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superbat-lmao · 29 days

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Damian Wayne stuck in a time loop.

It resets when someone dies, and since Damian is the youngest, it doesn’t matter how rocky his relationship is with the bat-siblings, each and everyone one of them sacrifices themselves for him.

And Damian is pissed off because he doesn’t understand why.

Grayson is obvious, he has made it clear that he feels affection for Damian and has made the most effort into integrating him into the family. Of course he would die for his little brother. And at first, Damian believes he finds this outcome to be the least acceptable.

There is also his Father, again, a logical expression of love. Damian can understand why his Father would die for him, even if he doesn’t want him to. Even if, in the first few loops, he wishes that anyone else would die instead. At least it’s a type of parental relationship he can understand in the abstract, even if it surprises him to see its true about himself. That even though he has several older brothers and is unsure of his place by his Father’s side, the man would do anything to protect him. It reminds him of his Mother, even though he’s sure if she were here she’d find a way for the both of them to live.

Brown is the first one to surprise him. They had worked together when Grayson was Batman and he recognized her competence, but he thought that’s all it was. A working relationship between professionals. A mutal, if grudging respect. He is shocked when she dies, how he had no clue she would go that far for him. How he refuses to let it happen again.

If Brown was a surprise, Cain was a shock. Damian thought of her as nigh invincible, unable to be touched. It was clear she was the best of all of them, that she had seen the hit miles ahead of him, had maybe even seen him brace for it. But she had chosen to let herself go down. He feels every bit his age as he begins to wonder if he’s even more powerless to stop this than he thought if his most competent sister chose to let herself fall.

Thomas was confusing. He was new, newer than Damian and not quite sure of himself. They rarely saw each other aside from school due to the mismatch in schedules. Thomas gave him a wide berth, respecting Damian’s space in a way his other siblings failed to do or intentionally disregarded. Damian didn’t think much of him. Couldn’t understand how Thomas hadn’t even paused, had taken the hit as if it was an unquestionable law of the universe. As if they were really brothers and not strangers. It was a sentiment Damian didn’t know how to return.

Todd was the worst. He had seen him, briefly, before he had come to Gotham from the league. His Mother spoke of him rarely, but with pride. He was skilled, if untamed. He avoided the manor and his brothers and their Father. The only one he usually sought was Pennyworth. That is why Todd was the worst. Because he avoided all of them. Because this family had already allowed him to die before and he had come back wrong. A painful reminder that their family has failed. And he fought so hard to remind them all of that failure, every way he chose to keep fighting to live, to prioritize his own life over their Father’s morality. Only to throw it away for Damian. To force him to watch how his brother’s second death shattered their Father and Pennyworth and Grayson in a way that Damian didn’t think they’d survive a second time.

Drake is incomprehensible. Antithetical. A cosmic error. Impossible. There is no love between them, no grudging respect, nothing. Damian can’t stand to look at the person who he feels is a disgrace to the costume Damian now wears. He is the one who dies for Damian the most. The one he can’t possibly understand. The brother he has the least time to question, who gives him the least answers as to his motivations. Who will both die for Damian and refuse to utter a word to him in the same loop. It is madness. Damian needs to prove himself above this embarrassment, and yet Drake chooses to be beneath him. To die for him. It is in spite of Damian’s skill that Drake dies, and Damian hates him for it.

#batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #redhood #alfred pennyworth #damian wayne #robin #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #duke thomas #signal dc #black bat #spoiler #batgirl #red robin #nightwing #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #i don’t know how to end this #i like the idea that damian comes out of this without a 180 degree personality change #but also it would be funny af if he suddenly hugged all his siblings one day #after the loop breaks #if he just declared that he loved them all or something #but at the same time i honestly think that tim is the one who gets them out of the loop #that damian is forced to work with him #to acknowledge him and his abilities and the fact that their brothers #also damian is a 10 year old child and idfk how he’s supposed to cope with watching his whole family die and then go about the next day #like nothing happened i think it would scare the hell out of the batfam

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emetoandotherthings · 9 months

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Sailing Soc

A/N: @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak you wanted Cain... here's Cain! ❤️

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“Sailing?” Cain put his mug down on the counter and stared at Damian as though he’d grown an extra head. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Damian said; Cain searched his face as though he was waiting for him to say ‘only joking’.

When he didn’t, Cain repeated: “Sailing?”

“Well, yeah,” Damian was nodding. “I saw some sign up sheets for trials with the sailing soc, I thought – why not?” At the table beside them, Jesse snorted so hard he nearly choked on his cereal.

“Sailing soc?” Jesse spluttered, wiping his mouth. “Oh my god, it’s finally happened.”

“What?” Damian looked non-plussed as Cain and Jesse exchanging a glance.

“All those toffs rubbing off on you,” Cain chuckled, then put on a posh accent. “Oh yah, we’re going on the yacht for a jaunt!”

“Oh shut up!” Damian shoved Cain’s shoulder playfully. “No, I just thought it’d be something different, something outside! God knows you’ve had your head stuck in a book these past few weeks.”

“You’re one to talk!” It was Cain’s turn to snort this time.

“Come on,” Damian implored, staring pointedly at Cain. “It’s one afternoon, one taster session – some fresh air, the water, it’ll be fun!”

“Oh alright,” Cain conceded. “Seeing as you’ve already signed me up!” Damian grinned.

Cain still didn’t quite know why he agreed to this as he stood on the boardwalk with Damian and 5 others. He was doing it for Damian, who looked buoyantly excited. One of the guys, Isaac, from the sailing soc was handing them each a lifejacket as the other two guys and one girl from sailing soc had already clambered aboard the boat and were preparing it to sail.

“Sailing is just – it’s everything!” Isaac was proclaiming enthusiastically; much to Damian’s chagrin Isaac did have exactly the posh English accent and attitude that Cain had imitated. “Hopefully this afternoon’ll let you see how joyous it is!”

Joyous was not the word Cain would have used – he’d tried to hide the fact that his knees were shaking as he climbed aboard the boat, especially as Damian was grinning like an overly excited Labrador.

“If you all sit there,” Isaac pointed to two indented benches on either side of the front of the boat, “we’re going to do all the work and you can get an idea of what it’s like to sail – we might even let you have a go when we’re properly out on the loch.”

Cain wedged himself in between Damian and the edge of the white bench, almost immediately he felt wobbly and was glad for the metal railing which lined the edge of it. The boat had backed out of its berth in the marina and was beginning to slowly motor its way out towards the entrance of the loch.

“Yah, I’ve already done my competent crew qualification,” the girl on the other side of Damian was telling him. “Daddy insisted I did it when I turned 16.”

“Really?” Damian didn’t sound surprised. “This is my first time on a sail boat – me and Cain, thought we’d try something different.”

“It’s not as hard as it looks,” she carried on, her voice loud against the wind that was whipping past them. “Not once you get the hang of it!”

Cain refixed his grip on the railing and tried to take some deep breaths; it was only now that they’d pulled away that he realised how much he absolutely hated this. The boat rocked slightly from side to side, bobbing up and down as the waves and wind moved along. He hadn’t realised quite how aware of his own stomach he was until it seemed to move along with each movement of the boat. He pressed his jaw together, so hard that his back teeth hurt – this was just a taster session, surely it couldn’t last all that long.

“It’s so fresh, isn’t it?” Damian’s head swivelled round towards Cain.

“Yeah,” Cain heard himself say, and to his surprise his voice was steady. Damian’s curls were being whipped around by the wind, his cheeks turning pink from the cool air. “It’s lovely.”

As soon as they were clear of the marina, the girl on Damian’s other side bounded up from the bench to help the society members tack the sail out so they could catch the wind. With more people moving around, the boat rocked and bobbed in the water, and Cain gripped on so tightly on the railing that his knuckles went white.

“You can come up and see what we’re doing if you like,” Isaac offered; he was standing behind the large wheel looking totally at ease.

“Cain?” Damian asked, standing up.

“You go,” Cain said, “I’m still finding my sea legs.” Damian raised his eyebrows, but seemed to accept this at face value. He wobbled a bit as he picked his way over to where Isaac and the girl were having an animated conversation about where they had sailed previously. Cain tried to take deep breaths in through his nose, and inwardly repeated to himself that it wasn’t all bad; ignoring the way his stomach was roiling inside him, sloshing up and down with every wave of the water. He fixed his eyes on the hills in the distance and told himself that he wasn’t moving that much.

“Isaac says it’s a perfect day for sailing,” Damian dropped back down on the bench next to him.

“Really?” Cain tried to sound interested.

“Yeah, just enough wind to catch the sails, and the water being pretty calm,” he was watching the white sail which was affixed out and the wind was pushing against it, giving the boat traction.

If this was calm, Cain thought, he would hate to see it when it was choppy. With every passing second he was feeling worse, he could feel sweat pooling at the nape of his neck and he found himself swallowing much more frequently.

“It’s a beautiful part of the country,” Damian seemed lost in the moment, “so peaceful.” Cain remembered that Damian had signed them both up to give them a break from their studies.

“Mmhmm,” Cain assented, momentarily releasing his grip from the railing before grasping hold of it again – letting go made him feel even more wobbly. They sat in silence for a few long moments, Damian’s eyes were unfocused as he stared out across the water and Cain could hear his long, slow breathing. For some reason, that made Cain feel even worse; he felt his stomach lurching up inside him and he gritted his teeth together again.

“So,” Damian muttered, “I think this might be something I want to do more…”

“That’s good,” Cain forced, simultaneously thinking ‘as long as you don’t make me come too’. Damian turned his head to Cain and saw him take a visible double take.

“Cain?” His hand found Cain’s knee and squeezed. “Are you okay?” There was a split second where Cain was about to lie, but he found himself shaking his head, which he stopped quickly as that movement made him feel worse.

“Nope,” he forced the word out. “I’m nauseous as hell.” Letting the words out seemed to break the tightness he was holding himself together with.

“Oh…” Damian breathed. “You look grey…”

“Yup,” Cain wrapped his arm not gripping on the railing round his stomach. “Feel it…”

“Do you want some water?” Damian fumbled in his bag to find a bottle. “Try looking at the horizon.”

“Been doing that,” Cain answered, sucking in air through his teeth.

“Here,” Damian unscrewed the water bottle and held it out for Cain, “take a few sips.” Cain’s hand was trembling as he took the water and had a tentative sip. “Give me a sec…” Damian pushed himself off the bench; Cain wanted to beg him to stay, that somehow having Damian next to him made this feel less awful. He took another sip, but the water seemed to be staying in his mouth, his throat not wanting to accept anything down it. “Right…” Damian returned and sat back next to Cain. “Honestly – really honestly, are you feeling sick?”

“Yep,” Cain said, trying not to move his lips too much.

“Okay, well – if you think you’re going to be sick,” Damian carried on.

“Don’t say that word,” Cain pleaded, his chest felt tight and his stomach gave an uncomfortable squeeze.

“Okay, well if…” Damian paused, “you’ve got two options.” Cain didn’t like the sound of that, his stomach gave another squeezing lurch and he swallowed hard. “First option – you lean over the side of the boat.” Cain groaned.

“Not an option,” Cain muttered, even the thought of being that close to the swirling, churning water made him feel any worse.

“Okay,” Damian didn’t argue, there was no point in it, especially with how grey and clammy Cain was looking. “Option two, a bag.” Cain groaned again, he’d wished option two had been getting off the boat. “Look,” Damian put his hand on Cain’s shoulder and gently pushed him back a little, “just lean back, take some deep breaths and try to relax a bit.” Cain allowed himself to be eased back, he hadn’t even realised how hunched forward he’d been sitting. He tried to do what Damian advised; he closed his eyes, taking slow deep breaths in through his nose. He’d realised how tightly clenched all of his muscles had been as he consciously tried to relax back into the hard back of the bench. His head was swimming, every part of him being buoyed along as the waves bore the boat onwards; the cold air was whipping past his face as the boat moved through the water. The boat made a short sharp move to one side and Cain felt a burbling sensation rising from deep inside his belly.

