love to! High Tide is a fun character, first impressions aside, and I always wished the show gave a little more on his relationship with Optimus. I understand why they didn’t, but hey, I can dream!

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When Optimus Prime sent High Tide a comm. message asking him to dock his boat at a specific set of coordinates so he could board, and to be prepared to make a very quick getaway, High Tide’s battle protocols flared to life. They hadn’t activated since coming to Earth, since he didn’t need them when it came to working with that team of bitty younglings, and he certainly didn’t need them for his secondary mission given to him by the Prime, which was to scout Earth’s oceans for energon and mine and gather as much as he could. So when the familiar protocols roared to the forefront of his processor, it was easy to have his ship shift into its battle form, which involved the side narrowing a slight bit and a very large amount of weaponry unfolding from various parts of the boat or humming to life in hidden turrets. He easily did as his old friend asked, expecting that the Prime was facing Deceptions and possibly injured, and that’s why he needed a rescue and an escape route and not a battle assist.

Optimus Prime was indeed injured as he ran onto the ship, limping heavily, but High Tide caught no Decepticon signals on his sensors. His battle protocols whirled, trying to calculate what was going on and attempting to lock onto a target for High Tide fo fight. Still, he did as he had originally been asked and as soon as Optimus was on board he had the ship leaving and heading towards open waters. His processor still whirling with the urge to fight, the soldier grabbed his field first aid kit and went to help his commander patch himself up. He crouched next to the large mech, who was seated on the deck of the ship, and got to work.

“So Optimus, mind tellin’ me what you were runnin’ from?” he asked, his engine rumbling with battle-lust in tandem with the rasp of his voice.

The Prime only shot him a look, easily reading his posture and understanding what was going on in his processor. “Stand down, High Tide. There will be no fight today.”

“No fight!” he growled. “I think not! What ‘Con did this to you and where are they now?” he demanded, welding shut a leaking gash in the red armor.

“It was no Deception, old friend.”

High Tide froze, his optics narrowing. “No ‘Con? Then who? Humans?”

And that’s when his long distance sensors picked up the energy signatures of approaching vehicles. Approaching earth vehicles, coming from the air. High Tide’s engine snarled in displeasure, and he shot the Prime a dark look.

“This happened cause of your insistence on not harming humans, didn’t it?” he demanded. “Optimus, your dedication to being just and sowin’ as little violence as possible is one of the reasons I follow you. It means you care about life first and foremost and that makes you a very good commander. But sometimes, you take it too far!”

He sent the command to his ship to activate long-range weapons. He’d shoot the little insects out of the sky. Optimus obviously that saw the weapons on deck engaging and locking onto currently unseen targets, because he locked a hand around High Tide’s wrist.

“High Tide, do not!” he ordered.

The submarine glared at the Prime. “Tell me who they are, Optimus. I need an explanation.”

Optimus sighed. “They call themselves M.E.C.H. They are a human terrorist organization whose goal is to possess and control the most powerful and advanced technologies on the planet.”

High Tide narrowed his optics. “And right now, that’s us.”

A nod was his only reply.

“So they’re hunting Cybertronians, then? Why?”

Optimus hesitated before he answered, before he decided it might be best if his friend knew the whole story so he could understand the dangers. “They wish to cut one of us open and take them apart in order to figure out how we work. They want to create one of us themselves, on that is sparkless and mindless and follows only their commands.”

High Tide went rigid, and that was when the helicopters broke cloud cover and started barking down on the ship. He snarled, and his ship’s weapons began powering up.

“High Tide!” Optimus protested. “I said-!”

“I heard you the first time, Optimus.” High Tide said coldly. “And normally, I’d follow your orders. But you forget one thing: my primary duty as your soldier is to ensure you survive. So if I have to disobey your order to ensure you do, so be it.” He strode to the edge of the deck, gaze locking on the helicopters.

One of them stopped to hover closer to the water, and High Tide turned a cold glare onto it. “I suggest you and yours leave, little human.” he rumbled. “My ship has the firepower to take down a Decepticon war vessel.”

The apparent leader, a human with silver hair and a facial scar, only chuckled. “I think not. You robots are so squeamish about taking human lives. And besides, you’ll find that we are more than capable of handing a little heavy weaponry. We’ll come away from this endeavor with two prizes and a warship, it seems. How lovely.”

High Tide only bared his teeth in a savage grin. “I think you’ll find I have far fewer reservations about killin’ you little bugs than my commander.” he said coldly, and his ship fired. A high powered blaster bolt hit one of the other copters, blowing it to pieces and sending the wreckage falling into the sea below.

The human was obviously startled by the show, and he narrowed his eyes at the large blue Autobot. “So I see.” he said darkly.

High Tide could almost see him getting ready to give an order to attack, so he sent the ship another command. There was more fire, and then all the helicopter’s except the one in charge were nothing but flaming wreckage falling from the sky.

“Leave.” he snarled. “Last chance.”

The human narrowed his eyes, glaring, before nodding at the pilot next to him and then the helicopter was leaving, flying away and into the clouds. High Tide only relaxed when his long range sensors pinged back telling him they had left, and then he returned to his friend. His battle protocols started to cycle down, and the harsh glow of his optics lessened.

“High Tide…” Optimus sounded pained.

“I’m not going to apologize, Prime.” he said stiffly, returning to fixing up his commander. “I admire your desire for peace, I really do. But sometimes, the peaceful solution won’t work. You can’t just let them hunt you down like that. What if your refusal to fight back or let your team fight back means you lose another bot? What happens if those slag-heaps find the Rescue Bots?” he demanded.

Optimus winced, looking away. “It is wrong to use our might to kill so easily.”

“It is.” High Tide agreed. “But they weren’t non-threats, Optimus. If you keep letting them hunt you down without fightin’ back, then one of these days someone is going to suffer grievously at their hands, and with how determined all your team is to protect you…it won’t be you.” he said seriously.

Optimus was silent as High Tide finished, only looking up when the submarine stood and put the kit away. “You are right, of course.” he sounded exhausted. “But…”

“You don’t want to compromise another piece of your spark.” High Tide heaved a sigh. “I get it, Optimus. I really do. So I won’t say anythin’ about your decisions when it comes to you alone fightin’ them. But know this: I refuse to bow down and run from those humans. If they come after me, I will fight back and take out as many as I must. What happens if Blurr or Salvage are with me when they attack, Prime? Am I supposed to run and let those monsters have a chance at hurtin’ young bots who haven’t ever fought in the War?”

“…no. No, you are right, High Tide.” he heaved a sigh. “I will not protest your choices, and I thank you for your aid and for protecting me.”

High Tide relaxed, and finally let his ship return to its normal form. “I understand you, Optimus. We might disagree sometimes, but at the end of the day you’re still my friend and I will follow you, wherever this War takes us.”

Optimus shot him a tired, warm smile. “Thank you, old friend. I do not deserve such devoted loyalty from you, but I’m glad to have it nonetheless.”

High Tide grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Of course, Prime. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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Here we are! Shorter than my usual fics, but I hope you like it nonetheless!

Silas just got a very harsh lesson that not all the ‘bots will be hesitant about using lethal force. He’ll be more wary around them from here on out! And Optimus is just tired of the War and violence and death. He doesn’t want more violence, but sometimes it’s the only way to stay alive. Poor guy.

Until next time, folks!

#silkling request fics #request fic #tfp #transformers prime #transformers rescue bots #tfrb #tfp optimus prime #optimus prime #high tide #rescue bots high tide #tfrb high tide #MECH #tfp silas #high tide does not like MECH #Optimus is tired #maccadam

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writtenwyrm · 2 years

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The Ascension

A Slay the Spire story, Part 2

All Parts

Previous Next

At first I believed it to be a sort of grime. The rooms were in such a state of ruin that it was difficult to tell what was standard and what was not.

So I was somewhat surprised when I felt a growing malice from a nearby pile of trash.

Though I could not identify what my opponent was, I hummed my gentle mantra in preparation. I had known this venture would have combat, and thus I had prepared. When the grey and green oozes emerged with an acrid smell of acid on stone, I was composed and ready for battle.

The first, smaller monster fell apart after two attacks of my stave. I was not worried for the metal of my staff—it was made to survive much worse than a little acid.

But the counterattack from the larger slimewas quicker than expected for such a slug-like creature, and I felt the sting of flecks of burning ooze on my arms as I used them to protect my face from the spray.

I allowed the pain to spike in my mind, and a surge of emotion poured through my body. Fear, pain, a little confusion.

Anger, most of all.

My humming mantra sped up to follow the sudden pound of my heart, and I lashed back. Strike, strike, strike, better to be fast, better to be strong. The beats of Wrath felt good on my lips.

And then the creature was dead, spread across the floor in an immobile pile. I hummed Calm once again, and my body obediently slowed its heartbeat, just as my years of training had conditioned it to.

With a small sigh, I sat down to inspect my sleeves.

As I ran my fingers over the small holes in the fabric, I scanned the area one more time in my mind to check for any more hostile intent. Finding nothing, I turned my Eye inward.

What had I done wrong? Not that I was dissatisfied with the result of the fight. Yet one of the many Principles I had vowed to follow reminded me that there was always growth to be had. So what opportunities had I missed, that would have given me a more favorable end?

The sting of acid on my arms was a good place to start. How could that have been avoided?

Perhaps I could have been more cautious. Waited before attacking, watched how my opponents were moving and reacting in accordance.

That seemed wrong, though. I had been too slow. The first ooze died with two blows, and yet I had paused after the first—if only for a moment—to judge if it needed another. If instead I had simply followed up with a second attack before pausing to judge, I would likely have had the speed to fully avoid the spray of acid from the remaining enemy.

I locked that thought down in my inner Sight, turning it over in my mind.

Meditation. All creatures learned, all beings grew. But with this careful, ritualistic process followed after a fight, I could take control of my growth. Instinct was a part of me, as natural as my anger and my will to survive. But if I were to become a Divinity one day, I must learn to understand it and benefit.

So there I remained, until I felt the idea settle into my limbs. Ferocity, speed. It didn’t matter if the first hit killed or didn’t, all I needed was to strike again.

Once I was finished meditating, I extended my perception and continued through the halls. With my new ideal thrumming fresh through my nerves, I nearly attacked the moment I sensed a new presence.

Perhaps it would have been better if I had.

Instead, however, I approached slowly. It was difficult to tell exactly what I was observing, hunched and bedraggled as it was. A faint muttering reached my ears, rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.

“…awaken from this dream… the pain is not real… how long will you dream? HOW LONG WILL YOU DREAM?”

I startled, and my mantra skipped a beat, as the creature whirled on me and screeched the last words. I could perceive it clearly now, a person cloaked in dirty blue feathers, with a beaked mask covering their face. More importantly, the terrible hostility was sudden and overwhelming. It was so jarring, in fact, that one of the curved blades it wielded nicked my cheek, drawing blood.

I fell back, lashing out twice in quick succession and raising my defenses. The head of my stave thumped against a body underneath that ragged robe of feathers, but they felt like dry, muffled hits. Whoever this was, they were thin, malnourished. I could feel it in their presence as much as I could feel the brittleness of their ribs against my staff.

It wasn’t holding them back, though. To the contrary, their malice was growing, and growing fast. Despite my defenses, I took another glancing blow to my shoulder, the red pain muffled by my calming mantra.

The same familiar emotions rose up in my body once more, but in far different proportions. Confusion loomed large, for I didn’t understand how such a single person could hold so much hate. Anger and pain in near equal amounts, for I didn’t deserve to be the target of it. And fear, threatening to bubble over it all, because I could die at the ends of those rusty blades.

I had to end this now.

I hummed to the tune of Wrath, to bring my body into line. The wild adrenaline focused, and I closed in. Stave in both hands, I slammed it against their chest and crashed to the ground, before lifting it again to drive into their neck, and then once more into the mask over their face.

It wasn’t enough. The wind was driven out of my lungs by a bare pair of too-powerful feet, and I was flung away. Before I could roll to my feet, they were on me. Two sickles plunged into my side simultaneously. Only my years of practice maintaining my mantra kept me from losing the beat.

Spinning, tearing myself off the blades, I scooped up my staff and swung. Not quite wild, but only barely. The heavy end struck the side of the mask, and my assailant fell to the ground with a crack and a crunch.

Leaning on my staff, I panted to the rhythm of Calm until I returned to a more neutral mantra. Gently, I touched the wound in my side. Bloody, but not fatal.

Not unless something else caught me while I was weak.

I had to find a place to rest. Stifling a groan, I turned to leave, and then stopped. Slowly, I sank to a sitting position, and closed my eyes.

What could I learn from this battle? I had clearly done something wrong. Should I have been more aggressive? More defensive? More—

The pain made it impossible to think. No good options. Feeling disappointment, I stood painfully back up.

Something caught my perception, and once again, I hesitated. Reaching down, I scooped a small bag off the waist of the dead creature—I was not sure it ever had truly been human—and tucked it into my own satchel.

Gold was not a fair trade, but it was better than nothing.

Tightening my sash to help staunch the bleeding, I set off to find a good place to rest.

#Slay The Spire #The Watcher #Part 2 #fic

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painless-innit-colourful · 3 years

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After Wilbur leaves, Tommy’s legs give out, and his panic takes over, feat. the rest of the Bench Trio. TW for suicidal ideation, massive amounts of self-loathing. Also, spoilers for today’s stream.

---

"What did you do?"

He falls to his knees, and for a few minutes, the world goes blank.

What has he done? He's doomed them all, that's what he's done. He let one of the only people that believed in him get killed, he failed in his mission, and now he's almost single-handedly released one of the biggest sources of pain and misery back onto the server. Any moment he expects some righteous punishment for what he's done: a cruel hand, the final blow from a sword, the divine arrow, another damn lightning strike, because why not? Why should he get to sit and cry like a baby when the whole server will soon suffer for what he's done?

The reason they had to kill Dream was just like Ranboo had once said: 'If the villains can come back, then what's the point in winning?' Ranboo, whose presence he can feel, vibrating angrily mere metres away. It's like when you agro an enderman; Tommy expects the hit to come, he wants it, he deserves it, because Ranboo was right! They can't win. Not anymore. All Dream needs is the body, and they can welcome back all those they banished to the other side. Wilbur was supposed to be gone. That was supposed to be done with. It can't be happening again. He can't be back.

His mind whirrs, trying for any solution to this mega-problem, no matter how outlandish, but it returns nothing. Wilbur defeated himself last time. They can't conquer the prison again; besides, Sam will kill him if he goes near it again. Sam, who helped him build Jack Manifold's (his, his, his) hotel, who built him a robot that helped him gather materials and work for himself and protected him and refused to hurt him. Sam, who nearly just took his last canon life several times, who told him he should be dead, who told him he caused all the problems at the prison, on the server, hell! Why didn't he kill him? Maybe the server would be safer that way. Perhaps Wilbur isn't the first villain Dream's resurrected.

