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phoenixsbby · 2 years

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can you write something with Hangman where y/n is pregnant and she’s at a Dagger Squad dinner and she received some comments about how big her belly is compared to the other women, so she refused the chocolate cake dessert and Hangman follows her after the dinner in the kitchen, seeing her crying and stuff ?

thank you for the request :')

warnings: mentions of body size/weight, swearing

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You’ve been eyeing that chocolate cake since the minute you arrived at the barbeque your husband, Lieutenant Jake Seresin, had been invited to. It was huge and looked moist and mouth watering and you could only partially blame the pregnancy hormones for wanting to shove the entire thing in your mouth with your bare hands. You’ve waited patiently though instead of giving into your chaotic, intrusive thoughts.

You’ve gone through the motions of talking with all of your husbands colleagues, you’ve spent time playing yard games with different members of the Dagger Squad (you totally didn’t get too excited and caused a scene when you and Rooster beat Bob and Phoenix in corn hole), and you ate your fair share of dinner.

And when it’s finally time for dessert, you do not hesitate in stepping up and grabbing a big piece of that beautiful cake. You see no shame in it, wanting to eat dessert. Not only because your pregnant and rightfully deserve to treat your baby to this homemade masterpiece but also, because if someone wants to eat some cake then who gives a fuck?

The piece of cake you have dangling at the threshold of your mouth freezes mid air when you make direct eye contact with one of your least favorite pilots you’ve had the (dis)pleasure of knowing since Jake had been stationed in North Island. Cobra.

You hold eye contact for a beat of silence, still with your cake hovering, and watch as he raises his eyebrows and dips his gaze down to your body. You can feel the judgement rolling off of him, in the way he’s staring at you when your eyes reconnect.

Without taking a bite of the cake that’s been teasing you all night, you place your fork back down on your plate.

“Can I help you?” You try to keep your tone sweet but there’s no missing the rigidity behind it. You completely stopped caring about being polite to this guy pretty quickly after hearing about the multiple sexist “jokes” and negative comments about other pilots he’s made in the past. You’re not a pilot yourself but, you’ve heard enough stories from Jake about Cobra to how shitty of a teammate (and person) he is.

“No, I just ..” Cobra purses his lips and shakes his head. You roll your eyes so hard, you’re surprised they don’t fall out of your head.

“Just what?”

“You really think you should be eating that?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he says it and you’ve never been a violent person but suddenly, you’re ready to swing.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on Y/N.” He grins and your blood turns from lukewarm to boiling hot inside your veins. He takes a step closer to which you react by taking one backwards. He dips his head close and adds, “We both know you’ve gained a some weight recently. You don’t see any other females here shoving cake in their mouths, do you?”

You haven’t told anyone that you’re pregnant other than your husband. It’s still early and it’s been a busy, stressful time at work for Jake so, you both agreed to push off telling everyone for now. And yes, during the time since you found out, your body has changed which is completely healthy and natural when you’re growing another human inside you! But the fact that Cobra doesn’t even know that and is still commenting on your weight, it makes you sick.

You want to scream and yell at him, to tell him off, to ask him where he gets the nerve to talk to anyone about their body but, all you do is blink. Your eyes instinctually flicker around the other women at the party. The other wives and girlfriends and pilots at the party are all beautiful and fit in their own right. Suddenly, despite knowing your body is doing its natural thing to support you during this stage in your life, you feel inferior to them in every way.

“Sorry to be so up front about it.” Cobra adds. Sorry my ass. “But, I think I’m doing you a favor. Maybe switch the cake out for some fruit or something.”

You glance down at the cake on your plate, the once delicious dessert looks about as appetizing as a pile of dirt and worms now.

An arm wraps itself around your shoulders and pulls you into a firm body. You glance up and see Coyote looking at you with furrowed brows.

“You okay?” He discreetly wipes a tear off of your cheek that you didn’t even know fell. Despite the answer being no, you nod weakly.

“I need to use the bathroom.” You croak out before shoving your plate in Coyote’s direction and making a beeline for the house. Faintly as you walk away, you hear Coyote throw a ‘what the hell did you do?’ at Cobra. But, you don’t care enough to stop or listen to the ways Cobra will spin this so he’s the victim. All you care about is getting away from these people to cry your eyes out and try your best to not make a scene at your husbands work party.

You don’t find the bathroom, instead you find a small secondary pantry in the back of the house to have a mini break down in. You slump against the wall and finally let all of the tears you can feel prickling at your dry eyes fall.

You feel like you’re being ripped in half. One half of you, the arguably more reasonable half, knows there is nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone’s body is unique. Some bodies are small, some are big, they all change under different circumstances. Body size does not determine a persons worth. Nothing gives someone the right to comment on another persons body the way Cobra did yours. The only person who should feel ashamed here is him.

Yet the other half of you lets his words stick to your skin like glue until they seep through many, many layers of yourself, until you can feel them festering inside of you. Maybe you could be making better eating choices? Maybe you should be eating more fruit? You don’t know because this is your first pregnancy and its hard to be a mother! But, you’re trying your absolute best to figure it out. Shouldn’t that count for something?

You’re outright sobbing when you feel arms encase your body and pull you flush against a hard, warm chest. One hand cradles your head while the other rubs soothing circles against your back. One deep inhale of a spicy and sweet familiar scent is all you need to know who’s holding you - Jake.

“What’s going on?” He murmurs into your hair, voice laced with concern as he squeezes you tightly against him. He knows what’s going on, Coyote came and found him the minute Cobra told him what he had said to you. Despite Cobra trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, Coyote could see right through the bullshit.

Jake had two options; hit the fucker that thought it was okay to comment on his wife’s body or find his wife who he knew needed him in that moment. It was a no brainer (okay, he did consider hitting Cobra for a hot second), he had to find you.

“I-“ you try to explain it but, the words collide with a sob that’s already lodged in your throat.

“Take some deep breaths.” You feel him inhale a deep breath of his own, hold it, then release an equally long exhale. “Come on, baby.” He inhales another, prompting you to follow along.

The first few breaths you take are jagged and short, some leave you gasping for more air. But after continued encouragement from Jake, eventually your breathing returns to a somewhat rhythmic state. Your heart no longer feels like its jackhammering its way out of your ribcage, your thoughts about your body and being a good mother are no longer stirring up a storm in your mind. You feel calm there, in that pantry, wrapped up in your loving husbands embrace.

“There she is.” He smiles, soft and sweet, as you pull away from him just enough to see his face. He wipes away the lingering wetness of tears on your cheeks before leaving his hands there to cup them.

“I feel-“ you struggle again to find words to accuracy describe this feeling. You settle on motioning the shape of a balloon with your hands and take another shaky, deep breath.

“Whatever that snake said to you out there, it’s not even remotely close to the truth.” Jake tilts his head and rubs his thumbs gently across your skin.

“Isn’t it? I mean, I have put on some weight.”

“Because you’re pregnant, Y/N.”

“But, we’ve all seen those women who stay in such good shape when they’re pregnant like you can’t even tell they’re pregnant until the day before they pop that baby out! And all they drink is kale smoothies and their favorite midnight snack is baby carrots. They definitely do not eat chocolate cake!”

“Y/N,” Jake tilts your head up away from your belly to look him directly in the eye. “Everyone’s body is different. And I happen to think yours is amazing.” You scoff and try to look away but, he holds your eyes to his. “Whether you gain or lose weight, if you grow a foot or shrink a foot, I will always think your body is amazing. Not only because you’re growing our baby in there,” he places a hand on your lower stomach “but also because it’s yours. You are so beautiful.”

You melt into his touch and rest your forehead against his. You have no idea what you did to get so lucky in loving a man like this, one of the good ones. He kisses you slowly, letting every ounce of his love translate from his lips directly to yours.

You groan the second your lips break apart and slump into his hold. You feel his laugh vibrate against your chest as he holds you up.

‘What is it?”

“I can’t believe I let that dickhead talk me into not eating that cake. I bet it’s all gone by now.” You pout into his chest before he puts his hands on your forearms and pulls you off of him. You narrow your eyes at the way he’s smirking at you.

Wordlessly, he reaches behind you and by the time he’s fully back in your field of vision, he’s holding your plate with the same piece of cake on it from before. You gasp and smile, so bright and contagious and Hangman can’t believe he gets to witness something that gorgeous.

“Oh, I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you.” You squeal as you take the plate from his hands and don’t hesitate in sticking a forkful of cake into your mouth. You moan and let your eyes flutter shut at the gooey goodness of it. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jake chuckles as his thumb swipes away a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

“Uhhhh … I was talking to the cake.”

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin fanfiction #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin #hangman blurb

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natalieh0490 · 1 year

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Dc/Dp - Jason Todd Idea

I have heard people call Jason a revenant before in this kind of crossover, but what if it is taken in a different direction.

In this world revenants are people who return from the dead because they were not avenged like normal. But the process of someone forcing themselves back to life is very stressful, so it is rare. Then if someone manages to actually succeed the strain of the experience drives them permanently insane with a side of permanent rage. The newly resurrected person would only be able to focus on hunting the person who murdered them, and depending on the situation the people who allowed the loss of their life to be buried so easily. After their hunt was completed they would instantaneously drop dead. Then they would either immediately completely move on or wither away into nothingness depending on the person, but a revenant can never become a ghost.

Revenants could also be the inspiration behind zombies in the story. More importantly, revenants are the reason why people are buried six feet deep. So the revenants would suffocate before it could seek vengeance.

Bring Jason back into my idea. Jason came back to life as a traditional revenant, and due to his unyielding stubbornness managed to get out of the grave and begin his mindless hunt. But then Thalia found him and tossed him into the pit and managed to give him his mind back. For the first time there was a revenant who had regained their mind. Well mostly. Jason was still constantly angry which he hadn’t been before coming back to life, or at least not like this. Sometimes he would lose himself completely to the anger. Everyone blamed it on the pit madness, which could be its own Ectoplasmic side effect, but it was really his revenant nature resurfacing.

Later on, somehow someway Danny and Jason end up meeting. They both recognize each other as a kind of kindred spirit because they both are straddling the line between life and death, albeit in very very different ways. Since they recognize each other in such an instinctual way, Jason begs Danny to cure him of the pit madness. But Danny can’t because what he is dealing with isn’t pit madness and the rage is the only thing connecting his soul to his body even if he has regained his sanity.

It isn’t that Jason has fits of rage. He has fits of sanity.

Those fits of sanity last a very long time, and the rage impedes his life less as he adjusts, but that is how it works. Even if Jason avenged himself, it would be to fate if it made him essentially a extremely liminal human, die instantly, or some mysterious alternative option. No one knows what will happens because nothing like Jason had ever existed before. There have been documented cases of halfas before Pariah Dark eliminated every single one before Danny and the rest came along. But there has never ever been a single case in history of a revenant who regained themselves instead of carrying out their mission.

If you choose to use any part of my idea, please leave a link in the comments so I can read it.

Thanks

#batfam #jason todd #joker #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp #dc x dp au #dc x dp crossover #danny phantom

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indepth-mbti · 1 year

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Hi i want to ask some questions involving "gut feeling":

Is gut feeling part of intuiting/ just perceiving function's process in general?

-Gut feeling is an instinct or intuition; an immediate or basic feeling or reaction without a logical rationale (definition searched on GG)

-Perceiving (irrationality) is info experience in/outer world. Perception lacks logical rationale-> balance= neutralizing w judging(rational) function. Doesn't irrationality (Sx/Nx regardless) fit gut-feeling's definition?

2. Some MBTI posts state N-types trust gut feelings & theories to anticipate comings without basing on experiences. While S-type live in the "real world" and trust the "tried and true" methods-> Doesn't this logic give way to concluding N>S types trust gut + vibe-check while S>N don't? I saw S-types that trusts their instincts and follow it very usually as well, so is it more correct to say all perceiving functs no matter Sx or Nx gives a person a chance to give in to their own instincts? Is it wrong to narrow down to just xNxx that have 'instincts'?

3. In what way do S>N types experience instinctual perception differently from N>S types?

4. Do gut feelings have any relations to gut types of the enneagram?

-Perceiving (irrationality) is info experience in/outer world. What we perceive lacks logical rationale-> balance by neutralizing w judging(rational) function. Doesn't irrationality fit well

Thanks for reading, have a nice day.

Hi, the questions you're asking are pretty complex, so I'll try to answer you with the essential topics of your questions.

1. The gut feeling in its colloquial definition fits just part of the perceiving, irrational functions. Yes. It is more common in both high Se and high Ni types, but any person regardless of their type experience this kind of gut feelings. This gut feeling is also common in 8,9,1 as those are gut types, it is also common in E6s.

2. Yes, Intuitives trust theories and ideas to anticipate real events; this has nothing to do with what a gut feeling is because, as you quoted a gut is an "immediate feeling or reaction" - which suits Se users extremely well because a gut feeling is also a reaction towards the real world. The MBTI posts you're talking about are highly biased towards intuitives. Even Si doms in its stressful moments use their SiNe connections to spot patterns in their past experiences that may justify their gut feelings.

3. It is hard for me to explain this part, because there's an undeniable difference in perception between Se and Si / Ne and Ni. Even for Jung, intuition is not the same in its extraverted attitude and its introverted attitude. But in the last part of the Psychological Types he has a "definitions" chapter in which he says that:

Sensing is the conscious perception of sensorial sensations. Sensation does two things: the perceptive image of the external object and, on the other hand, it creates an affective sensation that bonds you with the object. Probably in sensing types the instinctual perception is more tied to the objects of the world and the natural reactions. Sensation relates to the reactive part of the gut.