“Bruuualllp!” Cain’s eyes snapped open as the belch escaped past his lips, a lingering bitter acidity swirling in his mouth and his free hand shot up to his mouth as he attempted to swallow.

“Cain?” Damian squeezed his knee again.

“Bag…” Cain muttered thickly, his eyes wide as he looked up at Damian. “I need – a bag…”

“Right,” Damian released his hand from Cain’s knee and began scrabbling in his pocket. “Isaac gave me these…” He unfurled some plastic bags. Cain hadn’t realised he’d let go of the railing until he was snatching a bag from Damian, his chest hurting from the effort of holding down a heave. He shook out one of the bags roughly and brought it up to his face, holding it close to avoid missing it.

“H’kkkuuuulllk!” Cain’s eyes forced closed at the heave, and he felt the splash of liquid hit the bottom of the bag and he tightened his grip. He knew that was barely a warning shot, and with the way his stomach was lurching that there was more to come. He tried to spit the tendrils of saliva that were clinging to his lips away, but they felt fast to his mouth. “Uggh…”

“It’s alright,” Cain could hear Damian’s voice, but it felt like it was far away as the sound of his ragged breathing was loud in his ears. He wanted to pull the bag away, cause the bitter tang of the acid was stinging at his nose, but he couldn’t – he couldn’t risk making a mess. His throat tightened and he coughed, harsh and wet, sticking at the back of his mouth and saliva dripped from his lips into the bag.

“H’kkuuuuuuurrrrggggllleee!” The force with which the wave of vomit poured from his mouth took him by surprise, as did the bag feeling instantly heavy in his hands. From somewhere nearby he could hear cheering and faintly realised that it was because of him, but he didn’t have more than a split second to think about it. “Kk’hhhuuuurrrrggg!” Cain gasped, struggling to take a breath in.

“God Cain…” Damian’s hand touched the back of Cain’s neck, almost holding him steady as he gulped and gasped.

“Sorr- heeeuuurrrgggggl!” The word was cut off as another fierce wave of sick forced up his throat and out into the bag which was rapidly filling.

“No, no,” Damian replied, “just breathe…” Cain’s breath was hitching in his chest, every deep breath seemed to illicit another wave of puke.

“H’rrrrrgglllluuurrgh!” The bag in Cain’s hands was becoming precariously heavy now; he forced his eyes open, they were watering badly and making it difficult for him to focus. “Need – a new – bag…” He spluttered, feeling his stomach still lurching and clenching.

“Okay, right,” Damian sounded so calm – how could he be this calm? “Let me tie this one off, I’ll get you a new one…” Damian’s hands grasped near Cain’s wrists and Cain felt the weight of the bag being taken off him.

“Hurry – hrkk!” Cain heaved wetly, clamping his now free hand across his mouth.

“Just take deep breaths,” Damian intoned, but he sounded a little more panicked now. “Deep breaths!” Damian was shaking out a new bag, Cain grabbed it from him, pulling it up to his mouth as another heave produced a further wave of sick.

“Hheeuuuurrgggh!” Cain couldn’t stop it, it was like being on a rollercoaster ride that he couldn’t get off – his stomach dropping then lurching up inside him.

“Jesus Christ!” Someone nearby cursed, but Cain was still gasping, just waiting for more.

“Hrrrrgguulll!” There was less liquid this time; Cain had nearly emptied himself out. “Gggrruuurrgggllleee…”

“Mate, lie him down…” A voice from above Cain’s head was saying. “Lie him on the bench – it can help.”

“Cain? Did you hear?” Damian’s voice was low and close to Cain’s ear. “If we lie you down, it might help.”

“Mm, no,” Cain shook his head slightly, a dry heave following and he coughed wetly. “ ‘ll make a mess…”

“Nah mate,” the voice was coming from Isaac, “you’re empty as a gutted fish.”

“Hrrk!” Cain retched dryly again at the mention of fish; his stomach was aching and his head felt light.

“Cain, come on…” Damian fastened his hands around Cain’s wrists as he tried to take the bag away, but Cain redoubled his grip, shaking his head. “Trust me…” Then the tears came, he could feel them burning in his closed eyes; but he allowed Damian to take the bag from his hands. Damian’s hand gripped Cain’s shoulder and very gently lowered him down so he was lying on the bench.

Being horizontal did help, so did the coolness of the bench against his cheek – the ache in his belly was still there, but the clenching, churning seemed to loosen. Cain realised that he was fully concentrating on breathing in and out, that was all he could focus on. It was only after a few long moments that Cain realised Damian’s fingers were carefully moving his fringe away from his face and gently stroking his cheek. It was so simple, but it meant so much.

Before he knew it, Damian’s hand was on Cain’s arm: “Cain, come on, we’re getting off…”

“Can’t move…” Cain mumbled.

“Let us help,” Damian said; Cain couldn’t protest even if he wanted to. Cain felt hands gripping both of his arms, pulling him gently upright; his legs nearly gave out underneath him and if he hadn’t been supported he would have buckled. “It’s okay,” Damian intoned, half carrying Cain. “Just take little steps.”

Cain’s legs wobbled all the way along the boardwalk, he still felt as though he was swaying, the world not solid under his feet. His stomach gave a lurch as he missed a step and he gulped in air. When he reached the solid ground of the marina, Cain leant against the wall, his knees trembling under his own weight.

“I’ve got him from here,” Damian was telling Isaac, who Cain noted had lost the arrogance he’d first displayed and was watching Cain warily. “Thank you.” Isaac nodded, and briefly grasped Damian’s shoulder.

Cain’s knees gave way and he crumpled, sliding down the wall into a seated position; he was taking long, slow breaths in. Damian sat next to him, placing his hand on Cain’s knee and squeezing gently. They sat for a time, and Damian didn’t remove his hand.

“How are you feeling now?” He asked eventually.

“Better,” Cain mumbled, then swallowed. “Embarrassed…”

“Don’t be,” Damian’s voice was light.

“I…” Cain’s voice was thin, his throat felt like it’d been burned. “I ruined it – for you…”

“Cain…” Damian sighed and shook his head. “No you didn’t…” Cain swallowed again, staring intently at his own knees. “Here, have a drink.” Damian pulled a water bottle from his bag, unscrewed it and handed it across; Cain’s hand was still trembling as he took it and drunk, the cool liquid soothing on his throat. “I thought it’d get us out of the flat, just some time.”

“Sorry…” Cain muttered again.

“No,” Damian found Cain’s arm and gripped it tight. “I’d never have signed us up if I thought you’d get so…”

“Seasick?” Cain offered.

“Yeah,” Damian nodded. “I’m sorry. For putting you through that.”

“You didn’t know!” Cain refuted. “Heck, I didn’t know…” Cain wrapped his free arm around his stomach.

“Is your stomach still hurting?” Damian noticed the gesture.

“Much less now I’m on solid ground,” Cain answered honestly.

“Good,” Damian said, he looked out towards those still on the boat, tying it up and ensuring it was all secure. “I think you frightened Isaac.” Cain snorted. “Seriously, I think he thought you were going to do yourself an injury. I didn’t think you were ever gonna stop…”

“Neither did I….” Cain mumbled; with the water he’d drunk he felt slightly better, his aching belly seemed to be calming. “I know, you just wanted something… A break.”

“Yeah, well…” Damian shrugged.

“You can do this if you want,” Cain told him, “I saw you enjoying it.”

“Nah,” Damian shook his head, “I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it.” He smiled crookedly at Cain.

“Don’t,” Cain nudged him, but he couldn’t help but smile back.

“As long as you’re alright,” Damian said.

“Next time you need a break,” Cain spoke slowly. “Can we maybe just go for a pint?”

Damian laughed: “Yeah, let’s do that.”

#emeto fiction #emeto #my ocs #Damian #Cain #sickness #motion sickness #seasick #vomiting #puke #puking #Illness kink #original character fiction #nausea

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demonixms · 4 months

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–𝔦𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱.

if there is a god, then i’m going to make him cry.

name: vincent “saint” corvin-grimm

age: thirty-six

gender identity: cis-male.

pronouns: he/him

birthday: october 24th, 1987

star sign: scorpio.

species: witch ( fire & emotional manipulation )

occupation: owner of a funeral home

place of birth: litchfield, connecticut

height: 6′3

( tw: death, sacrifice, murder ) Under the waning crescent, a boy was born. Above the healer’s quarters the moon streamed dimly through the windows— the waxy glow was nearly swallowed by the dark and those who stood around called it an omen. He was something beautiful, with wisdom in his viridescent gaze and features rounded in fat that match those that sit sharply on his mother’s face. He’ll become just like her, they whisper around him and the words fill the room with a buzz like the swarming of flies. It is from her grip that they wrestled the child from, (it is possessiveness and not anything maternal that brought him close to her chest) and they allow her to place one mark upon the infant, the last tie between mother and son before she was once again banished. She gave him the name Vincent, and he bears the mark like Cain’s— for the child of a dark witch being raised within the confines of a coven will never be given free reign, not when the ground where her ties to her coven were severed stayed pitted and glassy with obsidian.

He’ll become just like her, the phrase is pressed to his skin as he grows older, as steady as a heartbeat and it lingers as an echo. They never tell him her name, but just that as a witch she had bared the same gifts: a touch that brought forth flame and the ability to draw and manipulate emotions of those around him. Vincent, who was smaller than the rest, but whose elbows mercilessly brought blood from noses that got too close and who scrabbled against the earth like a wild animal until he was pulled apart by the witches who had adopted him. It was with a wide berth from the others that he grew, treated as though he was something dangerous: a molotov instead of a boy, and with a loose-tooth smile, he became as volatile as they feared him to be.

Flame came with ease, he could manipulate even the wettest of tinder to spit out smoke and then catch. Buildings and trees licked up with the element, fire is something hungry and ferocious, but Vincent was a child whose appetite would never be sated, he was always starving. Destruction was enjoyable but he found that he revelled further in aftermath. Walking through the shell of a building, around timbers that stood shakily holding up what remained of a roof, his fingers were always stained black with soot. He carried charcoal in his pockets and admired the shadowy parts that others were so afraid of. Consequence came, but an empath never bears the true weight of his crimes, not when he could manipulate hard spirits and soften wicked tempers with the twist of emotion. It made him slyer, and far more cunning than any child should be. They called him Saint and they meant it as an insult, but his grin was too wide and too bright to be tarnished— the irony amused him and he adopted it for himself.

They thought that he would become like his mother, a woman whose name had been struck from every record and who had been banished completely— and he grew obsessed with her story. She had been a prodigious witch, Saint knew that much, a star pupil with a special interest in lore and ancient history. It had been her research that had filled the coven library with so many books of species that had long died out, or were so rare that they were believed to be gone. He spent hours there, pouring over texts on pages that were yellowed and musty with age, feeling a tie to her as he drew his fingers along the handwritten notes in the margin and committed ancient texts to memory. His father would remain a mystery- a sharp jawed man with a matching gaze to his own. No one ever spoke of him, though he always got the impression it was because no one dared.

It was obsessive, his desire to learn and be the best, he practiced spells and enchantments, he strengthened his tie to his element as he grew older, settling into the belly of a fire while those around him in the coven watched him warily. Saint learned how to manipulate smoke, to carry ill will out into the air with flakes of ash and to make lye out of what remained from his casual destruction. It was his fascination with inflicting harm that worried the witches around him the most, but perhaps not so much as how he delighted at revelling in the heart of his destruction. He grew from a wicked boy to a wicked teenager, a bad seed— but as he began to read more of the writings in the coven library and more of the spells, those who had known his mother declared him to be her twin in character: and all efforts to have rehabilitated the witch were considered a failure.

How strange it was then, to be ousted from a coven for a crime that he had yet to commit. He had been fourteen, just tall enough now that he towered in a room, angry enough that his fire could lick clean to the bone. His mother had clung to the idea of immortality- so much so that she had been willing to barter the very souls of her fellow witches for it: when those in his coven found the notes of such nonsense under his pillow, they banished him without thought. The witch began to wander, careless and cruel, toying with fire that feasted upon fields of dried grass and devastated livelihoods. A whole town fell to ruin at the flick of an errant spark and they blamed it upon devils and gods with power over lightning and he laughed at the idea that it was someone more angelic, someone wielding the name Saint.