He'll never sleep again. Partly because he has to find a way to stop this, has to put an end to everything even if it kills him, especially if he can take them all out at the same time. But also partly because that look Wilbur gave him, the fire that burns nations to the scorched earth underfoot dancing behind his eyes, already haunts his dreams. He already knows which words he'll hear when he tries to rest, which crazed looks, which gestures he'll never forget; he doesn't want that. He wants to sleep in peace, without the ghost of a villain returned beckoning "Let's be the bad guys." and "Why not?" and "My hero, Dream!" The roles have reversed, the blackstone table has turned.

"You wanna be a hero Tommy?" He thinks he'd rather have died one than become... whatever monster stares back at him in the glass beneath his feet. Glass that protects the crater of a nation. A nation that he died twice for. That caused so much pain and strife. That ultimately was razed so far down that the earth will never forgive its creators for painting upon it a target so large and flammable. It was never meant to be, indeed.

And he cries. The tears make tiny 'plinck, plinck, plinck' sounds as they hit the glass, forming a small puddle as the once-proud soldier puts his head against the grave of his home, and himself, Prime knows how many times, and sobs. The ground is unforgiving, the silence carries his weeping out to sea. He shed tears like these for Wilbur once. He wants him back. He wants to go back to the Void. And with a whole server of people about to wake up to the news of the impending chaos in the form of one persuasive former president, he doesn't think it'll be long before he returns. He wants to go back to the Void, and play Competitive Solitaire with Wilbur forever, and maybe, just maybe, that'd be enough to give his friends the peace they need to build lives in the shelter of the shadows. In the runoff and the rubble, they could grow old. And maybe they'd mourn him occasionally. He doesn't see the point.

He doesn't deserve their love anymore. He's fucked up. He's fucked up, and he should pay the price. He should march up to Wilbur, and kill him, and die in the process. But if they both woke up, what then? Who knows how many canon lives zombies have anyway.

He doesn't deserve kindness, or love, or affection. He watched the sweet, innocent ghost be slaughtered because of him. A man he might've accidentally called 'father' should've killed him. Ranboo, dear Prime, patient, forgiving, compassionate Ranboo stared at him with eyes full of disappointment and betrayal and anger and stormed off. He doesn't deserve anything but his ruined city's sky, not anymore... But he wants it. Needs it. Needs it, or what is there left?

So when Tubbo stands at his side, his scarred face barely reflected in the glass, he doesn't compel him to leave. When he kneels and puts an arm around Tommy's shoulders, the younger boy does not ask for Wilbur's end. And when he is scooped up in arms that no longer tremble, he does not try to escape. He merely buries his face in his best friend's coat and waits. Waits to be let go. Waits to be thrown from the clifftop. And somewhere along the journey, he blacks out again.

---

"Would you?" "No, but-" "Exactly! He's fucked up, we can't-" "We can't just abandon him, he's my T-" "The whole server'll be out for blood within the week! We can't hide him here!" "Why not? We have basements, and secret rooms and tunnels and-" "They'll find him, Tubbo."

Ranboo puts his hands firmly on Tubbo's shoulders, staring right into his eyes. Tubbo freezes, as people often do when eye contact is maintained. They're silhouetted in the doorway, haloed by the light spilling in through the ajar curtains. "They'll tear this place apart if they think they'll find him here. We can't do that. We can't let them do that."

"But-" "Michael. That's who you're putting at risk if you do this. People'll tear Michael's loft apart if they think we've hidden him up there, you know they would! They'd frighten the life out of him." Tubbo puts his head in his hands, quickly wiping his hair back from his face. "A life for a- a life. That's what you're saying, basically. They'll kill Tommy. No question." "They'd kill Michael too!" "Would they? Who the fuck is this 'they'?" "Literally the whole server- Look, I haven't been around here as long as you have, alright, but I know enough. They'll come for Tommy, and they won't have mercy for anyone caught in the crossfire."

Tubbo looks up at his husband for a long time, his expression becoming guarded while his posture straightens. "You're right. People don't care who they hurt around here; it's all means to an end. But-" And his eyes dart towards Tommy, Ranboo's following, and while Ranboo looks shocked and maybe a little embarrassed to see Tommy awake, lying awkwardly dumped on the guest bed, Tubbo's expression doesn't change. "-I won't leave him. I did it once, and it was the worst damn choice I ever made." He sighs, taking Ranboo's hands and staring down at them while they speak. "I don't know what to do, truth be told. I won't let anyone hurt Michael, and if they want to try then perhaps I should get back in the nuke lab. But Tommy's a part of my family as much- as much as you are." His eyes flick to Tommy, and the barest hint of a smile appears. "Looks like it's us against the world, again."

He leads Ranboo with one hand into the room as he sits beside the mute, exhausted form of his best friend. His best friend that leans into the arm he puts around his shoulder and tries not to start crying again. "Us against the world." Tubbo repeats. "And I ain't leaving you behind."

Tommy looks up at Ranboo, who's staring at him with an impassivity that borders on scary. "Did I tell you you have mesmerising eyes? Because I actually think they're very intimidating." The enderboy's face softens. "Where did you find him." He asks Tubbo drily as he also sits on the bed, the other side of Tubbo, who smiles. "You'll have to-" He cuts himself off. "You'll have to ask Wilbur." He says softly.

"Don't sacrifice yourselves for me." Two heads snap in Tommy's direction, and Ranboo tries to answer first. "Oh, well, we weren't exactly planning on-" "I mean like, your happiness." He quietens again. "Don't lose lives, don't jeopardise Snowchester because of me." "How about you let me decide what happens in my nation." Tubbo's voice has regained some element of its smile. "You focus on surviving, alright Big Man?" "Don't- Please, don't let me ruin all this. Again."

‘I don't deserve your support. I don't deserve a place in your family. I don't deserve you.’

"You deserve another chance."

They make no promises in the half-dark. There are no agreements made over the steaming teapot. There are no settlements reached as the minutes tick by, and nothing comes of the quiet hours spent by a warm fireplace. But there are enough things said in the silences to fill the whole house. And even if Tubbo can't make his best friend fall asleep anymore, he can still hold him close somewhere that maybe, once was, once could've been something like a home.

#crim writes #dream smp #dsmp fic #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #bench trio #clingyduo #i really have to go to sleep #but i couldn't not #i missed writing late night reaction fics like this #anyway if this makes sense i'll be amazed #and if you read the whole thing? thank you so much #look after yourself and have a nice evening

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blushing-starker · 3 years

Text

Of sleeping angels and forgetful lovers

im back y'all, enjoy

Tony slips between the billowing curtains, careful to make his arrival as silent as possible: there is an angel slumbering just a few feet away and God help whoever awakens them with anything less than a kiss and sweet murmurs.

Not wanting to be struck down by another celestial deity twice in a millennia, he carefully maneuvers around the scattered objects on the marble floor; a low table straining under the weight of scrolls, thick manuscripts and what honestly seems to be a stone tablet; a few chests clumsily tipped over, gold, silk and fragrance oil bottles spilling from them luxuriously. Surprisingly enough, Tony has to avoid staining four lace dresses thrown on the floor.

Poor thing. Any admirer of the creature basking inside this chamber should have known better. It's an insult to even suggest a holy being should disgrace themselves by wearing anything lesser than silk or pure gossamer. Ignorant gnat is probably swimming in the underground by now.

Still. It would be rude to tarnish a gift that isn't his to rip apart and incinerate. His lover would take pleasure in doing that himself. So he moves his body to the side, inhaling sharply when the wind shifts a garment closer to his dusty lower half. Oh, he'd get back at the wind god after this.

To honestly believe he's ancient and unable to persevere under the childish attack, how ridiculous. The offending yard and a half of pink lace (angels tended to take up more space than human minds could comprehend, but the ones who liked to roam the Earth often diminished their size; his paramour would never dress in something that large with an altered body. He's self conscious of his low stature as it is.) flies overhead and he muffles a snicker. Asshole wind god can't calculate how much strength to use.

Finally, he's at the bed. Home at last. And then the wind blasts through the chamber and he picks up the smell. Dried blood, decomposing flesh, something musky and tangible in the air. After that comes the sound. A deep rasp, powerful and similarly fear inducing as a lightning storm amidst the sea. It's a warning growl Tony had ignored, once, an uncountable number of years before. He counts them now, hastily and quickly, because surely his nemesis has grown tired and. Well. Not slow, but certainly slower in that long expanse of time. Just as he had. Fuck.

The beast appears, a vengeful mass of writhing smoke and viridescent ash hovering near the side of the bed he's currently trapped against. His lover disliked it when he brought war to the chamber, said it reminded him of harsher times and a dying Tony; he had left his knives and whip with his second in command, had gone so far for his beloved as to purge the poison from his body. (Listen. Listen. A shit ton of years past, a moron tried to eat him. Actually hoisted him on a spit before he woke up and strangled the fucker. So what if he has poison coursing through his veins to defend himself, it's not that nonsensical.)

From the grey and green smoke, a dark head emerges. And another. And another. And four fucking others and why hadn't his lover mentioned anything, why hadn't he warned Tony of the very amused looking, incredibly spiteful monster currently hissing at him? He has no arms here, the chamber's strongest weapon was currently dozing on a six feet wide bed, soft snores muffled against fluffy pillows. Oh, if his father could see him now, facing death at the hands of his enemy rather than bring his partner back from the golden fields of dreams.

Technically, he's facing the many headed beast in favor of facing his darling, a much more wrathful creature, but his father need not know that.

Death looms closer, is rearing its ugly heads and flaunting the seven inch fangs that will most likely shred him to pieces. There are ruby droplets splattered on the neck of the monster and ah, there's the ignorant admirer. At least he won't be devoured hungrily. Granted, he will definitely be devoured slowly and tortuously no matter what.

As his vision is swarmed by the huge monstrosity, Tony thinks of his beloved. Of his soft, brown hair. A little long, a little curly and always brushed aside uselessly. (There is one lock he particularly enjoys playing with because it never grows enough to be tucked back. It often annoys his lover, but he adores that stray curl.) Soft cheeks, tinted rosy during the chilly winters, a healthy tan when summer sweeps in. Lips softer and more colorful than a rose. Dimples. They appear and he's tripping in love all over, stumbling after his lover's affection just to see the two indentations on the side of his mouth.

His body is a masterpiece, graceful and as elegant as a star. Tony adores subtle, enjoys the fine curve of his paramour's neck, takes pride in making shapely thighs tremble beneath his worshipful mouth, is set on fire when the sweetest sighs and loveliest moans slip from bruised lips. All he needs in this life is to bring happiness to his companion. And, he supposes, he has, so death won't be a complete tragedy. Although, Tony would have liked to see his beloved's eyes one last time. They shone like amber, like the heady drink the humans call whiskey.

Once, when he was shy and his darling was unsure of his intentions, he had blurted out a confession under an apple tree, words spilling, spilling, going so fast that breath abandoned his chest.

"Your eyes are like star fire. Like the sun left the sky to shine inside you. It's amazing, something so beautiful I can believe in life again. How could I not when someone as lovely as you exists so gracefully?"

They had stood there, tree branches creaking overhead, leaves drifting down slowly and bees sluggishly swimming through the air in search of flowers and the ichor of life. His companion had blinked at him and then smiled, slow and sweet and pure. Whatever breath remained in his lungs was stolen, vanished without a trace. Tony had been a goner ever since.

He thinks of that time now and discovers that he is not afraid of death. After all, his lover could simply visit him in the fields of the dead, what, with being the Angel of Death, and everything.

The hydra leans back, prepares the killing blow and he thinks, Peter.

A whisper of movement, the growl of the beast; he's ready, he's going to meet his fate head on and not falter and-

A warm hand scoops him up. He tentatively opens his eyes, is met by a bleary pair much prettier than those this body has. There is amusement there, tangled with fondness and love. It's such a beautiful sight that he melts, sinks deeper into the cradle holding him up to Peter's pillow marked face. He always had a thing for his lover's hands; they could kill with just a hint of touch, but they only ever brought Tony to life.

"Anthony," oh, to hear that teasing sigh, to be given the gift of that music, "did you forget you were in your snake body again?"

Embarrassed, he dips his head, agile tongue flickering into the air to taste Peter's affection as a distraction from the flush valiantly trying to survive in his cool cheeks. The angel before him giggles, grins at him before stroking his scaly head gently.

"You forgot about your body and the fact that Milos here is, like, three inches smaller than you when you stand up?" Tony grumbles, slithers across Peter's wrist and forearm. His lover just sighs, rolls over in bed and lets him travel all the way up to the base of a long neck. He loves Peter's entire body, of course, but this is the perfect spot to settle into while he's in this form. Lightly, because it's rude to tease him, goddammit, he's the fallen angel, not a stable boy, he nips at Peter's hair, pulls at a few strands until Peter halfheartedly swats at him.

"Just because I can revive you doesn't mean I won't kill you, Tones. I've got a hundred," his beloved yawns, drags a blanket over the both of them, "and fifty four souls to pick up in the afternoon. I can squeeze you in among them and nobody would know." A lie, obviously. His best friend James would know. The rest is true, Peter would kill him if he called on him again while it was nap time, even if it was an accident.

Thing is, now that Milos is brooding in the corner of the bedchamber and some good ten feet away from him, Tony has no need to call on his angel. Why would he, when he's right by his side? Just as he always has. Just as he always will.

With snake lives saved and fates changed, the first fallen angel and the Angel of Death fall into a deep slumber; tail and hands wrapped around each other, as it should be.

#starker #peter parker x tony stark #peter x tony #angel!peter #fallen angel!tony #sweet and fluffy yall #sophie writes #i need to at least write one #snake!tony #for the giggles

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berrydoodleoo · 3 years

Text

FFXIVWrite 2021: foster

“Well, my dear.” Master Matoya stepped past Y’shtola to look at the new crater in her underground lab. She’d stopped it from filling with water via a handy spell, but repairing the ruined brick and pipes was going to be a more physical sort of challenge. “Regardless of what stories Mr. Kribbet has been telling about my memory, I certainly won’t be forgetting about you anytime soon.” Matoya paused thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever had any student who was such an unmitigated disaster.”

Green eyes hidden by her sodden white bangs, Y’shtola growled under her breath and stomped a foot indignantly. Her wet shoe made a little squish.

Matoya rounded on her, quick as a snake. “And what was that, Y’shtola?”

Her last student, some twenty-odd years past, would have been scrambling at her tone. Y’shtola simply glared out from under her bangs. “Nothing, Master Matoya.”

“What was that? Hm? Can’t hear you when you mumble.” Matoya poked her with her walking stick.

Y’shtola batted it away indignantly. “I didn’t say anything!”

Technically true. Well, her lab might be ruined, but the girl’s spirit was certainly intact. And she had other labs.