Intuition is the unconscious perception tied to the instinctual gathering of contents. Intuition can be either perceptions that concern facticity and the "whole" of situations (this is reactive as well), or either provides the perception of idea connections (which is related to will). I'd say that intuition is more related to that part of the gut feeling that assumes what isn't obvious in the explicit situation.

This may help you to differentiate between the perceiving functions:

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4. Sort of. Gut types focus on the body and are connected to their reactive feelings such as anger, they're connected to life and their environment. Gut types may experience more immediate reactions in which they react in different ways: either embrace them (e8), silence themselves (e9) or repress their reactions (e1)

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katsukikiss · 3 years

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I WANT YOU TO WANT ME

CHARACTERS AGED UP // PRO HERO IZUKU x F!READER // MINORS DNI 18+

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), fluff, semi-established relationship?

AN: Im a little late for Izuku’s birthday :( but this is for @rat-zuki The Deku Agenda Escapes No one event! and thanks @morelikebaku-no for helping me come up with a title >.<

WC: 2.2k

Masterlist

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“Hey y/n! You look different, you have something planned for today?” Izuku beamed at you, looking slightly confused. He approached you as you headed towards the elevator in his massive agency building. You were both heading up to the top floor, where his office resided. You two had been ‘talking’ for the last two months now, since you started working for him, and were casually going on dates or hanging at each others places. Nothing physical had transpired between you two yet; he made you incredibly nervous even though he was so warm and welcoming, so there was no way you were going to make the first move. However, you two had spoken almost everyday since Iida had suggested you for the job, and you practically knew everything about each other at this point. The romantic attraction you two had towards one another was undoubtedly strong, but because he never made any moves on you, you feared that he didn’t like you enough to do so.

“Oh thanks, I was just trying something new, do you like it?” you sheepishly asked, your face filling with heat. You dressed a bit differently than usual, a feeble attempt at being more ‘alluring’. You thought maybe if he saw you in the clothes everyone else was wearing he might find you more attractive. You were always told you had the goods and should flaunt them; you were far too embarrassed and insecure to actually do so, but you were getting a bit frustrated at your lack of physical contact between you and Izuku. Momo took you shopping the other day for some new clothes and makeup and convinced you to ‘just give it a try, see it it helps’. You dawned a tight sage button up and a short form fitting pencil skirt, and heels an inch taller than you were used to. Safe to say, it was a big change to your long loose skirts and fluffy blouses you normally wore.

“Its nice, different but nice. I think I have a meeting in ten minutes, I hate to ask but could you go pick up some coffee?” he asked you, a hand scratching the back of his neck while the other held the elevator door open. You usually attended these meetings, taking notes and giving input, but he never asked you to leave right before one.

You quickly nodded, “Oh yeah sure! Text me the orders I guess?”

“I will, thanks so much!” he said, removing his arm from the door allowing it to close. His reaction to your outfit was okay? He didn’t seem to particularly like or dislike it, but sending you out the minute you arrived to work, and before a meeting, seemed really odd to you, especially since he usually made other people do coffee runs so you two could spend more time together. You turned around on your heel to leave and saw the large group of pro heros entering through the two giant glass doors.

“Oh hey guys! Deku sent me to go get some coffee for you all, since you’re here mind if I just write down your orders now?” you asked, gently curtsying in their presence.

“Hey y/n long time no see!” Red Riot called out to you, hopping forward and pass the group to get closer to you.

“Hey Kirishima! I think I know what you want already” you laughed. He was a close friend of yours in highschool so it was only natural you’d know his favorite coffee. He smiled back at you, his eyes downward, looking at your chest for a bit too long than you were comfortable with. You shuffled back a bit, looking at the rest of the men whose eyes were also glued to your body. You never had a problem talking to them during meetings or outside of work but you felt incredibly flustered now.

“Uhm just tell me what the rest of you want okay?” you mumbled, trying to get the hell out of there. They all nodded, each taking a turn to approach you, coming too close to your face to give you their orders. Once you had them all written down on your phone you waved to them and they each had wide smiles and waved back.

“You’ll be back before the meeting ends right?” Dynamight snapped at you. Although you knew of him in high school and saw him at the office occasionally, he never spoke a word to you until today. You nodded quickly, and turned to leave. You weren’t oblivious, this outfit was working wonders, you just hoped it was working on the one you care about.

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“Here you are boys!” you cheered, placing each of their drinks down in front of them. As you went around the long table to hand out the coffee, Izuku's eyes weren’t on you but on every one of his friends instead. He looked calm but something was hiding underneath that soft face of his. Some of the men ignored you as you handed them their coffee, mumbling ‘thanks’ under their breath. Others, including Bakugo and Kirishima, still looked at you like they did in the lobby, with starving eyes, regardless of the way Izuku was looking at them. You smiled gently at each of them before taking a seat next to Izuku so that the meeting could resume.

When you sat you felt your chair being yanked. You held on to the sides of the chair as Izuku brought you closer to him, a low dragging sound emitting into the room. He looked down at you with a kind smile before addressing the group again. Your heart raced, something was different about him today, was it your outfit? Did it work?! You started to get excited, your legs dancing a bit in your seat. He placed a hand on your right thigh without looking at you as he continued with the discussion. You tried to focus and take notes but the warmth of his hand on you made you so nervous and happy; Of course you two have hugged, snuggled and shared a few kisses here and there but something about this moment felt intimate.

The meeting ended and the men began standing to head out. You were standing and about to move from your chair when you felt his hand pulling on your arm lightly.

“Could you stay for a minute? I just want to talk to you about something” Izuku remarked.

“Oh yeah of course” you responded, taking a seat once more. The men all waved to you and Deku before you were left alone. You reorganized the papers in front of you and into a folder.

“Why the change?” he asked, taking you by surprise. You looked around the dark meeting room and down at your body, before looking back up at your boss.

“I- um I thought you’d like it?” you stammered. He looked like he was thinking, looking forward at nothing with a concerned expression on his face.

“Well I do, but I like when you’re you much better” he affirmed, his eyes aimed downwards. Frustration and defeat came over you; he didn’t like the new outfit, not really, and you weren’t sure what else to do but be honest with him. You thought for a moment it worked but you must have been wrong.

“You never look at me the way all those other men did today, you don’t touch me like you want me, is there something wrong with me?” you implored, practically yelling at him, tears welling in your eyes. His face looked upset when he finally turned to face you. He raised a hand to touch your cheek and swirled his thumb over.

“Y/n, no theres nothing wrong with you at all. I didn’t know you felt that way. Honestly I just didn’t want to rush you. Your are so incredibly beautiful and amazing and theres nothing I want more then to touch you in the way that you want, I just wanted to be respectful about it” he assured you, his hand never leaving your face. You sniffled back your tears and your eyes looked at him longingly. He looked anxious, searching your face for some sort of inclination as to how you felt. Relief flooded over you when you heard his response and you leaned forward into his chest. He placed his hand on top of your head.

“Im sorry I freaked out on you like that Izuku, I was just overthinking it, I can assure you I’m ready to move forward with our relationship. And I didn’t like this outfit much anyway…” you paused for a second and looked up from his chest “what was the deal with the chair though?” you asked. He looked every so slightly annoyed, but he still had a smile when he spoke to you.

“Some of the other heroes were making comments in here after you took their orders, and its safe to say I was a little frustrated and shocked with their behavior, thats all” he admitted. You couldn’t begin to imagine what pervy locker talk they were having about you, and its no wonder he reacted that way.

“Oh wow I-“ he scooped you up and into his arms, causing you to lose your train of thought. He gently squeezed at your thighs before slowly placing you down on the meeting table. Your legs parted instinctually as he slithered in between them.

“Im ready Izuku, trust me” you whispered. He leaned forward and into your neck, placing hot wet kisses down your exposed flesh. He pulled away and looked down at you, cupping your face in his calloused hands.

“Alright baby, then let me do something nice for you” he breathed out. You nodded quickly, your deep breaths making your chest rise to new elevations before falling slowly. He bent his knees, landing on them and placing his face between your legs. He looked up at you quickly before using his hands to pull your skirt up. You helped him and allowed it to bunch up at your waist. You watched as Izuku slowly licked his fingers, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time before dipping them painfully slow into your needy hole. You gasped at the feeling of his two large fingers entering, he began slowly pumping them in and out of you. He kept looking at your wet cunt, admiring it before delving in with his tongue. You let out the quietest whimper you could manage, so as to not be heard by the rest of the staff and people in the office. His tongue danced to rhythms you’ve never experienced before. He lapped up and down your folds, even removing his fingers so that his tongue could get a chance to fuck you too. Your little gasps and moans grew louder but he kept telling you “louder, its okay”. Your legs started to tremble, involuntarily closing slowly on his head. He loved the feeling of your thighs pressed flush against him.

“Fuck Izuku ah I love you” you moaned out, without thinking as you ran your fingers through his green locks. Your mind was in a state of euphoria, lost in the overwhelming sensation of his finger and tongue working wonders on you. You grasped a wad of his hair tightly as you came undone for him, your sweet release splashing out of your cunt and onto his fingers and mouth. He lapped up your juices, reveling in the way you tasted before licking his lips and wiping his face with the back of his hand. He stood up and you immediately pulled him in for a passionate kiss with shaky arms. Your tongues intertwined, before he pulled away, bringing his fingers to your mouth. You sucked on them slowly while looking him in the eyes. He looked dumbfounded as he watched your lips wrap around his and felt your cute mouth sucking on him.

“We can keep going Izuku, I want to” you practically begged, your face almost pouting after he removed his fingers from your mouth. He backed up from between your legs and pushed them closed much to your dismay. He placed his hands on your legs and bent down to your level and looked at you before speaking.

“We have plenty of time baby, plus I have an interview in about” he checked his watch “six minutes” he smiled at you. You hopped off the table, pulling your skirt back to its correct place. He straightened out your shirt and patted your shoulders. His hands moved down to your waist and he pulled you forward, your lips finding each other perfectly. You shared one last kiss before making your way towards the door.

“You can dress however you want y/n, whatever makes you happy will make me happy” he said, pausing with his hands gripping the doorknob.

“I appreciate that Izuku” you paused, a clever idea crossing your mind, “but wait till’ you see what I’ve got planned for tomorrow” you winked at him. His face turned a deep shade of red, as did your own at your fleeting sense of confidence. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

“I cant wait” he murmured before opening the door.

#mha fanfiction #mha smut #izuku smut #izuku x reader #izuku x y/n #deku smut #deku x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #my hero academia #my hero academia smut #my hero fanfic #the deku agenda escapes no one collab #bnha smut #bnha x reader #midoriya izuku

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luimagines · 3 years

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May I request the reader protecting each of the boys? I would prefer romantic but platonic is always welcome too!

Masterlist

I hope you both don't mind but I'm going to combine them. It feel like they're both fitting for similar scenarios.

I’ll try to hit a middle ground of romance and platonic relationship... which isn’t easy... but I can try! It can at least be interpreted either way~

Part 1 will include Time, Four and Hyrule.

Content under the cut!

Time

Time isn’t entirely sure how he finds himself in these situations.

Even as he was growing older and he thought that he would have been done with all the fighting at adventuring- he still himself on the verge of death time and time again.

And that’s not a pun on his name sake.

He can hear the boys fighting just beyond him and it fills him rage- young boys like he was once are still being force to fight these stupid battles and to carry out the will of some higher beings.

It’s an outrage.

Time grits his teeth and slashes his sword against the bigger monsters that surround him.

They don’t fall; which is fine, he supposes, just a minor set back and a major annoyance.

“TIME LOOK OUT!” He hears you scream.

He doesn’t have the time to react when he feels the faintest brush against his armor only knock him to the side- a body of a monster flying to his other side with you attached to it, riding it down with your sword through its neck.

Time can’t even bring himself to stare as much as he wants, the other monsters are still around him are still trying to chop his head off.

He only knows this specifically because when he looked back to his own fight he had to duck as an axe was sung near his neck line.

He steadies himself and tries to swing once again near the other monsters only to feel a new body jump on him. Instinctually he reaches behind and throws the being in front of him.

Only for it to be you.

Horror dowses him for a split second before you twist in the air and stab the monster in front of you between the eyes, kick another by the neck with a blade Time didn’t know you had attached to your shoe.

Both go down easily.

Time swing his sword pathetically at a low level monster that tries to rush him and within seconds the whole hoard around him has vanished.

“Woohoo!!” You cheer, doing a little dance and finish it with a finger pointed at him. “Hey- thanks for throwing me! I was just going to jump over you but that worked perfectly. I knew we’d make a great team!.”

Time feels relief and amusement flood his system, but with the bad after taste of anger and annoyance to ruin the moment. “Don’t ever do that again. Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t try to stab you for that stunt.”

You fake a gasp and place a hand to your chest. “I save your life and this is the thanks I get. Time I thought we had something.”

An exhale of breath leaves him unexpectantly and it’s hard to tell it’s a sigh or a laugh- Time isn’t so sure he knows what it was either. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“Naturally.” You wink and toss your blade over your shoulder. “It is customary, yes, to thank your heroes when you can.”

“That’s someone our eras do differently.” Time mutters under his breath but he stretches and mimics your position, not wanting to see you upset for whatever reason. “Thank you very much.”

“Oh you’re welcome, you’re too kind, it was nothing really.” You wave him off as if it was no big deal.

It’s clear that you want to get him to laugh and he knows better than to fight it. so he indulges you and gives you the reactions you’re looking for.

You light up like a beacon and grin.

Time thinks that this is fine.

Four

Four hated climbing.

This rope wasn’t doing him any favors either.

If he had his Roc Cape then maybe he could have jumped the distance but there was no way up other than the rope you had thrown down earlier.

