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amethysttribble · 2 years

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Empty Spaces; Left Behind

On the night after their brother’s would-be twentieth birthday, Percy and Cassandra sit down and- for once- talk about it.

I was possessed to write a Critical Role fic over the course of the week because the blorbos beckon like sirens, just take it.

Also on Ao3, because it’s long.

Percy spent most of the day and evening in his workshop pinching his fingers, shattering glass, and snapping fine metal.

A right horrible mess, with absolutely nothing to show for it. A completely wasted day, wherein not even the work of his fingers could draw his mind away from the distracted place where it wanted to sink.

Tary dropped by some hours ago, bringing him dinner and a brief distraction, asking if he wanted help. Percy declined, teeth grit and eyes squinted.

“No, thank you. I am perfectly capable of constructing a pair of glasses.”

“Yes, well, it must be terribly hard to make glasses without glasses. If you need them, that is, which I don’t, so-“

He’d glared until Tary took the hint and slunk off.

Percy kept on with his task into the wee hours of the night when his vision began to blur not just from far-sightedness but also exhaustion. The clock struck midnight and the 24th of Sydenstar drew to a close and he… was just tired. He set down his failed creation with fingers beaded with blood and decided that maybe he could learn to live without glasses. Or maybe he could swallow some of his excess of pride- as Vax’ildan put it- and take Taryon up on his offer of help. Or maybe he should just get a drink and sort this out in the morning.

That sounded appealing.

But as he stood from his hunched position for the first time in hours, the pain in his cracking back nowhere near matching the weight in his chest, Percy wondered if it would be best to go to bed instead. Vex’s bed, actually. He could traipse down to her house, knock pathetically on her door, and-

And what? No, he didn’t have the energy to love her properly tonight. He wasn’t even sure he had it in him to be able to let her hold him and be sad. This strange feeling that was weighing him down felt so soft and personal.

Best to retreat to his own bed.

It was with this intention in mind that Percival took up a lit candle and began to weave his way through Castle Whitestone’s halls. He made it out of the lower levels of the keep as planned, ascended the stairs to the second level. As he trailed bare finger over the filigree on the walls, though, his feet wandered. Bed would mean thinking- it wasn’t nearly late enough for him to pass out- and the chiming of midnight had not relieved him as he thought it would.

This weight was so strange, so annoying. Percival Frederickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III felled by a date. By a spot on the calendar, when this had never bothered him so much before. All those days, all those forgotten anniversaries, he was five years gone and before the dates past him by with no more inconvenience than a little extra anger in his chest.

But now, he had… sat down. Rested. Settled into a home with no intention of leaving it- either physically or by leaving the mortal plane- for a long time, and grief had caught up with him like a stalking beast.

And today the creature is digging in its claws, Percy thought as he pushed open the door his aimless wandering had brought him too. Rather than make his way to the royal family’s quarters, he ended up in the portrait hall. A good place to wallow.

The Briarwoods’ desecration of Whitestone never felt more deliberate than it did while walking down this long corridor of history. The missing pieces must have been so carefully picked, because many of the portraits Percy knew so well from his childhood remained.

For example, there was the Repose of Wolf and Melanie. Still mirrored on the other wall was the landscape painting of Melanie’s Garden, wedged between two windows so that one might theoretically be able to compare the rendition to the real thing.

There posed Lord Conrad II with his son, Julius Conradine I- the only, really, because Julius Conradine II never ascended to his seat- and his lady wife, Elisabette.

Slightly further down was Percival Nathaniel II with his bow and horn and hunting hounds.

The wedding portrait of Leona de Rolo I and her husband, Balthus Klossowski, a lord of Westruun; it was their union that truly tied Whitestone and the de Rolos to Tal’dorei and the depiction of that event tried imparted that importance by using an obscene amount of metallic paint.

Lady Cassandra II sitting at her desk, her own glasses perched delicately on her nose.

Georgine Vesper IV- ‘Georgine’ being a name so overused by the de Rolos in the 700s that not even Percy’s sisters bore it- sitting across from her wife, Lady Taya Frederickstein, with niece Georgine Frederica V bouncing in her lap.

They were all here, the revered ancestors whose names and stories Percy was taught so intently. But still, there were pale gaps in the walls. Great Uncle Nathaniel was missing. Grandfather Ludwig and Grandmother Ophelia’s last official portrait from their teneer as lord and lady? Gone. Percy’s cousins- Leonette and George and Cordelia, son and daughters of the now defunct Second House- were conspicuously absent.

The most obvious hole, though, was the pale yellow wound upon the wall that used to house the portrait of Lord Frederick Wolfe Klossowski de Rolo III and his lady wife, Johanna von Musel de Rolo with their seven children.

Percy knew the names and stories of all the historical de Rolos lining this hall, but the Briarwoods has murdered the memories of everyone he knew.

It stung. Stung was an understatement. It bit and burned and bored like a bullet wound in his side, especially tonight. That he and his family were so viciously yet callously ripped from these walls, that it was made to look like no de Rolos had walked these halls for fifty years, it was an insult. This wasn’t just business, it was a personal affront.

And the bitterness of it all choked him so thoroughly that he could not tear his eyes from that mockingly discolored spot on the wall as he drew near, not even to notice-

“Percival.”

He went completely stiff and was half reaching for the pistol that never left his side when he looked down, and it was… it was only Cassandra. Cassandra, sat on the floor under a window, a faint lantern at her side. She looked like a ghost with her features washed out in the gloom and her nightgown pooled around her.

Just Cassandra. Percy was still shaking. Why was he still shaking? Fuck. Would he ever feel safe in this castle again?

No, he knew, no he would never feel safe in his home ever again. Hotis’s attack had proven his fears true, and every stray anxiety since had reinforced them. All it took was one sound, sight, piece of furniture out of place for the jumpiness to appear.

Even Cassandra. Even her hiding and sneaking- this most natural thing in the world- frightened him. So much so that he was seized with the desire to take a queue from Vax and just walk away rather than force himself to sit with her on this night.

He didn’t turn away, though. He didn’t, because Percy was coming to the… horrifying realization that he might live. Might want to live. And that he would do that living in this horribly haunted castle and that meant talking once in a while to its foremost specter: his sister.

Without a word, he gingerly moved to sit beside her- not touching, but close enough to share body heat- and set his candle down on his other side. Percy didn’t look at her as he settled into place, instead keeping his gaze on the patch of carpet that Oliver stained with sword oil once, before turning back to the awful wall. He was breathing heavily when he settled, upsettingly loud next to her near silence.

Neither of them spoke. Not for a long time.

Percy had honestly expected Cassandra to say something. Perhaps some gripe about him interrupting her peace, or a scold about his still blistered and bloodied and ungloved- the worst crime someone of their station could commit- hands, or maybe even an acknowledgment of why they were both here. But that was probably too much to hope for.

Percy forced himself to look at her after a moment, and her eyes were on her knees, which were pulled protectively against her chest. He copied her. Yes, he was feeling rather small and miserable himself. Not that he had a right to, not compared to Cassandra, not when she-

“Today-“ he started and immediately stopped.

Technically it was yesterday. Yesterday, and they both knew what yesterday was. It would have been Ludwig’s twentieth birthday.

And Ludwig and Cassandra were always so close.

They were- they’d been- little more than a year apart in age and thick as thieves. Not that Ludwig ever made trouble; he was too disinterested in mischief for that. But not even the wrath of the gods could have made him snitch on Cassandra, who always confided her naughty little plans in him. They used to play chess, checkers, backgammon, anything really, together.

That’s how Percy remembered Ludwig most clearly, fourteen years old and bored with the world, bent over a chess board trying to puzzle a way out of Cass’s check.

He and Ludwig used to fight horribly. He was probably the sibling he got along the worst with, all things considered. Percy bickered most consistently with Whitney and Oliver, but Ludwig was the only one he’d ever had true fights with. Pathetic, really. A boy almost five years his junior and he’d get so intellectually insulted because Ludwig was probably as smart as him but preferred philosophies and poems and he thought clockwork frivolous.

Gods, what had he said that made Percy’s blood boil so badly?

“‘Your inventions might gauge the time, but never the age of a man’s soul’.”

He drawled the words slowly, giving Cassandra time to remember them. If she even did. His and Ludwig’s latest- last- spat about whether the sciences or humanities were more valuable to the human condition had been pretty standard. The fact that Percy had knocked over a chair in his haste to storm away after that comment might have only been significant to him.

But when he looked at Cassandra out of the corner of his eye, she was smiling faintly. Tiredly. The expression faded in an instant, but it… it was something.

It had to be something when she said, “He was quite, ahem, earnest wasn’t he? He wanted to sound so smart.”

“I did too, in fairness.”

“You still do.”

“True.”

What laid bloody and raw between them was that Percy might yet live to change- and wasn’t that a novel thought- and Ludwig never would. Wasn’t, actually might be the correct tense. He wasn’t alive to outgrow being a teenager trying too hard to sound intellectual, picking fights with an erudite older brother to prove something.

“He’s still a little boy in my memories,” Cassandra whispered into her knees, so low Percy wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t straining for it. “We were peers, and I… I can still almost imagine the twins as older than me, Vesper and Julius still are, but Ludwig…”

Ludwig died with baby fat on his cheeks.

Not that Percy knew how he died. How any of them did except- except Julius and Whitney, slaughtered at the dinner table with Mother and Father. The dungeons were a blur of pain and disoriented clips. Vesper was there and growing thinner and wanner, and then she wasn’t. Oliver went away and Ripley came back cursing the ‘weak ones’. Ludwig was… crying. And then he wasn’t. Unsettling still, right up until they walked him upstairs.

Percy didn’t know what happened and he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t. He efficiently blocked it out and moved on.

Further suffering wouldn’t help, he was learning.

Cassandra, though, Cassandra was wallowing in sorrow tonight.

“I still remember him as a child, and even that is getting… blurry. I know it’s wrong. He wasn’t nearly that tall, I was just looking up. It’s warped and fading and of a child. I come here sometimes, as if being near what used to be here will help me- I don’t know. Imagine what should be there; and update. It hurts worse, though, that there isn’t anything."

Percy wanted to say, We’ll commission a new portrait.

But his mind was already churning and washing that platitude away. How would they commision a new one? It would be based on memory and Cassandra… Cassandra’s wasn’t the only memory fading. It was only a few weeks ago that Percy was recalling Whitney and had to spend a terrifying few minutes trying to remember her eye color.

The other option was to try and find old portraits and make a recreation, and in a fair world that would be so easy. There had been so many portraits of the de Rolo children at varying ages, littered all throughout Whitestone Castle.

Frederick and Johanna had been incredibly doting in the way that only noble parents raised by noble parents could be, and as such their gestures of undying love had been faint and hidden under years of tradition- Vex and Vax, Keyleth and Scanlan, Pike, and maybe even Grog would laugh at him if he tried to explain that a slight pat on the cheek from his father had been enough to instill him with confidence for months and his mother straightening his collar could convince him he was the most beloved person on earth- but they were there. The most consistent sign, though, of their utter adoration for their many children had been that they commissioned a lot of portraits of said children.

One every two years for all seven children- individual, and then some together, because the painters were already here and doesn’t Percival’s coat match Vesper’s dress nicely today? Go lounge like you do when you read together- until the age of nineteen. Even then, that age-cap was only imposed because Julius exasperatedly complained once that, “I look no different than I did for my last portrait! Please, save some paint for the rest of Whitestone.”

Ever practical, Julius.

That was perhaps the only thing that kept the castle from being overrun with renditions of Frederick and Johanna’s brood, who were displayed mostly prominently in the lord and lady’s respective chambers, but also the family parlour, and the dining hall.

At eighteen, Percy would have given anything for that terrible portrait of him at the awkward age of eleven- a six year old Cass on his lap- to be taken down, and now… Now he knew what giving up anything, everything meant, and he’d sell the soul he didn’t even have ownership of to get that painting back. All of them. They were conspicuously gone, and likely not coming back, with one exception that was half-burned and faded in a closet.

Only Percival and Cassandra remembered what Ludwig looked like at the age of fourteen.