“I think I will put you to studying white magic, for a time,” Matoya finally concluded. “At least you’re less likely to blow the roof off the place that way. When you’re grown and safe in your own lab, you can practice more destructive magics at your leisure.”

She turned, and found the girl gaping at her, eyes gone shiny. “What’s this, then?” Matoya demanded, startled.

“Then…” Y’shtola took a deep breath. “Then I can stay? I can -- I can still be your student?”

Matoya regarded her silently. The girl was barely an adolescent, still young and insecure, lost in her herd (or should that be pack?) of older, talented sisters. Perhaps her insecurity, hidden though it was, wasn’t such a surprise. A bit of careful tutelage might help with that, Matoya mused -- tutelage, yes, nothing else, certainly not parenting. Even if her young, overlooked student could benefit from it.

“Provided you do one thing for me.” Matoya stepped forward smoothly. “You almost drowned here, you know. That whirlpool would have sucked you under and held you till you’d stopped kicking if not for my timely arrival.”

Y’shtola withdrew into herself, but only momentarily: “Just tell me what I need to do! I’ll do it!” She stood tall, only her lashing tail betraying her uncertainty. “Is it the spell? Do I need to master the spell? I almost had it--”

“Quiet,” Matoya interrupted. Y’shtola fell silent. “No, it’s not the spell. It’s not my job to teach you forbidden spells, girl, just to fish you out when you go falling in. And if you’re going to keep learning forbidden spells -- and I can see by the light in your eyes that you are -- you need to learn something much, much more valuable than magic.”

Matoya held out her hand. With the other, held behind her back, she summoned the Crystal Eye and drew upon its bottomless strength. Her extended hand shone briefly with silver light, a small shield spell that was powerful enough to make Y’shtola recoil. When the light faded, the girl looked at her questioningly, and then took her aged hand in her small brown one.

“You are going to learn to hold on,” Matoya informed her grimly. “Not just with your hands, but your whole self. All your magic, and all your soul. Beyond all good sense and reason. If you can hold tightly enough to break my shield, I’ll keep you as my student.”

Of course, it was a trick. No amount of effort a child could bring to bear would shatter a shield from the Crystal Eye. But as the girl gripped Matoya’s hand with both of hers, ears flattening and tail puffing as she summoned all of her physical strength and the impressive might of her magic, Matoya figured the trying would teach her a valuable lesson nonetheless.

(When the shield shattered, it left small scratches on the aether in Matoya’s hand, like little bolts of lightning carved into her bones. A careful spell or two, a little mental effort, and they would probably buff right out.

But she kept them anyway. As a reminder.)

Thancred had grown accustomed to rough-and-tumble on the streets of Limsa Lominsa. He’d fought his way to the top of his gang and led an attack on the meanest group of slavers the pirate city had even seen before his sixteenth birthday. He was used to tough going.

This … this was something else.

Louisoix snapped his fingers, and with a musical chime, the winds buffeting Thancred fell away. Thancred himself narrowly avoided landing fast-first in the mud, ending up on one knee instead. Panting, he sank back on his haunches.

“Not bad,” his … friend? Mentor? Teacher? Foster father? said. “You got much closer that time. However, I,” he jingled the bells in his left hand, “appear to be the victor once more.”

Thancred couldn’t help but grin ruefully, staring up at the string of golden bells. “Yes, Master Leveilleur,” he agreed. With a grunt, he pushed himself laboriously to his feet, until he could offer a proper bow to his sparring partner. “Maybe next time.”

The old man’s mouth quirked in a crooked smile. “Hope springeth eternal,” he agreed, sounding rather like Urianger. Both Louisoix and Thancred looked to the edge of the field, where Louisoix’s other student awaited his own duel; even from this distance, Thancred could see him fidgeting nervously.

“Hm, well, what lesson shall I impart today?” Louisoix wondered. Thancred stood at attention, waiting patiently. “I believe you’ve heard them all this point. You certainly don’t need the one about persistence in the face of failure.”

Thancred winced. Louisoix didn’t mean it as a barb, he was certain, but it landed like one nonetheless.

“No, not that one. Nor the one about the tree that bends, or the thrush that survives, or honor like an oasis in the desert.”

Louisoix dipped his chin in a nod. Thancred’s face heated, embarrassed and pleased, and he looked away. Everyone else in Sharlayan might see him a shiftless thief, and those who knew his story saw only an arrogant rogue who’d gotten his gang killed, but Louisoix knew what it had all been for. One day the Upright Thieves would stand tall again.

“No, none of that.” Louisoix pocketed his bells, and came forward to rest his hand on Thancred’s bowed head. “Perhaps I will simply say … never stop. Never hesitate. Never look back.” He thought back to the end of their duel, and imparted a bit of strategic advice: “And always be a moving target.”

E-Sumi-Yan lowered the old book as he reached the end of the passage. His students -- orphans and foundlings whom he’d helped raise since they were smaller than him, all of whom (even Nanayepi!) would now stand taller than if they weren’t kneeling respectfully -- waited in silence.

“For a time,” the head of the Conjurer Guild said, “this chapter of I-Ohok-Pota’s tale was censored from common texts, as it was believed to cast the Padjal in a dishonorable light. With it’s unearthing came much questioning of Stillglade Fane and the nature of the Light that powers our White Magic. Quite recently, there were even fears that the white mages could be corrupted and turned to monsters. It was within my lifetime, certainly.” He paused. “Perhaps not so recently, then.”

A gentle murmur of laughter trickled through the crowd. E-Sumi-Yan turned suddenly, picking someone from the crowd. “K'selh? Your thoughts?”

K'selh jumped at being so suddenly addressed. “I-- I--”

E-Sumi-Yan beckoned encouragingly. “Please be honest, K'selh. This is a safe space.”

“I … it’s only, stories like that.” K'selh paused. “They really make me question if I’m cut out to be a conjurer! I could never make a choice like that! I … I don’t mean to seem ungrateful to the Guild or the Elementals….”

E-Sumi-Yan nodded. “I understand. Of course, none of you are beholden to the Guild. We offer you this training to help you find your place in the world, not to trap you within the walls of the Fane, or the Shroud. If the conjurer’s path does not speak to you, it would be unwise to embark upon it.” He paused.

“I cannot lie,” he said, haltingly, his seemingly-boyish voice slower and darker than usual. “Such choices come often to our ilk. But we must remember that our lives are given in service to the Light and the common good. Sometimes we must let one perish in order to save the rest.” His eyes closed, and he looked very much like a child. “We do what we must, because there is no one else to do it for us.”

The pause stretched. Attempting to shake the darkness away, E-Sumi-Yan looked up, and it was by sheer coincidence that his and Talia’s gazes locked.

Talia blinked, startled, but didn’t flinch away. Unlike some of her other instructors, E-Sumi-Yan didn’t try to force her to speak in class -- he had an uncanny knack for only calling upon those who felt a need to speak and simply needed encouragement. He seemed almost as startled as she, his silvery eyes briefly unfocused, lips parting on some unheard word.

And then he blinked and looked away. The moment, like so many others before it, passed without a word.

“The next passage begins when the last left off,” E-Sumi-Yan said. He lifted the book, and continued reading.

Minfilia says goodbye to the twins and Y’shtola at Mord Souq, before she, Urianger, Thancred, and the Warriors of Darkness go their own way. Alisaie gives her a would-be casual hug, trying to hide her worry; Alphinaud stops frowning thoughtfully at her long enough to force a timid smile and wish her luck.

Y’shtola stands a bit aside, in a little pocket of shadow, blind eyes peering thoughtfully into the endless light. She beckons Minfilia closer, apart from the others.

“And have you made your choice?” Y’shtola asks, without preamble.

Minfilia glances aside, picking at a seam of her gloves. “I -- I … almost.”

Y’shtola’s eyes narrow, her expression fierce as the wind whips her hair too and fro. Minfilia says nothing more. On one hand, the urge to babble is strong -- to let all the uncertainty and agony come pouring out, to desperately hope that someone, anyone, will talk her out of her fate. On the other hand, she can already feel her chin wobbling, and knows if she says anything more she’ll start to cry.

“I see.” Y’shtola straightens. “Minfilia,” she starts, and then hesitates, brow furrowing. “No, that’s not ... I wish we knew your birth name, but I suppose it’s too late for that. And Minfilia is a good name. One you have certainly been worthy of.” She nods, decisive. “Minfilia.”

Minfilia takes a careful breath, only a little sniffle-y, and comes to attention.

“Whatever choice you make, make it with all your heart. Whatever doubts assail you, hold onto your decision with all your strength. I believe there is no end to the things you can do, if only you persist in the doing them.” Blind eyes bore into hers, seeming to peer into her small, unworthy soul. “Do you understand?”

Minfilia blinks back her tears, and tries for a smile. “Yes, Master Matoya.”

Y’shtola flinches and averts her face, suddenly sorrowful. But there’s no time to apologize; Minfilia’s destiny awaits.

“But what about you?” Minfilia cries.

Thancred unhooks his gunblade. “Keep moving,” he orders her. “Keep your eyes on your target, and let nothing stop you. No matter what you hear behind you.” He hesitates, head bowing, and for a moment Minfilia thinks she might see her noble knight weep.

He turns away, voice gone choked. “And don’t look back.”

The air is quiet and hushed, where Minfilia -- the real Minfilia, not a pretender like her -- stopped the Flood and saved them all. “Whatever happens,” Minfilia whispers to Tally and Vahn, “you mustn't interfere.”

Vahn is plainly heartbroken, expression ravaged, but he nods. It’s Tally whose brow crumples in fierce anger, who kneels and pulls her into a hug. Hard enough to hurt. Minfilia’s composure, which has carried her through so much, falters and breaks at last. For just a moment, Minfilia hides her face in Tally’s white robes -- soft white, not cold and bright like the Light that surrounds them, comfortable and worn -- and searches for the determination and cunning Y’shtola and Thancred told her she had.

My friends, comes the Oracle’s voice, the Word of the Mother, like music. Minfilia gasps, struck by the familiar melody, and turns to find Minfilia -- the real Minfilia -- descending from the air to alight on the ground. She is barefoot and smiling, and it hurts to look at her, for all that she is less bright than everything else around her. Her terrible, shining eyes linger on Tally and Vahn for a long, long moment, her lips curving in a sad smile.

“I knew I could count on you,” the Oracle says to them. And then, at last, she directs her attention to her heir. She holds out her hands.

And Minfilia -- Minfilia steps forward, timid at first, and then with greater assurance -- she rushes forward to meet her, laughing in her amazement -- they are so similar! as if Minfilia was her mother in truth, and not just in her imaginings -- and for the first time Minfilia thinks she might be able to be brave, to go out into the world and be unafraid. And she knows she has made her choice at last.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2021 #y'shtola rhul #thancred waters #wol:talia #wol:j'vahn #minfilia #ryne #i have a lot of feelings about master matoya and y'shtola #and louisoix and thancred #and ryne and her family #my fic

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tintentrinkerin · 3 years

Text

adelphopoiesis

Author: tintentrinkerin

Title: adelphopoiesis

Requested by: @schaefchenherde

Header by: @wincestismyheart

Divider by: @firefly-graphics

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Sam

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Sam Drinks Dean’s Demon Blood, Anal Sex, Not Canon Compliant

Content: Chasing your baby brother around the bunker with a hammer is fun, right? But what if you tickle his thing for blood?

Read here or on AO3

Dean’s most effective weapon is not the hammer he destroyed the door with. The hammer that’s stuck in the wall now beside Sam’s head. It’s not his physical strength, radiating like utter heat from his body, showing in the tension of his neck, the firm grimace of his mouth, his pretty mouth. It’s not the First Blade. A blade powerful enough to kill anything and anyone, but Dean himself.

Sam’s only weapon is a lousy knife. A demon knife, that will barely leave a scratch on a Knight of Hell.

“It’s all you”, Dean says, leaning in the knife, leaning into Sam’s half hearted attack.

The way Dean looks at his brother, it’s tearing Sam apart in so many ways. Ways he thought he’d buried under guilt and hunts and lore and his shame. Sam gives in and takes the knife away, he will regret it so bitterly, he knows. Of course he knows. He can’t even lay a single finger on Dean. The demon in front of him wears the face of his brother but there is nothing left of his soft side for Sam. His voice, how he calls Sam, how he says Sammy, the hair, the determined look, the tongue against his teeth. Like he’s a predator and Sam’s the prey.

Dean’s eyes turn black.

It’s a whooshing sound and it darts Sam’s ears the moment he thought he’d surrender and then, the First Blade, fast as an arrow lands in Dean’s hand. There is not a blink for Sam to react before Dean looks at him with a triumphant smirk. The knife glides through Dean’s smooth skin of his throat like it’s warm butter. Blood spills.

Blood

Spills

Blood is Dean's most effective weapon.

Its smell is so familiar, so luring. So intimate and so…powerful. Sam turns and runs. He needs to go. He needs to get away.

“Oh Sammy, baby brother, don’t run away!”, Dean mocks.

Shit, he’s right behind Sam and Sam’s judgement clouds already. He isn’t even fast. It feels like running through molasses. The air feels thick and strong, pressing Sam down, and the smell of iron and lust and Dean, oh my God, it’s Dean’s blood! - He needs to get away! Sam manages to worm through the destroyed door to the electrical room, but he catches several splinters. Some even bite his face and he gets stuck with the cast of his elbow. Spraining the right elbow, why, Sam, why did that happen? Everything’s against him.

Memories of Ruby appear in his head. Of the smell, the taste, her body, the sex. The grunting and the mind blowing orgasm, the banging against walls everywhere they went. The power, the trip. His increasing power, a stimulant better than any human known drug. It resonates all within him with the odor of Dean’s musk and his blood. He can smell its potential, its strong taste. Sam even imagines how it would make him feel. Running away never felt so hard like right now. He remembers the withdrawal and the pain behind his eyes blinds him as he trips in the hallway and tumbles against a wall. Stinging pain in his arm, in his head and his legs feel heavy. It’s like he has Dean’s breath in his neck all this time. Even though he can’t hear him come close at all. It sounds like Dean is far away, in another world.

“Come on, Sammy, I know you want a sip of it. Makes you all giddy, doesn't it? I can smell you. All of you.”

Sam yells something, but he can’t even make out what he says.

“Keep runnin’ if you must, but you know I gotta find you sooner or later. It’s my home, too!”

The alarm is blaring again and Sam has no idea how far he can run. There won’t be any walls that might hold Dean back. He’s regaining strength, the human blood wears off. Even that Sam can smell. How much stronger Dean gets with every minute.

“I taste delicious, Sammy. Just fuckin’ delicious.”

Oh, yes, Sam bets he does, that’s exactly why he needs to keep running. The smell gets even more intense now and Sam wonders how much Dean can cut himself up with the First Blade. He should’ve given the damn thing to Crowley when he had the chance to do so.