You were waiting for him at the top and the monsters were getting close so he has to go fast.

Something clicks behind him and he hears the door open.

“Four!” You cry out and there’s suddenly the familiar whistle as arrows flying through the air.

Four look down and looks behind him.

The monsters have broken through the barricade you’ve both set up at the door and have now begin to open fire... on him.

He has to get out of there!

Four can hear you firing back what you can at the monsters, ditching decorum and throwing over the last of your bomb to take out the faster ones that are getting close to the rope. He can see them fly over his head and he feel the heat of the explosion below him. The blast sends his swinging on the rope by a few inches and he can feel his heart stop with each and every blast even as they happen in quick succession.

“Four get up here!” You call out to him again. “All I have left are arrows. I can fire at them but that’s it.”

Four nods at your words and starts climbing at a faster pace than before- he’s almost to the top. He can hear you keep your word when other arrows fire from just above him. But then something nicks his finger... and the rope.

He snatches his hand back to inspect the cut only to instinctually hold on tighter to the rope when he hears that familiar rrriiippp...

His blood rushes from his face and tried desperately to grab above the tear, but it keep going up and he’s force to try and go higher than he can reach to avoid falling to the bottom.

Four knows that the fall would kill him before the monsters could... unless those beasts get a good shot.

He doesn’t like his odds and he knows better than to look down and try and guess them.

The rope is still ripping but he feels the tips of his fingers brush the rock above.

He feels a grin grace his face and he’s inclined to almost begin rejoicing.

Until the rope catches up with him and it falls from the rock itself.

A screams rips at his throat before a hand grips his own with startling ferocity.

“Forget the rope. Don’t you dare die on me.” You grit your teeth and bend down, grabbing him with your other hand and using all your might to pull him onto the ledge with you.

You can do that easily enough, it’s not like Four is very heavy to begin with and you plop him down right next to you, even going as far as to drag him away from the edge even when he’s perfectly capable of moving himself.

You both heave and huff and puff and the monsters are still below you but you’re both safe.

You groan and collapse flat on your back. “Why are we here again? We’re looking for Wild, right?”

“It was his idea to go get lost.” Four clarifies as he tries to catch his breath.

“I’m going to kill the Champion when I find him.”

Four is inclined to agree.

Hyrule

Hyrule took a deep breath and winced when his ribs protested in a silent scream.

He was so tired and weakened and out of magic and he was sure that he was alone.

It was also hot.

Like.... stupid hot.

As if there was a pit of magma right by his feet that he couldn’t quite get away from.

A small but noticeable gust of air blew the air, ruffling his hair and shifting his clothes around that only made the unbearable heat even stronger than it was before.

Hyrule has no idea where he was or where the rest of the group was.

Truthfully when he thinks about his current position, he’s hot, he’s tired, alone, stuck in an active lava tube and tempted to take a nap. He knows logistically that it’s the heat making him feel that way and that if he did it would: one, bring up his magic levels at levels and two, kill him.

So he can’t sleep.

He tries to push himself up and get to his feet, but his ankle rolls from under him and he hits his knees on a jagged rock as he falls. His ribs protest again and he grasps them with one hand, the other placed on the ground to catch himself.

The heat is unbearable.

He takes another breath and coughs when he feels the thick air fill his lung with foreign material.

It’s not looking good for him.

“Link!”

Hyrule snaps his head up and tries to find the source of the voice. He can’t tell which way it came from but he needs you to know to leave him behind, that he’s not gonna make it and you should get out of here before the lava rising to consume you both.

In fact, he takes another breath to scream it out- but he dissolves into a coughing fit.

“Hyrule!” You cry out again, appearing out of the right tunnel and sprinting in his direction when you catch sight of him. “Oh my god, you’re hurt... ok this is fine.. I think.”

“Get... out...” He rasps out and tries to point back the way you came.

You put away your sword and pick him up effortlessly. “No man left behind. Let’s go.”

With a quick pace, just as the lava begins to rise considerably higher, you run with Hyrule in your arms out of the volcanic catacombs.

He didn’t even know you were that strong.

Or maybe he’s just that light and he didn’t really think about until now.

Sweat is pouring from you at what Hyrule thinks is a concerning degree but he’s not in any way, shape, or form in position to criticize your exercise regiment at the moment.

His everything hurts and he closes his eyes against the pain.

He wake up to Sky and Four over him, with an empty healing potion dripping inches from his face. “What happened?”

“They came out of that active volcano like a bat out of hell.” Four explained. “They ran in with wild abandon and ran out with you half aflame in their arms.”

Hyrule nods and collapses again against something soft and furry under his head.

He had to admit he was impressed.

Part 2

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #linked universe x reader #oof Time's is shorter than i wanted it to be!#Four's came out alright though I think?#What do you guys think?

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villainentry127 · 3 years

Text

Hear me out

I think that Merlin and Morgana were actually supposed to be in the opposite roles.

What I mean is that I think Merlin was supposed to go ‘dark’ and Morgana was supposed to become the protector and stay in the light.

They are the perfect counter for each other- mostly because their magic was wildly different. (Morgana being a seer and her magic being controlled through spells, while Merlin’s is very hard to control and much more instinctual. They countered each other’s weaknesses) Since they were perfect counters- as long as they were on opposite sides there was balance. And what is the old religion all about? That’s right balance.

So, what does this have to do with my original point? Well, now that we have established that they could have been in the opposite roles- why weren’t they and why should they have been?

First- why weren’t they? For this question my answer is simple. Kilgarrah. As soon as he is released he tried to destroy Camelot- despite previously being a ‘defender’ of Camelot, Arthur, and Albion. He has a clear motive for revenge and does act on it. He was also the one to put Merlin and Morgana against each other and put them in their roles. Prophesies are fickle and hard to understand - except we get the idea that dragons are able to understand them. What if, after his race is extinguished and he’s locked up like a trophy- he decides that he’s going to go destroy Uther and the Pendragons? What better way to do this than make sure Albion never comes to pass by switching the roles.

What you think about it- Merlin is much more suited to the shadows. And- unlike Morgana- has faced magical discrimination since early childhood and can much better connect with the magical community and peasants- something Morgana struggles with. Merlin is more prone to pettiness and revenge, while Morgana is more about Justice. She has social and political sway that Merlin didn’t have that would have allowed her to protect Arthur and change his mind. She also didn’t have a lifetime of secrecy that influenced whether she would tell anyone (something Merlin doesn’t do even when it is sometimes life or death) There are many ways they could have switched places. Maybe it’s Balinor’s death that pushes Merlin or maybe he realizes Morgause is right, or another new character. Maybe Morgana understands Uthers influence but knows Arthur is a better person and she can’t stand see Camelot (her people) be hurt when they are innocent.

I’m not saying Merlin is evil- just like Morgana isn’t evil in the show. But I can’t help but think about how everything goes wrong for BOTH Merlin and Morgana whenever they do anything. Its always felt like they were trying to mold themselves into roles that didn’t quite fit.

(I also think it would have been a good way to delve more into Merlin’s control over his magic- or rather a lack of one. Him thinking himself a monster- like he does in the show- and so thinking that becoming a monster is his only option. Getting scared when he accidentally uses too much magic or it goes out of control.)

And because Merlin is still a main character we’d get more development of the magical community outside of Camelot.

I would have loved to see this. Morgana pleading with Merlin to come back. Her being the only one to understand him- him staying an antagonist even with a magic reveal and Arthur starting to change the laws because it’s in his nature to be inherently distrustful but eventually him accepting it. Arthur and him resolving their differences and becoming friends. Gwen helping him adjust and him learning magic with Morgana. Gaius getting his nephew back. Them creating Albion together.

Ah it would have been amazing.

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wallwriterstuff · 3 years

Text

Guilty Souls ||Demetri Volturi x Female reader||

Warnings: Descriptions of fear and guilt but nothing particularly noteworthy.

Words: 4257

Taglist: @thelastemzy @a-avaunce @college-is-coming @alecvolturiswifeforever @broskibowser @volturidoll13 @raindancer2004

Summary: A request for @kpopgirlbtssvt

Demetri just wanted to feed. His food fighting back was never a problem before, and this is the first time he's ever lost that fight.

“We can meet back at the jet once dinner is done.”

“I shall see you there.” Demetri agreed. Felix was gone in an instant, eyes near black and his grin slightly feral. The tracker shook his head, unable to fight his amusement – he was glad he wasn’t a human on the streets tonight. Truthfully, he was tired. The mission was never going to be easy to start with, not with a psychopathic nomad attempting to become the UK’s next biggest serial killer. The murders had been brutal and attracted far too much attention, but she covered her tracks well and with no one left alive to steal the tenor from it had taken some old school tracking, some (falsified) detective work, and a little bit of luck for them to even begin to track down their killer. Now she was ash on the wind the lack of time to rest was really starting to show for the both of them.

Demetri could feel the burn much more prominently now that he had nothing else to focus on, like a ball of thorns rolling up and down his throat with every swallow. With a grimace, he turned his nose to the sky and closed his eyes. Felix was clearly in a good mood after the kill, eager to enjoy the hunt, but Demetri just wanted something within quick reach. Stretching his senses, he scoured the area, the sounds and smells of a city at night hitting him full force. He could hear traffic rumbling along the road, late night television and music pouring from apartments, people making war and making love and the faint shutting of doors as places closed up for the night. The air smelled crisper and somewhat damp, indicating rain was on the way, and the foul scent of pollution clogged his nostrils momentarily until he forced his mind to work through it and smell what lingered beneath. Tulips in bloom in the city gardens, greasy food from the chip shop across the road and…oh.

Demetri’s head turned swiftly, eyes snapping open and feet already moving in the direction of something truly mouth-watering. It made his throat burn fiercely, venom pooling in his mouth. It took him little time to find the source of the smell two streets over, moving swiftly away from him down the pavement with her backpack slung over one shoulder, the bag strap held in both hands. She seemed to glance about as she walked, the smell of old pages clinging to her. It failed to smother her mouth-watering scent, and Demetri was more than sure he had found himself quite the delicacy for the evening. There was something incredibly addictive about her scent, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but wanted to drown in. He would have played with her if he wasn’t so damn thirsty, tainted that delicious smell with adrenaline and fear for the twang it would give her blood, but the raging fire in his throat needed soothing.

Given the goings on he shouldn’t have been surprised that she sensed him behind her. He was tailing her at a very normal, human pace so as not to arouse suspicion from the many windows she passed. The woman was smart enough to stay in public view, but it would be no match for Demetri’s speed once he saw an opening, and there was just the opening he needed coming up. The moment she neared the mouth of the alleyway he moved, his speed propelling him so fast no one would see him as any more than a blur – and that was if they really looked. His grip on her shoulder was tight and he hauled her with him with ease, spinning her straight into the brick and clamping a hand over her mouth before she could scream. It didn’t stop her from trying, the muffled noise vibrating against his hand as wide eyes rapidly grew wet, spilling tears against his palm. Demetri inhaled deeply, baring his teeth as the thirst grew to unbearable levels, but he couldn’t look away from those eyes.

Shimmering Y/E/C stared at him with so much terror, his reflection in her tears absolutely monstrous. She shook like a leaf in a violent wind, struggling frantically against him in an effort to get away. He pressed close with a snarl, desperate to ease the ache in his throat, but even when he moved his mouth closer to the throbbing pulse in her throat he couldn’t bring himself to bite down. His grip on her jaw tightened ever so slightly, his frustrated growl echoing off of the brick he had pushed her against. Her quiet whimper made him pull back.

“Stop struggling!” he hissed. She was trying to shake her head, still pushing futilely at his chest. He had to admire the fight in her and the way she fit so perfectly against him would have been sinfully delicious in any other circumstance, but not while she was looking at him like that. Those wide eyes were terrified, so incredibly frightened of him, and it made his stomach churn. He just wanted to feed dammit! Why was she making this so hard! Her heart was pounding in his ears, her blood roaring and racing beneath the surface of her skin, so why couldn’t he just indulge in it?

“Hel-“ his hand had slipped without him realising and he quickly covered her mouth back up as he tried to fight with himself. The frenzy was lapping at the back of his mind, clouding his senses and his thoughts, but the last vestiges of his sanity were clinging to her desperate attempts to preserve her life. He studied her facial features, trying to spot anything familiar. Maybe he was struggling because she looked like someone he knew? There was nothing there he recognised. Her hands must have been sore by now, his skin was literally crystallised for petes sake, yet still she didn’t let up the barrage of slaps and punches to his chest she had been delivering since he had attacked her. With a growl he brought his mouth to her throat once more, his teeth hovering right over the vein he needed to break.

One bite, just one little bite and she is all mine, I just have to bring my teeth together he thought.

Her muffled screaming picked up again, her body trembling so hard against his own his entire frame was starting to vibrate. With a groan, he flopped forward and hit his head a few times off of the brick behind her. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t feed from her. He so badly wanted to, but he couldn’t. She stilled suddenly, his low moaning seemingly startling her. For a moment, all he could hear was her shaky, rapid breathing and the pounding of her heart, his own pained filled moans and the quiet sobs he was muffling still with his hand. She never stopped trembling and Demetri couldn’t stand it. He wrapped both arms around her tight, hoping to restrict her movements.

“Stop it, stop it stop moving…please stop moving.” He begged. He was slowly losing his sanity it seemed but all he could do was watch like an out of body experience was taking place, his mind spinning and falling away from him before it surged forward and all he could acknowledge was her fear and his hatred of it. She whimpered in his ear, her neck stretched so her chin rested on his shoulder awkwardly, but even the prominent way the vein stood against the thin skin of her throat couldn’t tempt him. Her scent had soured, no longer sweet and inviting but filled with the bitter twang of fear. Usually he would enjoy it. He could still feel the predator in the back of his mind howling in delight, but he couldn’t let the monster loose.