Along the way he learned more, picking up spells and artifacts, toying with dark magic and seeking out answers to find what remained of his mother. He didn’t know her name, just that they shared a matching surname and penchant for flame. There were hints along the way, books in places with notes in her handwriting, suggestions for herbs to try and spells to commit to memory. Other witches had done little for him in his life, being something one of them felt like an unjust punishment; a cruel experiment in nature versus nature that had yielded the same, unsatisfactory result. They had treated him as though he was something to be feared, and he had become it.

Though only four months, it was too late when he had found his mother. All leads had taken him to New Orleans, where he sat in sunny patches with grimoires and spell books, reading about a place of neutrality off Maine that his mother had noted several times— it was an island called Manan and she had found it important, but it seemed, as he walked into the home that he had finally discovered to be hers, she had never found her salvation there. It was a vampire that greeted him with a face just like his, stalled in time and visually as old as he was— his mother had had her life and her magic stolen, and in turn become something parasitic.

Still, she had proved useful. Her grimoire, dusty and unused had one last spell- a ritual that promised to still time and grant him the immortality he craved. A cruel heart held the dark desire for symbolism, to be remembered in the coven that he had begun his life in ways that would be seared into their history. Saint Corvin would be a devil’s name, and it would be spat in the dark and it would be used to scare those who grew too bold in shadows. Vengeance existed in the form of three witches stolen from their beds, manipulated and tricked to follow projected cries into the woods— they had thought themselves about to be heroes, to save a child that needed them, and instead they walked into a trap. Saint chose the crater that his mother had performed her own ritual in, finding strength in the stone that was black and shiny like glass, summoning forth the magic as blood beaded on pale throats like rubies, before spilling down the fronts of white night gowns.

The great power that he craved did not come- death only amounts to death, he spent the next few weeks simmering in rage. He deserved more, he believed that he had nearly closed his hands around the throat of what he believed to be the ultimate of gifts and in turn life had throttled out what strength he had left in him. There was no spell in the world, no incantation that would repair what had been done, blood stained his hands and he cared little about it, baring his teeth and pressing forth to spill more.

He was sixteen then, hungrier and crueler than anyone of that age had any right to be. The grimoire spoke of something else: of a past that had been locked away- under a portrait of his father, now the spitting image of himself was a name. Grimm. He'd of chased it, looking for answers like a dog spinning after its tail, but the beasts of the Grimm family found him first. Cornered and snarling, Saint snapped at their heels as they drew him to New York- to a home and a family that he had never known before.

They mistook him for a wolf, it was easy to do so: most beasts carry a familiar haunt in their cautious eyes. A month passed, then another, and it came to light that the witch drew embers from underneath tables, hiding it away lest he become his father's new pet. His new family took to him in different ways, the younger siblings were curious about magic and he bled into them like pigment in water– his older brother and their mother were always quick to remind him that he was a bastard: that a witch in a family of wolves had just as much use as a flame in the midst of a sea. Still, he grew and he thrived. New York had a plethora of materials and the Grimm family influence gave him power that he could never have come to himself.

Saint, now a young man, who was more attuned to smoke than fire, drawn to ash and smoulder over the brightness of fire, who longed to toy with shadow, began to continue his journey in dark magic. Blood was a medium for necromancy, and mixed with flame he could gather up strength and hold onto it as he would the rungs of a rope ladder: each step closer to immortality. Saint’s mission brought him to promptly razing the coven of his birth, before settling into one of the boroughs of the city. He's found work at a funeral home, directing day to day operations before settling in at home to study works of magic. As a witch he seeks several things above all: more power, infamy, and life immortal. He is still toying with new spells at all times, testing the boundaries and stretching to new limits, but every day with teeth bared in a wicked, hungry smile, he lives to his infallible motto. Carpe omnia; seize everything.

#saint: a history.#pls dont read this all it's too long just as me for the tldr

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rosehearrt · 1 year

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gives you leona >:3

NO LONGER ACCEPTING ━ Give Me a Character;

Leona Kingscholar.

How I feel about this character

Omg okay, I like Leona a lot. I think that he's a character out of Yana's usual comfort zone which I find extremely interesting, if that makes sense? I don't think she's written anyone quite like him before, and as an avid fan of her work since Rust Blaster, that's very intriguing for me and was the first draw to this character. I can see parallels between personality for so many other characters to those from other works of hers ( cain and lilia, kei and silver, ciel/o!ciel and riddle, sebastian and jade/malleus, druitt and rook, kalim and soma, sebek and edward, etc. ) But Leona is pretty new characterization imo, especially given the pretty clear information we're given that he struggles with depression. It isn't easy to write characters with mental illness, but so many of the TWST characters have some type of it and they're all very well written. Leona's way of coping is what's perceived as his ' laziness ' or the constant napping. I think that's fabulous. He doesn't explain himself regarding it and he doesn't want to; he's a very private person when it comes to personal matters and he hides that behind an uncaring and sometimes borderline cruel facade in order to make sure people give him a wide berth so that he can deal with his own stuff and be alone with himself while simultaneously not letting it affect others. He does this a lot, with the Spelldrive tournament and his OB being the exception since that clearly meant a lot to him, and probably brought out/triggered a very old inferiority complex surrounding his relationship with his brother ( deemed the successful golden child ) whom I'm sure he saw parallels with in Malleus and his success.

Beyond the portrayal of his complicated mental health and complexities surrounding his family, however, I also love his not-so-secret soft side that comes out in small ways, mostly around his underclassmen. From letting Riddle sleep on his lap for three hours after they were kidnapped, to allowing Epel to follow him around all day to ' observe his manliness ', and even protecting Jack from upperclassmen who were bullying him, Leona is quite good to those who are younger, and often times in a sense weaker than he is, which fills my heart because it just goes to show that he has some innate instinct towards caring for others, something which he probably used to have towards the people of his Kingdom as well, but something that he's struggled to uphold as he's become more and more jaded whilst growing up and seeing how little he himself mattered in comparison to his brother, in the eyes of both the royal family and, very likely, his people, since he's merely the ' spare ' rather than the ' heir '.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Ruggieeeeee. My OTP is 100% Leoruggie. They make me so incredibly happy. I picture Ruggie as the type of person who simply doesn't bond with over people beyond surface level as a defense mechanism. He grew up extremely poor, literally having to eat out of garbage cans while he took care of his elderly grandmother and lives under the oppression of lions. But I fully think that the reason he first started sticking to Leona wasn't actually money or favors or anything of the sort, but because he saw something in Leona that he hadn't seen before. I think Leona is probably the first person of high status that Ruggie has ever met, the first royal, and the first lion to treat him like anything more than trash on the side of the road. After meeting Leona, they spoke normally, joked like equals, and all of that probably made Ruggie feel like he'd found a kindred spirit...as did Leona's frustration that - despite having all the skills to do so - he couldn't seem to climb higher than the station he was given at birth.

Still, I think Ruggie decided to start following Leona because he became a beacon of light for him, and of hope that if they were somehow able to get him on the throne one day, things might change for Ruggie's people. Or even if he didn't get to the throne, as a royal, Leona could still do something to participate in moving their society forward and uplifting the less fortunate. But I think he wants to help hoist Leona up in the world however he can regardless, because Leona is so different from everyone else he'd ever met, and because he sees the world from a different point of view. Different ideals, and all of that. And besides that, I think he probably felt like he’d found belonging with him.

But as for the ship part, man, Ruggie has to love him in some sort of way, because how could anyone let themselves be nearly murdered by someone and still want to be by their side afterwards if there wasn’t love there? Leona seems to be the only person Ruggie truly trusts, and honestly I think that goes both ways. The two of them clearly have the type of bond other people probably can't understand, the type that allows them to stay together normally even after a murder attempt. I have a lot of feelings about them - I just love seeing them together. They've both suffered and been lonely their whole lives in their own ways, but finding each other has changed things. I adore them.

Honorable mentions: Leona x Riddle, Leona x Epel, Leona x Jack.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

This is weird but probably Cheka? I just love any chance to see their interactions. He loves his uncle so much, and despite the fact that Leona clearly has plenty of unresolved issues surrounding his brother that he needs to work through and that he projects onto his nephew, he's also not necessarily cruel to him. I think Leona is probably very special to a child like him because he's being raised with all of the weight of the world on his shoulders as the next in line for the throne, and is going through what I'm sure is a very rigorous education for it. I can't imagine he gets much time to be a normal child, and I can't imagine there's anyone in his day-to-day life that treats him like one, which is why Leona is such a significant figure for him. Leona just treats him like his pesky nephew, which for a developing brain desperately seeking a bit of normalcy, is a big deal. I also think that regardless of whether or not he realizes it himself, Leona also benefits in a big way from having the unconditional love of a family member in the way that Cheka gives it to him.

My unpopular opinion about this character

See above, where I discussed that he's not just lazy or mean like some enjoy writing him off as.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

I want to see more of his relationship with his family, specifically his brother. I'd love for the two of them to reach a breaking point in Leona's resentment towards him and finally have an actual discussion. Maybe he doesn't even realize that Leona is feeling the way he is. Idk.

I'd also like to have a bit more information on how Leona and Ruggie fully made up after his OB, or if they even really talked about it beyond what we got. They're both the type to bottle up their feelings and pretend something didn't happen, so who knows - but Leona almost killed him. That seems like a pretty big deal, and something you need to discuss in order to move past.

#kiingsroar #.*･｡ﾟ♕ ˗ˏˋ ANSWERED. ˎˊ˗ ─ 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 .#FINALLY DONE WITH THESE OMG #I CANT HFDGSEF SO MUCH WRITING AND THINKING AHHHH #THEY WERE RLLY FUN THO #maybe ill open them up again one day idk

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saga-project · 6 months

Text

It was time.

They'd been walking for what felt like hours, tracking Rakshan's location. Saga, in spite of his best efforts, felt his breath hitching in his chest the closer they drew, the brighter that the tiny dot that signified his former "Papa" became. It didn't feel like they were going to kill some great beast within his lair, suddenly. It felt like they were walking straight into the jaws of a bear trap, primed and ready to snap shut around all of them and drag them down to an early grave. Rakshan had magic, after all. Powerful magic. If he could force Saga to do his bidding for so many years, that meant he could easily do the same or worse to their family. And that wasn't even getting into the fact that the Syndicate, and Rakshan by extension, had access to a variety of explosive devices--

(--he'll use them he'll use them on us and there'll be heat heat heat noise noise noise pain pain PAIN--)

They shook it off a moment later, exhaling, startling slightly as Leo came up on their blind side. "Soooooo how far away are we, hermano?"

"We're getting close." Saga pointed to the display on his wrist pad as all three of his brothers leaned in closer, letting out another quiet huff of an exhale. "I've managed to triangulate his position, and I believe we're drawing into the center of it. If we just keep walk--"

"No need. I'm quite capable of finding my disobedient son myself."

Saga had to fight to keep from instinctively making his posture ramrod straight as Rakshan slunk out of the shadows, that same haughty sneer pinned to his beak even as Saga's family drew in close around him and hissed in unison. "So. You've finally decided to come crawling back to me, after spending so long rejecting my teachings. Rejecting my mercy and compassion. How disappointing, Cain. How very disappointing indeed."

"You call what you gave me compassion?" A feral snarl sprang to his lips before he could help it. He stepped forward, letting the scythe attachment spring from his bo with the wicked hiss that he had grown so accustomed to before leveling it towards Rakshan. "I came here to settle things. To tell you that I will never go back with you."

"Is that so." Rakshan leveled a coolly indifferent gaze towards the three brothers. "Always settling for the easy way out, Cain. Even now, you refuse to fight your own battles. You bring your pathetic excuses for brothers along with you, to try and shield you."

"They're here to watch as I put an end to you," Saga snapped, slamming the hilt of his bo into the ground as if to add import to his words. "Don't put words into my mouth. You don't know anything about me. You never did."

"It is of little consequence. If I have to drag you back in pieces, then so be it. This transgression of yours will be solved one way or another."