“Stay away”, he croaks.

There’s another hallway, one leading deep into the intestines of the Forbidden Bunker, how Dean and him called it jokingly, when they discovered it. An area full of locked doors made of the weirdest materials. Only one chance is left for Sam, when he finds that one door he unlocked in these months without Dean. He had learned a lot about witchcraft since Dean left this note on his bed, when he left Sam for Crowley and a life as a demon. When the only way to save himself from Dean was to hide himself in a panic room again, hallucinate again, he would have to do it. He rather sees Lucifer again, Mary, Bobby, all the victims they couldn’t save than to fall for Dean’s lure. Drink his own brother’s blood. This was perverted, disgusting, twisted. Even for them. The monster hunters, the monster fuckers, the monsters themselves.

“The longer you run, the harder I bleed, brother!”

Sam tries every door on the way, but none opens. Sam’s eyes sting from the smell. What the hell is Dean doing? Covering the walls in blood? That would be insane. Even Dean would faint at one point. It must be impossible to drain a body so much before it dies. Dean isn’t possessing a body, he still has his own, whatever that means for him and his physis then. Sam trips again, he falls, on his right arm of course. He tears up from the pain that fills his chest, his arm, his shoulder. He can’t survive that long if doesn’t find a hide-out.

It seems to be near, because Sam still can read the signs on the doors and when he finds room 616, he pushes the door open with a long and agonizing cry and slams it shut. It’s the door he unlocked already, a room, bleak as an empty tomb. Cold and pitchblack, there’s no electrical light, just candles, but Sam won’t be able to find them. He can just hide in here, pressed against a wall, praying to Castiel, to Hannah. He even cries for Crowley inside, someone needs to help him.

Footsteps.

The smell of blood. The First Blade scraping on the tiles, Sam knows it’s that.

“Gotcha! I really thought you’d be a bit cleverer than that. Where’s the fun when you cage yourself like a mouse?”

The door bursts open, way too easily. None of the sigils and runes seem to be an obstacle for Dean. And when light shines in the room and Sam can see not only Dean’s silhouette but also his face, he knows. Dean is covered in his own blood. His face, his slit throat, still pumping blood in long and rhythmic spurts from the wound. His arms are drenched in blood and now, with a biting smile, Dean looks at Sam and the Blade carves an S in Dean’s arm.

“Come here, Sammy. Come to your big bro and lemme get you something real good

The stench is so intense now that Sam first vomits in violent jerks and then faints. The last thing he sees before the world turns completely black is Dean’s triumphant, sweet smile and his eyes. His normal green eyes.

When Sam awakes again, he is tied up. Bound to a chair. They’re in the dungeon again, how did Sam come here? His head aches like it’s been run over by a stampede of bulls and his mouth tastes like vomit and blood. He tenses immediately as he’s present enough to realize his situation. Dean has tied him up here, and now he’s sitting on the desk in one corner, right beside the blood donor box that Sam got from the hospital. His legs swing and he hums a strange melody.

“Oh, look who’s up.”

Dean jumps on his feet. Sam can see the First Blade, the damn Blade, resting on the table. Then Dean takes the syringes of human blood and starts spilling them.

“You won’t need them anymore, Sammy. I think I won our little chase.”

“Dean, don’t do that… please. I can still…”

Dean hisses. His eyes turn black.

“You can still what, brother dearest? I already told you. I am what I am now, I am free. I’m finally free. Of humanity. I’m strong now. Efficient. Deadly.”

Sam winces when he moves in the ties. The ropes cut in his flesh and Dean removed the sling on his arm. His elbow hurts so much, it’s taking his words away.

“You were deadly before already. The Mark made you powerful.”

“But guess what, I’m even better now. Dean Winchester 2.0 - I’m all in for my upgrade. You see it as a bad thing, but what I see is … potential. Chances. Oh Sammy, I can conquer the world. Hell. Heaven. You really want the boring Dean back, huh?”

Sam shakes his head but that makes him feel dizzy, he stops.

“I want my brother back. The brother I loved.”

Dean’s black eyes target Sam like he’s prey again and he hates being looked at like this. It makes him feel less human, less Dean’s brother.

“I am your brother. Nothing ever changed that. But I told you to stay away from me, I told you not to look for me. But you did. You plotted against me, with Crowley, with Cas. You tied me up in this chair, you tortured me with human blood. Against my will. For someone who’s all over the place with autonomy and respecting boundaries you violated mine just perfectly.”

Sam squirms. The problem is that Dean is right. But Sam did it for the greater cause, didn’t he? Dean becoming human again was the best for everyone!

“You make me sound like the bad guy here, that’s not fair”, Sam mutters.

Dean laughs and it’s a deep, rough laugh that makes Sam’s skin crawl. This is so much Dean, even darker than usual. And it shakes Sam to the core.

“Good, bad… Who cares. Human categories, bullshit. Nothing’s fair, Sam.”

“I need something to drink”, Sam says faintly now.

He won’t make Dean untie him, that’s for sure, but maybe Cas will come to the rescue soon, he can maybe delay things. Also he needs to get rid of the taste of old blood in his mouth. Dean doesn’t reek of his blood that bad anymore, Sam is very much aware of the pink line across Dean’s throat. A scar. The blade will cause scars. Or at least the weapon delays even Dean’s healing.

Dean smiles.

“Sure. But why waste water on you when I kill you anyway?”

Sam’s heart sinks.

“Will you?”

Dean shrugs as if he doesn’t give a shit at all.

“Thinking about it. But you’re my brother, as you keep on reminding me. Maybe I should give you a chance to redeem yourself in my eyes and let you live?”

“And how would you do that?”, Sam asks, winding in his ties.

Dean goes away. Doesn’t say another word. Sam is stunned and damn, holy shit, he’s afraid. Dean will kill him. But what is it with the possibility of letting him live?

The smell of iron. Like a perfume, soft and silky. No. No no no.

“Dean? Dean!”, Sam cries and fights the restraints harder.

He did it again. He slit his fucking throat, Sam knows it. And this time, he won’t be able to run, he won’t be able to fight back. He’s tied up, he’s in pain, he’s weak. It’s not like with the other hunters who wanted to force him to drink demon blood. He could fight them off, but now?

Emaciated. Sick. Depressed. A broken arm. Hungry. Tied up. The addiction is pulsating through his veins, giving him the chills. It’s hot and cold at the same time. Like crackling in the air, the heavy scent of blood and Dean, he can only say no.

Dean won’t take a no, why should he? He’s a Knight of Hell. Sam is human. His brother is back, his throat cut deep enough to see the structures of muscles, veins, nerves, his trachea, the pulsing blood. Sam vomits all over his shirt, but there’s not much left except bitter, yellow gall.

“You’re sick, huh?”, Dean coos in a voice like he did when Sam was younger. It’s meant for comfort but now it just feels like mockery and Sam wonders how he deserves to see his brother slit his throat, twice, just to seduce Sam to drink it. It's so fucked up. It’s low, even for lean, mean Dean. Human Dean would’ve never provoked Sam’s demon blood addiction.

Sam nuzzles against the hand that’s stroking his face, his eyes squeezed shut. His lips tremble.

“Let me make you feel better, don’t pull away, Sammy…”

Sam cries out and some ugly big tears fall down his face. Is it so easy to break? He’s gone through so much pain already, through torture, rape, withdrawal. He was betrayed by everyone he loved, especially Dean. Dean’s hand is warm, but his skin feels like marble when Sam leans in, rubs his face in the palm of Dean’s hand. Is this still his brother? Is there any humanity left?

But what would that change? They’re here now. In a bunker soaked with demon blood, Sam is tied up, Dean reigns.

“Hush, hush”, Dean purrs, both of his hands holding Sam’s bobbing head. “It’s gonna be alright… Sammy, just give in. There will be no more pain, just us. You and me, against the world. Like it used to be.”

Sam opens his eyes but all he sees is blurry and red, it stinks of iron and vomit and Dean’s black eyes…

“I wanna see your normal eyes”, is all Sam can say right now.

A smirk.

“Anything for you, Sammy.”

And Dean’s eyes flash back to green and Sam can have the illusion of his brother just for a moment longer. Thick dark blood is pulsing out of Dean’s cut on his throat.

“It looks disgusting, Dee.”

Dean only laughs.

“It’s not supposed to be beautiful.”

Dean cups his hand before the dripping wound, collects a tiny lake of blood in his hand and then, gently presses his blood covered hand against Sam’s lips.

The world turns upside down. Sam feels the spinning, the spinning, the spinning!

The taste makes him want to barf, violently, but the old creature, the blood sucking monster was waiting patiently beneath the surface. Patient but greedy. Now it’s unleashed it bursts out and the first drops, he swallows. His lips limp and curled in utter disgust, but now, oh now, there’s a jolt running through his body, he sits straight up, first ties grinding, the ropes won’t last. The shackles won’t last.

“Come on, sweet baby boy, you want more…” Dean sings, eyes black as the night.

And slowly, very slowly and enjoying, Sam’s lips brush Dean’s hand, collect the blood, a tongue, pink, hot sneaks out, licks the offered hand.

The ropes break. The pain in Sam’s arm fades. It’s a movement even Dean didn’t see coming when Sam bursts out of all restraints he put on him and grips Dean’s hand tight, as tight as possible and sucks three of Dean’s fingers dry.

The Knight of Hell rejoices, pulls Sam close, closer than they’ve been for a very long time.

“That’s it, Sammy, yes, that’s it, let me take care of you… such a greedy boy…”

Dean’s voice is distant to Sam, distorted and hollow, he remembers their youth, the motel rooms, the flickering lights, the old tv, how Dean smelled of whiskey and beer. John’s passed out in an armchair, stained in blood, piss and vomit.

He remembers Dean’s care. The kisses at night, the stealthy handjobs in the shower, how Dean ‘taught’ him how people do it.

Make love.

Sam was twelve. Dean was sixteen. And he was a grower.

A slut.

All of this drenched in velvety red tint.

The ritual.

“Let me take care of you, Sammy…”

“I love you, Dee.”

“Never tell anyone.”

And Sam never had told anyone (but Lucifer knew - he knew everything) and deep down, buried in his mind, these feelings were in peaceful slumber, violently dragged across the floor now, kicking and crying,

A W A K E

Sam is awake.

He remembers the awkward, painful, dry fuck in the back of the Impala after they killed the Wendigo, so long ago, and how they never ever said a word.

Spit is shitty lube.

So is blood.

It roars. The monster roars in Sam’s chest. It’s in agony, it’s in joy, it’s free!

And Sam is just a puppet, always been nothing more than a puppet. He watches himself suck Dean’s fingers, then sticking his own fingers in the wound, stir it, stir Dean’s insides. The gurgling, the retching. Dean’s satisfied moans, his hands all over Sam’s now healed body.

“Yes, Sammy, let it all out, come on… Let it all out.”

Sam only hisses. This blood, Dean’s blood, the blood of a demon, of a Knight. It’s so much more potent than Ruby’s or any other demon’s he’s ever drank and tasted. Dean is delicious. Demon tend to taste like rotting meat, titan arum aroma.

But Dean tastes of all the good things. Dahlia, petrichor, amber. His musk makes Sam’s blood boil and his pants bulge.

“Sammy.”

“Dean”, is the first thing New Sam says.

What Monster Sam says. His voice sounds low, rough, barely in control. His body is shaking, too much force is withhold now.

“Brother.”

The wound on Dean’s throat is closing up again already, the healing ability is really incredible. Sam will bite it open very, very soon, but first…

Dean doesn’t protest, he doesn’t fight back at all when Sam slams him down to the ground like he weighs nothing. There’s the crunchy sound of maybe, bones breaking, or just getting sprained, but even that, Dean will heal in no time. Dean lies on his stomach, attempts to get up.

“Sammy-”

“Sammy is not here right now.”

There’s no surprise, no scare in Dean’s voice. Sam stomps his bare foot in Dean’s back and Dean stays, doesn’t even breathe. The adrenaline rush in Sam’s ears makes him deaf for most other things and seeing demon Dean down on his stomach, defeated so easily, it’s almost an insult. Sam crouches down, one foot still on Dean’s back, pressing him down.

“You surrender?”, Sam asks, eyebrows raise.

“I didn’t mean to fight you at all.”

Dean chuckles, his voice raspy

Sam drags Dean on all fours, rips apart his shirt (the pretty red shirt, ruined with blood anyway) and Jeans and when he holds Dean’s hips, bends over and bites Dean’s neck, Dean hisses “Come on, Sammy, that’s it.”

That’s it.

Sam tears apart skin, Dean’s blood gushes in Sam’s mouth, warm and silky, smooth and delicious.

“Is that what you wanted?”, Sam says in a breathless moment, before he starts sucking the wound dry, the bleeding will stop soon, way too soon for Sam to be satisfied.

Dean growls deeply, pushes against Sam. Pleading. Sam pushes two fingers inside Dean, but feels very quickly, Dean doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. He needs Sam. He rips off his jeans, down to his knees and when that’s not giving him enough space, he just tears it to shreds completely. Dean’s ass is perfect. Round, juicy, firm. When he gives it a slap - a hard one - he enjoys the noise Dean makes. And then he thrusts completely inside, without hesitation. No foreplay. No gentle feeling ahead and preparing Dean’s wonderfully tight and delicious ass. He feels amazing, hot, tight, smooth. Dean hands grip Sam’s wrists tight while he fucks into him, raw, without anything to soothe the pain, make it easier, make Dean nice, slick and wet. But he doesn’t complain at all.

“That’s it”, Dean chants, in his low, low “Let’s finish this game” voice. That’s it, over and over.

This is no sex Sam would ever have if he was in his right mind. Covered in his own vomit, Dean’s blood, on the cold floor. Not that he has fucked any guy after he fled off to Stanford anyway. Dean is all he knows. He only knows what Dean taught him about fucking ass.

Dean starts getting slippery with his own blood, Sam’s blood infused spit and finally, cum. Sam loses the feeling of time and space, all he can do is fuck Dean until one of them passes out, and if Dean passed out, Sam would continue anyway.

The adrenaline rush plummets too early for Sam’s taste, the haze clears up and he’s getting aware of his ripped off clothes, the shreds of Dean’s. The fluids, the smell, the feeling. Crust everywhere. Dean is still on his knees, head sunken on the floor, his arms stretched out, breathing heavily. There’s no sign that he’s in pain. But Dean’s a demon, right? He will be fine.

Sam drags him up, and the cocky smile, the perfect hair, it’s all gone. Dean looks like he’s had the same otherworldly experience. It’s a sight that makes Sam chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?”, Dean asks, coming on his feet, gently swaying, but finally his wounds are closing up.

“You threatened to rip my throat out. With your teeth.”

“Not there yet, Sammy. Not yet.”