Only them, and one day-

“I can’t remember Vesper’s laugh anymore,” he confessed. He felt more than saw Cassandra turn to look at him as he studied the wall, trying to will the memory of Vesper’s face to appear there.

“I could describe it, if asked. With words. Breathy, quiet. More a slight chuckle than anything else, unless you really caught her off guard, and then she almost screamed before regaining control. But that’s- it’s like I’ve transcribed my own memories. I’m remembering a memory, and I can describe it, but I can’t conjure the actual sound. And I ask myself constantly, will that be enough?”

Were he to write it all down for future de Rolos to read, if he were to- to tell those stories to his own children, to nieces and nephews, would it be enough?

No, never, not for him and Cass at least. But probably not even for the rest of the world. Percy could never write something well enough, true enough, lovely enough to make history remember his siblings correctly. He wasn’t bright Ludwig, he wasn’t literary Whitney or artsy Oliver, and he’d long since forgotten how to make beautiful things, if he’d ever known. Percival de Rolo only made ugly, ugly weapons.

Cassandra seemed to agree.

“Their names are going to be footnotes in our story, Percy,” she muttered wretchedly into her knees, “in our story. Us! Cassandra the Betrayer and Percival-”

“The Monster.”

They did not correct each other. Percy knew they should, how this should go. How Vex and Vax would do it, him viciously defending her first and then her calling him stupid and correcting his poor opinion of himself in turn. But Percival and Cassandra were different.

They hadn’t broken together, but apart, and none of their jagged edges fit anymore.

Besides, her words were true. Cassandra was a betrayer. She betrayed the name de Rolo, she betrayed Whitestone, and she betrayed herself. It was a simple fact, and not something Percy was angry about. Nothing he reviled or hated her for. Nothing that could make him love her less.

But she was a betrayer, and Percy? His monstrousness didn’t even bear explaining.

“What a right mess,” Cass whispered, “that it should be us.”

That drew Percy’s eyes over towards her, he even turned his head, heart suddenly in his throat and pounding.

“Do you- do you think,” he stuttered, “that the others would have done better?”

Cass shrugged.

“Whitney was so sweet and so graceful. Her manners were always better than mine; so was her dancing and playing and smiling. She could have survived better too, I think. Maintained a- a mask, without coming to believe it was the truth. And Vesper. So well-spoken. So wily and clever. She would have figured out how to be a triple agent for the revolution in Whitestone, I know it. But not me.”

You were so much younger, Percy could say, but he was selfish. So instead he said-

“Ludwig would have never left you.”

Cassandra went rigid.

They’d not spoken about it since she hurled her accusations and named herself dead in the snow by his negligence. They weren’t going to speak about it now.

Percy, in a strangled, wretched voice, with no intention to continue that thought, whispered, “Julius was ever charming and ever sensible. He would have marshalled outside help, instead of selfishly thinking it must all be done alone. We would have been free in two years. And Oliver? Oliver the swordsman, Oliver the sociable one, Oliver the honorable who couldn’t sneak cookies without feeling guilty-"

That actually drew a weak snort from Cass.

“-Oliver would have been chosen by the gods.”

Instead of what I was chosen by.

Percy lifted his head enough to look back at the blank wall and the shadows from outside that played there in place of his family. He imagined that he saw a shape of a raven there, taunting him. Broken, broken, broken; even without the demon he probably would have made a mess.

“The gods,” Cassandra mused quietly, voice as taut as he felt. “The gods, yes, I suppose so. And instead it was you and me, and I slew the Dawnfather’s servant in Whitestone. Do you suppose we’re cursed?”

“No,” Percy replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. “Just abandoned.”

Cass hummed in consideration, and they lapsed into silence.

Damn, he was tired. Why had he come here again? To feel sorry for himself long enough to be able to pass out, and he’d certainly succeeded on that front. Cassandra being here dragged the pain and the rage and the bone-deep exhaustion out of him too easily. She had a strange ability to do that.

And in the last few months, when everything was dragon conspiracies and breath-stealing terror and the looming inevitability of death, he couldn’t afford to even look at her. What kind of person would Percy be, after all, if he grew to rely on her or she on him and he finally died? He had died; by his own hand as much as Ripley’s.

Death was painful, though, and when he was dragged back by love he hadn’t realized was there… Cassandra came to see him. Ran her fingers through his hair.

That was the first time it occurred to him that Cassandra might prefer that he was alive instead of dead in the snow beside her. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he preferred that he was alive and not- martyred, peaceful, pure- dead in the snow.

And as life slowly started to seem not only possible but desirable, the less it felt like an imperative to avoid Cass.

Which was why Percy did not turn away the moment he saw her sat in the portrait hall, as he would have immediately a few months ago. But that didn’t mean he was strictly comfortable sitting here right now with her. Everything about her chafed at Percy- her obvious wounds felt like they had been done by his own hand, and the constant reminders burned- and it made the space between him and Cassandra feel like barbed wire.

But if they were both soiled and both abandoned and both sleepless tonight… Well, his hands were already spotted with cuts and blood and he was too tired to be afraid of a little more pain. “You saved some memories of them, though,” Percy said, and he even forced himself to turn and look at her stunned face. “The portrait in your room. I know you can’t see Mother and Father, Whitney and Vesper, but it’s… I’m grateful for that. Thank you.”

Cassandra was looking at him like he’d said something truly vile.

“You know about that?”

Percy nodded.

“I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, sounding almost aghast, which made his heart squeeze. “That I haven’t shared it with you myself. You deserve-”

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry,” Percy cut in, waving a hand between them. “It’s yours, it’s…”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, before the words almost fell out of his mouth, something he’d never said aloud before.

“Sylas Briarwood stole the pocketwatch I made for Father.” Silver, three hands, the Sun Tree cast upon the front; it was a particularly striking insult to unearth it among the clothes and ashes. “I found it and I kept it and it’s mine now. I… I don’t carry it, I keep it in a snuff box in my room, but I take it out sometimes and think about- about everything. Just for me. You kept the portrait for that same reason. I understand.”

It was at the word ‘understand’ that she flinched, but she didn’t look away. Cass studied him for a long moment, wherein the silence began to eat at Percy. He was almost ready to break-in or turn away when she hesitantly said, “I have gems that- that made up Vesper’s favorite necklace. The one she was wearing- It broke. Into a thousand pieces. But I have them.”

This time, Percy flinched, eyes fluttering as tears suddenly gathered. Vesper’s favorite necklace, emeralds and sapphires and bronze, an old family heirloom. He could almost see it, the pieces scattered across the ground with the blood drops; Cassandra on her knees gathering them up as if the act could draw the life back into their elder sister’s heart.

It hadn’t, it hadn’t, it wouldn’t, none of the bits and pieces either of them had pulled from smashed remains of something intricate and beautiful meant anything, and yet-

“I’m glad,” Percy whispered back, and was able to spare a slight smile for his sister as he fought past the blockage in his throat.

In his desire not to start wailing in front of his baby sister, he was forced to swallow the instinctive urge to offer to fix the necklace- not like he could even make his own glasses- but that seemed to be for the best. As he turned his gaze on the carpet once more and sought to compose himself, Cass must have gathered herself, as well.

When Percy looked up again, she smiled back at him.

Then she said, “I’d not thought about that in years. Oliver’s guilty heart, I mean. It really was bad, wasn’t it? Ludwig and I used to say he had chronic snitch syndrome.”

Percy snorted, louder than he meant to, and then actually laughed. No, no, he’d not thought about Oliver like that in years either. Cass’s presence had dragged it out of him. She made him say-

“Whitney, too. She was nearly as bad.”

“Oh, absolutely. All of them were. Honestly, I think besides Ludwig, you were the only one I trusted not to rat me out.”

This time, the huff of a laugh that drew from Percy was startled but even lighter. The words were coming so easily now, familiar banter long lost sliding back into place.

Like freshly oiled gears, he thought.

“I just couldn't be bothered to try and enforce discipline,” he drawled, shoulders relaxing against the wall and Cass copied him. “And Vesper wasn’t like that with me and Julius. It was just because you were the baby that she was strict.”

Cass hummed, annoyance and amusement and warmth in her tone.

He watched her as she tilted her head back towards the far wall, but this time the silence wasn’t oppressive. They were nineteen and thirteen, chafing at the expectations their positions placed on them and hiding together. One stray word would alert Mother or Julius- surely right around the corner, any second now- to their position so they sat in silent solidarity instead.

It was a different, strange, bitter sort of solidarity that united them now, but Percy pushed that lingering reminder away. He was lost in thought, imagining ghosts gliding down these halls. He and his sister were ensconced in the past now.

And the illusion wasn’t broken when Percy looked back at his sister and she was grown and scarred and lonely. Because there was a streak of white in her hair to match him and they were both little more than breathing haints in these empty halls. At least for tonight.

In the morning they would go back to being Lord and Lady de Rolo, but at present they were Percy and Cass, a pair children- murdered and reanimated, the smoky voice that still haunted him whispered, made monstrous and traitorous and unrecognizable- mourning on their brother’s birthday. If Percy was ever going to bring such subjects up, it would have to be now.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said as steadily as he could.

Cassandra turned her gaze back to him and she nodded indulgently, here own eyes far away with memories.

“When I caught you and Ludwig,” Percy said slowly, and her mouth parted a little in surprise, “snooping around my workshop, what were you doing? Because I was so paranoid for weeks that you’d played some trick, or took something, or broke something, but then nothing came up. Which made me even more paranoid.”

It was Cass’s turn to laugh, a breathy giggle that trailed into coughs. He watched as she had to work her throat a few times to speak and even wiped slightly at her eyes.

“It was the silliest thing, really,” she was finally able to croak. “We… we were looking for Ludwig’s birthday present. For fourteen. You’d mentioned you started making it, and I guess- gods it’s hard to remember, but I think you’d had a fight? About his maths scores. And we thought you were making him an abacus or something else spiteful, and we wanted to prove you were being mean. But you weren’t.

“You labeled the box. ‘For L’, it was easy to find among your unfinished projects. So organized, Percival, so predictable.”

“Hey now,” he scolded without heat, voice wet. He knew where this was going.

“The colors weren’t finished, paint smudges everywhere from the first coat, but it was obvious what we found. A metal quill designed to emulate Arcanist Agrupnin. I think Ludwig almost cried when he saw it. We felt so bad. So we just put everything back into place and that’s when you found us.”

“I… Goodness.”

Percy leaned his head back against the wall with a thud, completely overcome.

Yes, yes, he remembered that present well. Oh, Ludwig. He’d finally advanced to reading wizard texts and his long-standing fascination with the Calamity had lead him to Maya Argupnin, and then he couldn’t stop quoting her at the stupidest times. It had driven Percy mad, Vesper too. The pair of them- both well read themselves, and just far enough out of adolescence to mock behaviors they’d only just grown out of- had found Ludwig’s open and smug admiration obnoxious. They made fun of him for it, Vesper teasingly, Percy meanly.

But it had been his life’s chief pleasure at nineteen- such a spoiled boy, not a drop of ambition- to make toys and accessories and trinkets for his family. Each one personalized, each one better than the last, and inspiration for Ludwig was easy. A metal quill seemed like a fun challenge, the Agrupnin colors personalized it.

And Ludwig was weirdly silent when Percy presented it to him, which of course he took offense to. How dare Ludwig not appreciate it. What a brat!

But no. No… Ludwig had liked his last gift.

An embarrassing sound welled up from Percy’s throat as the tears finally escaped his eyes.

Oh gods. He brought a hand up to wipe them away, but he didn’t have his glasses. He always had to push his glasses up when he got teary, and the motions calmed him, pushed the reaction away, but now he didn’t have them. When he his fingers rubbed at his eyes, more tears just came and he was crying.

Percy was truly crying now.

“Are you- Oh my.”

Cassandra was watching him break down, dammit, he couldn’t- couldn’t do this in brought of her. Percy hunched forward and gasped, drawing in deep breaths to try and drag himself together, then sat up. He looked towards his sister, tears still streaming down his face, to apologize for the lapse in control and promise her all was well, but-

She was crying.