“P-please, please let me go, l-let me go please, please.” She chanted in his ear like a siren calling him to his doom, and like she had brainwashed him with four simple words he did exactly as asked. She looked shell-shocked he had relinquished her from his grip, and he could only imagine the bruises that were going to blemish on her skin from where he had touched her – another pang of self-loathing hit him. How could he have hurt her so badly? She was beautiful, even in the darkness of the alleyway with her face covered in tears, tracking mascara down her cheeks, he could see the beauty in every feature. How could he hurt a face so angelic?

“Go.” He ground out. There was absolutely no sense in him letting her go, but he was thirsty by now he didn’t want to risk anything happening to her. As muddled as his mind would that was the only clear thing that stood out to him. Demetri wasn’t sure he understood any of what was transpiring, but after another sharp order to move she was gone, leaving her backpack behind and fleeing the alleyway as he crunched a fist into the wall.

“You alright mate?” it was a man’s voice from the opposite end of the alleyway. He didn’t have her kind of sweetness, but it would do. The tracker pulled his fist out of the brick, the rubble falling to his feet and dust coating his jacket sleeve.

“No.” he said, because truthfully he wasn’t. He never let his prey escape, not once, not even on accident. Feeding was instinctual and natural, something every vampire learned to do from their very first day, so how on Earth after 2000 years of this life had failed at it so badly tonight? Footsteps alerted him to the oncoming man, and the thumping of his heart was enough to send Demetri reeling. His lips curled back over his teeth, thirst flaring once more and the frenzy rapidly flooding his mind.

“Here mate, why don’t we-“ Demetri’s teeth in his windpipe cut him off. They tore viciously through the flesh and muscle, a burst of hot, sweet blood gushing down his throat and soothing the inferno that was raging there. It wouldn’t be enough on its own but for the few moments Demetri let his mind go elsewhere, let his instincts finally take over. This was natural. This was normal. So why the hell hadn’t he been able to do it earlier? Only when his veins were dry did Demetri drop him to the ground with a relieved sigh. With the burn minimised it was easier to think, and the more he thought the more he realised what a mistake he’d made. That woman could easily run to the police and give an accurate description of his face, his clothing. He grimaced. He’d been absolutely foolish, letting her go like that.

Her backpack remained near his feet and he rifled through the contents briefly, looking for anything that might give him any indication as to what was so special about her, where he might start looking for her. There was a work badge stating her name and the logo of a bookstore he had passed while tailing her, and a quick rummage through her wallet gave him a full driver’s license and some debit cards with her signature on the back.

Y/N L/N.

He had been so caught up in the frenzy lapping at his mind he couldn’t honestly say which tenor in his repertoire was her’s, so he was going to have to track the old fashioned way. Inhaling, he winced at the irritating scratchiness in his throat when he caught her scent. He’d need to hunt again on the way but nobody would miss the drunk old man stumbling home from the corner pub would they? He didn’t think so anyway, and nobody would find him anytime soon given the lucky proximity of a wheelie bin. She must have ran part of the way, crossing more ground than he thought she could, but he did inevitably catch up. She was still snivelling, shaking with her arms wrapped around her as she stumbled along. Demetri felt his gut twist again at the noise. She was still so afraid…

“Miss L/N.” he called.

He should have guessed she’d scream.

“Someone-“ he zipped forward and quickly covered her mouth again, his expression pained. The guilt that ate him alive was less frustrating and more exasperating now. He would give anything to stop feeling this way. Heaven forbid he was turning into a self-righteous Cullen – Felix would never forgive him.

“Please do not scream, please, I just – your backpack, I needed to return your things.” He groaned. She stopped screaming abruptly, and Demetri held her backpack up between them. Her eyes snapped up to his, and with his mind clearer now it suddenly felt so obvious to him what had stopped him feeding on her before. Something in his abdomen snapped, his breath escaping him in a sharp exhale. Left dumbstruck, his hand dropped from her mouth and he was left gawping at her like a fish out of water. Her scent enveloped him not to taunt his thirst, but to comfort him like a warm hug, his mind halting dead in its tracks to clear all messy thoughts from his head like the clouds breaking to finally reveal the sun.

Mate.

She was his mate.

And she had just kneed him in the balls.

He crumpled like a puppet with the strings cut, grunting in pain while venom stung his eyes – even vampires were not immune to this particular trick. His groin aching horribly, he struggled to force himself to stand as she sprinted flat out away from him, her backpack in hand and ready to swing. Demetri tried to push to his knees and collapsed twice more before he finally found his footing again, swearing under his breath.

“Hey, hey!” She was frantically waving towards a passing cab. He groaned, stumbling forward a few steps until the pain receded enough for him to run after her. Demetri reminded himself to be gentle with her as he tugged her to his side.

“Please, if I let you go now far worse people than me will come for you and I cannot have you hurt by them. Tell him I have booked us an uber, his help is unnecessary.” He urged. She tried to pull her wrist back, her eyes welling with tears again. This was too public a place for this and the way her backpack swung in an arc towards his face was far too suspicious. She would hardly attack a friend or a lover after all.

“Just let me go, no one has to know, I won’t tell I swear.” She pleaded.

“I cannot, they will know, they always know! Please tesoro, do not make this harder, I am trying to keep you safe now and no more innocent lives need be implicated in this.” Demetri insisted, his eyes flickering to the cab driver as he started to pull up. Y/N tried to twist away again with a whimper so he did the only thing he could think to do. He had to cut through the fear, make her feel the same pull he did, even if her human heart felt it to a lesser degree. She squeaked in surprise when his arm curled around her waist to haul her in close, but even if her mind screamed no she melted into his embrace when his lips moulded to hers, her instincts overriding all common sense because he was her mate and with him, she was safe. His embrace was soothing and sweet, his body created solely for the purpose of protecting hers, and the way his mouth slanted across her own was something she couldn’t refuse.

The way they fit together was undeniable, the chemistry behind the simple movement of his lips, so chaste and so respectful with just the right hint of tongue when he was sure he had her following his lead was sublime in ways it had no right to be. It shouldn’t have felt so right to kiss a stranger, especially not a kiss that had been forced upon her, but she couldn’t honestly that, if asked if she’d like another just like it, she would refuse him.

“Miss? Did you need a ride miss?” the driver was leaning across the passenger seat now, the window rolled down. Demetri pulled back to stare at her, tenderly caressing her cheek.

“Say no.” he coaxed.

She swallowed thickly. “No.”

“Are you sure?” the driver asked, his suspicion aroused. Demetri kept his eyes locked on hers, his mouth pressed together in the hopes she would say the right thing. He didn’t want to manipulate her again. Y/N had yet to blink, still mesmerised by his vibrantly red eyes and the soul-shocking feeling of his lips he guessed. He had felt it to, his whole body coming alive for what felt like the first time in all the millennia he’d been alive. The sweet ecstasy in his veins had replaced any thoughts of the thirst he was still minorly enduring and he wanted nothing more than to satiate his every need in her. Demetri wasn’t foolish enough to think she would so much as let him look at her for some time yet.

“Y-yes, sorry, we’ve got an uber coming.” She stammered, blinking herself out of the daze. Grumbling under his breath, the driver pulled away again, and Demetri only let her go when he was far enough out of sight it wouldn’t be a bother anymore if she decided to assault him again.

“Good, you did well. You have to-“ she cut him off with a sharp slap to the face, one that left minimal impact on him but made her cry out and cradle her hand close.

“Don’t you ever, kiss me without my permission again! Just who are you!” she demanded. Demetri frowned slightly. How was he supposed to tell her? If she knew anything about him, even his name, she would become a target the minute Aro read his thoughts. Hell, she was already a target. She’d seen him, been attacked by him. The shame that bloomed in his gut was almost too much to bear and he tensed under her angry glare. He hadn’t done this right at all and Demetri knew he would have a lot to make up for in the centuries to come if she accepted him. Right now…right now he had no choice but to make the situation worse.

“I need you to believe that I truly am sorry,” he said earnestly, “That this was not the way I wished to meet you, that I truly wish you no harm, but understand that I have no choice. I am bound by laws you have to yet understand and the consequences for breaking them are severe. You must come with me now - please do not fuss! I will make your comfort my utmost priority but I cannot leave you here for either of our sakes.” He reached for her hand but she snatched it back, face pale as she took a step away from him. Demetri felt his heart shatter. The physical rejection stung even if she had no clue what she had done.

“I’m not going anywhere with you you nutjob!” she snapped.

“We have no choice. Please do not make me force you.” Demetri pleaded. He didn’t want to lay a hand on his mate but the choices before them were simple. Either Y/N came with him now and travelled in comfort to Volterra with them, or someone else would be sent to fetch her before she could cause any damage to the Volturi, and they would be far less gentle.

“Force me? You’re off your meds, you – you have to be crazy to think I’d go anywhere with you!” she took another step back, and Demetri took one forward. His expression was nothing but sorrowful, the anguish obvious on his face. He really didn’t want to force her to do anything, but she really wasn’t making his life any easier. Granted, he had forced them both into this situation but surely the mate pull should have been enough for her to trust him at least a little? The fact she was to overwhelmed by her fear of him to feel it was heart-breaking. That she had already rejected him because she would rather fear him then know him…

“Please, please Y/N.” he whispered, extending a hand to her. She shook her head, ready to take off running again, and Demetri closed the gap between them with ease. His arm curled around her throat, his lips moving to her temple. She was so fragile and it took a lot of concentration he honestly didn’t have to cut off enough oxygen that she would pass out.

“Stop -ah!” she cried out, squirming in his grip. Demetri winced.

“I had no desire to hurt you. I am so sorry.” He whispered, voice wavering slightly. As she slumped in his grip he buried his nose in her hair, closing his eyes. He didn’t need to be a genius to know he had probably ruined everything with her before it had even began, but what could he do? He had no other viable option to him available, or he would have taken it in a heartbeat. He couldn’t stand the disapproving look on Felix’s face when he walked onto the jet with an unconscious woman in his arms.

“If you think I am listening to you play with your food all the way home-“

“She is not my food! She happens to be my mate, though I am sure when she wakes up she would much rather throw herself out of this jet than come anywhere near me.” He snapped. Felix remained oddly silent after his outburst, and with a heavy heart Demetri made sure she was settled in one of the plush leather chairs, her backpack within arms reach and a belt secure around her waist for the take off. Once he was sure she was safe in her seat he slammed the door shut and locked himself in the bathroom, desperate to clear his head of her dizzying scent and bring some clarity to the negative thoughts swarming him. Felix watched him go in mild astonishment. The tracker was usually the cool, calm, collected one of the group. He had never seen his old friend this upset before.

Demetri didn’t remerge from the bathroom by the time she woke up either, stirring slowly and scrunching her nose and eyes when the light hit her full force. Her eyes wandered right over him, not really registering the giant’s presence the first time around. Felix tilted his head when her head snapped back in his direction, her heart picking up in her chest and grip on the armrests tightening.

“I – wh-where are we? You, your eyes…” she breathed.

“I’m a vampire.” Felix told her bluntly. A snort escaped her before her hand slapped over her mouth. She had to take a minute to study him, see if he was lying.

“Your as crazy as your friend. Oh god…oh god where it the demented bastard?” she whispered, curling her knees up as tears welled in her eyes, “What’s h-he going to do to me?” Felix couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Would you like the short or the long version?” he asked.

She gulped. “Sh-short?”

“He’s going to turn you into one of us as the law demands and love you like no other man ever could for the rest of eternity.” Felix shrugged. It was amusing to him, how her jaw dropped open. She couldn’t hear the way Demetri growled at him to shut up from the bathroom. Her hands immediately scrabbled for the belt at her waist and his eyebrows rose.

“You’re all crazy!” she snapped.

“Where do you plan on going? It’s a long way down, little human.” He chuckled.

“The bathroom! Away from the crazy!” she cried. Felix’s laughter echoed about the jet.

“There’s a crazy man in the bathroom to.” he promised. Demetri appeared in a flash, his expression furious.

“Could you at least attempt to be courteous? She is terrified enough.” He hissed. The giant leaned back in his seat, looking thoroughly amused at the way she immediately swung her backpack into his face. “And will you stop hitting me with that bag!” he cried exasperatedly.

“You kidnapped me you freak!” she yelled.

“I did what I had to to save your life!”

“You were the one who put my life in danger! You – you –“

“Now now children play nicely.” Felix drawled. They both shot him frustrated looks, and he couldn’t hide his grin when he realised just how similar they appeared. He had no doubt that this rocky start was going to haunt Demetri for a while yet, if only because his mate seemed quite unwilling to let it go, and yet... Felix watched them argue with keen eyes, the pair going back and forth as Demetri quite honestly told her his motivation for the attack and subsequent kidnapping. Occasionally he would chime in with something witty only to be told to shut up, but it was quite obvious to him what neither of them seemed to notice what he did. With every angry word they seemed to smash through a barrier, the pair gravitating towards each other like magnets.

He doubted they’d last a week apart.

#twilight #twilight fanfiction #volturi #demetri volturi #x female reader #demetri volturi x female reader #felix volturi #is living for the entertainment he's getting #poor demetri

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ironwoman359 · 3 years

Note

Completely agree on nagas being underutilized and having a ton of potential. Both as the whumpee and the whumper….