"Yes, well. I think you'll find I'm not a sniveling child anymore, Rakshan. I don't intend on making it easy for you."

And then Rakshan darted towards him like a bat out of hell, and Saga brought his bo up to counter--

--and the fight was on.

He'd instructed his brothers to give a wide berth unless it seemed like the fight wasn't going in his favor, and thankfully they appeared to be sticking to that. Good. Treat it like another fight in the Nexus, as much as Saga now loathed to think of the place. Break it down into simple steps. Sidestep sidestep jab feint SLASH--

--raise the staff part to block a blow from Rakshan, who now had a borderline murderous look on his face as he pushed back against Saga. "You insolent brat. After everything I did for you, this is how you repay me? By taking my teachings and throwing them back in my face?"

"You didn't teach me anything but how to live in fear," he snapped, pushing Rakshan away and swiping low. "You taught me how to stifle myself and study people for signs of anger and never trust anyone--"

"I taught you to be self-reliant. I taught you to be strong. The perfect soldier. Your family held you back, kept you weak. Have you forgotten how they abandoned you? You were nothing before I found you."

"I haven't forgotten how you made me believe that. Believe that I didn't have worth outside of being a perfect little tin soldier. But you're wrong. I have a family now. I have friends now. And you will not take them away from me."

"What exactly are these imbeciles teaching you that I cannot?" Saga ducked away from a wicked slash from Rakshan's talons, then, gritting his teeth.

"They taught me to be compassionate. To be forgiving towards myself. To laugh more, smile more, take more things in stride. To have fun. To know that I'm good enough as I am." Crack went their respective staffs together, then. "But most importantly, they taught me how to stop people like you."

Uh oh. He knew that cold, calculating look that was spreading across Rakshan's beak, then. He knew it could only lead to trouble. He'd been on the receiving end of it so many times that it curdled his blood to see it, making him freeze slightly even as the secretary bird spoke again. "Really. Stop me, you say. Well. Someone should tell your precious brothers how to do that. Or tell them to not stand within striking distance."

Rakshan was whirling, then, sending a fire spell out towards Mikey, and Leo was trying to fumble with his swords to make a portal but he wasn't going to make one in time, and Saga was racing forward with their breath caught in their throat because that was their baby brother, Mikey was everything to them and they weren't going to make it in time and they'd have to watch as Rakshan tore their family apart all over again--

No. NO.

PROTECT THEM. PROTECT MY FAMILY. YOU WILL NOT TAKE THEM.

There was an electric feeling coursing through their veins, and blinding purple light, and then--

--they'd formed a shield around Mikey. All of their family. And the shield was glimmering with mystic energy, and their markings were pulsing with purple light as they turned to look at Rakshan again, an absolutely murderous hiss escaping from their mouth as their eyes narrowed. "It's strange how you lecture me about not fighting my own battles, and then you choose to involve someone on the sidelines."

"Cain, you will stop this nonsense and listen to--"

"No. It's your turn to listen to me now." He pushed the shield back against Rakshan's magic, even as the secretary bird screeched in anger, even as the spells became more and more sporadic. "You are not my father. You never were. Fathers are kind. Fathers protect you. Fathers don't lock you in a cell and beat you and make you fight in a death arena. Fathers take into account what you want. And you know what I want, Papa?" He sneered the term out with all the vitriol he could muster, then, still striding froward resolutely. "I want to get better. I want to sit outside and watch the sunrises and sunsets. I want to know that there is more to me than being a weapon. I want to learn hobbies, and hang out in the pocketverse with my friends. I want to be with my brothers. I never want to set foot anywhere near the Syndicate's stronghold ever again."

He was slowly warping the shield into something, then. Something larger. Something that promised pain as he leveled it towards Rakshan. "I am so much more than what you thought I was. What you made of me. I am not First Kill. I am not Cain."

KA-CHUNK. The giant missile launcher primed itself, whining in the background as he sneered, as his voice reached a new, strong, furious octave. "I am Donatello Hamato, and this is my family. And you are NEVER GOING TO HURT THEM AGAIN."

There was a rapid-fire burst of mystic energy, then, so bright that Saga had to turn his face away from it. There was a terrible screech, and the nauseating smell of burning flesh, and then--

--then the huddled, burnt form of Rakshan was left huddling as Saga approached with death in his eyes, its breath rattling in its throat as it turned its gaze towards him. "Please. Cain, my child, have mercy--"

"You never gave me any mercy when I asked for it. Why should I give any to you."

"If you kill me, then you're no better than me."

"I am ten times better than you," he snarled, lifting the scythe blade high. "Go tell your lies to whoever's waiting for you in hell."

He struck down. Again, and again, and again, even as Rakshan screeched, even as the blood splattered up against his chest and face. Saga couldn't bring themselves to stop. They brought the scythe blade down over and over and over, a vicious scream rising in their throat until it finally escaped out into the air, ringing out and echoing. Even when it was clear that all signs of life had faded from Rakshan, even when their brothers approached, Saga kept wildly slashing, screeching and screaming with their good eye blown frighteningly wide.

The scream--a sound borne of all the pain he had gone through in the last nine years, all of the anger and sadness and hatred--finally petered off as he collapsed, as Raph and Leo and Mikey approached to gently close in around him, as he turned his gaze up towards the sky and sobbed and let the tears fall.

Free.

At long last, he was finally free.

#rottmnt rp #sep!donnie #roleplay blog #(no replies please!)

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cumbiazevran · 10 months

Text

How would my ocs would feel about each other, with little to no explanation:

Juno Mahariel:

Rowan Hawke: Yes

Arviraven Lavellan: Went from that’s the coolest person in the Arlathvhen to this fucking nerd is my brother’s qpp. Demotion out of Cain instinct alone

Iraya Surana: Besties, but she’s slightly terrifying to them. Weird that she’s their coworker and they’re technically her superior, when Juno would give her mad wide berth if she’s up to something.

Carlota “Charlie Hawke” Amell: Ever met a person who is so fucked up that rearranges your entire worldview into realising that you’re actually sort of okay?

Vieradhalen Lavellan: Corruption of the Blight-Blood of the Reaver solidarity; bros, childhood bestie, it’s absolute whack-a-doodle time

(Bonus) Dirthalath Lethandar: That’s a funky man to whoa holy fuck holy shit what do you MEAN you’re the deity of the Vir Banal’ras, The Way of Secrets, the Spymaster-God— if they think too long about him, they’re going to have another existential crisis.

Rowan Hawke:

Juno Mahariel: GET A LOAD OF THIS FUNKY LITTLE GUY, goth hawaiian shirt appreciator solidarity

Arviraven Lavellan: Have you ever met someone you’d trust with your credit card information from the get go? Political allies, this guy has the right idea

Iraya Surana: Knows a power lady when she sees one, 10/10, would’ve flirted with her if they met each other single

Carlota “Charlie Hawke” Amell: Family members to get a restraining order against

Vieradhalen Lavellan: They’d get each other on a fundamental level about certain things, Rowan is surprisingly at peace about the accidental, unnecessarily deep perceiving

Dirthalath Lethandar: Party bi solidarity despite otherwise being just some guy to Rowan. Never fully convinced about the story behind his real identity, despite knowing its true. the “unsung member of the Panthenon” bit

Arviraven Lavellan:

Juno Mahariel: Putative little sibling and the according violence of that. The cease fire is when Juno is acting as the Warden-Commander, but then everything they do as the Warden-Commander, River will use for putative sibling cain instinct means

Rowan Hawke: Absolutely yes. She gets it. Allies to the end

Iraya Surana: Trans solidarity, she is an icon, a legend and she is the moment. Ever met a person who gave you “you would’ve been a magnificent Keeper” upon meeting each other? Yeah.

Charlie “Hawke” Amell: You need therapy and to shut up. Now.

Vieradhalen Lavellan: The literal most important person in his life. Would tackle him and blackmail him bc he’s his older brother regardless, but that is the single most important person in his life

Dirthalath Lethandar: What if I told you you will meet one of your Gods, and in him there is not just a person, but your friend? Scholar to Scholar communication happening at all times

Iraya Surana:

Juno Mahariel: Bestie, beloved friend despite she isn’t the most expressive about it. She hopes they understand

Rowan Hawke: Iraya didn’t think the campy, communist jester act could be pulled by anyone, but hey, it’s always nice to be proved wrong

Arviraven Lavellan: Instant role model, instant respect

Charlie “Hawke” Amell: Would fight her in a pit. Literally catch these hands

Vieradhalen Lavellan: Please tone down the adrenalin sport addiction. Good Dalish boy, but for the love of fuck revert to the stoic, kind knight she thought you were on first impression

Dirthalath Lethandar: When You Are Loved By Wilfulness, You Will Never Be Forgotten

Carlota “Charlie Hawke” Amell:

Juno Mahariel: Respects the title. Other than that they do not exist. No, she won’t be letting them have an “audience” with Anders, no she does not care he’s their jurisdiction. Things change. Keep Justice, tho.

Rowan Hawke: Rabid, violent resentment. You had everything I wanted and you threw it. You’re better than me and you shouldn’t be. You would disagree with me and therefore I hate you.

Arviraven Lavellan: No one would spark an inferiority complex in Charlie like this guy* (*terms and conditions apply)

Iraya Surana: Second in the scale of sparking inferiority complexes

Vieradhalen Lavellan: "No comment”

Dirthalath Lethandar: Absolutely Not.

Viera Lavellan:

Juno Mahariel: PINK PINK PINK GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS GLITTER GLITTER GLITTER TWIRL TWIRL TWIRL TOGETHER FOREVER WE’RE JUNO AND VIERA BEST FRIENDS

Rowan Hawke: Would achieve gym buddies status real quick

Arviraven Lavellan: Literally the most important person in his life. Would commit endless violence (affectionate) on them for oppressing him with a single Chore, but he is his brother’s sword

Iraya Surana: Let’s go lesbians lets go!!!!! Hey hey look at this!!! (does rock climbing parkour that makes Iraya ask Arviraven if Viera is always like this)

Charlie “Hawke” Amell: She’s the insanest person he’s ever met, and he’s met Corypheus and Solas

Dirthalath Lethandar: If I Ever Fail To Look After My Brother, I Beg You Do, Please (religious)

(Bonus) Dirthalath Lethandar:

Juno Mahariel: Child With Self-Esteem Issues Proves Harder To Convince About Them Being In Their Head Than What Dad Expected

Rowan Hawke: His favourite Hawke if he had to pick one

Arviraven Lavellan: What if the God was devoted to you instead of the other way around. They have given him back his purpose, his true and actual purpose, and this is a debt Dirthalath will never be able to repay

Iraya Surana: Child Entrusted To Your Care By Accident Quickly Becomes The Favourite

Charlie “Hawke” Amell: She reminds him of his sister before he was disowned back in the Elvhenan times, and this is enough to be extremely glad he never has to know she exists any more

Vieradhalen Lavellan: With some people, their divine calling is so tangibly belonging to someone else, that you can only look back at watch, hoping it becomes the best for himself because whether he wants to or not, he’s not his to protect nor bless. But he’s an expert in loving things that die to set them free.

#jules.txt #juno mahariel #rowan hawke #river lavellan #iraya surana #charlie hawke #viera lavellan #dirthalath

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okinawa-division · 2 years

Text

Evelyn's Thoughts on Meguro Division

Saji Buranka

"I remember seeing this guy at a nightclub I went to once here in Okinawa. He was pretty cute, but he looked so, like, serious for a teenager. He reminded me a lot of, like, Ace from his whole facial expression. I greeted him once, but all I got was, like, a nod of the head, and that was it, which was a major shocker! Usually guys like speaking to me!"

Vito Koi

"This guy was with that young teen at the nightclub. He looked scary, what with all his scars and piercings! Like the young teen, he kinda just kept to himself, not really bothering anyway, or, like, being bothered. A lot of the people in the club kinda gave him a wide berth cause of his... what does Rashaad call it, 'aura' or something? I think that's what it's called..."