The situation is unreal, Sam feels unreal. He knows he will never be the same. Something’s broken inside him, crumbled - yet ready to expand again, into unknown territory.

He doesn’t remember the coercion, Dean’s betrayal - or was it Dean’s way of deliberating Sam?

Sam, leaning on the table, watches Dean come close and he leans in, a hand in Sam’s hair, gently pulling. Their kiss isn’t gentle, nothing will be gentle for a while. Teeth clash, the table scrapes along the floor and the throbbing of Dean’s pulse makes Sam rise up again. Dean bites Sam’s neck, sharp pain - and Dean drinks. The feeling is satisfying and roughening Sam up at the same time. He pulls his Knight close, closer, grabs him and bends him over the table, both still bleeding, Dean high from Sam’s blood.

“For a Knight of Hell, you’re very pliant”, Sam growls in Dean’s ear.

Dean chuckles.

“I just bend the knee to my King.”

Sam frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Dean hikes up and drags Sam to the mirror in the Dungeon.

“Take a look”, Dean hums, rich and satisfied in tone, “acknowledge who you are.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. First, Sam’s mossy eyes just look glassy, clear, beaming with desire for Dean.

Then he draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.

“You got your daddy’s eyes, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes turned yellow.

#wincest #dean x sam #samdean #deansam #demon!dean #sin is sinning #tw:blood #tw:gore #tw:addiction #kink:blood #bottom!dean #powerful!sam #demon blood!sam #yellow eyes!sam #boyking!sam #tw:smut #tw:violence #tw:knives

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bluejaytaco · 3 years

Text

What up? it DND wit Jay!

(We return to the realm where we are standing in front of a giant gold gate. There's a dwarf standing in front of it with a clip board in their hand, just flipping through.)

Alabaster: (walks up) H-Hail and well met, my friend.

Dwarf: Names?

Alabaster: Oh! Um, I'm fine.

Dwarf, flipping through his clipboard: Fine.... Fine.... Nope, not seeing any "fine" here.

Art: (Walks up)....What about Ebony?

Dwarf, flipping through: Uh, yeah. We got an "ebony".... He's an orc. And considering none of you are Orcs, I doubt any of you are Ebony.

Art: Uh, that's racist.

Theodora:... Quite a detailed guest list...

Koejin: (Walks up and points at a random name) That's me.

Dwarf, looks down at the name: Your Grenadine Ceriph? High priestess in Calor? (Context: Calor is a Tiefling city. Koejin is human... well... was)

Koejin: Yeah, that's me.

Dwarf, getting sick of us: Look, I don't have tie for you people messing... (looks up at Koejin and goes silent).... You're not supposed to be here. This isn't your realm.

Koejin: Uhhh... Well, I have business with the man in charge.

Dwarf: I'm gonna have to call Pelor.

The entire group: (various ways of saying, "You do that" From "yes, please do" to "yeah, get that fucking bitch here! I wanna speak to the manager!")

Dwarf, mumbling into a sending stone before looking back at us: Is one of you named Theodora?

Theodora: Uhh.... Yeah.

Dwarf: You guys can go in. That's all I needed because now I know your names. But thanks for lying to me!

(The gates open and we all walk through. It's less blinding, but only slightly less on the other side of the gate. We see people walking around and just enjoying their afterlife. In the far off distance, there is a silhouette of a giant castle. We can also see the opening to a large garden where Pelor is standing with his arms crossed. Some of us see Alabaster's daughter, Eris, stomping on the flowers.)

Pelor, voice booming towards us: Everyone, front and center!

(All of us go with different levels of reluctance. Hennessy leads the way while Art and Jaquine kinda trail back.)

Pelor: So, what is it you need from me? (He's still standing over us while Eris continues to stamp through the flowers.)

(For a moment, we're all silent.)

Theodora: We want to speak to Thia.

Pelor: Thia is not in a place to speak. She is in my castle now, practicing her abilities for the Cleanse.

Hennessy: Is she okay? You don't have her locked up somewhere, hurt, right?

Pelor: Hennessy, my dear boy. Would you lock up a tiger in a small cage? No, you would respect the animal. Thia is in a place of comfort and has free reign.

Hennessy: She's got free reign? So she can go smoke in every room of the castle?! Even your room?!

Pelor: uhh....yes...

Hennessy: Ohh that just won't do. That smell of recreational drugs gets into the fibers and it can be a bitch to get out.

Pelor, suddenly giving off the impression he would like to hurry this along so he could go clean: It doesn't matter. She is my key to cleansing the world and making it all light. And I can save you all, if you kneel before me and accept me as your true god.

(No one kneels but Hennessy does raise an eyebrow at the "kneel" comment.)

Koejin: So how do you promise our safety.

Pelor: Well, you are excluded from this. Your friends, however, are protected because my followers will all survive.

Art: Don't you need the dark to have the light?

Pelor:... You would think that. Ticket Master would have you think that. And you, specifically, reek of him.

Art: Uh, rude?

Pelor: You know what he wants, don't you? He wants me dead so he can be the god of light. His best friend being the god of darkness would mean the two of them would take over everything. The two of them would rule all.

(Art was trying really hard to not say how he didn't see this as a bad thing, considering his bias. But somehow, as everyone was arguing against the cleanse, it was returned to the subject of Art and Ticket Master.)

Pelor: I think we've had quite enough of this talk.

Art: Yeah, let's stop talking about Ticket Master and the guy who may or may not have had sex with him.

(Pelor reacted in disgust which just turned into Art shouting "Sex with Ticket Master!" at the god of light. The tiefling was really aiming to make the god throw up.)

Koejin, joining in: There were definitely tentacles involved!

Art: Lots of tentacles! Sooooo many tentacles!!!

Pelor: Enough! All of you! (grabs Eris by the hair) If none of you will take this seriously, there is no longer a reason to speak with you.

Eris, punching at the hand: Let go! (turns to Alabaster) Daddy! I don't wanna go!

(They walk through a wall made of marble that Hennessy tries to reach through to grab for Eris. He just barely pulls his hand back before the wall solidifies again and he loses his hand.)

Vincent, rushing up to Hennessy: What did you think you were doing?!

Hennessy: The girl didn't want to go with the man! And when the girl doesn't wanna go, you don't let her go!

Vincent: You're gonna make such a great dad!

(behind the garden and before the castle there was a massive labyrinth. We walked up to see two different entrances. Koejin ends up smelling something familiar but can't really pick where it's coming from.)

Art: Hmmm (turns to Red) think you can turn into a dragon and fly up? maybe we can see where to go.

Red, not all that enthused by the idea: Uhh, yeah, I guess. Step back.

(Everyone stands back to give her enough room to transform. She flies up to the edge of the maze, but once her talons hit the edge, they shoot up another hundred feet and knock her back down.)

Red, turns back into her base form and glares at everyone: Well, that didn't help!

Art: (shrugging) well, my plans aren't ever without fault.

(Hennessy casts detect magic and, aside from nearly having his brain explode from all the god magic around, he discovers on direction is dark magic while the other is light.

We end up going towards the dark side because we figure that's where Thia might be hiding.)

(First stop is a room with a sword in a stone. Hennessy can sense that the magic is dark, but it isn't the source.)

Koejin: (climbs up and pulls the sword from the stone and holds it up in the air. She then hears the sounds of us screaming in agony.)

What we see: Koejin pulling the sword out and standing with it like she's posing.

Art: Uhhh.... what is happening?

Theodora: Koejin? You okay?

Koejin vision! Art: (melting away and falling apart) You killed us!!!!

Koejin vision! Theodora: (Also melting) You let us dieeeee!!!!

Koejin, turning to see all this: No! No, I saved Art's life so many times! (Turns to Theodora) I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

Art: Koejin.... we're fine!

Koejin: (runs up to start trying to put Art's face back together. To everyone else, she'd just smooshing his face while still holding the sword.)

Theodora: (dispels the magic from the sword and a little imp pops free)

Koejin: (can now see that everyone's okay and it still just kinda groping Art's face.)

Art:....uh, Koejin?

Koejin: Yeah.... sorry. You were melting just now.

(We talk to the little imp briefly to find that he is a prisoner in the maze. He asks if he's free to go but as soon as he does, he's struck by lightning.)

(We continue down the path for a little bit before Koejin figures out that we're going the wrong way because she can no longer smell the "smelly smell that smells." In that time, Hennessy incinerated some talking furniture which the DM disappointedly let us know that we wouldn't be seeing the IKEA Lich. I have a feeling the IKEA Lich might pop up in a future one shot.

But also, we got this exchange.)

Theodora: (casts a spell in attempt to sober Koejin.)

Koejin: (starts screaming as her skin starts to burn) Stop!

Theodora: (stops immediately) I... I was just trying to help..

Koejin: I'm the God of intemperance, Theodora! You can't just sober me up!

Theodora: What?!

(This starts into a fight about how this isn't the weirdest thing we've been through while she continues to talk about how she wasn't expecting to hear her daughter was a god.)

Red: If I may, I can see where Theodora is coming from here. Be it the weirdest thing or not, finding out your child is involved in some affair with the gods can be surprising. (Shoots a look at Art) Like your son being intimately involved with a tentacle monster god.

Art:.... you weren't supposed to know about that....

Red: You were shouting about it just before while I was standing there.

Art:... right..... forgot you were there....

Red: Either way; something for us to talk about later, Sweetie.

Art rolling his eyes, sarcastically: But Mother, I love him.

((Koejin's Player: And I have to remember to write proper notes about what everyone knows and doesn't know.

DM: Eh, it's all out now))

(We head from the dark part to the light part and find ourselves walking down a hall for hours. It gets to the point where Mrs. Red starts to complain.)

Red: Ugh... when is this fucking thing going to end? Doesn't anyone have a way to move this along faster?

Art: It's going to feel like longer if you keep bitching.

Red: I don't even wanna be here!

Theodora: None of us want to be here!

Art, agreeing: Yeah, and yet, here we are! So, how about you shut your mouth for a bit while we figure out how to get home and make sure there's even a "home" to go back to!

Red:.... Actually, Art. Considering that, I think this might be a good time for you and I to talk....

(Art is pulled off to the side by Mrs. Red, Reita following. Theodora tries to usher everyone a respectful distance away to try and ensure privacy. She does her best, but pretty much everyone is still eavesdropping.)

Red: I know I haven't been the best mother... In fact, I might be the worst... But know that I will try to make this all better and I'm just looking for your forgiveness.

Art:.... you might remember us as a nice, happy little family, but let me tell you what I remember.

Koejin: You tell her, Art!

Art, ignoring her and pretending he doesn't know people are listening: ....you slicing off Reita's face, blowing up Thia's bar, threatening the lives of my friends, destroying the lives of countless different people; I could go on! You barely get to claim the title "mother!"

Red: I did what I thought was best!

Art: You entrusted your children to the God of Death and Deceit!

Red: I didn't do that! (long pause)....I did do that.

Art: Yeah, you did. So, this is how things are gonna go. We're going to go through here and make sure there's a world to get back to, we're going to go to Calor and you are going to fix this. Then we can talk about forgiveness.

Red: ....That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I would love... to return to our people. I know I'm a tiefling, but I still feel the rage... of a red dragon. Someone would need to take care of our people.

Art:.... the people that treated me like a pariah....

Vincent, butting in: Like Hell I'm gonna let that happen! (storms over to them and looks at Art) Look Art, I'm willing to admit you are not evil. But do you really think you can run Calor? As soon as everything gets hard you run away! Hell, you abandoned your own sister-

Reita, with a surprising amount of clarity: He didn't... abandon me. He thought I was dead.

(The remaining three tieflings turn and look at her.)

Reita: And you're not exactly one to talk; you created weapons for a tyrant and turned a blind eye to the problems in Calor. We've all done things we regret, but we learn and grow from them. How can you stand there and judge him from running from a bad situation when he was a kid? Hypocrite (shoves a slug into her mouth)

Art, smiling and a little misty-eyed: I'm so proud of you! (hugs Reita)

Reita: Uhhh, yeah. Sure.... (doesn't push him away, though)

Red:.... You're not supposed to be talking like that... how are you doing that?

Art, pulling away: Yeah, that was going to be the next part. You feeling okay?

Reita, shrugging: I feel good.... Like, really good.

Red: (grabs Reita and rips open the back of her cloak to see the stone in her spine is not glowing) This.... this isn't working. It should be working.

Art:....We should keep moving. Put a pin in this for now.

(We keep moving ahead with different twists and turns leading into random encounters. One of which is a growing garden gnome that we put Wreybar on top of so she could see over the walls. She tries to say what she sees, but speaks in a way only Wreybar understands.)

Theodora: Okay, but now how are we gonna get her down?

Red: I could probably fly up an-

Wreybar, jumping: Catch me!

Hennessy: (rushes to cast feather fall on her.)

(She floats down and lands nicely on the ground as we hear Thia's booming voice "Giant garden gnome? Goodbye giant garden gnome!" And the gnome just vanishes.)

(Wreybar starts talking in her gibberish and Koejin asks for a translator. Reita steps in and kneels down to her, nodding along by what she's saying.)

Reita: Wreybar says there's a latter coming out of a hole on the other side. It's right next to the castle. How do you guys not get that, she was speaking clearly.

Theodora: Maybe to you. Not all of us can speak Wreybar.

(We ended up getting into a few more shannanigans. At one point, Art attempted to use mislead in attempt to move through faster only to have Reita get impatient and run ahead. Art and Reita had a quick little spat about that along the lines of "by the time we find her, she'll have destroyed everything already!" "We can't find her at all if we're dead! No running ahead!" There was also a bit with Hennessy and Koejin teleporting out of the maze where they met a murder horse and a weird inky blob creature.

At that point the latter was the literally the next turn. But possibly the worst moment.)

DM: You guys come to a dead end. The smell is still coming from over it.

Koejin: Shit....

(We all check the wall to find no traps. But then... Alabaster touches it and a had grabs hold of him. It pulls itself out with his resistance and Alabaster is looking at a marble version of... himself.)

Alabaster: O-oh! Hail and well met... uh, me!

M! Alabaster: Oh! Hail and Well Met! How are you, my fine friend?

Alabaster: I'm quite well, thank you! How... who are you?

M! Alabaster: Oh, I am what remains of you. The you left behind when you left the Pelor faith!

Alabaster: Oh, I see.

M!Alabaster: Have you killed your daughter?

Alabaster: oh, no. That is.... no longer apart of the plan.

M! Alabaster: (grabs hold of Alabaster) I will do it then. I will kill your daughter. She is born of darkness, thus she must die!

(Everyone around him tenses up, but he somehow knows if he looks away, the creature will fade from his sight and go to kill Eris. He can only stare at it to hold it in place.)

Alabaster: (puts his hand to the copy's mouth and uses Create or Destroy Water)

M!Alabaster: (starts to crack and burst under the pressure. The amount of water forced inside kills the creature.)