So now I have to know. Which do you prefer…(and maybe why…talk whumpy to me lol)

Naga whumper? Or naga whumpee…

cw: whump, captivity, dehumanization, possessiveness, abuse, torture, angst with little to no comfort

Oh, I am delighted you asked, friend...it's not like I just did a bunch of research on snake health for a bad things happen bingo fic* with a naga whumpee....it's not like doing so gave me MANY more ideas than I was able to fit into that one story...and its not like I have many thoughts on how nagas could fit into the traditional creature whump tropes (that I also was reading and rereading for 'research' while writing We Blankly Stare). This is going under a cut, because, like all my fics, it got longer than I meant it to. (also, to my regular followers who aren't into heavy whump, don't mind me as I go off on a tangent into a totally different fic community; you can skip this one if you need to; at the very least mind the content warnings <3)

SO, nagas. Beautiful creatures. Like centaurs, 'human' on the top and snake on the bottom. SO much lovely whump potential, either as whumpers or whumpees, but lets focus on the whumpee side for now. In no particular order...

Pet Whump:

Decorative collars set with jewels that compliment the pattern of their highly polished scales and delicate gold chains weaving their way along their body, equal parts jewelry and restraint. They are highly prized, beautiful things, and what is the point of owning one if not to show it off?

Inviting a crowd to come and watch them feed, demonstrating their dislocating jaws and sharp fangs as they toss rodents to them whole. Bonus angst points if raw meat actually makes your naga whumpee sick, or they can eat raw meat but cooked is better. Just because they look like a snake doesn't mean they eat like one

Is your naga whumpee poisonous? Have their owner remove their fangs or poison glands, leaving them utterly dependent on them for food (and utterly helpless if they do ever manage to escape)

Nagas bred in captivity, so the only life they've ever known is one of imprisonment. Do they even consider freedom as something attainable? Or do their owners have them convinced that they're better off like this?

Lab Whump:

Nagas that are actually human/snake hybrids created in laboratory experiments just to see if it was possible.

Nagas who are kept in order to produce venom, what the venom is for could be anything!

Nagas 'enhanced' with mind and/or body altering drugs or magic to serve in the military as the perfect warrior

Nags used for experiments and drug tests because they are seen as less than human

Torture Whump:

As is the case with most torture whump, the 'why' the whumpee is being tortured isn't really important here. Maybe they have information the whumper wants, maybe the whumper is trying to get revenge or hurt whumpee's team, maybe they're just cruel. This isn't really about the 'why' so much as it is the specific 'hows' that having a whumpee who is part snake provides.

Pulling/cutting off scales, pulling out or filing down fangs, clipping or tearing off claws (a creature whump classic)

Naga specific (this is more of a lizard thing than a snake thing, but nagas aren’t real, we make the rules here!) body part removal: cutting off the tail! It doesn’t matter that it grows back, it still hurts every time. (or maybe the tail doesn’t grow back, and the naga is left unable to ‘walk’ properly)

Rough iron collars around their neck attached to a ball and chain, bonus points if the length of the chain prevents them from rising to their usual 'standing' height.

Hang them from the ceiling with cuffs and chains by their tails; upside down, right-side up, however you choose!

My those snake bodies are long...I wonder how long they can stretch?

I have one word for you: thermoregulation. Reptiles cannot regulate their own body heat, they are dependent on their environment. This gives us a whole HOST of reptile-specific torture techniques:

temperature shock: dump them in freezing water or spray them with a high-pressure hose. Unpleasant for any kind of whumpee, for the naga whumpee this has the added bonus of being fatal very quickly if they aren't warmed up.

It's not good for a snake to be too HOT either, they need to cool their bodies off just as often as they need to warm them up (don't quote me precisely on that, snake tumblr). A whumper who keeps their naga under bright, hot lights nearly constantly so they're dehydrated, covered in blisters, and/or always feverish (can a naga get a fever? idk, up to you. snakes don't, but snakes don't have human torsos. we can be wishy washy with health issues)

So extreme heat and extreme cold are bad, but did you know that (while it's breed specific) most snakes lose its ability to thermoregulate at around 70 degrees Fahrenheit? When their body temperature drops below this (but not so low that we're in hypothermia territory), their movements are sluggish, they cannot/will not eat, and it is very easy for them to develop infections, scale rot, all sorts of problems. Does the whumper keep them in low temperatures to make them weak and pliable in their hands, easy to control? Does the whumper use these conditions as a punishment for bad behavior? Or give reprieve from them as a reward for good behavior? There’s just SO much that can be done with temperature alone! It’s one of the things that sets nagas apart from other creatures and THAT is one of the most criminally underused aspects, in my oh so humble opinion!

Other Fun Concepts:

Nagas with their tails trapped under rubble, unable to pull themselves free.

Nagas kept in a cage that's far too small for them, their body wrapped up so tightly they can barely move.

Did you know that when a snake's body temperature is too low, it can't digest its food? And that if it does eat something and then doesn't have the energy to digest it properly, it will either instinctually regurgitate that food back up or run the risk of the food literally rotting in its stomach? Take this knowledge into literally any of the pet or torture scenarios and you have some A+ snake specific whump

Tiny nagas! Like the western hognose snake or the ringneck snake, these little guys can fit in the palm of your hand! Apply literally any previously listed scenario to your tiny naga for instant fantasy g/t whump! also vore...that's not my scene but it was one of like, two things i found while looking for naga whump on tumblr earlier, so I feel obligated to mention it.

Giant nagas, YOU can fit in THEIR hands. Does that make them the whumper, or still the whumpee? You decide!

Water nagas! combine mer whump with naga whump and you’ve got a water snake to hurt!

Nagas with scale rot, respiratory infections, kinks in their spine, or other snake health issues, either from mistreatment from a whumper or natural causes.

As you can tell, I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, lol. I hope you enjoyed, and if anyone writes anything based off these, I’d love to see it! Also, HAVE I been considering making a whump sideblog for awhile? yes. Did writing this post convince me to finally do it? Also yes. So I'll be over at @ironwhumper359 if you'd like to talk more whump with me, I’d be delighted to have you :)

*if you would like to read said bad things happen bingo fic, know that while it is labelled Sanders Sides, because that’s the fandom I mainly write it, the first chapter only has one character from the series in it and is honestly much more of an original whump piece than it is a fanfic. The second and third chapters are more fandom specific (though you’re of course still welcome to read them even if you’re not a sanders sides fan), but that first one can be read as stand-alone whump!

#whump #naga whump #naga whumpee #pet whump #dehumanization #creature whump #whump prompts #lab whump #torture tw #angst #asks and answers #simplygrimly

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hndcrm · 3 years

Note

47 and Diana are in the safehouse in Berlin. As night falls 47, plagued by his newfound memories, can't sleep. He wanders through the house and discovers Diana snores and talkes in her sleep. What will he do about it?!😏

I have made this so much angstier than the prompt calls for im so sorry my brain only provides pain apparently

He was glad to have his memories back. There was no denying it. It was liberating to know the events of his life in order, to have them fade back into something understandable as opposed to the blank, cryptic void from before. Some were better than others, memories of his and subject 6’s friendship, of the rare times he’d been able to sneak away with his bunny before its untimely and cruel murder.

Despite this, the memories were overwhelmingly bad, and none quite as pervasive and frightening as the car bomb in 1989.

He was the one to trigger it. It was a mission like any other at the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Simple. Two targets, Peter and Nancy Burnwood, their daughter considered acceptable collateral damage. In the end, there was no collateral damage and perhaps that’s the only comfort he takes from the memory, that he didn’t kill her, that he was lucky enough to have her alive today. It’s not comforting because he knows she will leave him as soon as she finds out. He can’t blame her. He’s the one responsible for her involvement in everything bad in their world. He killed her parents, changed her life forever, ruined it without a second thought at the time. He recalls with tears in his eyes how she was there, how she was present when he set it off, that this innocent child had to witness the violent death of her parents. He’s hurt Diana irreversibly and she will hate him forever if she finds out.

Even throughout his career with her, he often pondered morality and his own goodness. Diana became his conscience and urged in private that he wasn’t evil, promised him that he was worthy of kindness and love. He wasn’t sure even then how much he believed her. He trusted her, however, so he did not question the assertions.

He knows she was wrong now. She deserves to know the truth, but it would result in her disappearing from his life, and he’s sure he would die without her.

And now, he cannot sleep. He stares out of the window in the living room and watches the night sky, silently bets on how long it will be before he turns to alcohol for comfort.

There are soft snores coming from Diana’s bedroom. He gulps. The door is tilted open.

The scene before him is like some practical test of his character and self-control. He could come in and watch her sleep, just for a few moments. It wouldn’t disturb her and she would never know, and he could memorise the details of her face, add to his mental depiction of her before she leaves him, imagine what it could be like to hold her like this if they could ever be this intimate together. He could pretend to be one of the few lucky men who have been able to truly witness this, to be able to say they’ve had the pleasure of sleeping next to Diana Burnwood herself.

Or he could do the right thing and close the door, minding his own business as a professional work colleague should, though even that description is generous towards him after what he’s done. He is evil.

Diana says he is good, but he knows she’s wrong. If he were good he wouldn’t want to come in and see her right now.

It’s late and he cannot sleep, he thinks the guilt will swallow him whole if he does not distract himself. He deserves nothing to do with her, deserves to die by her hands a million times over and rot in the deepest circle of hell, but now, watching her silently while she sleeps does not seem so sinful in comparison to the pain he has caused her.

He pushes the door open enough to slide inside and tilts it closed.

The moonlight peeking from behind the curtain streaks across her ribs and reminds him of a bullet that he was responsible for. He feels sick. She deserves so much better.

She’s tangled in the sheets, hair flamed out around her face, and instantly there’s an urge to run his hands through it, to move it off her cheek and behind her ear.

She looks delicate. He knows better than to think so improperly of her, ‘delicate’ is an insult when she is a force to be reckoned with and could kill a man with her sharp-tongued nature alone, but there is no denying the more physical aspects of her beauty when she’s sprawled out so ravishingly. Her upper lip is carved down carefully, brows furrowed slightly, bosom caressed by her silk nightgown and her hands elegantly tangled in the sheets, like a scene from an ancient erotic painting, beauty that could only be appropriately captured by a lover.

She stirs then, and he holds his breath, terrified that he’s awoken her with his selfishness.

She hums something incomprehensible, and the thought that she might sleeptalk scares him. He should leave. Diana trusts him, she does not hide from him. If what she dreams of is something he already knows, there’s no use invading her privacy. If what she dreams of is something he is not aware of, then he should stay clueless, respect her choice to keep it from him and leave, pretending he was never here.

He decides to do the right thing. He pads towards the door.

He’s stopped in his tracks when he hears her moan his name. He can feel his face heating up. He’s evil for having ever come here in the first place. How can he disrespect her so cruelly?

Curiosity turns him around, as he tries to picture the shape her mouth might take when she moans his name, but there is little left to the imagination when she does it again, quieter, and the sight is somehow more erotic and vulgar than anything he’s ever seen, he feels his trousers tightening.

He knows she doesn’t really want him like this. Dreams don’t reflect reality. Perhaps she thought of him crudely once, and he was lucky enough to catch it, but it was a one-off because she must know she deserves better than him.

He’d be more than willing to play out her dreams in reality. He couldn’t, of course, bring himself to ever actually do it. Their shared intimacy exists purely as a fantasy in both of their imaginations.

He’s grateful for his trained stillness as he’s about to leave again, determined that he’s long crossed a line. He must go if he ever wants Diana to think of him neutrally, at least. If she wakes up to see him standing before her so improperly she’ll know of his vile nature before he reveals it.

As he’s something like a metre away from the door, he sees a frustrated Olivia rub her eyes and grumble ‘fucking Burnwood’, then she slams the door in front of him before he can escape and he panics as he’s stuck in a deeply compromising position. The door is too squeaky to risk opening again, but it’s too late, for when he turns around to look at Diana, she’s awake, rubbing her eyes and squinting in the dark. He prays she doesn’t see him.

“47? Is that you?” She calls out, and he freezes. He could still leave. She would know he was here, but it would save him the embarrassing conversation until the morning at least, or maybe, hopefully, she’d forget. “What are you doing here?” She sits up in bed, a strap of her nightgown falling down her arm. The usual excuses for trespassing won’t cut it. I got lost, he thinks sourly.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He starts. How much of the truth should he reveal? Lying to her feels wrong, he knows she knows him too well for it. “I heard you talking, I thought maybe something was wrong.”

“Oh.” Now she turns red. “Well, I’m quite alright.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. He nods dumbly.

“Good.”

“And 47,” she adds then. “What did you hear?” She does a good job of playing off her voice crack, but he can sense the fear in her voice - fear he is responsible for. Why wouldn’t she fear him when he disrespects her like this?

“It was nothing - I didn’t understand anything.” He lies. He must lie to make her feel better. He shouldn’t have come in in the first place. She plays with the strap of her nightgown. He wants to leave but she looks so worried. Guilt greets him again.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately.” She says finally, chest rising in the familiar pattern she uses to calm herself down. “Is everything alright?”

I yearn for you, he thinks. It’s true. The thought tastes disgusting on his tongue.

“The serum. The memories-” he begins, but the following words don’t come. He doesn’t know how to tell her the truth. He doesn’t want to. She furrows her brows together and looks sadly at him.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Diana gives him a lopsided smile. “If you want to talk about it-”

“No.” His voice sounds harsher than he intends. She cannot know.

He leaves. Another night is spent alone on the cold leather couch, thinking of her in the dark. Eventually, guilt takes over and he cannot bear to think of anything, so he opens a lager and drinks himself to sleep.

He wakes up to find himself covered by a blanket in the morning, and Diana sitting in an armchair next to him. He gulps.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she sighs. He shakes his head, mutters a protest, but the memories of his actions flooding back terrify him. He’s been awful.