Yeong "Cain" Hajoon

"Yeong is a really cool guy! You don't see a lot of, like, male models. The ones that do actually get into modeling are usually good-looking, but have, like, little to no personality or character. But Yeong is different! He's super chill and funny both in front of and behind the camera. He's really cool! ...Hmm... I wonder if I can get Acey into that sort of thing?"

DOG STREET CLUB

"I think its cool that a bunch of guard-like people are entering this competition! I don't know much about the young teen and the scary-looking guy, but I'm, like, stoked that Yeong is joining! It's going to be awesome seeing him up on stage rapping!"

#hypnosis mic #hypmic #hypmic oc #hypnosis mic oc #hypnosis microphone #evelyn rose #meguro division #dog street club #saji buranka #vito koi #yeong hajoon

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daemxnium · 2 years

Photo

–𝔦𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱.

if there is a god, then i’m going to make him cry.

name: vincent “saint” corvin

age: thirty-four

gender identity: cis-male.

pronouns: he/him

birthday: october 24th, 1987

star sign: scorpio.

species: witch ( fire & emotional manipulation )

occupation: owner of a funeral home

place of birth: litchfield, connecticut

height: 6′3

It was obsessive, his desire to learn and be the best, he practiced spells and enchantments, he strengthened his tie to his element as he grew older, settling into the belly of a fire while those around him in the coven watched him warily. Saint learned how to manipulate smoke, to carry ill will out into the air with flakes of ash and to make lye out of what remained from his casual destruction. It was his fascination with inflicting harm that worried the witches around him the most, but perhaps not so much as how he delighted at revelling in the heart of his destruction. He grew from a wicked boy to a wicked teenager, a bad seed— but as he began to read more of the writings in the coven library and more of the spells, those who had known his mother declared him a spitting image of her: and all efforts to have rehabilitated the witch were considered a failure.

How strange it was then, to be ousted from a coven for a crime that he had yet to commit. His mother had clung to the idea of immortality- so much so that she had been willing to barter the very souls of her fellow witches for it: when those in his coven found the notes of such nonsense under his pillow, they banished him without thought. The witch began to wander, careless and cruel, toying with fire that licked down fields of dried grass and devastated livelihoods. A whole town fell to ruin at the flick of an errant spark and they blamed it upon devils and gods with power over lightning and he laughed at the idea that it was someone more angelic, someone wielding the name Saint.

Along the way he learned more, picking up spells and artifacts, toying with dark magic and seeking out answers to find what remained of his mother. He didn’t know her name, just that they shared a matching steely gaze and penchant for flame. There were hints along the way, books in places with notes in her handwriting, suggestions for herbs to try and spells to commit to memory. Other witches had done little for him in his life, being something one of them felt like an unjust punishment; a cruel experiment in nature versus nature that had yielded the same, unsatisfactory result. They had treated him as though he was something to be feared, and he had become it.

It was too late when he had found his mother. All leads had taken him to New Orleans, where he sat in sunny patches with grimoires and spell books, reading about a place of neutrality off Maine that his mother had noted several times— it was an island called Manan and she had found it important, but it seemed, as he walked into the home that he had finally discovered to be hers, she had never made it there. It was a vampire that greeted him with a face just like his, stalled in time and visually as old as he was— his mother had had her life and her magic stolen, and in turn become something parasitic.

Saint, a man who was more attuned to smoke than fire, drawn to ash and smoulder over the brightness of fire, who longed to toy with shadow, began to continue his journey in dark magic. Blood was a medium for necromancy, and mixed with flame he could gather up strength and hold onto it as he would the rungs of a rope ladder: each step closer to immortality. Saint’s mission brought him to promptly razing the coven of his birth, and death trailed him as he has made his way through America, finding footing now on the island of Manan, home of what is claimed to be a place of peace and is in his eyes, a perfect place to learn and study develop his skills. As a witch he seeks several things above all: more power, infamy, and life immortal. He is still toying with new spells at all times, testing the boundaries and stretching to new limits, but every day with teeth bared in a wicked, hungry smile, he lives to his infallible motto. Carpe omnia; seize everything.

#saint: a history.#i know this is long and i'm so sorry but it is :) recycled.#if u would like a tldr pls message me!!!!! but also. if any of this lore is whacko pls also message me

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libidomechanica · 3 months

Text

Weary gazes; nor Arac, satiate with their clamour

And nothing Paradise; and earth. And all be a bower of love. I pretends that she lay; for his son, and Helen, who dotes, yet she tremble to wood? Weary gazes; nor

Arac, satiate with their clamour bonny blue harbor berth, nor drop in follows like Homer praise. So she kisses, whom I love your waking the nimble wind—shaking noose about

in this courage; plantine, and I assure ye even nose, and uncomplain once they are wove. Fly, fly, my salt of you have murderer’s cry, and even this fatal knife, the man

might from their planning sun. He saw the fire. Is that can mimic stations, signs. To pluck’d: her arms be bound Prentice yourself at the father world my spirit confess—I rail’d, and bear

her troubled, make it plain, with tears in her cheeks of an angry worship to light is payment the loved not lie down the bag of the divine: to be true beauties as the boar, and

the fire, motion, by all stay. In the souls of her things, with their own clear god, and watched within thy loves, as he whole words made to laughed; a rosebud set the wolf would be brought if you

and my eyes blaze upon my ware, to thee? Lips, he bore him, bids her spirit of Cain, is its knell; he, as well the darkness to sing; the receives her arms to endless mountain the

ruin’d Paradise, yet well-raisde notes; my pen doth moist call for men, in all pleased my youth alit, ’t was all the lost thou wilt thou, best like thyself; lay thy shadows, as sweet smooth assuage;

but when the pitiless woe till the quarry; but I lay silent that Sage’s sacred right, and there’s my though its multiplicity holds her in they were starts, like prayers.

And other dear life from beneath the one who made into your laughed at leashed well say, and mortal thing ballads o’erflow; as it may have I forceless pass like the sun and

thou go with herself beheld,—the compact of feeling leaves thieves; since he his primrose bank. Have yourself his louring braine. Yelp alone: accomplicate turns with their mouth, outdrank the

more resistance, as when God from the match yet never doves or onto frozen in passion on passed to haste; you urg’d that hear him; when I came on mine, entrusting earth are death,

controlled a rosy silken fringe of lofty lime a quickly gone? Should, welcomes it will not make me; french to borrow home within its sphere is no gentle Love liv’d, and Lilia’s

waist, and curse of the fraud, bud and breath the answer came one withal, I did not Death’s ebon dart, to the boar! Penalty kick. Thou art thy fame! It shall not of May is gone,

mock’d with berries. Narcissus so high desire had of eyes, as the waterway again, and night, like linnet fondly once again, is it not for drink in despised poems.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #174 texts #ballad

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belovedbythevoid · 1 year

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🌙 ————— SELF INSERT INFORMATION . . .

❝ been obsessed with a certain masked soldier lately, so . . . i finally got around to making my self insert !! did not feel like formatting it all fancy, so here is the information as it's presented.

cw for child abuse, shitty parents, uhh mentions of being a child soldier ( ? ), and i think that's it -- if not, then i'll gladly tag anything else that needs to be tagged !! ❞

LEGAL NAME: caine elise vincent crowley.

CODENAME(S): direhound ( formerly ). wolfe ( currently ).

BIRTHPLACE: transylvania, romania.

SPECIALISATION(S): medic + long range shooting.

WEAPONRY: m1911 ; zastava m93 black arrow ; bowie knife.

DOB: 31st oct.

HEIGHT: five foot, nine inches.

FC: n/a.

PRONOUNS: he / it.

ORI: demi, exclusively masc attracted.

🌙 ————— ACT I . . .

direhound is a name that inspires fear on the battlefield. there are many tales and rumours surrounding the name, leaving many to wonder if the person behind the title truly exists; the hound himself may very well be nothing but a tale told by tired and bored soldiers looking to scare their comrades while resting on base.

whether there is any truth to these tales, no one can truly know; the lack of witnesses makes it impossible. though no one can deny that they fear the soldier who was once found ripping the throats of his enemies from his teeth, the tales behind the name give reason to give wide berth to the he who acts more animal than man.

🌙 ————— ACT II . . .

they call him wolfe now. a notable positive improvement from the name that he once held for ten years. the story behind that one could not be considered a positive one by any stretch of the imagination, and yet he still appears to hold the title with pride. though the remarkable change holds true even to this day, a year after the initial name change, he cannot say that he enjoys the anonymity it gives him; to hear stories of himself and pretend that they are little more than bedtime tales told to soldiers by those who wish to give them a scare. over-exaggerated in ways he can’t explain; they say he was a giant of a man. wolfe desires nothing more than to inform them that he was nothing more than a boy at the time, forced by his parents into a life that he cannot escape, because it’s all he knows now — and where would he go anyway ?

ten years changes a man. ten years for a boy to become a man. it feels entirely unreal. how could he possibly explain that he was nothing but a boy who was raised with knives for teeth and an enigmatic need to draw blood with them ? that before when he was five years old, he was forced to kill a man in cold blood to protect closely guarded family secrets ? and that when he was fifteen, with training no young boy should have, he was forced into a lifestyle that he can't escape even if he wanted to — with forged documents and an uncanny appearance that made him look older than he was at the time ? that all he has ever known was violence; a sharp word and a hand raised high, and who knows what else, whenever he did not perform as expected. surely those tales would not be improved by his corrections, by the backstory that is engraved within his mind and on his body with scars like a starmap, yet leaves others totally in the dark as to what led their boogeyman of a soldier to such acts. best he hold his tongue, unless he so desires to ruin the illusion that has been so carefully crafted by his comrades and enemies alike. he’s always enjoyed a good story, after all. perhaps he might appreciate these more if they weren’t about him, however.

there is perhaps only one person in the world who could potentially confirm or deny these stories, and yet he simply chooses not to; despite his apparent like for spooky stories, perhaps it is different when they are stories about him. in any case, wolfe begrudgingly listens to each tale as they’re told by his comrades, who presume he could possibly have no reason to know these tales by heart — or, the truth of them, anyway. to suppress the roll of his eyes behind his mask takes effort, and yet each time one of his teammates approaches him with a new rumour, wolfe manages with some difficulty. to open up about his history is personal on a level that not even the likes of ghost, whom he is seemingly so close to, can reach, nor appears to have any hope to do so. much as it breaks the hearts of the two of them to admit the distance between them exists.

🌙 ————— ACT III . . .

admittedly, no one is truly certain what wolfe looks like. perhaps there was once a time that everyone knew, and would give him distance upon seeing him lingering nearby, but these days, no one can be truly certain how he appears. and perhaps this is what makes him and ghost so close to one another, the secretiveness that they both understand, though with no need to say the reason.

that said, wolfe is a man of five foot, nine inches tall, with an athletic build underneath his gear. aside from those key details, it can be said that perhaps no one aside from his family has seen him without a face covering of some kind; either plain black or with whatever design blends into the environment well enough. that said, even when capable of dressing casual on off days, wolfe will still choose to cover every bit of skin possible, even in hot environments.

with that said, it can be noted that wolfe mentions on several occasions that he possesses many scars; it can be assumed many of them are on his face and that's the excuse he has to cover it, though he's also spoken of others as well. his hands, primarily, though he's plenty alluded to several mystery scars in unknown locations, including one that gets particularly itchy when he sweats.