Cassandra met his eyes, and they were the same: red and watery, deep bruises underneath that not even the most perfect expression of noble-indifference could hide. And she was crying.

“I miss him,” she gasped around the tears.

And Percy… his friends would reach out and hold. Five years ago he would have at least rested a hand upon his little sister’s shoulder. But if he did that now, a few tears would be the least of his and Cass’s trouble.

They would both shatter and Percy’s hands weren’t steady enough to try and put them back together.

So, for now, he just choked out, “Me too.”

For now, Percy and Cass sat on the floor of their ancestral castle, side-by-side but not touching, and cried for everything they had lost and would never get back.

For now, it was enough.

#critical role #vox machina #percy de rolo #cassandra de rolo #fanfic #tribble post

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elindae-writes · 3 years

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Every cringe streamer or youtuber makes a music channel. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Megs is no different. I bet he'd force all the decepticons to sing for him. Starscream is just shrieking at the top of his lungs and though Soundwave is tone-deaf, he can drop some sick beats. The vehicons have some pretty deep voices. I'm pretty sure they'd be supporting the main singers. Megatron waves around his sword randomly trying to fit in with music and look like he knows what he's doing.

This ask made me really ponder Megatron's streaming style. The reason why is because I think he would alternate between wanting other people in his stream and at other times just wanting to stream completely alone.

He would wave his sword around as if it's a conductor's baton. Then he'd accidentally get it stuck in the wall and blame Starscream.

Okay, I figured it out: He'd probably force everybody to live out this extremely painful and cringey sing-song nightmare--on Tuesdays.

But on Wednesdays? On today's Wednesday? Megatron would go into Survival Man Mode. He watched too many survival shows and decided to get onto the wilderness survival bandwagon.

Let's see how our planet's ruler is surviving in the woods!

"hello," Megatron rasps in the camera. He is near a highway. "today i shall prove how inferior your pathetic planet is by easily surviving upon it. look, look how weak it is. pah. i will prove myself the true lord of earth today."

The cars get into an accident due to their shock of seeing him. "yes. i am shocking, am i not?" Megatron nods and then sprints across the road and into the woods like a whitetail deer.

"i know the basics of survival. first, i shall gather a source of water!" Megatron sees one of those tree stumps with leftover rain water in it. It has leaves floating around. He reaches down and slaps it with his talon, splattering water and foliage everywhere. "h2o has been procured."

"shelter," Megatron says as he zooms in on a bird's nest. "i must create a woodland abode of my own, like the one that this flying rat has constructed here."

He snaps down several trees and creates a very terrible teepee in the middle of the woods. He then settles down in a crossed-leg pose underneath it. He's hunched down a bit because it's too small. Megatron ignores this. The camera is propped onto a rock.

"this is easy. why do you humans suck at surviving on your own planet? mhmm."

A metal purple shape flies through the sky. The stream notices but Megatron doesn't.

An actual bird lands near the camera! You can see its blurry feet.

"a new stream viewer! what a lovely chicken."

It's a bluejay but he doesn't know that.

It begins to peck the camera.

"DREAFUL CREATURE, FOOLISH FLIGHTED BEAST, DO YOU KNOW NOT WHOSE STREAM YOU PECK UPON?"

He fires his fusion cannon at the bird. It misses and the birds flits off unharmed.

There is now a giant fire.

"well. that fulfills the next basic need: warmth. i shall be warm. winter is coming soon." It's summer.

He fires his fusion cannon a few more times and there is now a very large fire. "fantastic. warmth! wait. it's coming towards my teepee."

The flames lick at the moss near the base of his "teepee" which is still just precariously stacked trees btw

He crouches in front of the flames and waves his arms around in front of the fire. "do not encroach upon your lord's dwelling. DO NOT BURN DOWN YOUR RULER'S HOUSE"

The teepee is lit on fire. Megatron's optics flicker. He decides to try and save his "house." He waves his arms around in the hopes of stoking out the flames. They just grow taller. He stares at it for a few moments and then turns and leaves as the forest burns.

"well. okay..."

He clears his throat and ignores the forest fire now behind him. "it was the tree's faults for being weakly susceptible to flame. they should've decided to grow as flame-proof trees. stupid wood. perhaps there is some non-flammable wood in this forest? mhmm? i shall gather my next basic survival need: food." He pulls out a cube, puts it to his mouth, but then pauses with his mouth still half-open. "no... i will prove my superiority over your planet by proving that i can survive on its resources alone!"

He then throws the cube into the sky. It hits a mid-flight bird. "in fact! i shall even make do without my spare emergency cube!"

The purple metal drone flies over the trees again. It screams. Megatron still does not notice.

Megatron puts the spare cube down in front of a rabbit. he leans down and whispers to it very gently. "eat. food. this is yours. you are set now. thank me later." The rabbit sits on it.

Megatron then shuffles off.

Megatron crouches down and eats an entire bundle of leaves off a bush as if he is some woodland creature.

"disgusting," he mutters, "but i shall make do and survive. far too green."

There are screaming noises. He moves the camera to record the source of them. We see several terrified people playing frisbee at a nearby park. Yes, Megatron was just in a park this entire time. The frisbee clonks into Megatron as the people scream.

"you dare throw a disc of plastic at your ruler?!" Megatron scoffs. He begins to stomp at the humans.

A groundbridge opens up. Optimus emerges, battlemask drawn and weapons already out and pointed. "MEGATRON."

"hello! oh, how interesting it is to see you here, Orion. how interesting. i see that you happened to start your own wilderness survival stream coincidentally shortly after i started my own. what a happenstance, right?"

He coughs up a salad's worth of leaves and then shakily points at a confused Optimus. "you're copying me," Megatron hisses. The bluejay from earlier lands on his outstretched talon tip. "copycat! get your own section of woodland area to livestream in!"

"...MEGATRON?"

Megatron's optics flicker and go dark. "uh," he coughs. "perhaps i should have held onto that spare cube. that stupid bitch rabbit stole it." He collapses due to hunger and lands faceplate down onto the fallen frisbee. It turns out that Megatron couldn't survive off of just leaves after all.

#mcprime universe #megatron #optimus prime #transformers #transformers: prime

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imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 3 years

Text

Feeling Special

Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Warning: fluff, pg-13

A/N: commission for @marvels-biggest-ho

Summary: You show up to help Mirio terrorize Class -1A during training and your long time crush, Tamaki, is there.

The first year training gym had an air of playful tension as you walked in. Mr. Aizawa thought it would do the younger students some good to have an older student drop in and show them the ropes but you had a feeling your quirk was the real reason the teacher wanted you around. Your quirk was Acquire ; the ability to gain another person's quirk for a limited amount of time, depending on how long you touched them. They would still have their quirk but you were able to use it as well - it worked out most times but you usually avoided touching someone with a more complicated quirk. There was one time you accidentally touched Mirio Togata and ended up falling a floor below your dorm. Luckily, you only came into contact with him for a few seconds. Usually you wore gloves but as you walked into the large training gymnasium, your hands were bare.

“Oh, look who's here!”

The greeting came from Nejire Hado and you smiled, noticing the two other members of the Big Three. The trio stood in front of class 1-A. You eyed the slouched over Tamaki Amajiki; he glanced at you for a split second before turning away nervously. Smiling, you nodded to Mirio.

“Mr. Awzia sent for me,” you explained, turning to the group. “He said something about showing you kids a good time.”

“That’s what I was about to do,” Mirio gleamed, hands folded against his chest. “I challenged them all to a fight.”

You laughed, sneaking a peek at Tamaki. “Amajiki, will you be joining the fight?”

The young man seized up, shaking his head no without looking at you. “Fair enough, we don’t want to rough the kids up too much. We all know you’re the strongest here.”

Mirio grinned at you, giving a little wink as he focused on the first years. You half listened as he went on about kicking their asses, eyes zeroing on Tamaki, who was making his way to the sidelines. He looked so cute in the UA jumpsuit, his ears poking out from his hair; it seemed obvious to everyone but him that you adored the soon to be pro-hero. You had been in the same class as the Big Three since year one, made friends right away with Mirio and his best friend, the quiet Tamaki. The nervous, socially awkward boy - who you had developed feelings for over time.

“Y/N.” Mirio was calling out to you, as he rushed towards Class -1-A, a carefree glance plastered on his face. “You joining or not?”

“Hell yes,” you shouted back, rushing towards your friend. Watching as Mirio went head to head with the boy he called Problem Child, you wanted to throw some of the younger students off guard. Jogging over to the group, who were distracted by Mirio, you touched the shoulder of a girl with horns and pink skin.

“He’s going to be the number one hero one day,” you boasted. She jumped back just as Mirio disappeared and reappeared behind the group. You smiled when the girl used her quirk to throw corrosive liquid, acid, in your direction. Mimicking her moves, her face drew up in horror.

“You stole my quirk!”

The students that weren’t fighting Mirio off, turned to you in horror. Holding your palm out, acid flew up and you grinned. “I’d never steal someone’s quirk but I can acquire it for a bit. Of course, you still have access to your quirk but so do I….at least for a little bit or until I touch someone else.”

The girl relaxed and scratched the back of her head. “Sorry, I freaked for a second.”

“Do me next!”

A slender blond boy stepped up, an odd looking belt around his navel. “Let’s see if you can control my quirk.”

He winked at you and you looked to Mirio; he was way too busy wrecking students left to right. Figuring he had it, you shrugged and beckoned the boy over, he strutted over to you and posed. Laughing, you touched his shoulder for a few seconds. Feeling a wave of energy wash over your body, you looked over your shoulder to where Tamaki stood. He wasn’t staring at the wall as per usual, instead he was focused on you.

Unable to control the butterflies in your stomach, your body tensed up and before you could regain control, a sparkly laser beam shot from your navel. The sudden jolts and power sent you flying backwards, thrusting you into the air. You shouted in pain as your body flew to the ground, but when you expected the pain of the concrete floor to hit you, it didn’t. Instead, two large tentacles wrapped around your waist, your body collapsing against someone as they slammed against the wall, sliding down to the ground with you in their embrace.

Out of breath, you laid still for a minute, trying to catch your breath. That kid’s quirk was powerful and it was painful too, you definitely felt bad for him. Breath slowing down to a normal state, you felt the tentacles retract, replaced by a strong pair of arms.

“Are - are you okay?”

A sweet whisper danced against your ears and you realized in a heartbeat, who had caught you; sweet, quiet Tamaki. His body was warm against yours and you could feel the heat rising from your toes.

“I feel dizzy, I might puke,” you admitted, sitting up. His knees were bent up and your body was right up against his chest. Embarrassed, you crawled off him, He stumbled to his feet, turning to face the wall.

“I - sorry…” Tamaki stammered over his words and you quickly got up, forgetting about being nauseous. His head moved forward but before his forehead could touch the wall, your hand slipped right in between. His eyes widened at the feel of your palm against his forehead and you smiled at him.

“Don’t hurt your head, Tamaki. It’s too cute.”

A burst of bravery flashed across his face as he looked at you but before he could say a word, your body gave out.

….

The room was quiet as your eyes fluttered open; you were in your dorm, in bed. Feeling better, you sat up and saw Tamaki sleeping on the floor. Heat slapped your face as you realized someone of the opposite sex was in your room. Looking to the clock on the wall, you saw that it was past midnight - okay, that definitely wasn’t allowed. Unable to move, you studied the young man’s face and smiled at the way his indigo colored hair swept over his forehead.

He was a snorer but it was endearing.

Noticing he had no blanket, just a pillow tucked under his head, you reached over for an extra one at the end of the bed and was surprised to see tentacles forming from your hands. Startled, you held back a shout, remembering that you had touched Tamaki earlier.

“This is crazy,” you whispered, chuckling as you grabbed the blanket and reached over to cover Tamaki without having to leave the bed. The tentacles weren’t as long as his but they were a little hard to control. It was evident when you accidentally smacked Tamaki in the face as you pulled away; holding your breath, you watched as he stirred but didn’t wake. Slowly, you crept off the bed and moved around him to get to the full length mirror next to the closet.