((Create or destroy water has been a running gag in the campaign. It's been used a few times, but nothing really dark. Not like this.))

Alabaster:....(Still holding his marble copy with a stunned look.)

Art:....(walks up and pats him on the arm) You did what you had to do... Eris is safe now.

Theodora, nodding: Think of it as... you made the right choice.

Alabaster: (nods to both of them and closes the creatures eyes)

Koejin:.... we should destroy it. Just in case.

(They then proceed to break the thing into dust and we continued on our way.)

( We found the latter that brought us up to the castle. As we walk around to the entrance, Pelor stands by the door with his arms crossed.)

Pelor:.... what are you trying to accomplish here? Do you really think you can stop any of this?

Theodora: We're here to talk to Thia. Where's Thia?

Pelor, sighing: Look, last chance before I wipe you out of existence; kneel before me or leave my land and accept your fates.

Red, arms crossed(as is usual for her): Yeah, I'm not one for bowing to people. People bow to me.

Pelor: This goes for all for all of you?

(All of us agree. There will be no bowing.)

Pelor:....then so be it.

(Before he can move in to fight us, he is turned inside out and sucked into a little stone. Thia then drifts down, takes the stone, and crushes it.)

Art: ....hi, Thia....

Thia, glaring: Shut up, Art.

Art, nodding: Hmmm, mhm.

Thia: (turns to Theodora) Go home, Theodora.

(for a moment, her powers work on Theodora, but all of us stop her. This turns into a conversation about why the wipe is unnecessary. Koejin leads the conversation, then turned and asked for someone more "charisma based" to lead.

Art couldn't speak. Probably for the best. He and Thia have never really gotten along.)

Theodora: If you wipe out all existence, we won't be learning from our mistakes. Everything will end up being repeated! The war will be repeated!

Thia: Not if I don't allow free will.

Theodora: And then what is life? that's not a world; that's a simulation.

Thia:... better that than allowing a kid to grow up in the woods all alone.

Theodora:.... Thia, we can make this world better. Create a place where something like that doesn't happen. But this.... this isn't the way.

Thia:....Do all of you agree? Should I.... give up my power?

(This was a major turning point in the story. Because this is where the end boss was decided. And we told Thia to give up her power.)

Thia, nodding: Alright... let's go back home. No reason to strand ourselves here. (she opens a portal)

(We walk through to find ourselves in the tavern Thia owns. She wills away her power, but it's no big ta-do.)

Koejin: Did it work?

Thia:.... I don't know.... Art, give me some money.

Art:..... no....

Koejin: It worked!

(We all celebrate before we all notice the portal hasn't closed. When we turn and look, we see Pelor's face.... on Ticket Master's body. He throws it away like a mask and grins at us.)

Ticket Master: Guess who's the new God of Light? (smiles and waves as the portal closes)

(Outside, we hear loud banging. When we run out, we can see darkness and light bouncing off of each other before they begin to swirl and spread. They head for us.)

Theodora: (hears the voice of Bahamut and an open blue portal) Everyone! We have to go!

(Everyone dives into the portal. Art takes a moment before diving in with the group.)

(There will be one last session and we can all really feel it now. I'm kinda sad that Ticket Master is now the BBEG, but we all saw that coming. There's just a lot to figure out here.)

#adventures of art the bard #tiefling #dnd #dnd bard #dnd barbarian #dnd druid #dnd paladin #dnd cleric #dnd ranger #dnd wizard #homebrew gods #dnd gods #Art and Reita had a Blitzo and Loona moment and I don't think it was on purpose #That contract on Art and Wreybar's gonna screw them #Well... also Art's gonna be kinda heartbroken by all this #I'm feeling bad for my boy if you can't tell #shut up jay

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void-tiger · 3 years

Text

It just isn’t practical to me for Shiro’s Scars to have come from the arena. Oh, he definitely has some, the majority being defensive, but they’re almost all superficial, and many of them already fading.

Because the Galra aren’t going to waste medical supplies treating gladiator, not even crowd favorites or careers, and certainly not the slaves and fodder. And despite Humans maxing out their endurance even if they’re not the fastest or strongest, bones and organ and skin are still very delicate things. They’re sturdy enough, but one bad fall or hit or wrenching motion is all it takes. Contusions and stress fractures can still be Very Bad if left untreated. And the galra would kill off a sick slave (or even another freeborn galra) rather than risk an epidemic.

“Victory or Death” —wipe out the weakness.

So Shiro’s fighting strategy is to quite literally DON’T GET HIT; Get Fast or Get Dead. Use his mind to outthink and use his “smaller” body and insanely high stamina (and stubborness) to out maneuver and outlast. Don’t be shy about killing blows or disabling strikes—it’s Them or You, and the Galra will either condemn them to a slow, agonizing death or put them down much more painfully than even you in arena conditions. (Also Jiro telling Keith to Just Let Go softly—he probably inherited that from Shiro. Shiro trying to comfort his opponant as he’s killing them, because Dying Isn’t An Option for Shiro, but he also knows that they both can’t survive, that the Galra will just kill the other slave, that the arena is lonely enough void of any scrap of kindness. But giving a swift or easing death? Making sure they won’t die ALONE? That he can do. Be the Angel of Death rather than be the Arena’s Champion.)

That doesn’t mean Shiro doesn’t rebel. He certainly does, and pays dearly for it. The only reason why he wasn’t struck down right then is because Sendak enjoys breaking his toys, and Shiro’s spirit is a delicious challenge he hasn’t seen in milennia. Sendak’s going to relish Champion.

That doesn’t mean Haggar and her Druids and Scientists and Androids won’t take Champion apart piece by piece to see how he’s made, how to put him back together again, see if Terrans are worth the effort to take as stock, see what sets Champion apart from the other two Terrans taken and every other known being she’s seen over her very long life. See what improvements she can make, ideas she can test. (Champion’s illness is also both a frustration but also a wonderful puzzle. She will FIX him. Make him BETTER. And he will be HERS and worship her for it.) Haggar is very deliberate in putting Champion back together again and sealing the wounds she left. But her methods still leave raised, angry-looking scars that are tender to the touch. (She’s careful not to damage nerves. Pain is a nuisance Champion will endure if he’s wise. But she made the mistake in causing a subject to lose feeling—he died soon after. Haggar never makes the same mistake twice.)

So when Shiro looks at himself, his back is a mottled mess of electric burnmarks left by his guards, he assumes. Viciously he doesn’t mind—GOOD. He fought back. They didn’t break him. He knows they didn’t...right? But. He gave them hell right back.

His remaining arm and hand and legs and feet are crisscrossed with faded slashes and sometimes dotted with double-Us left by teeth. Defensive marks. By color they were all presumably superficial. He fought, and he survived. They never got a good hit in. He’a both relieved and overwhelmed with horrible guilt—if he survived, that means they didn’t. He killed them. What kind of monster does that make him if he valued his own life over theirs? But what would’ve happened to his kids and Allura and Coran and the BlackLion if he didn’t? To the Universe? But. He still killed innocents. What right does he have to the Black Paladin mantle over Zarkon after that?

(His thighs and ass and pecks have much deeper bite wounds and claw marks. Shiro tries very, very hard not to think about them or to let anything touch these scars directly. Tries not to remember remember his instant recognition of Sendak, particularly his teeth and definitely his claws, both natural and artificial. How Sendak entering the Castle and hurting his friends and taunting him—don’tthinkdon’tthinknodon’tthinkabouthimtouchingyou—forces Shiro to lie awake or have a new set of nightmares. His guilt over that vicious relief when Sendak was finally gone and off the ship.)

Or the scar on his nose—Shiro hates how visible both it and the shock of white hair are (and how tender that part of his scalp is whenever he accidentally brushes it). He can’t hide it. Not unless he wants to keep his face covered for the rest of his life. He could dye his bangs back to black...if the Alteans even have hair dye. (Do they just change their haircolor like they do their height and skin when they’re bored??) But, other than being so visible and a testiment to the world about that year he can’t remember (probably for the best...right??) and his scalp being this constant itch and his face a raw, tender ache that pulls (and makes him have snuffled snores now. Snoring’s new...) they don’t exactly look bad.

Frosted bangs are a classic look. He’s never had them but he’d definitely been curious about it. (The GG’s just barely lax about haircuts, but still had a stick up their ass with dyed hair. And his faded undercut and bangs were already pretty expensive to have kept all the time.) And he can kinda pretend that his scar’s just the Voltron Symbol upside down—he doesn’t really put much stock in fate or destiny, but still. It’s a nicer thought than most. (His opinion sours slightly after seeing Shay suspended and muzzled. That contour. It’s the same one on his own face. At some point they muzzled him, but it either rubbed his skin raw, or didn’t fit him properly, or both.)

But the scars Shiro cannot avoid and definitely bother him—that mortician Y incision on his chest. It’s raw and it’s raised and it’s ragged. Someone cut into him, mucked about inside, sealed it up, used the same spot and did it all over again. It’s ugly and tender in a way none of his other scars are, and fills him with helpless rage when it catches (all the time) or he sees it (he tries So HARD not to look at it. He’d rather cover the bathroom mirror and use a hand one when he’s stuck shaving off his whiskers. He hated shaving before—it takes so damn long. He definitely hates it now, but traditional blades are slightly better than buzzing electric ones that close to his face and throat...if he doesn’t nick himself, anyway...) The raised lines that follow the contor inside his arms (well, what’s left of his right arm) and legs match in precision, but they’re not as angry looking, if slightly.

The reason Shiro learns why, though, is less than comforting. He could say that he’s Wolverine Now but. He didn’t consent to that. He didn’t consent to any of this, and they still violated him so thoroughly and invasively, anyway. And unlike his Arena Scars, the raw scars and callouses on his remaining wrist and ankles say that no matter how hard he tried to resist, they still got their way, anyway. They took him at his most helpless and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. And he wasn’t strong enough to keep things from progressing that far.

Before Kerberos, Shiro was already pretty modest. He didn’t like people staring at him or the snide remarks and other unwanted attention. He felt fairly comfortable in his own skin, but didn’t like either being jeered at for “not earning things” or dealing with people liking the way he looked but not really liking him (and okay so he’s tall and his eyes are unusual but...he just looks fairly average?? Trying to buy clothes is also awful—it’s always too tight or HUGE. How can awkward fits be attractive, anyway?)

After Kerberos. Well. He has a new set of reasons to not want the other paladins to see him even with just his shirt off. He doesn’t want to see his own scars, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with anyone looking at him with pity or morbid fascination or revulsion (either because of his scars being so ugly looking...or worse, because of how he got them. For not being strong or smart enough to stop them, and instead became someone else’s pet to survive many times over. For getting them as “payment” for being unable to save his crew, and flying too damn well and landing them all in danger.)

#takashi shirogane #shiro #bp shiro #champion #prekerb shiro #shiro’s gap year of hell #shiro’s scars #shiro meta #shiro headcanons #long post #the muzzle and back and metal skeleton are not mine #mckinely pointed out what Shiro’s back probably looks like #I know Boss has made a fic about Shiro having his skeleton switched out on him #and idk the artist but there’s fanart with shiro getting his scar from a muzzle (it makes more sense than an arena wound ever will)#the rest of Shiro’s Scars are my own HC based on his fighting style + things Haggar and Sendak both alluded to in s1 #(even before getting much more...explicit. Sendak especially)#(Shiro was already coded as such. And Sendak’s comments while torturing him (and making Pidge listen to it)#(but. then season FRIKKIN FIVE AND SIX. look I already had those HC and hated them. but now they’re def all but canon.)#THANKS I HATE IT #on the flip side #I do HC that part of what Fascinated Haggar so much with Champion (so much so as to make and mature HUNDREDS of clones)#is that she discovered that Shiro already had BlackPaladin Quintessence despite Zarkon being the first BP and still living #and...well. besides wanting to Upgrade Champion and his illness being a Puzzle #and MOAR Champions = MOAR Ideal Test Subjects&Shit #she prolly also took Shiro’s Quintessence (and the developing clones) to beef up Zarkon even further #(then nearly exhausted her BP Grade Quintessence Farm after Shiro&Black with Voltron knocked Zarkon into a coma #(...and it still nearly failed ‘cause...well. Jiro’s quintessence is So Damn Close to Shiro’s but. He’s still not the BP #(Jiro’s simply just Close Enough for Black to sense via a preLink and eventually fly with.#(he’s closer than the others save Allura if Black didn’t stubbornly want SHIRO back (and thought Keith could do it which didn’t happen rip)#(but he’s still not the BP and doesn’t quite have Shiro’s stamina (altho a witch in his brain? it’s impressive he can fly at all)

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flowerflamestars · 3 years

Note

PLEASE elaborate on cassian and azriel as teenagers PLEASE

YES MY BOYS OKAY LETS GO

So the moment it all actually comes together and starts is in Starlight: that first blood smeared kiss with aching ribs, Cassian’s retrospectively enormous fuck you to authority, that searing absolution: he’s Illyrian.

What Azriel hears: Illyrian like me, like me, the only one.

This is where Azriel understands all at once. That he might have nothing but an uncertain future, but he can belong with this one bloody, beautiful boy who is just as deadly. That this is why Rhysand- Rhysand who has known love every single day of his life- is jealous.

It’s about recognition. That the High Lord chose Azriel and recognized his talent- even if Rhys is the one who really has a father, who gets letters and gifts, who has a father.

That Rhys’ bleeding heart that both Cassian and Azriel find incomprehensible meant that he’d dragged Cassian to shelter- but the High Lady had looked at the strongest Illyrian born of his generation and said, yes, you can stay by my sons side.

Rhys went: New? Brother?

But Cassian understood exchange. Alliance. And proceeded to prove himself further to the Camp Lords who spit on him by thrashing Rhysand within an inch of his life, every single day.

Enter, Azriel. Overpowered, out of control, almost executed because an Illyrian who can’t fly is worth less than a lame hunting dog.

Rhys might have come to learn Illyrian techniques, but at the end of the day, his power is incompatible with siphons, isn’t Illyrian at all.

Cassian has been alone his entire life. He could shake the mountains when he was eight- but it didn’t earn him anything but more fear, more anger, more people who’d called him a bastard, a monster. He doesn’t remember his mother’s name, he’s never had anyone and doesn’t count Rhys because he thinks the High Lady is trying to collect him because her precious Prince clearly needs a guard dog.

(he’s not 100% right, but he’s not 100% wrong either. Alyssar and Rhain plan for Rhysand to rule the Steppes one day, befriending Cassian has great future value if they all survive to adulthood)

And then Azriel blows up the first few shitheads they throw him in the ring with. No control, so very much power.

There’s a timeline where they ended up sexy rivals, each other’s only benchmark- but what happens instead is someone pushes Az off a cliff in training and he just falls.