🌙 ————— ACT IV . . .

wolfe does not appear to be the expectation of anyone around him; while most might liken him to a trickster, instead he's actually quite stoic and aloof. though he is prone to following his whims, and appears to be rather eccentric as well. he's not an optimist by any means, but prefers realism, or at least the most negative outcome possible to avoid getting his, or anyone else's, hopes up for anything. especially if that thing tends to involve him in particular. however, he will, at the very least, listen to other peoples' problems and is willing to offer advice to them, albeit in the most analytical and logical way possible; he also tends to overanalyse everything, including simple interactions with someone. small talk is not wolfe's forte, as he either doesn't respond to it due to lack of social ability or trying to read too into why someone goes out of their way to speak to him in the first place.

misunderstandings are abundant with him, on any side of a conversation; either it's due to wolfe saying the wrong thing, not understanding someone's tone, or reading too much into their words. he also struggles to take blame in these situations, and may be prone to holding it against someone if they don't understand what he really means . . . or worse, if they crack a joke about how he speaks or his words not coming through correctly. he is, strangely, an accidental flirt, for example; he doesn't mean to say things the way he does, and it appears as if he doesn't even realise it.

that said, he is fiercely protective of his ideals and loyal to those he feels deserve it; if he were a dog instead, it may make more sense to say say he's ' doggedly loyal, ' but the point stands either way. he is not blind in his loyalty, however, as he is capable ( and perhaps a bit too willing ) to accept that people are flawed creatures — in fact, he's likely to point out peoples' flaws due to a streak of honesty that he has of his own.

in fights, though ? wolfe is bloodthirsty. a product of his upbringing has created him into a fighter. years upon years of pent up rage gives him a ferocity that cannot be matched. although he chooses to remain stoic in combat these days, there was once a day which many could swear he possessed claws and fangs made to rend flesh, and had no issue making use of them.

these days, even if he dislikes the idea, wolfe will not hesitate to recall his much younger days; if someone offends him strongly enough or threatens the lives of those few he holds dear. make no mistake, he's seeking the hearts of anyone who stands in his way, and if he must cover himself in their blood and feast upon their flesh to display that he stands unmatched, then so be it — he takes no issue staining himself red again.

🌙 ————— ACT V . . .

he cannot, for the life of him, remain still, and can often be found pacing back and forth whenever boredom overcomes him. even when speaking to people, he demands they follow him to satiate some deep-seated search of his. that said, his lack of remaining still extends elsewhere, as well, as he is unable to keep his hands still either, and must always be found chewing on something; his joints ache from being cracked so frequently, and he has a series of bitemarks on his fingers and hands. additionally, he may even be found sitting in places where he should not, and in ways that most would deem uncomfortable due to an inherent flexibility. he doesn't have many hobbies that do not involve a repetitive motion, such as crochet or painting, and may even play games on his phone if he finds something interesting.

wolfe's brain is very particular with what it enjoys, as only certain things can give him enough feel-good chemicals to please it. the colour red, cold food such as yogurt of various flavours, tea that he usually always has a cup of in hand — usually green, wild berry, or peppermint. he also enjoys thunderstorms, which serve as a way to relax him, and rain, as the repetitive sound tickles his brain in a way he can't deny he enjoys. despite arthritis in his joints, he'd also say he enjoys snow and cold weather.

he does not like most foods, especially if they are not prepared a certain way, as he tends to be a picky eater who will hyperfocus on a certain food until he grows tired of it and must find something else. that said, wolfe does not eat often at all, as he says he despises the act itself, especially when he doesn't have anything he enjoys at the moment. it's often the texture of foods that turn him away, though the flavours of some do not give him anything to work with either. that said, he does like steak and most red meat, though his stomach does not.

he vehemently hates being touched, even if he initiates the act; if one does not get his consent to touch him, then he will certainly not be too pleased.

aside from that, he dislikes bright lights due to a certain level of photophobia that leaves him with migraines if his eyes are exposed to it for extended periods of time; for this reason, he often is found wearing sunglasses, even within buildings if they are particularly brightly lit. for similar reasons of having sensitive ears, he does not like to listen to anything particularly loud — minor exceptions exist for when he is listening to music, which he uses to drown out other sounds that are particularly annoying; he cannot stand when people have multiple conversations near him, nor when multiple people are trying to speak to him at once.

a particularly interesting fact about him is that he does not seem to feel any fear, and often boasts that he does not either — remaining stoic and unfazed by most that would cause others to flinch. it should be noted that he doesn't particularly favour men who are physically larger than him, nor women who attempt to be too friendly or sympathetic with him. he detests sympathy in general, as a product of his upbringing, and may outright become spiteful and put himself in danger to counter the sympathy.

although wolfe does have his fair share of mental and medical issues, he tries not to let them hinder his abilities; he pushes through to avoid seeming weak, and knowing that he would likely be discharged if anyone were to find out.

he has autism spectrum disorder (asd), attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (adhd-c), generalised anxiety disorder (gad), and seasonal affective disorder (sad). he is unmedicated for his adhd, gad, and sad as he vehemently detests doctors and hospitals, and refuses to go to either. it's for that reason that he can be found doing frequent studying of medical textbooks and the like.

as for medical issues, wolfe has ehlers-danlos syndrome, a mild case of scoliosis, degenerative disk disease, arthritis, and hypoglycemia.

🌙 ————— ACT VI . . .

YOU CAN TOUCH ME ☾ ( wolfe is not a touchy feely person at all, and neither is ghost; they both respect each other's boundaries because of this. however, every so often, they will interlock their pinkies instead of holding hands. that said, in private, the two of them may occasionally be more inclined to be physically affectionate.

I FEEL FOR YOU ☾ ( expressing emotions is not something either of them are good at, though ghost may be more inclined to speak about his feelings on something than wolfe would be; depending on the situation, they can both easily express frustration, for example. however, romantic emotions and the like are reserved for times when they are left alone.

YOU'RE GETTING SYMPATHETIC ☾ ( talking about their feelings toward one another is one thing, but to talk about their traumas ? they both seem to specifically choose not to talk about them, yet still take comfort in knowing they understand each other without needing to say it. that said, if one were to be more open, it would be simon; crowley actively chooses to avoid any conversations about his own, though would listen for hours if simon chose to talk about his. neither pushes the other to talk, but some part of simon wants crowley to know him inside and out; just as he wants to know crowley the same way, yet hesitates to ask why do you shy away from me so much ?

DON'T CALL ME THAT ☾ ( aside from price, the only other person in the one-four-one that knows wolfe's actual name is ghost. however, he refuses to refer to wolfe using it unless he knows no one else is around. that said, wolfe willingly uses ghost's real name whenever he so chooses, much to ghost's chagrin from time to time; he usually only does so when ghost is distracted, using simon in a fake irritated tone to catch his attention.

IF YOU GOT HURT . . . ☾ ( ghost and wolfe both worry about one another more than they should, so much to the point that if anyone were to hurt wolfe, ghost would lose a lot more than his cool. meanwhile, if anyone were to hurt ghost, wolfe's brutality on the battlefield would surely make itself known to all those who'd witness him cracking skulls.

ONLY YOU ☾ ( jealousy is a very natural emotion. well, at least it should be. but wolfe and ghost take it to an entirely possessive level. though at first, they kept their distance from one another, then gradually evolved to being friends, they are now more or less glued at the hip. coupled with that, anyone who steals ghost's attention from wolfe is prone to getting a glare shot their way; anyone who flirts with ghost is getting decked in the jaw, no limitations on who or why. meanwhile, anyone who gets too physically close to wolfe is prone to having ghost march over to stand between the two, and flirting with him ? well, they might as well check into the infirmary before ghost gets his hands on them; especially as ghost knows wolfe would not reciprocate.

#🌙 ————— ( direhound: about )#🌙 ————— ( only you my love )#🌙 ————— ( ghost hcs )

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elizabethrobertajones · 3 years

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Hello there. I have a question (more like a thesis): What would have happened if Cas told the Truth anywhere between season 7 and 15? Do you think it would have had the same impact on Dean? Logically speaking Cas could have told him anytime.

Oh gosh, yes. I mean Dean’s reaction in season 15 is still the best it could have been really :P He was in the best place and most accepting of himself and he still had a BSOD for a moment and then Cas had to shove him away so he could go die... (Assuming you take the on screen boring presentation of what happened as canon and not throw in the reciprocation, tears, pull in for a kiss, etc that we know exists either in our hearts or on Jackles’ phone.)

I’ve been thinking about this and the parameters we’d have to apply if we were gonna get something like the show being self-healing back to its self as we know it but we were allowed a confession. Also the show has to be as punishing as ever. So these are my personal theses on each season...

Season 7 the confession would have to be after Cas comes back, and everything in 7x17 that looked like Dean was jealous of Daphne and Meg textually was meant to be read that way in the set up for the confession. To make it the most painful obviously we still get Cas exactly as he was all through to the end of the season and he never really says anything too different but then right when they’re having the “cursed or not” discussion he’d bust out of nowhere that he supposes it is inevitable Dean would talk him into going on this dangerous mission to get Dick because obviously Cas loves him. And Dean, who is in a weirdly zen sort of place in the remaining minutes of season 7 after Bobby’s send off and final words that helped him go make up with Cas, is in a similarly season 15 oddly okay spot, mental health wise. At least. COMPARED TO ALL THE REST OF SEASON 7. But I still personally have always read it as a genuinely good place for him that could have endured much longer if not for *gestures everything that happened after stabbing Dick* and obviously making up with Cas was step one and a huge part of his process.

(idk if you’ve noticed but 7x23 pretty much has no Sam and Dean interaction after Bobby’s send off, and their last good broments are really scarce; it feels sort of natural for abrupt calamity and no time for teary farewells in a season with a strong commentary on grief, which also hyperfocuses the attention on Dean n Cas there.)

So I think Dean would maybe be stunned but maybe quirk a sceptical smile like “He can’t mean it like that and anyway he’s currently coo-coo, this doesn’t mean anything hahaha oh Cas :)))” and then idk shake his head and move the story on and Cas just turns one longing look after him like “dammit that didn’t work out like planned”

Anyway then the exact plot beats of 7x23 follow, exactly as seen on your screens, but we’re left going into season 8 and Carver era with Dean far far more messed up about Cas and it can force clarification in 8x02 in Purgatory where Cas is entirely adamant he meant what he meant and furious at Dean for being mad at him and Dean’s mad at Cas for all the season 8 reasons so they continue angsting at each other but Benny’s reaction shots are just 10x funnier. This is followed by Dean’s reciprocation of “I love you” instead of “I need you” in the crypt scene in 8x17 and from there honestly it’s been built up into canon in such a way that the emotional arc of the show has to go off the wheels and I can’t keep to the self-healing model to continue following the “real” plot and contain this much raw power.

Coincidentally, if the first confession is in season 8, it would be “what broke the connection” after a season 8 where nothing was different up until that point. Cas flaps off while Dean is still processing that the answer was “You. I love you.” and Dean is left yelling at the empty crypt like “What the hell, Cas?!”

Then he’s as mad at him as he was in canon except instead of being borderline a really bad overreaction into his anger phase which we have to weather as miserable fans tethered to this ship who know sometimes Dean gets mad and yells at Cas for no reason, he’s reacting proportionately. It’s always seemed like 8x22 only makes sense if Dean is furious at Cas for confessing and fleeing except, obviously, in our “”real”” canon, it can only be like Cas confessed and Dean took it that way and also felt embarrassed how far he went with his own feelings only for Cas to run.

This would make the bar scene with the cupids in 8x23 make a lot more sense too, and after they get the cupid bow Dean’s going to turn to Cas and give him a nervous smile, and then - Naomi flaps in like she does and distracts them away from reciprocation.

I think this one could go long - maybe even season 13 Cas being dead and Dean being like “FUCK I never got a chance to work things out with him” and 13x06 onwards is where we get any actual work on the ship, because Carver era was so determined to be emotionally gruelling and unsatisfying and relentless from one issue to the next. And the confessions are so bound up specifically in the moments of miscommunication or failed attempts, cut off conversations etc that whether Destiel is canon or not, they’re never gonna get to talk it out under those conditions. Cas is only explicitly the grieving wife and jealous ex to Crowley’s smug take over of Dean’s affections rather than subtextually.

The season 9 confession... I feel like we’d come perilously close to the Monkey Paw curse we once envisioned of Buckleming making it canon because they love jumping the gun on plot points and making them too obvious. So the end of 9x03, Cas is really blatantly angling to come in with a big “Hey I’m human can I live in the Bunker look at me I learned to do The Sex can we do it now” kind of vibe. All the enthusiasm he was giving to eating that burrito in the background while “Zeke” was trying to get him kicked out, but with lusting over Dean :P

If we avoid that we can leap to Mr Bobo Berens and his first episode, and have this thing handled by a pro, as it’s already very much about Cas as a homeless queer man with a bad ex he still loves rolling into town where he’s just trying to make a new life and play straight - I mean human - for his own survival. I suspect the confrontation with Iphraim would make it really obvious that Cas didn’t just want to live as a human but had an eye for living as a human with Dean, and then he’d attempt a confession right before Dean would accidentally talk over, like, the L in “love” honestly, to tell him that sorry things do still stand that you can’t come back with me. Leaves Cas utterly devastated but Dean is none the wiser and he drives off and Cas pines piningly at the pine trees in his Gas n Sip.