When you saw yourself, you nearly died of laughter - you looked ridiculous and not as intimidating as Tamaki when he was in this form. He looked badass in his hero suit, like a knight in shining armor - you on the other hand, looked like a sea creature.

“Oh, god.”

A low painful voice came from behind you, it was Tamaki, standing near your bed. He was still wearing the UA training suit, as were you. He looked embarrassed and upset as he rushed to the door but you were faster, looping a tentacle around his waist. Using all your strength, you held him in place as his hand came over the doorknob.

“Please don’t leave me,” you begged. “I don’t know how long your quirk will last, I could just go touch someone else but everyone’s asleep.”

You relaxed, letting him go when his hand fell from the doorknob. “I - I carried you to the nurses office and then to your room. I -I held you for too long, I don’t know when my quirk will leave you.”

He continued to face the door but didn’t leave. Walking over to him, you felt a strike of bravery - you had adored him for years now, watched him with soft eyes and love in your heart. It bloomed over the years, when others would not take the chance to get to know him. Scolded him for looking down on himself and cheered the loudest in his corner, even though you never thought you would have a chance with him. It didn’t matter, being in his corner was enough but now as he stood in your room, you wanted more.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with my quirk,” he muttered miserably.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped up to him. His back was hunched over but his entire body hardened when you wrapped both tentacles around his waist, pressing your face into the fabric of his uniform. You could feel his nerves rattling as you took a deep breath.

“I’m glad I was given a chance to experience the power you have, Tamaki,” you whispered, tilting your head to the side. Your cheek felt warm against his back as you stared at the mirror, watching his reflection carefully. His face was surprisingly calm, opposed to the tension you felt in the rest of his body.

“W-why?”

The question made you smile and you held him tighter. “It makes me feel closer to you, Tamaki and...and that’s all I ever wanted. Are you that oblivious?”

Terrified of his reaction, you looked away from the mirror and buried your face into his face, clinging to him. Tentacles trembled, waiting for his response to your confession. What if he did not feel the same way? He never showed interest, why would you think he would have feelings for you? You were questioning the moment, wishing it was a fever dream from using too many quirks in one day.

Yes, that’s it, you thought, holding back the tears. He’s not really here, this is a dream and when you wake up, you will be back with Mirio. Back at the gym, kicking 1-A’s collective butt.

Yeah, that’s it.

“Mirio- he...he’s always making comments,” Tamaki whispered, forehead against the door. “Stupid little comments that I know could never be true, because why - why would you like someone like me.”

Your head pulled away from his back and you stared at the back of his head, focused on the nape of his neck. “Because, you’re special, Tamaki. I wish you could see what Mirio and I see, what everyone sees. You’re amazing and I have always wished to be someone you could look in the eye. I want you to look me in the eye, so I can feel special too.”

Tears fell from your face as the tentacles retracted, forming back into your own arms. They started to fall from Tamaki’s waist as he carefully turned around, face hung low. Your heart pounded as he stood straight and finally, after so long, looked you in the eyes. His face was nervous but soft, fingers trembling as they reached for yours. His skin warm and soft as he held your hand, squeezing his palm against yours. His usually frown turned into a quiet smile and you knew then, that you were in love.

“You’re special to me,” he whispered and you beamed, throwing your arms around his neck. Without hesitation, he pulled you close and embraced you. His chin rested on your shoulders as you kissed him gently on the cheek. His face turned red so quickly it made you laugh. Kissing him again, you moved away and touched the side of his face.

“Will you stay with me a bit longer?”

Leaning into your hand, he nodded. “Okay.”

His heart leaped as you led him to the bed, motioning for him to lay down first. He did and watched as you took the space up next to him, your head resting on his shoulder as he pulled your blanket over the two of you. You inhaled deeply, placing your hand on his chest, smiling when he cupped it with his own. The room was quiet as the two of you laid together, the feeling in the air was something new and sweet, and as your eyes began to grow heavy, you said his name.

“Y-Yeah?”

Dipping your head back, you stared up at him. “How did you get into my dorm after hours? I’m sure the administration wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Tamaki’s eyebrows furrowed and he moved his hand over his face. “Mirio and Nejire helped me sneak in.”

Laughing, you drew his hand from his face and grinned. “My sweet, sneaky Tamaki.”

He chuckled nervously and when his eyes met yours, soft and relaxed, you knew what it felt like to feel special.

#tamaki amakiji #tamaki amajiki x reader #my hero academia #mha #tamaki x reader #bnha suneater #anime

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its-not-a-phase-mom-i-d8-demons · 4 years

Text

The Undateables Reaction to MC having a Nightmare

Pairings: Diavolo x MC, Barbatos x MC, Simeon x MC

Warnings: FEM!READER!!!, swearing?, kissing, a miniscule mention of blood and zombies lol, luke being a sweetie pie (as per usual), just comfort in general bc i’m needy, mention of a panic attack, big daddy diavolo can fucking rail me ok?

A/N: people make fun of me for liking diavolo :(( so I had to get this out of my system

Diavolo

Confused

I mean, he’s had nightmares before of course, but he’s never seen a human have one

He didn’t even know humans had the capacity to dream until a few nights before

So when he wakes up to you writhing around in the silken sheets, crying and begging some unknown entity to “please stop” and “don’t hurt him” with tears soaking your face, he was stumped

You seemed distressed so he did the only thing he could think of; wake you up

Now, this baby

He didn’t know, ok?

When he grips you firmly by the shoulders and gives you a good shake he only succeeds in scaring you a lot more

Your hand shoots up and you drag your nails across his pretty face in blind defense and wake up, tangled in mounds of silk, with a hulking figure hunched over next to you

Falling off the bed, you scramble as far as you can away from the monster and into a corner of the room

Barbatos, after hearing all the commotion, enters the room at that moment, allowing light from the hallway to flood the dark bedroom

“My lord, MC, what on earth is going on?!” He asks, noticing you crouching in the corner and he goes to you and rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, “My lady, are you alright? What did the young lord do to you?”

“Barbatos?” You whimper, tentatively peeking up from your hands.

“You can tell me, I’ll deal with him myself.”

“MC? Where’d you go, dove?” Came Diavolo’s disoriented voice from the bed, “Why’d you scratch me?”

A second later Barbatos was on his feet in a somewhat defensive stance, protecting you from any advance the demon lord could make.

You were still behind him crying less stormily, but crying nonetheless. Noticing how the butler was posed, you only started crying harder.

“Barbatos, please, i-it wasn’t him! It was me!” You said, emotion choking your sweet voice, “I h-had a bad dream and when I woke up, I hurt him!”

Cocking a brow, the butler strode toward the light switch (i think they have electricity??) and upon flicking it on, understood what had happened.

The demon lord was still slightly hunched over on the mattress, nursing a scratched, bloody cheek, you were crouched against the far wall, sniffling and crying out of fear, the bed was a mess…

“Correct me if I’m wrong MC, did you have a nightmare?” He asked gently, “Can you move?”

“M-hm.” You nodded shakily, tears stil streaming down your flushed cheeks.

“Let me help you stand… there. Lord Diavolo, humans are fragile creatures, especially after such an ordeal. I trust you can calm her down?”

“Of course! Ah, Barbatos, would you mind getting some tea and possibly a bandage or two?”

“My thoughts exactly. I will be back promptly.”

Then the butler left the room.

Diavolo dabbed at his face with the shirt he’d discarded before getting into bed and turned to you. “MC, love, what happened?”

With a sob, you threw yourself into his arms, buried your face in his chest, and began to cry again. It was a terrible dream, all seven brothers and the rest of the devildom, including Barbatos had turned into zombies. After running and fighting for most of the dream, you and the Demon King had finally been cornered by an endless horde of zombies and slowly you realized there was no hope. Just as the brothers were about to pounce on your royal boyfriend, he’d looked behind him and said, “I’ll always love you my darling MC-” and that’s when a zombie grabbed you and started shaking you violently, effectively and abruptly rousing you and causing a minor panic attack.

Diavolo stroked your hair oh so gently until Barbatos returned with the tea and handed you a cup of the steaming, sweet-smelling liquid to calm your nerves. After taking a few teary sips, the warmth spread down to your toes almost immediately and you were able to stop crying.

“Talk to me,” He murmured, tilting his face to Barbatos while he cleaned and wrapped his wound, his amber eyes on you all the while, “What happened?”

“Bad d-dream,” You stuttered, clutching the delicate teacup with white knuckles, “The brothers got hurt, t-turned into zombies to be specific a-and it was just us but then they got you and Mammon started screaming a-and shaking me-”

“That was me, dove. I sincerely apologize, I didn’t know what was wrong, nor a way to properly handle it.” Diavolo brushed stray tears from your flushed cheeks and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, “Forgive me?”

You nodded, sighing with a body-wracking shudder and settled back into your boyfriend’s muscled arms.

“My Lord, in case this happens a second time, why don’t you ask MC how she would prefer to be roused from such a dream. These things can be traumatic for their minds, it’s best to put her at ease.”

“Indeed.” The tanned redhead nodded, holding out your empty teacup for the butler to refill, “Dearest, how can I help?”

Barbatos

Knows this happens to humans and wasn’t surprised when you had one only a few weeks into staying at the palace

Prolly read a book or seven to learn this human bs

You claimed it was only from your new surroundings at the breakfast table, as to but the Lord and his butler at ease, but Barbatos is very intuitive

In fact, he’d seen you walk from your bedroom to the bathroom, hugging a blanket around yourself and sniffling, looking very frightened for a reason he didn’t know

Now he did

Hmm

The next evening, around two in the morning, you come running out of your room crying, hoping to find someone, and eventually, you did

Thinking it was one of the brothers, you crashed into them, wrapping your arms around their waist and burying your face in their chest, crying stormily until you felt the demon awkwardly pat your head with a gloved hand

…

Lucifer didn’t wear his gloves to bed… did he?

Did he even go to bed in the first place?

Probably not

Since when did Mammon wear a tailored waistcoat to bed?

Levi smelled different too, more like tea leaves, dishsoap, and ink than the salty ocean and fabric softener you were used to

Satans forearms were thicker than these as well; hours of holding books to his face gave him a little muscle

Where was the gentle coo and giggle you always got when you snuggled with Asmo?

Where the pecs your head usually rested on when Beel gave you one of his otherworldly hugs?

Why wasn’t Belphie’s shaggy hair tickling your face?

Wait

You look up and to your horror and embarrassment, it’s Barbatos. Not Beel, or Mammon, or Asmo (who you had been hoping to see) instead, it’s an extremely handsome butler with a very concerned look on his face

“MC? What happened?”

“B-Barbatos! I-I I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” You begin to back away, stuttering and tripping over your words while tears continue to soak the collar of your nightshirt, but before you can escape, gentle hands stop you.

One slender, gloved hand cups your cheek, brushing away tears, and another gently holds the small of your back.

“It’s alright, no need to apologize,” He spoke softly as not to scare you any further, “Come with me, I’ll make us some tea.”

The butler wraps you in a blanket and makes you comfy on the couch in the sitting area before starting the hot water and returning to the room.

He stood in the doorway awkwardly until you asked in a tiny voice, “Would you… would you mind s-sitting with me?”

“Of course.”

Not too close at first, but eventually after you cuddle up to his side, Barbatos settles an arm around your shoulders and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What happened?”

“Um…” You kept your eyes downcast, knowing you’d told him your dreams weren’t a big deal, but he knew.

“Dreams again?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Tell me about this one.”

“You g-got crushed by a m-massive stack of papers a-and Lord Diavolo was just laughing. I couldn’t move, I-I wanted to help, I just-” You sighed, “Th-Then a big stack of paperwork started falling toward me too a-and I woke up before I got squished. I know it’s silly and ch-childish but it was terrifying. I hope I didn’t mess up your schedule.”

“That would be rather upsetting, I’m sorry MC,” He murmured, getting up for the whistling kettle, “But don’t think like that, it’s normal. One moment please.”

You nod and sink deeper into the luxurious warm cocoon the butler had made for you. He hands you a teacup and settles down next to you once again.