Azriel can’t fly.

So Cassian teaches him. This weary, beautiful boy everyone is afraid of who the dark loves, who spends every spare moment staring at the heavens like he’s never even seen the sky before.

The snows blow in early. Cassian looks at Azriel. They’re exactly the same height, which is to say, already enormous, but Az always makes himself smaller. Always. He’s deadly and graceful and so, so, afraid. Not that anyone notices but Cas- no one else ever gets close enough to this boy the Camp Lords call a devil hidden in Illyrian skin.

Cassian sneaks Azriel back to the cabin, to his gifted bedroom that he is abruptly nauseatingly both proud of and ashamed by.

He’s so sad, Cassian can easily share, easily keep him from freezing to death.

(in the back of his mind, he knows he wouldn’t. Az is strong like him, he wouldn’t freeze. He’d live, but it would hurt. Pain is supposed to make them stronger, and they hurt each other all the time. Surely, surely, that’s enough.)

The thing is, they’re equals. They’re alike, the only people either of them has ever met who are. And, as we know from Daylight and Starlight, they get each other. As friends, as brothers, as everything, they understand one another.

Az might not talk much, but Cassian always listens when he does. Laughs, the sound so vast and lovely Azriel never knows what to do in the face of it.

Cassian is absolutely brutal, but he’s fair too. Kind. Bewilderingly willing to share whatever he has with Azriel, who has even less, for the easy price of fighting each other, watching each others backs.

They go to sleep each night in a too-soft bed, warm for once. Confounded by so many things around them- Cassian is briefly, utterly vindicated at the look on Azriel’s face when Alyssar gives him a pillow.

Flash forward through winter and spring, to that early summer day.

Rhys is jealous of Azriel- because he and Cassian belong together. That Cassian had looked at Azriel- so very wrong to behold, more shadow than teenage boy, scarred and scared, half blind in the sunlight- and seen an equal. In Azriel. Not Rhysand.

Rhys, much like the spoiled child that he was who’d never before had someone say no, never before considered that anyone could be better, is a little bitch about it. He spends their teenage years getting over it, slowly.

But in the meantime, Azriel is having a revelation.

He can belong.

It’s about recognition. Love, but also so much more than love. It’s only with each other- as friends, as lovers, as some mix in between because they know better than to think this will last forever, better still than to imagine that something so inconsequential as Azriel someday finding a man a who could love him without secrecy, that Cassian does like the way Morrigan looks at him, could ever, ever tear them apart- that they learn they can have.

They hurt each other all the time in training, they have to- Cassian learns what Azriel thinks, that Az says to himself so many times over, with every reach- Cassian would never hurt me for real. Azriel realizes that no matter how strange he is, how scared, Cassian has never been afraid of him.

They look at each and see only equals, all in the world that can really belong to each other, because no one else exists as they do.

It’s Cassian setting the bones in Azriel’s hands after he broke them, Azriel using the darkness to steal bandages and to wrap Cassian’s weeping fresh tattoos, even though they’ll heal fine untended. Sleeping in that too small bed, warmer, because now they can touch.

Gentle because no one in their world is gentle, but they can learn to give that to each other.

It’s standing shoulder to shoulder under hateful eyes, stronger, the strongest, together. Earning the exact same number of siphons, undeniable.

Cassian telling Azriel the little stories he made for the constellations he found in the summer sky as a child. Azriel reciting, carefully, the fairytales him mother told him in secret before she died, just an hour each week- of honor, of valor, of love, of Illyrians who were more than violent.

They’re family, they’re everything, and that doesn’t change when Azriel turns twenty, and the High Lord of Night calls him into service.

One last night, the desperate strength of Cassian’s embrace, his hands shaking, always gentle. Cassian telling Az not to trust those fucking high fae, Azriel making Cas promise he’ll be here when he can come back. That he’ll live. That they’ll both live.

A year of madness, a year of learning, a year by side of a High Lord who knew every inch of his territory, feared, respected, loved across of the Court of Night and beyond.

Az takes his vows, becomes something even more fearsome. And then Rhain sends him back to Illyria, to guard the Morrigan, his personal choice for his sons future bride.

(The bidding war for Morrigan’s hand has already commenced. To send her to Autumn is, more than anything, a fuck you from one High House to the highest. Rhain is hoping his terribly romantic, dreaming young son, might just elope. Do something foolhardy and reckless that he can pretend to disapprove of, and still get what he wants.)

The Morrigan thing happens.

Azriel understands- Azriel isn’t mad at Cassian. They’ve made no promises, this cannot even begin to touch what they each other.

Azriel is mad at Morrigan.

Because she used Cassian, because she hurt Cassian, and she doesn’t care. Doesn’t begin to understand. Thinks it’s nothing because of course bright, laughing Cassian would go along, act as though being dismissed is nothing to a bastard born boy.

But it’s still his job to protect her, and he will. Azriel is resolute in his duty, the best, right up until the moment Morrigan’s father takes her home.

The one relationship in which Azriel has no authority, that Rhain had ordered him specifically not to interfere in.

Still, Azriel warns the High Lord.

Still, it isn’t enough, and it takes him days to find her.

He has nightmares about it for three hundred years. It changes all of them- Morrigan, a casual rebel, who’d now rather die than not escape. Azriel, from dutiful to duty incarnate, locked in ice. Cassian, to whom the world had proved that in the end, no matter how much better he was, kinder, he was still a weapon.

A few things happen in short, dangerous succession. Alyssar takes Morrigan to Sangravah to heal. Azriel disobeys several direct orders to stop Rhys from killing Cassian.

The boys reunite, the boys mourn.

Rhys takes formal control of the Steppes.

It’s love, it’s recognition, it’s existing in the understand they will never let something like it happen again: Cassian kills Azriel’s half brothers. Azriel goes with Cassian, shrouds in unescapable and devouring darkness the camp where his Mother died. They rebury her bones.

Cassian and Azriel, shoulder to shoulder against the world. Cassian and Azriel, a promise bound if not spoken: to protect Morrigan, who they’d failed.

Cassian and Azriel, the whole sum of each others family, no matter what shape it took.

A whole world, together, Illyrian as no one else ever was.

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rpmemesbyarat · 3 years

Conversation

RP Meme from "Chapter One: Caliah (Lore)" in the Bastet breedbook from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse"

Once there was a cat who dreamed he was a man.

Like the morning mist, she appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed.

The winds have spoken of your dilemma and I have come to show you the way home.

Why do you call me brother?

We are family.

We have different parents but share the same blood.

You need to meet your people

You are my sister

I have no other family. Don’t leave me!

We all have family

What are the dreams of a cat?

Let us welcome each other and speak of hidden things.

If they come in peace, we welcome them.

I’m just a mutt.

Listen up and listen close, ‘cause this isn’t stuff you’ll hear from any old place.

I’ve got friends with friends, if y’know what I mean, and this is good stuff.

They don’t get along, y’know.

A good lorespeaker tells different stories every time, and she makes ‘em as cool as possible.

Sound like anyone we know? Nah! Couldn’t be!

So how do you trade secrets, anyway? After all, isn’t a secret shared a secret lost?

If you don’t play the game, you don’t learn a thing.

Each element of the message becomes a metaphor, and the message becomes a story.

Florid? Hell yeah! But ya gotta admit it’s more graceful — and exposes a hell of a lot less — than blurting out the truth.

You might say, “I heard a story about so-and-so” but you’d never say “I did so-and-so.” If your audience has a clue, they’ll catch on.

Everything’s told in metaphors.

A good obtuse metaphor makes you look imaginative if someone gets it, really stupid otherwise.

Everything is larger than life. People don’t just cry, they “explode in showers like the sea.” Folks don’t just get mad, they “turn into coals that burn through the floor.”

If what you’re saying is important, bigger is better.

Simple? Not if you don’t get the lingo.

A wounded cat can surrender without disgrace.

Not enough to go around.

Hey, don’t let on you know what I told you, huh?

It was a time before life, a longing when the dream of birth was yet to be.

This marked the end of peace and the beginning of struggle.

Such promises are soon broken.

Why does even the skin of my daughter flee from my hands?

Why must I always be alone?

Master, what would you have of us?

Nothing exists for him but annihilation.

Go across the world

Let that which is pure stand whole, but erode that which is impure from within.

He tells many tales, but all of them are lies. He is rage made manifest, and he coils within us all.

There was no want, no war, no anguish, and all living things gave of themselves to help others exist.

Until some cataclysm happened, everything lived in peace and plenty.

Life has ever been a struggle, my brothers and sisters. Life has always meant that some may die for others’ pleasure.

That pleasure may be as necessary as hunger or as frivolous as sport, but it has always been fatal and always will be.

Only through struggle can we progress.

Only through sacrifice can we succeed.

We were born from conflict and we grow through adversity. Our ancestors are predators, great cats and human hunters who rose above their surroundings and mastered them.

We know our place in the Great Order, and it is not passive.

Like the moon, our world waxes and wanes.

Each era glows brightly, then fades into night before rising again as some new age.

As creatures of light, dark and twilight all, we are not moved much by the vagaries of fortune.

Each tribe has its creation story, and they differ in many ways.

I have my own ideas.

We are a breed eternally apart, and we are rare.

Water runs silent, yet crushes with the power of an elephant.

Its depths hold secrets that only the brave can find.

The first of our kind were nearly the last.

Those it caught were devoured.

Let this be your legacy

My tears, shed for you, will boil in your veins.

All people will fear you, and all animals, too.

Begone and tend the flocks that need killing.

I banish you from sight!

They still live on in us, and we carry their curse to this day.

As the humans prospered, they grew quickly out of hand.

It was a bloody, useless time, and we fractured as a people.

Secrets became the only thing to bind us.

It’s hard to forgive these raging bastards.

Very territorial, and I know how that feels.

There are enough horrors in the night already.

Corruption has a million voices; sometimes they drown out the song of the moon and lead us over cliffs.

That song wails from nightclubs, boom boxes and televisions every day.

Stop up your ears, my friend and listen to the wind.

Those secrets led the wolves to our door — literally.

Gods damn the dogs for that!

Their misbegotten crusade killed hundreds of our Kind and Kin.

She mated with serpents, wolves and great cats in an effort to become like them, but gave birth to monsters instead.

Some legends portray her as one of our kind, but we know this isn’t so.

If the tales I’ve heard are any measure, they have no pity for us at all.

We are where we are born.

I think our unique insights show us that humanity is a mixed blessing — especially where the earth and the wild are concerned.

Men are the cleverest monkeys, no doubt, but they don’t have much sense of self-preservation.

Our forebears fought to let humanity prosper.

We have an amazing world at our fingertips, but it’s filled with poisons and lies.

Honor seems to be a fading dream in lands where the rich starve their people and the poor kill each other.

We hold magic within ourselves, within our hearts and minds and spirits. To dishonor ourselves is to disperse that magic and scatter our souls.

It’s acceptable to lie to other creatures; they’re not of our blood and not bound by our laws.

We will flee to survive a fight, but will not run when others depend on our strength.

We must make restitution to those we deceive, in deeds, trade or money.

We may be exiled or branded.

Our weapons are many — secrets, claws, teeth and allies — and we will not hesitate to employ them for our world’s

survival.

Our people have walked too close to extinction for us to take such matters lightly.

We will not ally ourselves with shadow powers or drink corrupted wisdom.

We do not fail our Earth and mother. That path leads to death.

We are the keepers of secrets, and our fates depend on silence.

Each of us bears the hidden doom of our own people, and we know the cost of betraying that trust.

We also know that we have what others want — or what they think they want — and it amuses us to make them squirm.

Our knowledge is our concern.

We will not share it unless we wish to.

We will hide ourselves from outsiders; they will think they know us, but we will delude them.

We will wrap our lore in riddles and tales; let the clever ones puzzle out their meaning.

We will act as if we know even more than we do, for it keeps outsiders guessing.

Let them wonder at our insight; they value us more highly when they do.

We will cover our tracks with misdirection, pretend to be other than what we are, fill the air with idle rumors and hide messages in code.

There is no forgiveness for this crime.

Well, let’s just say I know what I’ve seen. And I’ve seen a lot.

His eyes were so filled with pain that I decided to help out.

I’d swear he was grinning as the semi ran him down.

That felt good.

Guess they’ve gotta live here, too.

I say they’re not as smart as they might think.

Maybe I’m the one who’s being fooled.

I could tell you stories all night, all week, all month and more.

As the temples rose and the hordes crossed through, our parents sat on the sidelines of history and observed the passing of kings.

The cultures we witnessed shaped our own ways.

Cities rose, each with secrets too tempting to ignore.

For a long time — 4,000 years — there was all the room in the world for us, and no lack of secrets to keep us entertained.

We should have seen the signs in the Classical Age, when armies swept across the land in the names of gods, kings and conquerors.

We should have met en masse when trade and crusades brought East and West together.

I will not belabor the point. We know what happened.

Explorers, slavers and great white hunters bounded into the wilderness and cast a chain around our kind.

Suddenly, we went from having all space to having little.

I can’t say I don’t share the sentiment just a bit.

We didn’t stop until a greater evil forced us to align, but that’s another story.

It’s a wonder anyone survived.

We studied their secrets, but could learn nothing from them.

We have no one to blame but ourselves.

For all our vaunted sight, we’re blind. For all our gathered lore, we’re stupid.

The world is falling apart.

I don’t know whether to believe it or not, but we are living in interesting times!

We must pool our secrets, combine our efforts, and bring the world’s secrets to light.

We must act on what we discover and disperse what we learn.

Do I lose my cool?

The modern age is the greatest puzzle we could want endless streams of secrets, enigmas, wonders and dazzles, wrapped up in an explosive package that could blow us all to hell.

Anywhere, at any time, the whole ride could fly off the rails.

Those who ignore the warning feed the vultures the next morning.

I’ll simply say the tigers are not where you’d expect.

People have begun to open their eyes, but they still need your counsel to see the cliff’s edge before falling off

Those stories are true — violently true — and they add up to an appalling picture if you string them all together.

They get an idea, work on it a bit, and try to rule the world. Typical. We’ve seen their kind before.

Look around you if you doubt it.

Surely the secrets you’ve uncovered have given you the idea that maybe, just maybe, something’s going on, something bigger than another plunder, another invasion, another city that falls to ruin in a century.

Discover what you can, but bury your tracks well.

We’re strangers to each other for most of our lives, and we like it that way — a few careful gatherings are all we

can stand.

The moon is our patron, but the shadows are our father too, and they call to us at our weaker moments.

Most of us dance on the edge, though, and that’s where we like to be!

Despite our pains, we’re spirited and wild, inquisitive yet careful, sensual yet refined.

Our beauty is our greatest pride, and our wits are second to none.

We know what we are.

To hell with them all!

Still, we cannot let pride blind us to the facts.

The morning it foretells is up to us.