He sits up. She hasn’t done anything wrong, and the shame painted across her face makes his insides twist with guilt. He doesn’t deserve to touch her, but all he can think of is comforting her, so he reaches out tentatively. Immediately she smiles at him and wraps her arms around him. It’s unfair how good it feels, how their bodies seem to fit so well together, and she’s innocently on his lap in his embrace, unaware of how many nights he’s spent fantasizing about this. He deserves none of it, he knows.

“I’m sorry, Diana.” He almost sulks into the warm skin revealed by her bateau neckline.

“Whatever for?” She whispers, and he aches again. He can’t tell her.

“I love you,” he whispers as the tears run down his cheeks and he wonders if she can feel them on her neck. It comes out instinctually, and he regrets it immediately. She doesn’t answer. He prays she won’t think anything of it. He’s pathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

They don’t speak of it again, and he spends every living second praying for her forgiveness, for when she eventually finds out.

When he knows she knows, it’s too late for him, and he’s glad she’s killed him. He spends his dying moments craning his neck up to ensure she’s his last dying image. He hopes Edwards will be kind to her.

#hitman #diana/47 #diana burnwood #agent 47 #hitman fic #fic requests

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little-mad · 3 years

Text

Little Jackpot Pt. 11

~ Last Part ~ Next Part ~

The first thing Ambry noticed when she began to regain consciousness was the fact that she very much was not on solid ground. In addition to a slight but persistent up and down movement, she could also feel a strong heartbeat that was not her own pulsing through her body. It was then that she noticed the spongy texture of the surface she was lying on.

With her senses finally together enough to finally fully wake up, Ambry’s eyes flew open. The moment they did, memories of the past couple hours began to flood in. She’d been abducted by Kole, stuck in his grasp, and then...then she’d done something drastic, something that explained why the surface she was resting on was so absurdly big.

Ambry swallowed down a wave of intimidation as she shifted into a sitting position atop Sebastian’s palm. She had been in the human’s hand before, but she had been quite a bit bigger then. Now her entire body easily fit into the cup of his palm.

With the massive black clad wall that was Sebastian’s chest blocking one side, and his right hand blocking the other, Ambry couldn’t see much of the world around them. From the glimpses she got though, she could tell they were outside, walking down a street in the city. Normally she would have considered Sebastian’s behavior to be smothering, but at that moment she was honestly grateful. She didn’t think she could handle experiencing the whole world at an increased scale right now.

“Ambry?” A voice softly called from above. Ambry had to tilt her head back quite far in order to see Sebastian’s vast facing staring down at her in concern.

The up and down movement she’d been experiencing, which she now realized had been Sebastian’s gait, came to stop, indicating he had halted his journey.

“H-hey.” Ambry greeted with an awkward wave. “I can’t believe how huge he is!” She thought to herself incredulously. Any natural, instinctual fear she’d had of creatures of human size now seemed to be on overdrive. Despite knowing the human holding her was a friend that would look out for her, Ambry’s increased heart rate and the nervous sweat developing on her brow told her that her body didn’t buy it.

“She’s awake?” Ambry jumped slightly at the sound of Adrien’s voice coming from somewhere out of her view.

“How are you feeling? Are you hurt?” Sebastian questioned, managing to keep his voice low and steady despite the urgency in his tone.

Ambry shook her head. “I’m fine, just a little lightheaded is all.” She called up to the witch, being sure to raise her voice so it would reach his faraway ears.

A small yelp slipped out from the pixie’s mouth when the hand she was sitting on suddenly began to move upwards. The movement was slow and careful, but still jarring for the tiny passenger. When Sebastian’s palm stopped its ascent in front of his face, Ambry hurriedly tried to compose herself.

Rather than saying something immediately as she had expected, Sebastian remained silent while his deep green eyes carefully inspected the pixie resting in the palm of his hand.

While Ambry liked being the center of attention at times, she did not like being an object of close examination. Having such a massive being drink in every detail of her much smaller form gave her a swirly feeling in her stomach.

A touch of red began to tinge Ambry’s cheeks. “Wh-what are you doing?” She asked, shifting uncomfortably.

There was a pause, in which Sebastian didn’t respond and instead continued to look Ambry over. Just when she was about to snap at him to knock it off, he moved the hand containing Ambry slightly down and away from his face. “Physically you look alright.” He noted, some of the tension in his face easing up. “Let’s just get you home, then we can discuss things.” Ambry gave a small nod of agreement.

With that, Sebastian returned his hands to the position they had been in when Ambry woke up before setting off again. While she still wasn’t able to catch sight of him, she could hear Adrien’s footsteps following behind Sebastian. She was once again appreciative of Adrien’s ability to know what a person needed without having to ask. Rather than get close to Sebastian and crowd Ambry, he had elected to stay back and out of view so as to not overwhelm her. She’d have to find a way to thank him for his consideration later.

The rest of the trip from there was brief. It was only a couple of minutes before they reached home. Once inside the house, Sebastian made his way to the kitchen. He pulled up a stool at the peninsula before very slowly lowering the hand holding Ambry down to the surface of the counter. Taking the cue, she rose to her feet and stepped off of the soft palm.

It was at this moment that Ambry finally started to take in the larger environment. As expected, everything looked even bigger and heftier than it used to. The countertop she stood on now was like a vast expanse of endless sleek white marble. Needless to say, she felt positively minuscule.

With cautious and measured movements, Adrien took a seat at the stool beside Sebastian. This left Ambry standing on the countertop with two absolute titans looking down at her. She gulped heavily.

“Your wings, are they ok?” Adrien asked gently. At their mention, Ambry’s wings gave an involuntary twitch. She realized Adrien’s question must have been brought on by the fact that she had opted to continue riding in Sebastian’s hand rather than fly herself. It was true that normally Ambry would have flown by now. And while her wings weren’t injured, they did feel heavy behind her back. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, she’d experienced it before after flying excessively and overworking herself. This time she wasn’t exhausted from flying, but rather from the size reduction process she had undergone.

“Yeah, I’m just exhausted.” Ambry admitted. “Which is why I passed out earlier.” She tacked on. She supposed it must have been alarming for the two humans to find her not only a couple inches smaller, but also inexplicably unconscious.

“Why--Ambry, what happened to you?” The intensity of Sebastian’s question drew her eyes to meet his. She could see the concern still tugging at his brows, and his pale lips were pressed together in that way they always did when he was fretting over something.

Ambry blew out a sigh. It was time to unveil the pixie secret. While there were no rules or laws in place restricting pixies from revealing their hidden ability to humans, it was something of an unspoken rule that it not be brought up unless necessary. Given that Sebastian had just witnessed Ambry shrink before his very eyes, she figured it was pretty necessary at this point.

“Every pixie has the natural ability to decrease their size at will.” She started, instantly earning wide eyed stares from both of the witches sitting in front of her. “But, because of how draining it is, on top of how fickle and unpredictable it can be, we rarely ever use it.”

“Fickle how?” Sebastian pressed.

Ambry shrugged. “In various ways. For one, it's easy for a pixie to end up shrinking more or less than they meant to.” She explained. “It’s also completely impossible to control how long we remain at our reduced size.” This was the bit that most nagged at the back of Ambry’s mind.

“You won’t stay this size forever, will you?” Adrien inquired.

“As far as I know, a pixie will always return back to their original form eventually. It could take a couple minutes, or a couple weeks.” Ambry had only personally known one pixie who had ever used their shrinking ability. He had done it just to test to see if it would actually work. It had taken four days for him to go back to normal. Apparently there were stories of pixies who had been stuck at their reduced size for nearly a month. There were even some legends that claimed it was possible to stay reduced forever, but those were mostly dismissed as old wives tales.

“So it’s essentially a waiting game.” Adrien concluded.

There were worse things than having to be so small for an indeterminate amount of time, still being in Kole’s hands came to mind. Yet Ambry couldn’t help but be filled with dread at the prospect of potentially being stuck this way for weeks on end. It would be like starting her adjustment to the human world all over again. Not to mention how much more vulnerable she was at this size.

Ambry was forced out of her worrying when she noticed something large steadily approaching her. She instinctively cringed back when Sebastian’s finger got near to her. However, when the fingertip big enough to cover her whole face gently touched her cheek, she found herself surprisingly not pulling away.

His skin was warm, and she could feel the ridges of his fingerprint on her cheek. It was an overwhelming comparison between their individual sizes, and while there was that part of her that was completely intimidated, it was quieter than usual. As Ambry locked eyes with Sebastian, she, in a strange way, actually kind of found his gesture comforting. Sebastian wasn’t particularly good with physical displays of affection or consolation, so for him to even attempt this was shocking in and of itself. But the fact that it was actually sort of working was even more shocking.

“If we have to wait, we have to wait. We’ll do it together.” The white haired witch assured her.

“Yeah, we’ll do whatever we need to make you more comfortable.” Adrien put in, a soft smile on his lips.

Were Ambry one prone to cheesy emotional displays, she would have teared up then and there. But as it was, she opted to choke out a quiet “thank you” instead.

#g/t #giant/tiny #g/t writing #g/t story #g/t community #sebastian altalune #ambry #my writing #ocs #trahb

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youngster-monster · 3 years

Text

shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 3 years

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Time Does Not Heal (find a new hobby)

ao3

Ozpin might be a fiend, a monster, a mad man. He is not a bad father. ------------------------

It was repulsive, how Salem continued to pretend to be the hero.

Only the two of them were alive to remember the argument that had started it all. Ozma, the second one, the reincarnated one, had told Salem about his mission given to him by the God of Creation, of uniting humanity. About the relics that would summon the Gods back to Earth, about how they would destroy humanity if they were divided.

About how Ozma didn’t want the Gods to return at all.

The Gods had taken nothing from humanity that they would miss. What was missing? Magic? Magic had only allowed humans to make more atrocities than they did now. Humanity was divided even before the Gods left; Ozpin still remembered the war between his people and the Nome King, the Sacking of Emerald City, the Battle of the Poppy Fields. He had faced a million and one tragedies created by man and man alone and the so-called Gods had done nothing.

Salem hadn’t seen it that way. Even after all their travels together, turning the first humans against the Gods, years of isolation, she was still the girl in the tower. The girl who was raised alone, innocent to everything in the world. She had no idea what humanity was truly like, she didn’t know how foolish it was to try to bring the Gods back.

But Salem… wanted to die. Even with Ozma back, she’d spent so much time alone that it was second nature to seek death.

When Ozma had bundled up their children in an escape, she had found them. She took it as a betrayal and destroyed everything they had shared, had loved. But Salem couldn’t kill him.

No, instead she had thrown him into the Grimm pits in hope that they would rob him of immortality.

Blistering hate surged through Ozpin at the memory. She had been foolish; instead of robbing him of his life everlasting, the pit had corrupted him. He had evolved to a higher plain of being, into a beast that wanted nothing more than to torture Salem for all eterenty. And he couldn’t torture her if she wasn’t alive.

Ozma sent armies against her. First the Grimm, who he controlled ever since his corruption. Then his Maidens, the souls of his first four followers granted magic and the ability to transfer their power after death. Admittedly, their transfer was far too close to his own and too random for his Maidens to always be on his side - sometimes Salem got to them first and claimed she had made the Maidens, taking credit for his work - but they were usually easy enough to convince. After all, what mortal doesn’t want to stop a woman from destroying Remnant?

Unfortunately, Salem is a good liar. She had convinced her allies that he wanted to see humanity suffer for eternity - which wasn’t too far off the mark, actually - and that he needed to be defeated. Bold of her to assume he could be defeated, but every silver-eyed warrior on her side believed he could. The silver-eyes were firmly in Salem’s pocket; they were her most beloved and trusted allies, so Oz destroyed them.

Which was why Ozpin was on this small island named Patch in Vale. All but one silver-eyed warrior had been murdered by his subordinates, assassins and bounty-hunters that he paid handsomely for each head delivered. He had decided to kill the last one himself: Summer Rose, a persistent thorn in his side. It felt only fitting to prune such a rose himself.

Ozpin approached the home that contained his target. With him came an early-morning storm, to darken the sky and set the mood. One of his Nevermores had spied on the woman for the past few days, reporting that she lived there with her family. Evidence of a child was all over the lawn - toys thrown about, a bicycle leaning against the house, a swing set visible from around the back. He frowned. He hadn’t wanted to get a child involved. It wouldn’t stop him, but he didn’t want one involved.

Hiding himself from all eyes with his magic, Ozpin infiltrated the house, the early morning darkness covering his entry. He left the backdoor wide open. The inside, a kitchen, was as messy as the yard, with more toys, and a flash of an old memory - a playroom in a castle, little hands pulling on his robes, Daddy, Daddy! - steals his attention for a moment. He shakes his head. There was no time for old ghosts now.

The kitchen led to a living room and Ozpin stepped around a medley of toys and weapon on the floor. On the couch snored a man with dark hair; Qrow Branwen, if he remembered correctly. The twin brother of one of Summer Rose’s partners. Another person who wouldn’t leave the house alive.

The stairs creaked under his weight. No sign of movement, no sign of anyone awake. The bedroom he was looking for was at the end of the hall- He paused. Ozpin could just barely hear it, even with his Grimm-enhanced hearing. The smallest whimper of a baby about to wail.

Automatically, Ozpin entered a room that wasn’t the master bedroom, throwing up a quick silencing spell so the rest of the house couldn’t hear him. It was a nursery, with a crib by the windows - a safety hazard, Ozpin thought idly as he approached. The whimpering belonged to a little baby, no more than six months old. It was clearly the child of Summer Rose; the infant looked just like its mother, down to the same, detestable eyes.

Well, that explained why Summer Rose had stayed still long enough for Ozpin to track down her residence.