“Is there anything I can do to make these dreams stop?” He asks softly, dabbing your face with a handkerchief, “The Demon Lord requested for your utmost contentment during your stay, so-”

“C-Can I stay with you?” You blurted out, quickly taking a gulp of hot tea and instantly regretting it.

Even in the dim light, your convulsing form noticed a light pink tint on his cheeks as he rushed to get you water.

Simeon

He’d only ever known Luke to have nightmares (since he is baby) so you can imagine…

Deadass, when he wakes up to you writhing around and screaming at two in the morning, he almost called an exorcist

…

In the devildom

Does anyone else see the irony-

Nevermind

“LUKE, SOLOMON! WHAT’S WRONG WITH MC??? SHE’S CRYING AND SCREAMING ALL OF A SUDDEN, I THINK A DEAMON GOT HER-” *heavy scared boyfriend breathing*

Solomon was kicking Luke’s ass at Uno (yes, at two in the morning) so both of them follow the distressed angel back to his room

You’re awake, curled up in a little ball against the headboard, rocking back and forth and crying into Simeon’s pillow

“MC?” Luke asks, a little scared as he approaches the bed.

You lift your head just enough to see his pretty baby face and then reach for him, caressing his cheek to make sure the tiny angel was really there

“You ok?” He murmurs, resting one of his smaller hand on your own, “Bad dream I’m guessing?”

You nod, lip trembling with emotion and residual fear, “Don’t go-” You begged, “I don’t know where Simeon went…”

“I’m here love, right here.” The taller angel now knelt down next to where Luke was standing, took your other trembling hand, and pressed comforting kisses to your knuckles.

You whisper a soft ‘thank you’ to Luke and Solomon as they take their leave. As soon as the door shut behind them, Simeon slid under the blankets next to you and let you attach yourself to him like a koala while his pretty nose fell into your messy locks.

Gradually, your breathing went back to its normal, comforting tempo and you began to melt into his embrace. He seemed to radiate warmth to the very marrow of your bones and soon, everything was ok again.

“What’s troubling you so, love? What caused this?” He asks, running slender fingers through your tousled locks.

“I don’t know,” You sigh, breathing in his heavenly musk, “I guess I’ve been a lot more stressed than usual. Exams are coming up and it’s hard to study when I’m at the brother’s beck and call since they can’t get along for more than 3 seconds. Plus, these classes are a lot more difficult than the ones we have in the human world.”

The angel nods, giving you a squeeze and a reassuring kiss to the crown of your head, “I can see why. Unlike you, most humans are very simple minded and plain dumb. I’ve already learned this material because of my ranking as an angel, so if you need a tutor, I’m here to help, sweetheart.”

“I’d like that.” You smile, tender aquamarine orbs meeting your own before closing and lips meeting for a slow, sensual dance of your unbounded love for eachother. Your interlocked fingers gave a squeeze before he released you, panting.

“Anything for my seraph.”

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summoner-chan · 3 years

Text

[𝕊𝕜𝕖𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝔻𝕦𝕞𝕡 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 ✨2020✨]

Hey everyone! Here are some of the sketches I've done during 2020 and there's like a whole TON of them so I might be doing a second part of this (◖⚆ᴥ⚆◗)💦💦 These were done in very early months of 2020 and you could tell how much my style has changed and improved so these might have some anatomical error and bad photo quality since my phone is absolute shit

On to the pieces!✨✨

[A/N:This is going to be a lengthy post so feel free to just dash through and see the pics lolol]

This was my very first time drawing Seth on paper and BOY was it hard for me that time to continuously look at his sprite and drawing down his fur patterns- Overall I loved how cleaned I did him despite it being my first go and most of the times characters I draw for the first time ended up looking disheveled looking creatures (my hands were trembling thus the line art is wobbly as fuck) Not sure what I was going for via story but maybe Summoner-chan wanted to give him a scarf(? In the camera shot after he bonked her head with his fist lolol)

This one was literally on the same paper as the Seth one but it was on the back of it (I like reusing paper) and hOHO was it anatomically incorrect because if Summoner-chan were to stand up and not hunch over, she'd be the same height as Toji (she's 159cm or 5'3ft) whom I'm expecting to be at least 170cm+ or 5'6ft so yep. Anatomy errors at it's best✨

These were done via the art challenge me and my friend(s) did! The first one was in Amino and the second one was with bestie uwu✨ First time drawing Fenrir and babey smol Leib which were a lot of fun to do!! Though had some trouble with Fenrir along the way 💦💦

For the other piece, this was from how another friend of mine showed interest in Temujin (I posted his picture in my status and said how he wanted to MC to bear his children and she took a screenshot of the said status and legit said 'I wouldn't mind ❤��') and BFF said "I know you're possessive over your husband, go and draw you, [Friend's name] and Temujin in this" and sent me this pose of one person wielding a bat while having another person holding them back by the forearm and a figure crouching on the floor screaming. Absolute MOOD and you can tell who's who ╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭ (Also what Temujin is saying 'Companion, no-' if you guys weren't able to read it clearly)

❌[𝘚𝘓𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞 𝘗𝘐𝘌𝘊𝘌 𝘋𝘖𝘞𝘕 𝘉𝘌𝘓𝘖𝘞]❌

No words for this one but second time drawing Ophion and it turned out a bit more better than the first one (which was really cursed to look at-💦) Again, this was from the art challenge I did with bestie and the prompt was 'Bath Time with Lover' sjjshdhdhdhhfhfbfbfbbfgfb-

Tried to do one of those fake IG posting and as you can see I did really terrible with it- Didn't had a clue on what Gabriel's IG ID would be so I just went with something simple✨ It's Summoner-chan finally in another hairstyle other than the high ponytail skskskskksl but in my opinion, she looked weird in any other hairstyle that isn't her usual one (maybe it's just me djhdbdbdbd)

I hope that everyone enjoyed seeing this and stay tuned for part 2!! Because Tumblr is wack on the photo limit of 10 only sjjdjdjdn-💦💦 Summoner-chan, signing off!✨

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dragonoffantasyandreality · 3 years

Text

Kamen Rider Thunderbirds Chapter 3 (Bit 5 End)

Prologue, Bit 1, Bit 2 Updated, Bit 3, Bit 4

Finaaaly! I finished Chapter 3! :D

Big thank you for @janetm74 for the beta read, thank you @myladykayo for helping me through the story. Tagging @willow-salix, @katblu42, @gumnut-logic and @dreamycloud)

So let’s end this chapter, right? :)

-0-0-0-

“So you are saying that you’ve been attacked by some unknown monsters?” Jeff asked, his fingers gripping the paper. The bandaged up boys nodded.

“Yeah. And we believed it was a set up." Virgil pointed out.

"It seemed like deliberate sabotage by those… things, so we came in and fell into their trap." Scott theorized. He continued explaining: in fact, the way the fires started was suspicious, the flames appeared in random parts of the building, according to the recent investigations. And according to the testimonies of the rescuees who were trapped underground, the humanoid fire-monsters appeared out of nowhere and they are the ones who started the whole fires, and then… they were simply waiting. The field commander finished that the poor fellas acted as bait for the monsters to finish him and his brothers off.

"Long story short: they were after our heads apparently." Gordon concluded.

Their father had a look of extreme concern. To think those threats with impossible yet fantastic power to bring down a building were after his sons was very alarming and pose a threat to their lives and security. Here he thought that time where they had to save the world from a mind-controlling alien sphere was a close call!

"Thank heavens the Kamen Riders came and saved us!" Alan chirped, his ocean eyes sparkled like stars with memories.

"Yes. You guys are very lucky. And those rescuees as well." Agreed Jeff, "However, we don’t know if we could trust those bug-eyed warriors.”

“But dad! They saved us!” Argued the youngster, “They saved us from these creatures! I am pretty sure they are our allies! Friends even!”

"Alan! We don't even know who they are!" Pointed out Gordon.

The young blonde crossed his arms and gave the most dramatic pout. Jeff sighed, gently shaking his head with a slight sympathetic smile, “They may be on our side now, but we still don’t know what their intentions are. Especially when they got those… other-worldly powers. So take their alliance with caution.” he said sternly.

The brothers nodded in agreement, including Alan who simply cocked his head to the side. They did tell John about the whole thing, in which the middle brother had mixed feelings. Concerned, relieved and interested. But mostly worried.

After the debrief, the atmosphere was a lingering silent worry.

“Hey kiddo, don’t be upset.” Gordon smiled optimistically.

“You sure?” Huffed his youngest brother.

“Yeah. As much as I am suspicious about them, I am also curious.” his innocent smile turned into a cheeky smirk.

Alan’s grumpy face slowly transformed into that of an excited gremlin that the redhead knew and loved, “Alright! How about we go talk to Brains? See what he thinks of this rescue.”

Gordon grinned, “Right behind ya, Sprout!”

And soon enough, the terrible two vanished through the door of the lounge, their excited feet echoed through the halls.

“What do you think of the Kamen Riders, Scott?” asked Virgil, placing a gentle hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

Scott shrugged, “I don’t know.” He was mostly worried about those monsters. Those… things. What are they after? Why do they want International Rescue dead? Of course it was only one time, but what if they do it again? He was beginning to feel dread. Being possessed by an alien was bad enough, but almost getting burned alive by monstrous animal-headed gladiators with powers to control fire was out of the question!

“You know, I do have a hunch that our bug-eyed acquaintances are on our side.” admitted Virgil, “But, I also have a feeling that we’ll meet them again, considering the circumstances.”

Scott looked back at his brother. Sky blue meets earthly brown. There was a silent conversation. An understanding. And then a nod from the eldest brother. They sat there in compassionate silence.

The quiet must’ve been killing his brother, because all of the sudden the mechanic asked, “Say, would you like to play the piano again?”

“Why’s that?” Scott raised a brow.

“My fingers are sore from fixing the Mole in a rush back there.” Virgil smiled with a little embarrassment, as he revealed his bandaged hands.

Scott gently tapped his brother’s shoulder with a chuckle. He got up from the couch and walked over to Virgil’s beloved white piano. He sat on the stool once more, opened the lid and stretched his fingers, “What should I play?”

“Anything, I don’t mind.” His musical brother shrugged, standing beside him.

As Scott thought which song to play, his mind drifted back to the moment when he looked into the eyes of the golden Rider. It seemed to him that there was something warm behind those bug-eyes… something human. Scott wondered if there's a sensitive soul behind that mask.

Maybe it was just in his mind, maybe it was not true, but it made him relax. Pressing the keys, he began playing a familiar, jazzy beat as he remembered that moment. After a few repeats of the rhyme, he went to the main part of the song.

“Ah, my favorite! Take Five!" Jeff exclaimed, "Just like you guys.” he chuckled.

Scott smiled at his father as a response. There were some remnants of his stress, but it didn't bother him as much as he was in the morning. Jeff gave him a relieved nod before continuing doing paperwork, quietly humming and tapping his foot to the beat. Virgil smiled widely at his brother before humming as well and snapping his fingers along with the melody of the immortal piece of Paul Desmond.

Scott jumped into improvising like he was here to woo the girls at a party. As he was playing, he thought back of their victory. And his tension melted away. Outside the villa, the soothing music echoed through the beautiful nature of the island and into the night sky.

-0-0-0-

The moon shone in the night sky and the cold was a constant companion. The sounds of distant cars driving through the streets could be heard from the top of the skyscrapers. On one of them stood four figures, taking their time enjoying the view from above.

The Kamen Riders were resting after the heated fight. Gills was leaning on a wall next to the entrance, between his legs lay his loyal dog. G3-X was finishing writing a report of the fight on his custom laptop. Kuuga was laying on top of the entrance, admiring the stars. And Agito was standing near the railing, staring into the lights of the city.

"Oi, Agito!" called Kuuga all of a sudden. The golden Rider turned to his best friend.

"Nando(What is it)?" asked Agito.

"Why wouldn’t you come up here and watch the stars?” suggested the red Rider, "It's beautiful up there."

"How can you see stars from here?" objected G3-X, "Ya can't see Shiitake with all those slagging city lights!"

"They can see them through their visors," scoffed Gills, making the robocop Rider whistle a sound of realization before turning back to his computer.