Again the end of season probably would force the real confession, since there’s a ready made moment in 9x22 where Hannah tries to force Cas to kill Dean and he gives it all up for one man. Cas can just lower that knife and be like, “No, I love him,” talking to his shoes and Hannah rather than meeting Dean’s eyes. Mark of Cain Dean is fuuuucked up at that point but we still get the moment where Dean carries Cas’s bag into the bunker and sits down with him and tries to care about his health and now also this confession. Sussing out what the heck is up with Cas, and maybe he looks like he’s playing it cool and is still so messed up but Cas is vulnerable, and finally Dean starts to reach across the library table for his hand, and it’s a moment where maybe things could have started to go better for them...... Cue Gadreel walking into the library, Dean going feral, blah blah demon!Dean, blah blah explicitly stated Drowley, blah blah muuuch healing and Cas giving Dean a wide berth for a lil while. Though, in this scenario, 10x22 is far worse but has the reverse crypt scene moment, so Dean can be more obviously unable to kill Cas because he loves him, and then he walks out, followed by season 11 and Cas being returned to them. Unfortunately. Yep. Another finger curls on the Monkey Paw... 11x03 by Buckleming would absolutely be where Destiel goes undeniably canon as it is their first real interactions post Mark of Cain. Our only consolation - directed by Jensen Ackles.

Season 10 confession, hm. Poor Cas. He has the option of 10x03, of confessing and then immediately apologising and walking off to handle stuff with Hannah (thanks Buckleming!) or the Burger Date, where Dean may be slightly less stunned stupid but still likely to laugh it off and not believe it. There’s not much heavy tension between them most of the season so it’s possible that the only time Cas would really get is to confess in 10x22 while telling Dean that he would have to watch him murder the world, and that would suck because I love you. At which point the story dictates that Dean beats Cas to paste so it’s a very bad look. Season 10 destiel confession is the worst.

Season 11 may be better because Cas has options to be jealous of Crowley and Dean’s connection to Amara multiple times and then Casifer happens and that can really play up things in a season where a confession is coming.

I think the Beer Run in 11x23 might be the only viable place, where Dean grabs Cas and takes him out for that drive for last drinks before the end of the world. Cas gets the “you’re our brother” thing and just lays into Dean with the certainty of someone who knows this is it - now or nothing - with “You know that’s crap, Dean. You wait until the end of the world and you can’t even say it. Well I can; I love you.”

Cue awkward tension, well-placed interrupting Moose, and then the world very much not ending so that when Dean n Cas hug and kiss in front of Mary in 12x01. Well. There’s even more explaining to do to her. Since we’ve made it to Dabb era, I believe any confessions from this point onwards can just slot into the show as we got it from there since it’s entirely compatible to start season 12 assuming Dean n Cas are literally married and never be contradicted by the text in their behaviour. But since we’ve had canon Destiel since whenever, obviously the final episodes are good instead of. That.

Season 12... Going to have to go with the first sniff of true canon coming in Lily Sunder with just a few lines leaning even further in the Cas’s Angel Family Are Homophobic Assholes metaphor, leaving Cas’s relationship with Dean even more live wire exposed. Followed by The Mixtape Scene where Cas is going to confess to Dean and get him startled up out of his seat, accidentally knocking the mixtape to the floor and for a moment it’s like, did he throw it is he mad? but then he’s smooching Cas, fade to black, return to scheduled programming but the whole line about Cas stealing the Colt from under Dean’s pillow makes fuckin sense, as well as the fall out argument and how mad Dean was at Cas followed by how devastated he was at Cas’s death. This just means Dabb era continues as planned except we get a kiss in 13x06 under that big glowy cross, and some more smooching here and there when things are good from then on.

Season 13... Hm. Cas has to do the confessing and I don’t think he’d throw that at Dean on return from death so unlike if Dean was the one who was being made to confess obviously the aforementioned glowy cross scene obviously would be it for him... Cas could keep that bottled up much longer, especially as he has so much to do with Jack this season. It’s entirely possible we go through the whole season and then Cas lobs it at Dean as a final card when he’s making his Michael decision and we actually see the scene that we didn’t get, where Cas has to watch Dean getting possessed. Except Dean is like, tearful and furious like why would you tell me that now, and anyway i’m doing this for you as well dumbass but fuck you but also how dare you anyway I need to be an archangel now and save our - your - son, bye. Cue Cas sitting there not just in total horror at what happened but also kicking himself for fucking up the moment :P I guess this way at least we can have that moment where Dean is un-Michaeled and tells Cas he’s going to shower and finger guns at him, and now we can have Cas wordlessly and furiously follow him.

Season 14, we get Cas at Rocky’s bar confessing to Dean while figment!Pamela cheers the whole thing on. If there was EVER a time to use the power of love to snap Dean out of it, Cas upsetting his cosy routine with “this isn’t real, I’M NOT HERE IN YOUR FANTASY” is absolutely the time to pull a reverse crypt scene which has such low stakes in terms of neither of them needing to punch each other when Michael is an external aggressor.

My ONLY issue with this is that Sam has to witness the whole thing and we would get reaction shots and I am a weak mortal who will start cackling at them when I’m supposed to be having the transcendent moment of canon and the whole thing would be ruined just because of the way Jared gurns when doing reactions to dean n cas interacting. Wow thanks. Thanks a lot.

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catalinaflores · 2 years

Text

tell it slant

Barbara's not quite sure how to help the latest stray she's taken in. [Birds of Prey (TV)]

• characters: Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain, Helena Kyle, & Dinah Lance • additional tags: Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Barbara Gordon & Helena Kyle, Metahuman Cassandra Cain • word count: 1556 • read this on ao3

DELPHI ALERT. URGENT.

“Uh,” one of her students says. “I think your beeper might be going off, Dr. Gordon.”

“Thanks, Lila,” Babs says, like she hadn’t noticed the damn thing screaming at her for the second time in a row.

It’s the middle of the school day. But Alfred, Helena, Dinah—they all know that ringing twice means business.

“I’m sorry, guys,” she tells her class. “James, would you run down the hall and see if Mr. Minotti can take over while I go check on my sister?”

The student closest to the door runs off, and Babs quickly glances over her lesson plans for the rest of the day—the juniors can’t present their projects to a sub, but she’s got a tape of Ros and Guil that oughta be enough to tide them over for one class period.

“The replacement called me a bitch,” Helena whines when Babs rushes out of the Clocktower’s elevator, ready to jump straight into emergency mode.

“Were you being a bitch?”

“No—I mean, yeah, sure, but—she called me a bitch, Barbara!”

Babs looks around for the girl—the one Helena’s taken to calling the replacement, though if she means hers or Dinah’s is anyone’s guess—as she reflects on the fact that maybe antagonizing Helena further isn’t the right way to handle the situation at hand. She doesn’t see her hanging around, which means she’s probably wisely giving Helena a wide berth.

“Helena,” Babs starts. “You’re going to have to explain to me why—”

Helena takes a deep breath, loud enough that it cuts Babs off. “She. Called me. A bitch.”

“Wait—” Babs realizes. “She called you a bitch?”

“Jesus fucking christ, yeah, she called me a bitch!”

“Is she still—scratch that. Where’s Dinah?”

“Hell if I know, I sent her the alert first and you beat her here. Maybe she’s still in class?”

“You sent Dinah the alert first?”

“Oh, come on, Babs,” Helena switches gears. “You know I love your obsessive compulsive nerd chic, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, brains don’t beat tactile telepathy. Please tell me you didn’t scare the girl off.”

“I’m not a monster,” Helena protests. “She’s eating tater tots in the kitchen.”

The girl is indeed happily seated on the kitchen counter, eating frozen tater tots straight out of the bag, when Babs and Helena make their way into the kitchen.

“Hi,” Babs says, and she looks up from her tots. “Uh—could you repeat for me what you said to Helena earlier?”

She makes a face, but sets her tater tots down, wanders across the room to press her cold fingers to Babs’ arm, and Babs feels the words within her own thoughts—the girl’s peculiar ability a near exact opposite of Dinah’s.

But the meta power doesn’t use the girl’s own words—just brings them up in Babs’ mind the way Babs herself would use them, something that’s starting to really worry Babs.

“I meant—out loud,” Babs corrects. “Like this.”

The girl frowns, hesitating before cautiously shaping and verbalizing “bitch.”

“Do you know what it means when you say that?” Babs asks, and the girl stares blankly at her for a moment, before lunging and sweeping Helena’s feet.

Babs is already reaching for her escrima sticks when Helena jackknifes back up from the floor, looking disgruntled, but not quite ready to rumble.

“That’s the move she used,” she explains. “We were sparring and she caught me off guard—thought to myself ‘what a little bitch’ so I got her back, and—yeah.”

“Okay. So you thought the word,” Babs says, then moves her gaze from Helena to the girl. “And you learned it.”

The girl doesn’t have to touch Babs to get across the concept of ‘duh.’

Talking—or, well, “talking”—gets easier once Dinah gets back from ditching school and can add her own tactile telepathy into the mix.

“As far as I can tell,” Dinah says. “It’s like—her power works with abstract meaning. So she can take in or send out meanings, and then whoever she’s touching interprets it however they would put that meaning out.”

“Love you, Di, but we figured that out when Helena got images from her and I got words,” Babs interjects.

“You callin’ me dumb?” Helena asks, which Babs ignores in favour of listening to Dinah’s elaboration.

“Well… yeah, but I’m thinking now that… maybe she picks up on how the meanings get conveyed?”

So Babs had been right in her initial analysis, that the girl couldn’t speak English, or Russian, or Arabic, or Mandarin, or any of the other languages they’d pulled dictionaries from to try out. She’d just been wrong in assuming that meant she’d never learn.

“Sounds like she doesn’t need your doctor, Hel—she needs a tutor.”

“How convenient,” Helena interjects with a smirk. “An excuse to avoid turning her over to Officer Reese.”

“Like you weren’t looking for one, too,” Dinah bites. “If we aren’t turning you over to social services,” Babs says, turning her full focus onto the girl, and hoping she understands. “We’re going to need to start calling you a name.”

“How ‘bout ‘Bitch’?” Helena offers. “Or maybe, cheater, brat, psyc—”

The girl swipes her feet once again, and Babs and Dinah both stifle their laughter.

The banter’s equal parts distracting and overwhelming, so Babs lets the issue slide when it’s clear the girl doesn’t view her personhood as contingent on anything so simple as a word.

She’s cautious around them, but confident in a way that scares Babs more than it comforts her—because where the hell did this girl come from, that she can’t be older than fourteen but knows with such certainty she can make it out safely if it comes down to three trained adults against her.

Where did she come from, metaphorically, that is. It’d be a rough situation if they hadn’t noticed her tailing Helena home from patrol.

Loathe as she is to leave the girls alone together, even with the addition of Alfred’s supervision, Babs settles back over by her monitors and gets to updating her lesson plans. The Shakespeare quiz is going to have to shift back, and—

Not for the first or last time, Babs thinks about giving Dick a call. Highly skilled runaway children with no known guardians—he’s got experience here she’s sorely wanting for.

But he’s happy in Blüdhaven. With the wife and kid, and another expected soon according to the card he sent out at New Year’s. He’d come back, of course, if she called. There are bonds that supercede retirement, supercede happiness.

Like every other time the thought’s crossed her mind, Babs resolves that she can’t do that—not to him.

Besides—this is New Gotham. New Gotham belongs to Oracle.

I don’t have a name, Babs finds herself thinking amidst this, and is startled to feel the girl’s hand against hers.

“Nice job sneaking up on me,” she says, rather than admit to finding it terrifying.

“Thanks,” the girl tries out with her own voice, clearly a word picked up from Dinah rather than Helena.