His invisibility dropping, Ozpin picked up the baby. It stared up at him with watery, silver eyes and Ozpin cradled them against his chest, hiding his face lest he scare it. His fall in the Grimm pits left him pale and scarred with black veins that reappeared with each reincarnation. He swayed to soothe the child back to sleep, humming under his breath.

Ozpin wanted to move on, but his memories wouldn’t let him.

Ozma scooped up his youngest daughter, cradling her to his chest. The toddler babbled about anything and everything, and Ozma kept nodding along as he took Dorthey back to her room. “You need to go back to sleep now, Princess.” He and her mother were gods; of course their children would be princesses.

Dorthey pouted, but didn’t argue. “Kiss?” she asked.

Ozma smiled. “Of course,” he said and kissed her forehead.

“Toto kiss too?” She offered him her stuffed dog and laughed as he kissed Toto too, her silver eyes glittering.

Silver eyes. Like his daughters’.

Salem always used their daughters’ eyes as a weapon against him, he realized as he held one of the silver-eyed warriors.

The child didn’t feel like a warrior. She was fat and squishy, like all babies should be at her age. She wasn’t a weapon against him, not yet anyway. But she would be one. He might be able to avoid her silver gaze for now, but sooner or later…

Still, he found himself reluctant to waste the child.

Their sniffling stopped and looked up at him, no trace of fear in his eyes. Distantly, he recognized the sound of someone getting up and walking down the hall, but ignored it.

He had come here to kill Summer Rose, but found himself suddenly reluctant. Not out of any sympathy for the woman, but because he would have to kill her child as well, permanently eradicating his daughter’s eyes from the planet. He held the child closer to his chest. He’d killed many silver-eyed warriors, but never a child…

Oz had raised children before; a few of his medley of souls had children before he assimilated into them, though he never raised a child once Oz fully incorporated himself into his consciousness. It had been several lives since he’d even held a child.

The baby cooed softly, reaching a little hand up to touch Ozpin’s face. They looked like a copy of Summer Rose, with red highlights in their black hair. They were dressed in a red onesie too; a ruby-red rose, ripe to be plucked.

Such a sweet baby, he mused as he prodded one chubby cheek. Too sweet to be his enemy one day, too sweet to die with their family.

It was their eyes that made his decision for him. Kind eyes without a trase of fear, just trust. Like his little Dorthey.

Well, it wasn’t like he was below a little kidnapping.

Ozpin placed a hand over the baby’s head and whispered a spell in their ear. The child went limp in his arms, sinking into sleep. They were young enough not to need a memory spell, thankfully; Ozpin didn’t know if he’d be able to case one anyway with his limited magic.

He’d have to redecorate his castle, he realized as giddiness rose in him. There weren’t any rooms suitable for a nursery. It must be close to his own quarters too, so he could look after them. He could try to make a nanny-Grimm, for when he was too busy? But Grimm were instinctual creatures; even if he ordered them all not to harm the child - which he definitely would - there was a chance for error. Besides, he didn’t want to lose a valuable creature if their silver eyes activated.

Maybe he could have Watts create a robot nanny? Hazel could babysit while he got it done…

The door behind him slammed open. “Ruby!!” Ozpin stood calmly as Qrow Branwen and his sister, Raven Branwen, rushed into the room.

So, his new daughter’s name was Ruby. A pretty name. It suited her.

It took the Branwens a second to comprehend what was in front of them. He was sure it was rather shocking to them, being slaves to Salem’s whim, seeing their worst enemy not only in their house, but holding one of their children. His heart truly went out to them.

But, they were between him and the exit…

Raven’s face twisted with fury, drawing her katana. “Put her down,” she snarled.

Ozpin cocked an eyebrow. “No.” If anything, she should be grateful that he never set Ruby down. If it wasn’t for her, everyone in the house would be dead by now.

The twins didn’t seem to like that answer. They readied their weapons, with both Raven and Qrow about to-

Raven and Qrow…

Raven and Crow…

Ozpin smirked and a wave of magic erupted from his body and slammed into the Branwens. Lightning flashed through the window as the two collapsed, coughing desperately. Raven’s face was a mix of pain and hatred as her bones crunched and grinded against each other.

Qrow Branwen collapsed to his knees, holding his throat. “What- What did you do-!?” He spat out a mass of feathers.

Ozpin smiled. “I thought it funny for you two to… resemble your name-sakes a tad more.” They couldn’t stop their screams as their bodies contorted grotesquely, though Raven certainly tried to keep silent. Within minutes, the Branwen twins had been transformed into birds, a raven and a crow, he thought with sick delight.

Raven tried to dive-bomb him, screeching, but she was easily avoided. Ozpin tsked as he swatted the bird away and cuddled the sleeping Ruby closer to his chest. He ran his fingers through her fine hair. “Come now, dear. Let’s go home.”

#evil ozpin au #dadpin #evil dadpin au #ozpin rwby #ruby rose #qrow branwen #raven branwen #mentioned str crossed lovers #kidnapping tw #body horror tw #planned murder #i have two different evil dadpin aus now #help #i'll call this version #Singular Evil Dadpin AU

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funkymbtifiction · 3 years

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TiSe in Motion

An ISTP friend sent this to me and I agree with her--it’s a good example of Ti + Se instinctual reactivity to the environment. Read on, other types, and marvel at her super powers. And don’t ever dis sensors in my presence. I will cut you.

Example 1:

I used to spend part of every August in Yosemite National Park. The water level is quite low at that time of year, and there was a river, nearly dried up, that was loaded with rocks and boulders. I used to run down that riverbed jumping from rock to boulder to rock without pausing between each jump. This probably looked quite reckless to anyone watching, as I would be going pretty fast. This isn't just Se in full swing, this is Se in coordination with Ti. My Ti understood my body -- how far I could jump -- and also understood rocks. It understood which rocks were big enough not to roll, which rocks were small enough to roll but were propped by other rocks and therefore safe, and which rocks would roll and send me flying. So, running down that riverbed without pause required both Ti and Se -- Se to scan the terrain ahead and feed my brain all possible paths, and Ti to calculate which path is the safest based on its knowledge of rocks and my abilities, and then Se to execute the physical running, with Ti constantly evaluating and adjusting the path at least two or three rocks ahead of where I currently was. This was what allowed me to move with speed -- I already knew at least two rocks ahead where I was going. None of it was conscious, articulated thinking. It was just running and jumping, trusting where my brain told me to go, but a ton of unconscious thought based on understanding of that particular environment. It wasn't experience-based understanding I worked off, because I had never done such a thing before. It was a logical, practical understanding of how rocks rest together in a riverbed. I never fell, not the first time I did it, nor any time thereafter, so I must have been doing something right (and had a bit of luck on my side, lol).

Example 2:

I've always been good at making costumes, with no training and no patterns. My friends and I were going to the Renaissance Faire once and needed costumes. I ended up making four costumes - three women's skirts/shirts/corset getups, and one man's shirt and tunic. Putting these together was Ti and Se working together, I'm pretty sure. Se had been observing the clothes I put on every day. Ti processes that and doesn't need to be taught how a shirt is put together. It's obvious from a person's body shape and from the clothes we already wear how clothes work. So, I didn't actually measure when I cut material. I knew from looking at my friends how big they were, so I cut according to what I had observed, and based on how my Ti understood clothes worked. This was particularly important for the guy's shirt and tunic, because we wanted to surprise him. We couldn't ask for his measurements without giving it away. But I knew how tall he was next to me, and how wide his shoulders were, and how long his arms were, and I just worked off that. Ti took the Se practical observations and pushed them together to make a shirt and tunic that ended up fitting him perfectly. The corsets also required both Se and Ti -- to understand that you can't just wrap material around your waist and lace it up. It will bunch and be useless. I just knew the only way to make a corset was to make several panels and sew those together. I never looked at pictures and had never seen a pattern for one. There was simply no other way a bolt of fabric and a bunch of cardboard (to make the corsets stiff) would fit together smoothly around a person except as panels sewn together. I sewed all the costumes by hand, and it worked out great. They weren't historically accurate, but they did fine for walking around the Faire. I've made a bunch of costumes since for my nephew for Halloween, just looking off pictures and understanding the practical nature of clothes.

Example 3:

Rather like the costumes, I needed two wide gates for my deck so the dogs could not get loose. I made them myself without ever looking at any new pictures or any how-to books. But, I've used gates, so in my head, their construction came from a logical understanding how the weight must be distributed, how you need a diagonal beam to true up the gate and provide stability, where the hinges need to go... They were wide gates, so I couldn't have them sagging. They had to stay square. It's Se physical observation combined with Ti's logical understanding that a gate can only work one way to produce the end result. Which, I just saw a picture of that house (I moved out years ago) and the gates I built are still up and still working fine! So, I can't remember birthdays or important dates and I can't do detailed project plans or take good notes on conference calls or manage a project with hard deadlines at work. But those thing aren't Ti logical. They aren't physical. There's no internal structure to them for me to understand (or there is and I just don't want to understand it because it doesn't interest me). But I can build and make things because that's easy. I hooked up my family's laser disc player in high school when my dad threw up his hands at it and got it all working without reading the instructions, because it was physical and logical. This has to connect to this and to this in order for visual and sound to happen.... it's easy.

#istp #submission #i am so freaking jealous #these are mad sensor skillz

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lightadept · 4 years

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Eagle Vision, Hikaru and some very strange MKR symbolism

@aldebaranarfeiniel @theblueescapist Writing this hurt my brain. So, let’s dive in. This is how Cephiro looks.

It took me embarrassingly long to realize that Cephiro sounds like... Sefirot. Cephiro, as the very name suggests, is apparently based on Sefirot, a Kabbalistic tree of life, which is a system depicting the flow of macrocosmic and microcosmic life energy.

There is a flow of energy from top to bottom, from divine to material, and vice versa. This is another esoteric representation of the same thing:

And here are our girls with the same symbols!

Fuu (Solar, masculine energy) Hikaru (Solar and Lunar, masculine and feminine energy combined) Umi (Lunar feminine energy) While the three pillars specifically are an Abrahamic esoteric symbol, the Kabbalistic tree of life as an energy flow system exists in numerous religions and beliefs, pagan and modern alike. One of them, which you all know because it’s all across popular culture, is of special interest to us.

Notice the eagle at the top (ethereal, divine, intellectual) and snake/scorpion (physical, instinctual, passionate) at the bottom! The most famous representation of this symbol is depicted in the zodiac sign of Scorpio, and its dual nature containing both scorpion and eagle.

Eagle Vision obviously stands for an eagle, but just look at Hikaru. Her braid looks like a scorpion.

The Eagle-Scorpion dual nature of the zodiac sign, once translated to its esoteric/Kabbalistic parallel, depicts the same energy flow that moves up and down those pillars and Sefirot, travelling between spiritual and material planes. Scorpion represents the lower nature, the physical, the body, the earth, the passion, the personal. Eagle is its higher manifestation, all things intellectual, sophisticated, unearthly, ethereal and collective. Scorpion needs the eagle to extend it upwards, to help it grow, to spiritualize it. Eagle, on the other side, needs the scorpion to earth it, to give a physical, mundane manifestation to something that is otherwise purely spiritual. In other words, they complete one another. Divine redeems material, material redeems divine. Most importantly, they are just different manifestations of the same thing!

In my headcanon, Eagle and Hikaru are really the same person - they are not just drawn to each other, they are each other. She is from Earth, and he is like her counterpart from the astral universe of Cephiro. They are both initially chosen to be pillars because they are just different ends of the same axis. She greatly admires him and looks up to him, wishing to be like him. He, on the other side, learns from her to exist. He elevates her, her self-esteem, her self-love. He brings out the higher in her. She in return teaches him precisely what scorpions symbolically teach eagles: to value personal happiness over blind, selfless sacrifice for sake of collective, greater good. Another interesting thing is Emeraude, and how she connects to these two. This is going to be a bit hardcore, but bear with me. In the following picture, she is situated between two pillars.

It’s a clear reference to this, High Priestess Tarot card:

The explanation of the symbolism is as follows:

You've most likely encountered the High Priestess before, but in other forms - she can be seen in the archetypes of Persephone, Artemis, Isis and many more. When you encounter her, you will see her sitting on a cubic stone between the two pillars at Solomon’s Temple, Jachin, and Boaz. Jachin (right) is generally referred to as the Pillar of Establishment and Boaz (left) is the Pillar of Strength. The pillars also depict the duality of nature; masculine and feminine, good and evil, negative and positive.

The High Priestess's location between the two suggests that it is her responsibility to serve as a mediator between the depths of the reality. She is the third pillar - the path between. She believes that both pillars are equal and there is knowledge to be learned in both worlds. You will also notice that she wears the crown of Isis which can mean that she is a believer of magic.”

So, the ideal pillar excludes neither physical nor divine, neither personal nor collective notions. This is where Emeraude fucks up big time. By going all self-sacrificial and giving up her personal happiness, the cosmic balance was disturbed.

Now take a look at this:

This is the Indo-European tree of life (again, a pagan counterpart of Sefirot system and those pillars). Configuration is always the same: eagle god at the top and snakes/scorpions at the bottom. But notice how there’s a captive girl at the base of the tree - just like Emeraude, who is a prisoner of the world tree. This is a very common motif in Indo-European mythology: there is a maiden, sometimes a divine pair, divine twins or primordial lovers, who are situated at the base of the world tree, the axis mundi, the cosmic pillar, awaiting redemption, sort of like Adam and Eve. They are respectively dormant masculine and feminine energies that need to be released from their latent, imprisoned nature. The girl would then symbolize dormant feminine energy that needs to be given a proper place in the hearts of people. As long as she is imprisoned and unredeemed, she is also absent from the hearts of people. Masculine energy symbolizes spiritual and collective qualities, feminine earthly and personal. This really fits with the theme of her selflessness and inability to put her own happiness in front of other people’s. Funnily enough, in Indo-European mythology, there are many folk songs that tell about this captive prisoner/maiden at the bottom who ritually calls forth an eagle from the top of the tree to descend and redeem them. (This is an incredibly interesting blend of Christian/Gnostic and pagan beliefs, as you are probably noticing redemption theme here).