Raider looked up and tilted his head as if trying to see them, but after a few moments he gave up as he put his canine head back to the ground.

Agito had taken a moment to stare at the city, then moved towards the entrance, climbed and sat next to Kuuga.

"Not too cold buddy?” the red Rider asked, only to receive a shake of the head from his golden companion. The two took a moment to appreciate the stars in the cold night sky. Few stars faintly glowed in the dark sky.

"Man, can't believe we just met with International Rescue in person!" excitedly said Kuuga, "I gotta say, they are quite tough guys, ne? Especially Noodle, he looks quite young!"

"Noodle?" asked the golden rider in confusion.

"The blond kid! The one I saved from falling into a ravine and returned the gun to?" Kuuga sensed Agito raising an eyebrow that cannot be seen from the cover of his mask. "We should give them nicknames. To… you know, to know who's who we're talking about?" He explained, shrugging.

A sparkle of mirth could be faintly seen behind the faceted eyes of his friend, a warm smile could be felt radiating from his breath. "Sure...But why the blond kid 'Noodle'?"

"Because his blonde hair reminded me of noodles. And to be honest, 'Noodle' sounds kawaii~! Don’t you think he looks kawaii, ne?” A big grin was radiating from behind the mask of the red Rider. Agito laughed wholeheartedly. Kuuga continued, "The auburn hair guy; I think we'll call him 'Kuma'! He looks so serious, strong and tough, like a bear! Remind me of someone…"

The golden Rider laughed again as he nodded. "So um… shall we call the leader 'Sky Eyes'?"

Kuuga rubbed his silver chin for a bit, "Hmm…the one who pilots that big-hyper-speedy-rocket-jet thingy? Why's that?" he asked.

"Because… his eyes reminded me of the sky...” The red Rider saw the sparkling human eyes behind Agito’s red bug-like lens. Kuuga nodded, agreeing that the name was well suited for the blue sashed commander.

"What about the redhead guy? What should we call him?" asked G3-X as he looked up at the two Riders, seemingly curious.

"Clownfish..." Gills dropped the answer. There was an awkward pause. "He smelled fishy..." He deadpanned. Everyone laughed, acknowledging his typical 'I don't care, deal with it' attitude as they accepted his answer.

"Noodle, Kuma, Sky Eyes and Clownfish. Sounds good for our mystery gang of rescuers!" Kuuga clapped and rubbed his hands excitingly

Agito chuckled softly before looking back at the stars once more. The more he stared at the little faint glistening lights, the more the made him think of sky… sky eyes… the man whose eyes were always drawn to the sky.

He felt a warm feeling as he remembered those cobalt irises. He wondered why he felt like that. He barely knows that man, let alone the fact that International Rescue seemed to keep themselves secret. Maybe he'll never know. But one thing for sure, they'll cross paths again. Because of those things...

Those kaijins… they were new. He had never seen them before. And they are as aggressive and dangerous as disasters. Agito… Yuuki sensed that whatever they were, they seemed to be after International Rescue. But for what? And why?

The answer will remain unknown, for now...

-tbc-

#Kamen Rider Thunderbirds series #kamen rider #thunderbirds #kamen rider fanfiction #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds 1965 #kamen rider agito #kamen rider kuuga #my fanfics #yay! I finished chapter 3! :D

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diddlesanddoodles · 3 years

Text

DUMPLING ch 53

Welcome Back everyone!

Night fell upon the camp as they finished their meals. Keral and Farris hammered out a rough strategy, as the ranger was certain they would come upon the main estate sometime the following day.

“My hope is we run into the damn house by mid-day,” he said, twirling a stick between his fingers. “We’ll get our message sent out to Warren and might borrow some of the men there fer an escort back to the castle or wait fer one to be sent up here to collect us. What I want to avoid is missing the estate all together, because just a few miles passed here we’d start to hit the top of the moors. And if ye think trudging through the woods is unpleasant, you’ve never had to hike through the moors during winter.”

“How long would it take for a message to get to the castle?” Nenani asked.

“Dependin’ on what variety of birds he keeps, could be as little as three hours,” Keral explained. “But if all goes as I hope it does and we get a message sent tomorrow afternoon, then Warren should be readin’ it by late tomorrow night.”

“I just hope he manages to keep his temper and not send out the army after us,” Jae said. His shoulders were hunched up, and he stared down at the dirt, not quite looking into the fire.

“Aye,” Keral agreed, grim-faced. “Probably the one bad trait he got from his father. Doesn’t happen often, but if he gets right and proper mad, Warren could put old grumpy britches here to shame.”

Keral jerked his head towards Farris and earned a swift punch to the shoulder. He winced, rubbing the offended area.

“Eh? Ye see that?”

“Like I said before,” Farris replied, his expression teasing even as he held up his fist in warning. “Still have a few of these in reserve fer Mum.”

“I’m gonna have to send her a letter and clear all this nonsense up.”

“Ye should. One of these is fer only writing to her three times a bloody year.”

“I have a very demandin’ job. Sometimes it don’t allow fer letter writing.”

“Ye have time to distill that whiskey of yers but not to write to yer own Mum. Ye at least send her a bottle?”

“I’ll have ye know I use that time to write performance reviews. I ain’t just sittin’ on my arse and pickin’ my toes. And ‘a course I send her some!”

“Wonderful. Then ye should have no trouble adding in a letter fer her then too.”

Keral glared at his brother. “Just what are ye wantin’ me to tell her? ‘Hello Mum. Arrested a few fellas yesterday fer trafficking and murder. Issued seventeen court summons to folks who’ve been caught planting traps on their land and some on other folks’ land too. But good news is that it ain’t as bad as it used to be. Still haven’t caught the bastard we think is supplying the traffickers with funds and means to be moving all these poor little sods across county lines, but who knows. Tomorrow’s another day. Love yer darlin’ baby boy.’ Somethin’ like that, eh? Nice and cheerful news fer our ol’ Mum to be reading. All the things her son gets up to.”

Farris stared but did not say anything. He studied the face he had known best since birth, and below the thick beard and jokes and grins he recognized the frustration and pain in Keral’s words. He reached out and Keral leaned away as though expecting another punch, but Farris merely placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I ain’t downplayin’ yer work, Keral. That’d be the last thing I’d ever say to ye. You of all folks...I’d never tell ye yer work wasn’t important,” he said. “I get why ye wouldn’t want to tell her all that. Gods above, ye know I do. But it might do both her and you a bit of good to just send a letter fer the pure sake of it. Come up fer a breath of air.”

Keral took a moment to regard his brother seriously before saying, “If I promise to write to her when we get back, will ye stop punchin’ me?”

Farris grinned and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sure, I will. Soon as ye write that damned letter.”

……………………………….

Nenani pushed aside her blankets to adjust her belt, and the motion caught Keral’s eyes.

“Little attached to that dagger if yours, eh?” Keral asked, the side of his mouth twitching up into a smirk. Nenani met his eye then turned away, feeling called out.

“Just seems like it’s a better idea to have it around then not,” she replied.

Keral laughed, but Farris was nodding emphatically. “Not a bad idea to my mind.”

“S’why didn’t ye give that old goat of a mage a good stab fer nabbin’ ye?” Keral asked, his eyes still shining with mirth.

Nenani shrugged. “Didn’t really get a chance to. And those bubbles are tough.”

“She tried to stab it and it didn’t work,” Jae threw in. He, Haiyer, and Nenani were all bunched together near the base of a tree. Haiyer, having eaten both his potato and piece of bread, was staring off into space with distinctly droopy eyes.

Nenani leaned forward to frown at Jae. “Yes it did.”

“No, it didn’t,” he answered back. “Remember? You tried to stab it, it didn’t work, and then you did that weird magic thing and made the blade glow.”

Nenani’s expression lit up with recognition. “Oh yeah! I did do that.”

Jae grinned sardonically at her. “Yeah, and then you fell on me.”

The excitement in her expression died instantly and she wilted with embarrassment. “Oh yeah...”

Her shame was felt all the more acutely when both Farris and Keral fell into a raucous bout of laughter. It wasn’t too long after that Keral announced he would take the first watch, and they settled in for the night. Farris, not being very picky about his sleeping arrangements, propped himself against a tree truck, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. The three humans adjusted their blankets before laying down. It seemed as though it only took a few moments before Haiyer was sound asleep beside her, but for Nenani sleep seemed illusive.

Staring up at the underside of the canopy, she watched the shadows shiver and dance with the movement of the campfire. Though they had had a pleasant dinner and evening, she still never let go of the notion that something, or someone, was watching them. She could just make out Keral’s outline from his position just outside the clearing and beyond the reach of the fire’s light. His blue coat allowed him to blend in very well with the dark.

“Ye should try and sleep, lil’un,” Farris told her in a whisper, and, craning her neck, she saw his eyes were still closed. “Yer fidgetin’ again.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back and tried to settle into her blanket. There came a sigh and then the rustling of leaves that drew her eyes back to Farris. She saw that he was leaning forward with his hands reaching out for her, and a feeling of yearning pulled at her.

“Come on,” he said with a thin smile. “Up ye get.”

As carefully as she could, Nenani got to her feet, still clutching a corner of her blanket, and Farris scooped her up. Leaning back against the tree, he settled her on his chest and laid a hand over her. Though the nagging feeling was still there, she felt far more at peace, and as she laid her head on his chest, Nenani felt the first tugs of sleep.

………………………………..

They set out the following morning, just as the first splashes of color could be made out through gaps in the trees, a little more refreshed and eager to get back to the castle. Keral led them through a weaving path that, to Nenani’s eye, seemed aimless and arbitrary. It was as though Keral was a hound, trying to get a good sniff of his query while following an invisible trail that only he could make out.

They found the first body only two hours after starting off.

At the bottom of a large tree, nearly invisible within the twisting roots, was a face of a young man. Dark of hair, pale faced, and – curiously enough – there was a notch taken from the top edge of his left ear. Almost as though it had been bitten off by a small creature. Haiyer had been the one to spot the body when, seemingly out of the blue, he told Keral, “There’s a sleeping man over there.”

Keral extracted the small prince from his pocket and surrendered him to Farris. Turning his head, he said to Jae in a quiet voice, “Best get down too, lad. Not sure what we just happened across, but ye may not want to see.”

Looking nearly as pale as the body in the roots, Jae climbed up over the ranger’s shoulder so that Keral could pluck him up and set him back down on his own feet. Jae turned to go stand closer to Farris as Keral moved forward towards the body.

When he was close enough to study it properly, Keral only found more questions. The body was fully encased in the roots as though they had grown around and under it, only the man’s head peeking out. But the time that would have taken to occur naturally would have seen the flesh and muscle of the corpse succumb to rot and decay, to say nothing of the scavengers that would have made an easy meal of it.

“Whatever this is, it's not natural,” Keral said, keeping his gaze affixed to the dead human. “This stinks of magic interference.”

“Ye think whatever did this poses any kind ‘a threat?” Farris asked.

“Hard to say for sure, but I’d rather not find out,” Keral answered as he rose back to his feet. “Best we move on before whatever is responsible for this comes around.”

Less than ten minutes later, they stumbled upon two more laying together at the base of a tree. There were not nearly as many roots as the first, and the pair looked to be a mother and child. The woman was middle aged, but thin and sickly-looking, with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. She looked far more corpse-like than the first or the smaller one to which she clung. Round-faced with thick curls of dark hair was a small girl of perhaps five or six. She looked as though she were merely sleeping in the woman’s arms.

“Why are they sleeping like that?” Haiyer asked, trying to peek around Farris’s fingers to get a better look, but he turned his body and Haiyer made a sound of annoyance.

“They’re not sleeping,” Keral said as he crouched above the pair, staring down with a grim face and hard eyes. “Same as the last.”

“Just what have we come across?” Farris asked, his eyes bouncing around as though expecting the trees to answer him.

The trees said nothing. But someone else did.

“You should not be here,” said a voice from high above them. It came out like the viscous hiss of a disturbed cat. Their eyes moved up to scan the trees, looking for the source. “This is hallowed ground. Only the blessed may walk here. You’re filthy. And I smell fire on you.”