We must come together, yet retain our pride.

We are the keepers of secrets.

Perhaps it’s time those secrets were revealed.

#rp meme #rp memes #rp starters #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #roleplay starters #bastet #werecats #werewolf the apocalypse #world of darkness #owod

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mimzyizme · 3 years

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Tasteful

Eyeless Jack x Reader

Word count: 2,014

WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Part 5: Resolutions

"Now, I'm not criticizing you. I'm actually quite impressed (Y/N)." Jack chuckled behind his mask, vining his fingers through the contents of the file. He had brought his chair closer to you now, almost touching your knees as he reveled at the photographs of bloodlet victims. Contorted in pain, beaten beyond recognition, murdered.

You couldn't even glance at them, you tried with all your will to twist away from the sight of them. You couldn't do this... you couldn't see them again...

Not again. He took note of your squirming and yanked the chain, pulling your head back to face his direction. Choking a sob you could now only squeeze your eyes shut.

When you did, you felt a hand crash on the side of your face as he hit you. You gasped and cried out letting the tears that had been pooling into your eyes spill.

"Why so shaken up?" He dug his nails into your numb scalp, holding onto a handful of your hair. Jack got in your face, his voice a low rumble. "You won't even look at what you've done?!"

You did your best to kept your eyes shut tightly, praying this could be over. You couldn't stop the waves of sobs that ripped through your throat. Bringing a searing heat of guilt through every cell of your body.

With his other hand, he gripped your face, digging into your cheekbones painfully with his black claws. To this you gripped his wrist, trying to pry him away.

"Open your FUCKING EYES!!" He roared through gritted teeth then brought his hand down on you again. You took his hit with another gasp and a desperate plea, "Stop!!"

When he pulled your scalp again you cried louder expecting him to strike you again. But instead, you felt the smooth surface of Jack's mask against your ear. "You killed eight people (Y/N)(L/N)... That's why you're here." He said in one long breath.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?!" You screamed, pounding fists uselessly against his chest. Finally looking into the holes of his mask. There could be nothing seen in them, no show of emotion, expression. No twinkle of the eye behind them. Demon

He snickered, not flinching at the shrill sound of your screams. "Sweetheart, it's not what I want from you. It's what the boss wants. I'm just here to make sure the job gets done." He stood back up quickly, this time yanking the chain down so hard it brought your body forward onto the table. Your collarbone bruising over the hard wooden surface. Jack brought his hand onto the back of your neck, holding your face against the surface, your line of sight forcibly fixed the photographs. Displays of black and red upon paled flesh, blurred through a wall of tears.

"We want to know why (Y/N). Why you killed this many people in one night."

You still struggled to gain composure over your sobs, over your slamming heartbeat. Your tears spilled out and formed a pool underneath your face. Falling apart, your legs shaking violently, uncontrollably. You didn't even know most of their names. Trying to shake your head, you blinked away more droplets from your eyes. "I don't know..." You barely rasped out. Minded overflowing with murky thoughts, it all became too fragmented. You felt like your heart would rupture, hyperventilating, choking on your own pitiful weeping.

"What was that?" Jack spat, his body looming too close to your back. "You don't know??" Releasing his hand from your neck he threw back his arm, holding the chain using all of his force to pull you over. So strong the joints in your necks popped and stretched painfully at the pulling. With a swift movement of his boot, he kicked the chair from underneath your body. Forcing you to fall back, the chain leading by your throat. Headfirst, he made your body collapse to the kitchen tiles. Suddenly the wind was knocked from your lungs by this, and you let out a silent wail of pain. Your muscles freezing from its hot bite through your core. This danced with the agony of your skull taking yet another uncountable blow from the ceramic floor.

Then he was on top of you, throwing his leg over your side, straddling your stomach as he leaned over you. Suffocating and violating. Every joint through your spine ached from the pressure of his large, heavy body. It only exasperated the panic need for a steady flow of oxygen in your lungs.

"That answer wasn't good enough." He shook his head in mock, laughing lowly at your distress.

His black claws traced down your cheeks, to your lips, and down your chin. "Now you're going to listen closely to me. This is what is going to happen." He composed his voice again. Almost like he was trying to come off reasonably. Through heavy lids you gave in, looking up at him. Waiting for his directions, pleading in your eyes. Not like he cared.

"How you make it out of this house is up to you. But I was put in charge to put you through this, I was chosen to break you down, and peel away your walls piece by piece. Whatever it takes." He inched his blue face closer to you, sighing harshly. Tilting your chin up to him with his claw, your throat bobbed against it as you gulped down some more air you thirst for. "You can either let whatever happens to you happen. Or you can show me what you're fucking made of."

You couldn't stop your body from shuddering at the threats in his monstrous voice. His vocals changing into something violent, dark. Then drifting back to his normal tone, then a gravelly whisper,

"Either way, I'm going to break you down. That's the goal."

Jack's claws now drawn over the soft pounding pulse in your throat. Prodding it temptingly, feeling that delicious warm blood hidden behind a shield of skin against his finger. Lifting his head up and taking another long, proud sigh. "I'm going to make you as cold as the rest of us, little thing~"

Finally, he got off of you, still not taking his hand off the chain as he came back to his feet looking over your exhausted form. Desperate to catch your breath and to ease the screams throughout your body. You just lied there, trying to think of all the ways this just couldn't be happening. Praying for mercy, praying he would just lock you up in the closet again. Let you starve to death if it meant he would leave you alone.

He tilted his head, his hair falling over his masked face. "Don't worry though," He spoke again in a softer voice, watching you as your tears spilled endlessly over your face. "I've been strictly forbidden to kill you. I'll at least make an effort of it."

This brought no comfort, being unable to fathom the amount of torture your in for. Days? Months? Years? Was this now your life?

Jack pulled again on the chain, your body dragging toward him on the slick tiles. You groaned in pain, gripping the collar to help alleviate some of the tension. You curled into the fetal position, trying to protect your head.

While your eyes were closed he reached down with his free hand to slip under your arm. You flinched at his touch again but fell limp as his other arm snaked around your torso, lifting it off the ground to drag your sore body from the kitchen into the living room. He never faltered in his actions, like the dead weight was nothing to him.

When he had you pulled over the victorian carpet he dug his claws into your soft flesh, lifting your shoulders up to the couch. You cried in a distressed squeal, trying to keep your head covered still. Your body wanting to curl into a tight ball and disappear from him.

He tried to bring you to your feet but the muscles in your calves and knees felt like liquid.

Jack growled loudly behind his mask, bringing his fist down on the back of your exposed neck then throwing you back onto the couch. You quickly curled into the canvas in a futile attempt to protect yourself. He Brough down his fist again on your side, agony fired through your ribs. Again on your back. Your abdomen. Your head. His loud, angry grunts and growls in between each clobber against your small helpless body.

You couldn't find a way to keep all your weak spots covered from his relentless hitting. But to him, you knew you were just one big weak spot.

"Stop!! please!!" You cried again in your broken screams, muffled by the cushion.

He moved your wrists away from your head and smacked your face hard. You felt something warm spill down from your nose into your lips. Blood sour as copper.

"Then tell me." Jack said flatly, bringing his hand up to batter it down on your face again before you had a chance to take another breath.

"I told you I-" He cut you off. "Oh, you don't know?! So you just happened to kill eight people on a whim? You just beat them to death in their sleep? You don't know?!?!"

You could feel the heat of his disgusting, bloodied breath through his mask as you fought to keep his hands off you. Pulling your clothes and your hair to hold you still while he beat his fist into everywhere he could.

Your screams and cries falling on deaf ears within the walls of the cabin.

At this state, you could hardly even think of an excuse to tell him. You really just don't know... You never think about it. You couldn't explain in words. How could you get him to stop? You could hardly think past just surviving this now. Thrashing about, kicking your feet uncalculated against his body, causing nothing to slow his hammering fists. You knew your flesh turning swollen and bloody in each hit. Numbing and quivering.

"IdontknowIdontknowIdontknowIdon't-" Was all you could manage to screech.

He threw his back upright, his fist raised again, one hand clasped over his other. The rage wafted from him like a stench soaked through the skin. Monster

"I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW!!!" A final scream in broken breaths, your voice hardly maintaining the last sound of the word. He stopped, his fist frozen in the air. Claws clenching and unclenching around his palm.

Then it happened again, that strange stream of fluid pooled from the holes in his mask. Noticing this Jack's shoulders rose. He brought his arms down, stepping away from you with his head tilt. Watching inky droplets of black fall to the carpet.

He sighed deep and covered his mask as the black seeped through his fingers profusely.

Using your legs you pushed yourself further into the couch, choking on your strangled breath. Every inch of you burned.

"You don't know." He said again, this time in more of a repeated statement than an accusation. Why did he switch like this suddenly? Slowly Jack realized that the ink was soaking into his clothes. He turned to walk towards the staircase, probably planning to go to his room to fix... whatever was happening to him. Before his boots landed at the bottom of the staircase he spoke over his shoulder to you. His claws gripped the railing, black dripping from his knuckles. "I guess I'll give you some time to think about it."

Now with both his hands trying to wipe away the black, he stepped heavily upward, making his way to the second level. The wood creaked loudly under him, then slamming shut what you assumed was the bathroom door behind him.

With an explosion of relief, you turned your face to the cushion and screamed into it. As much as your already stinging lungs could allow. Just to let everything out. Everything he couldn't beat out of you.

You knew he would torture you every day until he got the answer he wanted.

#my writing #eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #fanfic

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nellie-elizabeth · 3 years

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Grey's Anatomy: Helplessly Hoping (17x07)

What the heck did I just watch with my own two eyeballs? What the ever living fuck? Spoilers ahead, ye be warned.

Cons:

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and compare Grey's Anatomy to The Walking Dead real quick. Both are long-running shows with a large ensemble cast, and the cast grows, people leave, new characters are added, and we're meant to feel emotional attachments to new characters as well as to those few originals who are still sticking around. Oh, and main characters die on a semi-regular basis, for the drama of all of it.

Now, the thing is, Grey's is actually better than The Walking Dead at getting me to give a crap about new characters as they get folded into the show. So many of my favorites today weren't originally part of the show. Jo is a good example of this. Callie wasn't an original character, neither was Arizona, and I loved them. Link is a more recent fave. The list goes on. You know one character I particularly loved?

Andrew DeLuca.

And it was a bumpy start, with him. I thought he was boring as sin at first, but gradually he became one of my favorites. The problem with a show like Grey's is that eventually, you might start hemorrhaging all the characters left on it that the audience gives a damn about. This happened to me long ago with The Walking Dead, and over the past couple of seasons of Grey's, I've started to worry about the same thing happening here. Losing Alex Karev last season was such a blow, especially because of the terrible way they went about it. And now, DeLuca? Are you serious? And killing him off? He was one of the only reasons I was excited to follow the show week to week, and one of my tethers to it has just been snapped clean.

And let's talk about the specifics, here. Andrew DeLuca, man struggling with mental illness. Man who starts to learn to manage it, to find happiness and balance in his life. He manages to catch the big bad child trafficker, but dies nobly in the attempt, thus making his death... what, worth it? Heroic? I hate this narrative on TV, especially for young men, especially for young men with mental illnesses. Jesus, this felt particularly tone deaf to me, in a way Grey's usually isn't. Or at least, not on this issue.

To turn to some other aspects, I will say it's super annoying that they want me to watch Station 19. I'm not gonna watch it. It's annoying that Carina is obviously getting all her stories over on that show now, when I like her so much and want more time with her. Although now it's just going to be her grieving her brother after also having lost both her parents young in life so... yay, I'm sure that'll be fun.

In terms of the other subplots, I'm a Tom Koracick stan. I know he's a dick but I just can't help myself. That being said, I thought his whole "I need you to tell me you never loved me" thing with Teddy was a little too high octane drama. It didn't match Tom's whole sardonic personality. Also, Teddy sucks, I don't feel any sympathetic connection to her struggle over how she totally loved both Tom and Owen at the same time. Like, girl, you need to get over yourself.

Pros:

I'm pleasantly surprised by how much I'm liking the whole subplot with Link and Amelia at home with Scout and also Meredith's three kids. They're obviously having a hard time, but we're not devolving into more Amelia-drama. She's upset, and dealing with so much stress, and she's also... handling it. Her conversation with Zola was actually really heartwarming.

I also liked Link, Jackson, and Maggie's new beau (sorry dude, I'll learn your name soon I'm sure), having beers before noon and talking out their stress. I especially liked Link admitting that he's thinking about how his life will be ruined if Meredith dies. The other two reassure him that there can be lots of different reasons to want someone to live, and some of those reasons can be selfish. Link is a good man, and he's doing everything he can, and he's nearing his breaking point. It's okay to be selfish. I think like that too. Like, if I lost someone I rely on or love very much, I'd worry about how it would affect me and my day-to-day. I don't think that makes me a monster, that's just a normal way of framing things inside your own mind.

Not entirely sure what the heck is up with Levi and Nico right now, but I like that Levi is falling apart and Nico is there for him. I hope that we get some time to sort out whatever their relationship is... I really want it to be my theory, where Nico realizes he's in love with Levi, while Levi is having his glow-up and moving on. Nico deserves to suffer a bit of anticipation, at least, before he gets what he wants. Especially after the way he treated Levi.

I find DeLuca's death to be a uniformly bad choice in terms of scriptwriting, but I can still praise the performances. I liked the beach scenes with Meredith and Andrew. There was something very full-circle about that. It's absolutely bananas bonkers that Meredith is losing another love interest, even though she and Andrew haven't really been together for quite a while... but if we set that aside, they had this really interesting connection, this affinity for each other that was romantic, but was also a lot of other things. It meant something, that we got to see them have that final connection before Andrew died. Also, they really managed to highlight the tragedy with that little sandcastle moment. This isn't someone going peacefully into that good night. Andrew had a lot of shit he still wanted to do. He's not actually okay with dying, even if he is happy to see his mom in the afterlife or whatever. It's bleak, and I appreciate that if they're making this dumb choice, at least they're acknowledging the inherent bleakness.

And just to pile on the tragedy, Jo's patient, the new mother who had to be separated from her premature daughter Luna, dies. Honestly I appreciate that Grey's does this kind of thing sometimes. They let the patients survive often enough that you always have hope, and then when it doesn't happen... oof. I was more angry about Andrew's death, but I was a more choked up about Jo's patient, to be perfectly honest. We also saw Hayes and Jo have a little subplot of connection over grief and loss, which I appreciated.

Okay, I'll stop there. This episode is overshadowed by Andrew's death, and I really hated that aspect of the episode. There are other things going on that could prove interesting moving forward, but goddamn, I am not okay about this at all.

6.5/10

#review #grey's anatomy #grey's anatomy review #greys anatomy #greys anatomy review #grey's abc #wtf grey's why did you do this

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