She gives Babs’ arm another tap—I don’t like speaking, she says, but Babs isn’t so sure that’s the end of the story.

“There are words that don’t need sound,” Babs suggests, then breaks contact to show her a quick “sign.”

She looks interested, and Babs makes a mental note to figure out if she’s due for a no-questions-asked favour from the ASL teacher.

“You said—” Babs starts, then realizes she has no idea how the girl conceives of her own communication, and restarts. “When you touched my arm, last night, I heard you say that you wanted to stay here, with us. Whoever trained you, whoever you’re hiding from, they kept you from learning to communicate because they knew it would give you power. You don’t have to speak—but if you really do want to stay, we need you to learn some form of language. Ideally English.”

The girl mulls this over a bit, chewing her lips, before finally touching Babs again.

What name would you pick?

“I did pick my name,” Babs says. “Barbara, Babs, those are names that people who loved me chose for me. But I’ve also named myself, given myself the name Oracle.”

Give me a name, the girl demands, but beyond her pushiness, Babs can see what she’s asking for.

Babs glances over her papers, takes a second to collect some thoughts.

“There’s a story I teach about a girl who had a very tragic life,” Babs suggests. “But she was also immensely powerful—she was an Oracle, too. I like to do a project, every year, where I ask my students to reimagine her story, however they’d like. If you’d like—her name is Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” the girl repeats out loud, inadvertently sending Babs a scrambled message as she does so, images flickering in her own interpretation of Babs’ synopsis.

I will be Cassandra.

Her eyes are steely as she passes on this declaration, filled with triumph over a past Dinah will have nightmares trying to imagine, and Babs almost wishes Bruce, wishes Jason, were here to meet this spirited little girl.

“Okay, Cassandra,” Babs says. “You want more tater tots?”

“Yes,” Cassandra says, confident and driven just the way she feels in Babs’ head.

#birds of prey 2002 #barbara gordon #cassandra cain #helena kyle #trying something new w crossposting to tumblr let me know if it sucks #leni writes

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fuckyeahmackenzieboyd · 3 years

Text

Shafted! - Mackity Fic

Description: The survival challenge almost ends in tragedy for Mackenzie....

for @justherebecausemackity

*****

Charity squealed slightly as she wriggled out of Mackenzie's arms. "Mack, we can't!" she laughed.

"Oh come on! It'll be fun!"

"What if someone sees us?"

"So what if they do? Hey I don't even know where I am right now so what makes you think that lot will? You know you want to, Charity." Mackenzie smiled, eyes sparkling

"Well you'll just have to try and catch me first, won't you?" Charity teased, turning and running away.

"You can run but you can't hide!" Mackenzie laughed, hot on her heels.

Mackenzie chased Charity through the winding maze, trying to catch his breath "Hey come on! Give me half a chance!"

Charity stopped and turned around, smiling at Mackenzie "Out of breath oldie?"

Mackenzie stepped forward and smiled. "Hey you're older than me!"

"You'll regret that remark, Mackenzie Boyd."

"Oh yeah? You gonna punish me?" Mackenzie teased. He stepped forward again and felt the ground move beneath him. Before he could register what was happening he was falling and Charity was screaming.

Mackenzie groaned as he hit the ground below him. He opened his eyes slightly, trying to take in his surroundings. Wherever he was it was dark, damp and cold. He tried to move but his body protested and he could hear the faint sound of Charity's voice.

"Mack! Mack are you okay?"

Mackenzie let out a shaky breath and felt his eyes close.

****

A cold shiver wracked Mackenzie's body and he woke, still realising he was in the same place, voices faint above him. He glanced around, desperate to take in his surroundings and gasped, his eyes snapping shut once more.

"No.. No Mack, come on. You're hallucinating.." He bit back a scream as he tried to move, and opened his eyes again. He definitely wasn't hallucinating.

"Charity!"

"Mack! Mack the ambulance is on the way, just hold on for me babe, yeah?"

"You might want to get the police too.. I'm not alone down here." Mackenzie gasped, before giving in to the pain once more.

****

"Who the hell builds a maze around a mineshaft?"

"Don't you worry about that. I'll deal with it. Look, he's waking up."

Moira jumped up and grabbed Mackenzie's hand. "How are you feeling, Mack?"

"What happened?" Mackenzie asked, realising he was lying in a hospital bed.

"There was an accident. You were taking part in the survival challenge and you fell down a mineshaft. It wasn't your fault, though."

"Charity..."

"She's fine." Moira smiled.

"No, I need to see her.." Mackenzie begged, attempting to sit up.

"Lie down. Mack you need to be careful, you've broken your pelvis and three ribs. I promise you, Charity is fine."

"The body.." Mackenzie sighed in defeat as he lay back against the pillows.

"The police are investigating, but they have an idea who it is. A copper has been missing for a while, they think it might be him. They also said that it looked like whoever it was had been moved recently. So whoever done it knew exactly what they were doing, looks like you were just unlucky enough to walk over exactly where they'd been digging."

Cain span around in his chair as he heard a noise behind him and saw Charity, standing awkwardly at the door, tears streaming down her face.

Cain bumped his shoulder into Moira's and silently gestured they should leave. Moira frowned but followed Cain from the room.

Charity rushed over to Mackenzie's bedside, kissing him gently on the forehead.

"You scared the hell out of me!" Charity sobbed "I thought I'd lost you!"

"Didn't think you cared all that much." Mackenzie smiled.

"Of course I care! Mack, I don't think I've ever been so scared. The thought of losing you it... I can't."

"Hey.." Mackenzie whispered, reaching out for Charity's hand. "I'm still here. Going to take more than an abandoned mine shaft to get rid of me, you know."

Charity nodded and wiped at her eyes. "Promise me you're never going to do that to me again."

"Yeah I think I'll give survival challenges a wide berth from now on."

#mackenzie boyd #charity dingle #fanfic #emmerdale #im kinda drunk

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corinthbayrpg · 3 years

Photo

NAME. Vincent Corvin AGE & BIRTH DATE. 32 & October 24th, 1989 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Spirit Genasi OCCUPATION. Owner of Acheron FACE CLAIM. Oliver Jackson-Cohen

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, sacrifice, murder ) Under the waning crescent, a boy was born. Above the healer’s quarters the moon streamed dimly through the windows— the waxy glow was nearly swallowed by the dark and those who stood around called it an omen. He was something beautiful, with wisdom in his viridescent gaze and features rounded in fat that match those that sit sharply on his mother’s face. He’ll become just like her, they whisper around him and the words fill the room with a buzz like the swarming of flies. It is from her grip that they wrestled the child from, (it is possessiveness and not anything maternal that brought him close to her chest) and they allow her to place one mark upon the infant, the last tie between mother and son before she was once again banished. She gave him the name Vincent, and he bears the mark like Cain’s— for the child of a genasi being raised within the confines of a coven will never be given free reign, not when the ground where her ties to Hecate were severed stayed pitted and glassy with obsidian.

It was obsessive, his desire to learn and be the best, he practiced spells and enchantments, he strengthened his tie to his element as he grew older, settling into the belly of a fire while those around him in the coven watched him warily. Saint learned how to manipulate smoke, to carry ill will out into the air with flakes of ash and to make lye out of what remained from his casual destruction. It was his fascination with inflicting harm that worried the witches around him the most, but perhaps not so much as how he delighted at revelling in the heart of his destruction. He grew from a wicked boy to a wicked teenager, a bad seed— but as he began to read more of the writings in the coven library and more of the spells, those who had known his mother declared him a spitting image of her: and all efforts to have rehabilitated the witch were considered a failure.

How strange it was then, to be ousted from a coven for a crime that he had yet to commit. A fire witch still, albeit quite a powerful one, he had yet to learn all that he wished before beginning the ritual. His mother had to be found, and despite the fact that he was certain she had no love for a child abandoned he thought of himself as deserving of answers— if there was anyone to know how to cleanly sever the tie between Hecate and himself, it would be the one woman he knew had done so before. The witch began to wander, careless and cruel, toying with fire that licked down fields of dried grass and devastated livelihoods. A whole town fell to ruin at the flick of an errant spark and they blamed it upon devils and gods with power over lightning and he laughed at the idea that it was someone more angelic, someone wielding the name Saint.

Along the way he learned more, picking up spells and artifacts, toying with dark magic and seeking out answers to find the fire genasi. He didn’t know her name, just that they shared a matching steely gaze and penchant for flame. There were hints along the way, books in places with notes in her handwriting, suggestions for how to perform the ritual and how to appease and appeal to Thanatos. Hecate had done little for him in his life, being a witch had felt like an unjust punishment; a cruel experiment in nature versus nature that had yielded the same, unsatisfactory result. They had treated him as though he was something to be feared, and he had become it.

It was too late when he had found his mother. All leads had taken him to Spain, where he sat in sunny patches with grimoires and spell books, reading about a place in Greece that his mother had noted several times— a place of power that housed the magic veil, it was called Corinth and she had found it important, but it seemed, as he walked into the home that he had finally discovered to be hers, she had never made it there. It was a vampire that greeted him with a face just like his, stalled in time and visually as old as he was— his mother had had her life and her magic stolen, and in turn become something parasitic.

And yet, a boy who had always sought out his mother felt relieved that she still existed, and she was relieved that he had his name still. Her own was Victoire, and to lose magic after all the sacrifices that she had endured to get it would kill her, this she admitted by her son’s ear and he realized then that it wasn’t their appearances that was the binding element between them, but their hungry desire for power. Still, she offered him everything she knew about the ritual that he wished to partake in. An oblation had to be made, Hecate gave her gifts out freely and that was why they were watered down, but Thanatos required blood— true magic required sacrifice. With her words ringing in his ear, she banished him from her home: genasi were not creatures that craved kinship from their own kind and vampires cared little for the survival of their children, and Victoire was both.

The ritual would be done in spring, in the place that he had been born. A cruel heart held the dark desire for symbolism, to be remembered in the coven that he had begun his life in ways that would be seared into their history. Saint Corvin would be a devil’s name, and it would be spat in the dark and it would be used to scare those who grew too bold in shadows. Vengeance existed in the form of three witches stolen from their beds, manipulated and tricked to follow projected cries into the woods— they had thought themselves about to be heroes, to save a child that needed them, and instead they walked into a trap. Saint chose the crater that his mother had performed her own ritual in, finding strength in the stone that was black and shiny like glass, summoning forth the god as blood beaded on pale throats like rubies, before spilling down the fronts of white night gowns.

Thanatos answered the call, then from Corinth bay, magic disappeared from the world. Devastated and utterly human, Saint spent the duration of the few weeks of the veil’s sundering in rage. He deserved more, he had nearly closed his hands around the throat of what he believed to be the ultimate of gifts and in turn life had throttled out what strength he had left in him. There was no spell in the world, no incantation that would repair what had been done, blood stained his hands and he cared little about it, baring his teeth and pressing forth to spill more. The coven lay in ruins and it was then that Daphnis reached into time and pulled the hands back, putting him in front of Thanatos, a god pleased with the sacrifice, with the witch before him— and he was gifted with an element that was entirely his own.

Saint, a man who was more attuned to smoke, drawn to ash and smoulder over the brightness of fire, who longed to toy with shadow, was given not only the dark strength of a genasi but that of a spirit genasi. It would be shadows and spirits that he held claim over, and he greedily thanked the god that had awarded him such an ability, stumbling from the destruction and death that he had left behind to sift into shadow. Promptly razing the coven of his birth followed, and death has followed him in a trail as he has made his way through Europe, finding footing now in Corinth Bay, home of the veil and the epicentre of power. As a genasi he seeks several thing above all: more power, infamy, and life immortal. He is still toying with his new abilities, testing the boundaries and stretching to new limits, but every day with teeth bared in a wicked, hungry smile, he lives to his infallible motto. Carpe omnia; seize everything.

PERSONALITY

+ focused, daring, intelligent – calculating, deceitful, venomous

PLAYED BY SAM. EST. She/Her.

#male #taken #genasi #oliver jackson cohen #vincent corvin

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stshyt · 3 years

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