“Who are you?” Keral asked.

“Someone who wishes to see you leave,” the voice replied. Keral’s head swiveled to his right and he stared up at a particular tree. “You’ve disturbed the garden.”

Farris snorted, not having seen Keral’s line of sight, and continued to look about. “Garden? Looks more like a graveyard.”

“They are the same,” replied the voice. “Death is the road that returns us all to the green mother.”

“So you did all this?” Keral asked.

There was no answer.

Farris looked as though he wished to reply, but Keral silenced him with a hand and then said to the voice, “We’re just looking for a house. Big house. Belongs to a Vhasshalan lord by the name of Brennan. Think you might be so kind as to point us the right direction and we’ll see ourselves out?”

The voice did not answer right away and the silence was heavy,

“Follow the smell of blood,” it suggested at last. “You can’t miss it.”

Keral’s expression hardened and his lips drew thin. “My nose ain’t as good as it used to be. How about a heading?”

A pause.

“You’re too far east. Two fingers past the sun at noon and walk straight. The white moss grows on the north side.”

“Thank you,” said the ranger with a bow of his head.

“A warning. If you are still here come nightfall, the others will not be as kind, and they might decide to add you to the garden. And also, do not let the little one eat anymore of the ironwood sap.”

“What?” he asked, looking back at Haiyer. “Why not?”

“It will weaken his magic.”

“The little one doesn’t have any magic.”

There was a long silence and then a rustle of branches. Keral’s head swiveled up to his left and then he saw him: human, dressed in grayish green and brown clothes that helped him all but melt into the tree bark behind him. He was young and thin limbed, but with large brown eyes. Across his forehead was a smudge of ash. He met Keral’s gaze without fear.

“I forget sometimes how distant you giants have made yourselves from the earth. Strange you cannot feel his magic. I could the moment you all stepped inside my forest,” he said and then pointed to Nenani, his brow furrowing. “And the smell of fire on that one there is so pungent I was convinced the woods had caught flame.”

“Thank you. I’ve got one more question,” Keral said, gesturing to the dead woman and child. “The notches in their ears. Your lot do that?”

The boy scowled. “They’ve been marked. For what purpose, I cannot tell you. But they all have them. Their spirits are weakened and often soiled when they come here. The roots purify them so they may find peace in the hereafter.”

“You call that purifying their souls? Looks like fancy fertilizer to me, boy,” Farris said with a sneer. “Disrespectful. Coverin’ them all in roots.”

The boy did not react to the accusation. “You are of the mountain. I do not expect a rock to understand the ways of a tree. The roots preserve their mortal shell. If you were to remove them, their bodies would crumble like dirt.”

“So you collect dead people in this garden of yours?”

The boy cocked his head and regarded Farris with a curious expression as though he had just decided something.

“This is how we remember them. Honor them. Mourn them. You have your ways and we have our own. It does not change the meaning. Giving love to the loveless. Care where there was neglect. Peaceful forever sleep where before there were only endless nightmares.”

Farris’s frown deepened and he opened his mouth to reply, but the boy slipped behind the trunk of the tree and was gone. The giant stared and then snorted in disdain, rolling one shoulder. Still inside the pack, Nenani watched the spot where the boy had gone and knew he had left. The unsettling sensation of being watched left as though it had never been. What a strange person, she thought. She remembered what he had said.

That she smelled like fire.

“Who the hell was that?” Jae asked in a low voice, his eyes still watching the trees for any sign that the boy would return.

“Don’t know,” Farris said. His eyes fell back to the dead woman and child, entangled in the roots. “But he has strange notions I don’t much care for. I’ll be glad to leave.”

Keral walked up alongside his brother and nudged his elbow with his own. “Well, at least we managed to get a heading out of the lil’ fella.”

Farris did not move or speak and Keral’s grin faded.

“Farris?”

The kitchen master’s eyes snapped to attention and he turned to his brother. “Let’s go.”

Keral nodded. “Alright.”

BONUS ART!

#Dumpling #G/t story #g/t #giant tiny #Fantasy Story #fantasy giant #Nenani #Farris #Jae #Keral #Haiyer

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foureoreos · 4 years

Text

blue isn’t your color

AIGHT here’s that Jay is jealous fic after I posted those screencaps with the rough translation.