This is just what Emeraude does. She calls forth these legendary warriors who are said to be able to redeem and free her from her tragic fate. But it’s not quite Eagle Vision who saves her as a new pillar, isn’t it? It’s Hikaru, an earthling. Remember, eagle is a symbol of spirituality, of selflessness, all higher qualities. Emeraude doesn’t need to learn selflessness, because that’s what got her in trouble in the first place - she needed to learn to value her personal feelings, to be selfish. That’s why she isn’t saved by Eagle who is equally selfless.

She is saved by Hikaru from physical realm (Earth). Here material redeems divine, not the other way round! Emeraude who is all divine, self-sacrifical and Christ-like is freed from imprisonment by Hikaru who basically teaches her through Eagle that, hey, it’s okay to be selfish, to want to be happy. So, magic knights are absolving her of her own self-denying divinity - which is a pretty darn cool theme. What’s interesting here is that both Hikaru and Eagle are like symbolic expressions or emanations of Emeraude’s tragic fate in a way. If Emeraude and Zagato symbolize that dormant, imprisoned energy, a love that was never properly consummated and given a place, then Hikaru, Eagle and Lantis are their extensions, their second chance. Lantis is Zagato. Hikaru and Eagle are both Emeraude. Hikaru is that fire and conviction that Emeraude should have had, and Eagle Vision is a resolution of her conflict - he is the Emeraude who finally learns not to self-sacrifice. I just fucking love to think of Eagle Vision as an expression or emanation of Emeraude. He is totally moved by her feminine energy.

#Eagle Vision #Hikaru Shidou #Magic Knight Rayearth #lantis #emeraude #cephiro #another weird meta #i got carried away #why do japanese love occultism so much???

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letterstomilen · 3 years

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the death of rex lapis (hopefully)

Zhongli, Vampire Alternative Universe (warning: this is mainly expositional bc ive had fun playing around w the idea of how zhongli would be if he was a vampire so idk where this’ll go! there is some childe/zhongli but not much!! anyways happy birthday zhongli i love you :) Zhongli does not make a good vampire.

Immortality is meant to make you smart.

But what people forget is that you don’t live that long because of wits. Immortality does not mean you are capable; it means that you were foolish enough to get bitten and didn’t think much of it later.

He wasn’t clever when he was held by Guizhong, who smiled sweetly at him as she looked at him, her hair brushing against his skin and cold hands curling the ends of his hair. And certainly not sharp when he failed to notice that her heart wasn’t beating and she seemed to look more at his neck— ”You have a very fine neck,” she informed him when he asked, and he nodded, assuming that it was one of those things sculptors just happened to notice—than his eyes for the majority of the night.

Whether it was out of guilt or disinterest, he doesn’t know. Zhongli would like to think that it was out of guilt, because prior to the night, they were friends. And after she bit his neck, she held him in her arms, whispering story after story as he stuck by fever.

The pain was unimaginable. First—there was shock. And then minutes later, while he wondered why the room smelled more like sweat and blood than incense, he realized that he was still held down.

This must be what quarry feels like, he thought then. But now he knows otherwise; prey would never be held so gently and lay there limply if they could help it. He, while being drained every bit of life, was a willing, sitting duck.

That was before the pain, of course. When she finally let go of him to wash her face—he recalls this clearly: her wiping her face, then licking the blood off her hands with the relish of a child on her birthday, before leaving to the bathroom—he laid there paralyzed. It was, he’s discovered, a bit like being drunk.

Only that the alcohol left his insides in unimaginable pain for days on end. He stumbled when he tried to stand; babbled as he struggled to speak. Even now he only remembers brief flashes of it, when he tore the skin on his arm with his newly grown canines, or hours of rejecting food that he could not quite stomach.

In reality, he was a child—a baby, really, if you were being blunt about it. The weeks that followed were horrendous and perhaps it’s a blessing that he spent the majority of them inhibited, the metamorphosis shedding every part of him that he was comfortable with. But as the days went on, the pain gave way to numbness and numbness gave away to strength.

And when he finally regained enough consciousness to form a coherent sentence, he asked Guizhong why she did it. She, with the certainty of somebody that’s lived for longer than he had, answered, “Well, you’ve always been interested in how the world would change after you were gone. Isn’t this now your chance to witness it?”

Fanaticism with history and predictions could only get you so far. To witness it—wasn’t that just a dream? And because he assumed that rocks were eternal and could not erode back then, he nodded in agreement.

It was a mistake.

Six hundred years ago, Zhongli underestimated the length of his lifetime. One day he’d be talking to somebody about their newborn and it would only be a blink later where their newborn was six feet under, hailed for having a long and blessed life. (What made a blessed life? It couldn’t have been the years –he concluded that every year he was more cursed than before.) Relationships were scarce because he forgot that not everybody experienced time the same way he did.

Days, contrary to his belief, were not fleeting seconds but rather twenty-four hours long. They composed of both the night and day, waking and sleeping hours instead of mindless walks that ended with him apologizing profusely before his fangs were embedded deep into somebody’s throat.

Somebody suggested for him to just do it in an alley and leave them there to be found at morning. But that was too disrespectful—uncouth even. He preferred to invite them into his home, graciously taking their coat and ushering them inside to a table filled with food. Venti always commented on how polite he was to the very end, taking extra care to cook food that he knew they liked—“Last meal before execution, huh?” he’d comment. “Very romantic.”—and making them comfortable until the very end.

That’s not how it started of course.

He tried starving himself at first—much to Osial’s amusement. On a night out, where Zhongli was more attuned to the heat and beating hearts of the people around him than the delicacies laid out, Osial took it a step further by passing him a cup with a thick, maroon liquid that sloshed around in it.

It smelled finer than the silk flowers that littered the gardens, and when he took the cup, he felt one step closer to the damnation Guizhong always spoke of. The worst part was that it didn’t churn his stomach—instinctually, he felt more delighted than he ever felt, a smile cracking his worn face as he inspected the goblet. Only when did he take note of Osial’s smug expression, the glint in his eyes that reminded him of an elusive professor, and the way he watched him carefully the way a parent would watch a child take its first steps, did he hesitate.

It wasn’t benign; it was as if he expected him to trip and fall over after attempting to take his first steps, taking pleasure in both the failure and success. Because both would end with Zhongli crossing the line one way or another, wouldn’t it? And there was nothing more enjoyable than sadism to somebody that’s seen it all already.

Right now he is fighting a losing battle. But he would rather starve than lose it here, so he hands the cup back to him, feeling a little more of his willpower crack.

Animal blood, by all accounts, is disgusting. It’s oily and sometimes he’d get sick, ending the night more ravenous than ever as if his skin were tightening around itself. You couldn’t just drink it—especially if you didn’t know where the animal has been. First you had to kill it neatly—a quick breaking of the neck would suffice, as strangulations were often drawn out—and then you had to clean it.

There was something almost humane in the process. Countless butchers have done it before, so he felt comfortable doing it himself.

It was only when he sunk his teeth into the carcass that he felt more like a vulture than anything else. The blood only staved off his hunger for short periods, so it was more of a painkiller than a sufficient meal.

And Osial found the whole thing to be hilarious.

“How unfortunate. If only Guizhong didn’t choose somebody that insisted on drinking animal blood, then it’d be more enjoyable. You know—if you open your mouth a little wider, you’ll look a bit more like the starving beast you are.” Then he dipped a finger in the cup and licked it as if it were chocolate, sweet and rich.

“Yes… Perhaps I should move onto better things. Do you think vampire blood is like wine? Or would age spoil its taste? I imagine that to a starving beast, there would be no difference—no matter how rotten your blood is, it’s still blood after all.”

Osial laughed and spit the blood out. “Well, you’re not wrong. This animal blood may be disgusting, but to you, what’s the difference?”

He wore his cruelty like a well-fitting suit, the creases shaped like ill-natured grins. Zhongli wondered if that will be him hundreds of years from now, but maybe Osial was always this unpleasant. Guizhong spoke of him the way somebody would talk about their ill-tempered cousin—sure, he’s awful to be around but he’s been a part of the family for so long already.

At the very least, he can provide a good meal. The question will always be for who, and his appetite is insatiable concerning all matters. Some vampires preferred a more barbaric approach of finding somebody, killing them, and then throwing the body away. Others—like Osial—treated it more like a game, drawing it out.

Sometimes he’d target entire families and call it a “feast” inviting others to join him. They were gruesome affairs that ended with many drunk on blood for weeks at a time, and even though he never went to them, he always heard about them.

Directly from Osial of course. Who seems intent on highlighting every small detail, every bloody death or desperate guest that was less than willing in the end but, Osial would say with delight, weren’t they all? As a matter of fact—and here was when he’d bring Guizhong into it, dragging her out of her room with her blueprints and models—Zhongli was very willing, wasn’t he?

“Up until he realized that he had to drink blood,” he’d say, as if he finally reached the punchline for a joke—then Osial would throw his head back with laughter.

And it’s not as if he hadn’t before. Sometimes, if he hurt himself, he would’ve licked the blood. But that tasted metallic—it was nothing like the delicacies that other vampires would set out, naming the meals by age, defining trait (sexual activity, lifestyle, etc.), and gender.

It took him fifty years for his willpower to break down. And he did it in front of Barbatos, who simply watched as he drank, not speaking of the way Zhongli drunkenly rambled for hours on end nor the way blood trickled down his neck and stained his clothing.

The deaths after that were easier. It was almost disappointing how he managed to replicate what Guizhong did with such ease. When he set the serviette over their chest before sinking his teeth into their jugular, he felt just like her.

Only when did he clean them up before burying them did he truly feel at rest. At the time it felt like appropriate compensation—a substitute for the promise he failed to keep for himself. The whole ordeal of washing the blood out of their matted hair and drying it out as he laid them down alleviated the sense of unease.

Guizhong would often watch him while he did it, pointing out certain anatomical features as she did. Her hands would trace over their veins, pressing down on the blue as she spoke. Osial joined them once, but he was so perturbed by the attention Zhongli dedicated to the process that he left immediately.

That was centuries ago.

He, sometime down the line, traded in these rituals for slaughter and abandoned that for mimicking the human lifestyle.

Barbatos would say that it’s been badly done, of course.

“You make the worst human,” he once said, as he watched Zhongli struggle to stomach garlic bread that he offered him.

Which could be why he’s now cornered by a vampire hunter.

The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is often frequented by vampires all around Teyvat—there are rumors of blood dealings with underground groups but the Milileth has never investigated it—and Zhongli, with no danger signals, happens to be one of them.

It doesn’t help that he works there too. The irony that all these years later he never quite rid himself of dealing with dead bodies isn’t lost on him.

And he did hear about the Fatui, because word about people hunting vampires travels fast in a country as busy as Liyue.

“Sir,” the vampire hunter informs him kindly, “you do know that this is a hub for vampires, right?”

The voice isn’t what shocks Zhongli. Neither is the maroon mask that’s hanging by the side of his head—one told to be notorious among only the most vicious of hunters—or the thin outlines of weapons in his clothes.

It’s his eyes. They’re a bright blue, usually associated with the sea on bright days, but they’re more akin to the vampires that Zhongli has seen before with the wild glint in his eyes. It’s jarring with the smile that he adopts as he asks, and he imagines opening his mouth to a pair of fangs.

He knows that he won’t find them though. If the rumors he hears are any indications, the Fatui are above recruiting any vampires that’ll threaten their operation.

“Ah. Yes. I do. I’m the consultant here, you see,” he explains politely.

And shouldn’t that be an indication that he’s a vampire? Hu Tao is notorious for her strange tastes. And he must know of the deals she makes with underground groups, the money and blood that’s traded between them.

“Oh!” the hunter’s expression brightens as he clasps his hands together. “I heard about you! I got to say—when they told me that the consultant was knowledgeable on all things Rex Lapis, I was expecting an old man.”

He doesn’t wait to explain who Rex Lapis is. This, of course, is a given seeing that Rex Lapis has become a household name, infamous for his butchery of both vampires and humans alike. But a hundred years later, Zhongli hoped, people would forget about him—or maybe get rid of the fanaticism in their voices when they spoke about him.

It’s quite discomforting, really.

“Well, I am old.”

He laughs, “Yeah, yeah. You hardly look older than me. Call me Childe—I was hoping that you could, ah, answer a few questions I have on Rex Lapis. The 77th Master said that you’d be available and more than willing. She.. actually, here you go!”

Zhongli takes the paper he offers him, which says If you ask him anything, he’d be more than willing to spend the rest of the day answering it! in her rough cursive that he’s grown to dislike. Of course—the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not beneath fraternizing with vampires or the Fatui.

But he prefers this much more than the vampires that stare at him as they struggle to place him in their ancient hierarchy. And this does work in his favor, he thinks. A vampire hunter wants to know more about him, Rex Lapis—wouldn’t this aid him in finally meeting his end?

So he politely smiles and gives him back the note, not missing how warm Childe’s skin is in comparison to his own. It’s been years since he’s touched a human without the intention of killing them, hasn’t it?

More than suitable then.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

#this is completely self indulgent my bad #osial #guizhong #zhongli #genshin impact #vampire zhongli

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