Anyways. So yeah. A Jay is jealous and he doesn't even know why fic.

~~~

Jay really didn't see the appeal.

Princess Vania was just another girl. Sixteen years old, adventurous, free spirited. And FSM forbid, he had nothing against that. Now that she was sixteen, Vania was free to make her own decisions and go her own path.

But that was beside the point.

Cole was his best friend. And for as long as he could remember, Jay could come up with three things when on the topic of Cole and romance. Those three things were either:

a) Cole just wasn't into girls. At least, from Jay could and had picked up on for the several many years they had known each other. OR…

b) Cole simply wasn't interested in dating or romance. The lack of affection Cole happened to show when he was around new faces was little to none. OR…

c) Cole just had a strange way of showing said affection. Maybe, like his element, Cole was also stubborn and could hide his true feelings about a person well beneath a hard exterior.

After the stupid love triangle, Cole had confessed to Jay that he was never really into Nya to begin with. While it was relieving to hear at first, that got Jay wondering why he fought over Nya in the first place.

Maybe Cole was just confused. Maybe Cole had just been caught up in all of the bickering and fighting that to back out of it would be too late and a cowardly move. And this next thought, Jay liked to entertain quite often. The thought that Cole fought for his attention.

For Jay.

Nonetheless, Jay had seen the look Cole had given the Princess as she cheered gleefully over their heroic tales.

He wondered if maybe it was just a look of admiration.

Of course, who wouldn't be flustered when you had a superfan right in front of you, gushing about how amazing and brave you were?

Which was true, they were pretty awesome.

Still, Vania seemed more drawn to Cole out of them all. But Jay couldn't blame her for that. Cole was pretty handsome. Kind, strong, with a big heart and a big appetite.

Jay shook his head once more, trying to erase the image of Vania with Cole from his head.

He had been standing right next to the master of earth when Princess Vania introduced herself.

Meaning he saw how Cole's eyes had softened. And how his smile had suddenly turned small and timid, yet big and outspoken at the same time. He heard how the tone of his voice had all of the sudden shifted - smooth and delicate as the words spilled out of his mouth with ease.

The master of lightning wrinkled his brows, shifting under the heavy blankets in the room he was led to by one of the Shintaro guards.

He didn't want Cole to fall in love with Vania. He didn't want Vania clinging to him like a helpless, lost, little puppy. He didn't want them to end up together. And he sure as the First Spinjitzu Master wanted Cole to look at only him that way.

After all, Jay did. At Cole. Right after his best friend had saved him from falling thousands of feet in the air from the dire bats.

Jay laughed. He couldn't find the words to describe how overjoyed he was when he saw his hand in Cole's. And the master of earth riding on top of the dire bat, holding onto Jay with all the strength he had. Cole had actually rode one of those horrendous creatures!

Jay's shoulders hunched a little till they were touching his ears, making himself feel small.

His thoughts spiraled back to after first introductions with the King and Princess. When Jay turned to Lloyd with a grimace on his face and butterflies in his stomach as they followed behind the others while the King led them through the palace with Cole and Princess Vania by his side.

"Isn't it strange that Princess Vania seems to like Cole?" Jay had asked Lloyd at the time.

Though the question was rhetorical and out of spite, he quickly covered it up with, "I mean, yeah, Cole's my friend, pfft. But like… Cole?"

Jay stared at the ceiling, his mind numb.

Why did he say that?

Why couldn't he just keep his thoughts to himself? Why did he have to go and blurt everything out like it was everyone's business to know. What prompted him to say that in the first place?

Lloyd must have been confused out of his mind being approached with that kind of question.

But what could he do? He couldn't apologize to him about it. And even if he did, what would he be apologizing for?

"Hey, Lloyd. Sorry about earlier when I randomly dropped my thoughts aloud to you about Princess Vania being interested in Cole. I guess I felt weirded out by it?"

Then, of course, he would feel the need to explain why he was "weirded out" by said interaction.

Jay threw a pillow over his face, screaming into it with high hopes that no one had heard him.

This amount of turmoil within him was disastrous. It was a complete mixture of pain, and anguish, and sadness. And it was killing him. All he wanted to do was sleep, but his brain wouldn't let him. Neither would his body.

And Jay refused to admit it. Because of course… he wasn't jealous. Was he?

No, no, green was Lloyd's color. 'Cept, the whole phrase went 'green isn't your color'.

And green sure as heck wasn't his color. He was the blue ninja.

Which posed the next question. Why did he still feel so sad?

Jay's heart sunk. It felt heavy, like a rock. Like there was a foot pressed against his chest, holding him down.

Maybe he should just keep quiet for the time being and see where the day's events would take him. That way, he could easily focus on whatever was going on in his head earlier that day and sort himself out.

And perhaps his answer could be found by the sole fact that he was constantly denying his heart its terrible aching for Cole.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #ninjago cole #ninjago jay #jay walker #bruiseshipping #geodeshipping #implied #fic #fanfic #ninjago fanfic #ns13 spoilers #ninjago spoilers #cross-posted on FFN and AO3

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darks-ink · 4 years

Text

Just To Be Seen By My Eyes

Heya @aedelia, happy holidays! Here’s my Truce gift to you! Hope you enjoy it!

Also on [AO3] and [FFN]!

---

“It’s certainly very beautiful,” Maddie said, slowly, cautiously, “but I don’t understand why they gave it to us.”

“A sign of appreciation, perhaps?” Jack guessed, shrugging. “We are Amity Park’s primary ghost hunters. Maybe they wanted to pay us back for it?”

Maddie hummed, spreading out the papers a little further. Now they laid all separated on the table, allowing the two of them to view them fully.

“I suppose the artistic interpretation of the Ghost Zone is very interesting,” she eventually settled on. “We know vaguely what it looks like, thanks to the time the town was brought into the Zone, but still.”

Jack picked up one of the sheets of paper, his favorite painting of the bunch they had received. Besides the black-green sky that they had known about, it depicted a ramshackle building that reminded him of Fentonworks, bits of technology haphazardly welded together.

“Even if they’re useless for research, they are still pretty, Mads. I say we frame them. Jazz has been complaining of the house lacking decoration, anyway.”

“I suppose so.” She shook her head, but her lips quirked into a smile as she nudged another painting. This one depicted a grand castle, a vibrant forest nestled up next to it. Ha, like the Ghost Zone could even house something like forests, never mind ones so lively. “I do wish we knew who the artist was.”

“Yeah, definitely.” He put the painting down with the rest, carefully smoothing it out. “They’re certainly a creative sort. Wish we could track them down, but there must be tons of people in town with the initials DP.”

“Well, nothing we can do about it.” Maddie shrugged, turning to head to the lab. “If they only signed it with their initials, and didn’t leave a note with their name, they must not have wanted us to know who they were.”

He grunted as he followed her down the stairs. “Still, I wish we could’ve thanked them. It would be interesting to hear them explain why they chose to depict the Ghost Zone like that.”

“It would be more interesting to look at the real Ghost Zone,” Maddie lamented, stopping next to her table in the lab. She heaved a sigh. “But, unfortunately, we can’t risk such trips.”

“I know,” he grunted. “Who knows what kind of things Phantom could get up to while we left? Or worse yet, what it could do to us while we’re out of the town’s sight.”

“Yes, indeed.” Maddie straightened a blueprint, and Jack stepped up next to her. “Well, nothing we can do about it, except try harder to catch Phantom. Speaking of which, honey, I think I finally figured out how to fix the Bazooka’s battery issues.”

---

“Oh, another one.” Jack chucked the letters in his hand onto the table, focusing on the new drawing. DP had continued to send in paintings on a regular basis. At first they had been various interpretations of the Ghost Zone, like the first batch, but as time went on they had expanded their repertoire and started painting ghosts instead.

“This is certainly a curious one,” Jack mumbled to himself as he looked over the new painting. It was another imagined Ghost Zone vista, although the edges of the island weren’t visible. A lush snowscape, with the characteristic black-and-green sky of the Zone. A curious details was that DP had included ghosts into the landscape this time; small specks of them littered the hills, and a few were close enough for them to include details. They looked animalistic, with shaggy white fur and ice-like horns. One of them even had an arm made entirely out of ice, with bones visible within. A shame that DP had included that detail; ghosts didn’t have bones, so it was an unfortunate error.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Maddie hadn’t been terribly interested in looking into the mystery of this ‘DP’ further, and to be honest, he could understand why. They wanted to learn more about the Ghost Zone, and whoever DP was, their paintings couldn’t possibly be based on the truth. Nobody had been to the other side of the Fenton Portal besides ghosts, and no ghost would make mistakes like including bones.

Jack blew out a sigh, placing the painting down on the table. They could figure out what to do with it later. DP had been sending them so often that Maddie and he weren’t sure what to do with them anymore. No matter how sweet it was that this artist was inspired by them, or by their research into ghosts, they couldn’t possibly showcase all this art. They didn’t even know who made them!

“Mads?” he called downstairs instead, deciding to take his mind off of the topic. “I’m gonna head out with the GAV, see if I can find some ghosts!”

“Be home in time for dinner, honey!” Maddie’s voice echoed from downstairs, underlined with the metallic clang of her putting down her tools. “And call me if you need me out in the field!”

“Will do!” he assured her. He didn’t need to check for weaponry; the GAV was always well-stocked, and would have everything he might possibly need.

So he headed for the garage, hopped into the large vehicle, and buckled his belt. The ignition roared to life, and with it, so did the various electronic appliances built into the GAV. Most importantly, at least for now, was the ghost radar.

The screen of the radar lit up, and Jack leaned in closer. Ah, and look at that! Not one, but two ghosts in the park! He’d better head over there. Either they were up to trouble, or it was Phantom chasing some other ghost. And if it was the latter, Jack might finally get the annoying specter!

Quickly he raced over to the park, stopping the GAV right next to the fence. He would have to continue on foot, since the gates were too small, but that was okay. He might be able to sneak up on the ghosts like this, since neither of them had moved since he had first seen them on the radar.

Still, whatever they were up to, it couldn’t possibly be good. Ghosts were malevolent, through and through, and if they hadn’t moved they hadn’t been fighting with each other. That must mean that they were working together, either causing trouble, or plotting to cause trouble later. No matter which of the two it was, Jack knew he had to interfere.

He quickly grabbed one of the plentiful ecto-guns the GAV was stocked with, jumping out of the vehicle. He didn’t have a radar on hand, but that was okay. The ghosts were unlikely to move if it hadn’t before now, and, well. They literally glowed. He was sure he would be able to spot them when he got close enough, even in the bright afternoon light.

As quietly as possible, he crept through the bushes. His gun, he held ready. He had to find the ghosts, and quick. Who knew what kind of trouble they might’ve gotten up to?

The moment he spotted a glimpse of unnatural white light, Jack stopped. Then, certain that neither of the ghosts had spotted him, Jack peeked through the leaves.

The ghost closest to Jack was instantly recognizable. Slight but masculine build, messy white hair, and a black jumpsuit. Phantom, without a doubt. The other, he couldn’t place. Green skin, long blonde hair tied into a braid, and with a sky blue dress. Definitely modeled after a woman, that one, and slightly older than Phantom. Or, well, if they had been humans. There was no telling the age of a ghost.

“Almost done,” Phantom spoke, suddenly. But it seemed to be talking to the other ghost. Why? Almost done with what?

“Ah, very well.” The other ghost inclined its head slightly, a gesture almost a nod, but halted. “I admire your work, Sir Phantom, but my kingdom calls for me.”

A kingdom? Sir Phantom? Very interesting. He would have to make sure to remember all of this. Oh, if only he had some sort of recording device ready. Maddie would’ve loved to hear this, too.

“I know, I know. I really appreciate you coming out here for me.” Phantom didn’t look away from whatever it was doing, hunched over. “I know things are still kinda messy after the whole Aragon thing.”

“It is no trouble,” the medieval ghost—the ghostly queen?—assured Phantom. “Without your help, I never could’ve overthrown my brother. I owe you, Sir Phantom.”

Phantom snorted, shaking its head briefly. “You know that that’s not true, Dora. You fought Aragon on your own, and you won that way too.”

“Ah, but--”

“No buts,” Phantom interrupted the other ghost—Dora, apparently. “You know just as well as I do that I wasn’t the one to convince you to stand up for yourself. You already made me your knight and your ally. You don’t owe me anything.”

The monochrome ghost paused for a moment, then lifted the object it had been hunched over. Finally Jack had a chance to see what it was, and he felt his heart stop.

Phantom had been working on a painting. And, depicted on the paper, was the other ghost. The style, even from where he was hiding, was instantly recognizable. Phantom had been the one sending paintings to FentonWorks.

Oh. Oh. Of course he had been! Just because the ghost usually went by Phantom didn’t mean it lacked a full name. No, when it had first introduced itself, it had called itself Danny Phantom. DP!

Cursing internally, Jack startled back to awareness when the Dora ghost moved. It floated closer to Phantom, inspecting the painting as well. Were ghosts vain creatures, then? Did Phantom pay them in paintings to play pretend with it? Then why would it be sending them to the Fentons as well? Was it trying to buy them? Buy their alliance, so they would no longer hunt it? Ha! As if!

“Oh, what a wonderful work again.” Dora smiled, an expression that was almost soft, if it hadn’t been on a ghost. “You did a very good job again, Sir Phantom.”

Phantom flushed bright green, and Jack took a moment to realize that it was a ghostly equivalent to blushing. How? Why? Ghosts didn’t feel emotions, why would they blush, especially to one another?

“Thanks,” Phantom stuttered back to the other ghost. “But it’s nothing special. And, um. Thank you for posing for me.”

“I already told you, it was no problem.” The other ghost floated a step or two away again, loosely shrugging. “I just hope the Fentons will like it, so you will finally be on good grounds with them.”

“I mean, um.” Phantom’s expression dropped into something Jack could only call an uncertain smile. “They, uh, don’t really care for them, I think? I believe they don’t think they’re real, and thus not useful.”

“But have you not been signing them as yours?” Dora insisted, a frown on its face. “Do they think that you are sending them false paintings of the Ghost Zone? Of your fellow ghosts?”

“Well, I, uh.” Phantom’s grin became even more harried. “I might’ve been signing them just as ‘DP’? I didn’t think they would trust them otherwise!”

Dora stared at the other ghost for a long moment, then clicked her tongue and shook her head. If it had been human, Jack would’ve said it was disappointed. But, since it was a ghost, it couldn’t possibly be. “Well, I suppose you know best. I wish you the best of luck with them, regardless.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Phantom nodded at the other ghost, and dismissed, it quickly left.

Now that it was just him and Phantom left, Jack knew he should be making a move. This was the perfect opportunity; Phantom was distracted, looking at the ground. Gathering its supplies, presumably.

But he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t.

It was astounding. Absolutely confusing. Sure, Phantom’s obsession had always been questionable, never easily labeled, but still. No possible interpretation could cover for its drive to fight off other ghosts and for painting. Hell, it didn’t even try to fight off this particular ghost! No, the two of them had seemed quite friendly, and Phantom had even let it leave without confirming that it really did leave Amity Park.

And then Phantom stood upright, suddenly, a roughed-up backpack in one hand, art supplies clearly visible poking out. In its other hand, it held the new painting.

“Well, let’s go deliver this one,” it said, voice quiet like it was just talking to itself. “Who knows, maybe seeing a ghost they don’t recognize will be what convinces them!”

As if. And clearly Phantom thought so too, based on the tone of its voice. But then, if it was intelligent enough to know this (and apparently it was), why would it still go through with this? Why would it put in such effort, if it knew that it was futile?

Phantom lifted off before Jack could even consider shooting it down. Shot up into the sky, fading from visibility before long.

Knowing that there was no point in lingering anyway, Jack pushed his way out of the bushes, finally. Absentmindedly brushed the dirt from his knees. Lumbered back to the GAV.

He turned the key of the ignition, and the radar booted back up. No ghosts left in range. Dora must’ve returned to the Ghost Zone as it had said, and Phantom went… wherever it usually went when they couldn’t find it.

Like this whole thing had never happened.

His drive back home had been slower than usual. Maybe it really hadn’t happened. Maybe he had just… imagined all of it. As long as there was no proof that Phantom had painted that medieval ghost, that Dora, it might as well not have happened. Right?

The car came to a halt. Jack let himself back in the house.

“Oh, Jack!” Maddie looked up from the potatoes she was peeling. Right. Dinner. “A new painting came in. It was quite fascinating. A portrait of a ghost again, but I don’t recognize this one. Do you think that the artist came up with it themselves?”

He felt his heart stop.

Jack licked his lips, then asked, cautiously, “Is it a green-skinned ghost, with long blonde hair in a braid?”

“Yes.” Maddie put down the potatoes, immediately focusing on him. “How did you know? Did you run into the ghost?”

“Yeah. Both of them.” He shook his head, then let himself drop onto the sofa. He wasn’t going to have this conversation standing up. “DP is Phantom, Mads. I saw him in the park, and he was painting that other ghost.”

“Are you sure?” Maddie asked, but clearly she could tell he was telling the truth. “But why? And how is it making such high quality paintings? It isn’t related to its supposed obsession at all!”

“I don’t know.” And that was the big problem, wasn’t it? Whenever they thought they had Phantom figured out, it introduced some new detail, some new variable. They never knew everything they needed to know about it. “I don’t know, but I know what I saw. Phantom painted it, with the intention to give it to us, and the other ghost was okay with that.”

“It was?” She sat back down as well, the half-peeled potatoes now completely ignored. “But how-- why?! Not only did Phantom indulge in something unrelated to its obsession—art—but then it also completely went against its obsession by letting another ghost into the town!”

Jack snorted humorlessly. “And worse still, Phantom let the other ghost leave without keeping an eye on it to make sure it left. They seemed on friendly terms, too. Were discussing when they worked together in the past. It even called Phantom ‘Sir Phantom’.”

“Unbelievable.” Maddie shook her head, staring down unseeingly. “There’s no way that this could all tie into its obsession, but…”

“But ghosts can’t act outside of those obsessions, either.” Jack nodded, slowly. “So either the research is wrong, and ghosts aren’t bound to their obsessions like we thought…”

“Or Phantom breaks the norm, somehow.”

They met eyes. Jack licked his lips. “And we have no way of knowing.”

“Never mind the question of why it’s making these paintings. For us specifically, right?”

“Yup. Some of them, at least, were made just for us.” Jack drug the new painting closer to himself, staring at it. It was of superb quality, carefully painted, and a very close match to the ghost he had seen in the park. “Which leaves one more question. If this painting is real, have all the others been too?”

“Surely not?” But Maddie was clearly already running through all the other paintings they had received from Phantom. The landscapes, the other ghosts. All the portraits had depicted ghosts they had seen in Amity before, even if others had featured in the landscapes. “It could’ve tweaked them, made the landscapes seem more interesting. Maybe it’s trying to make the Ghost Zone seem more alluring, so we will go in and run into its trap.”

But Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so. There are better ways to get us to explore the Ghost Zone, and it clearly knew that we didn’t put any faith in them being real. As hard as it was trying to convince us, I can’t imagine that it would put so much effort into luring us out there. Especially since it could lure us away with other stuff, by kidnapping civilians or our kids, or, hell, maybe even by stealing one of our more intricate inventions. Lord knows it’s not above stealing our stuff.”

“No, it definitely isn’t,” Maddie agreed easily, a pensive frown on her face. “Still, I can’t think of any other reason why it might be sending us paintings. What use could that possibly have for it? What benefit could it earn from this?”

“Who knows, Mads.” Jack puffed out a heavy sigh. “Who knows.”

---

“Are you sure that this was a good idea?”

“Pfft, are you doubting me?” Danny rolled his eyes at Clockwork’s unimpressed stare. “It’ll be fine, and you weren’t telling me any better plans. You can’t make me doubt myself after I did it!”

“I think that you will find that I can, in fact, do that.” Clockwork’s lips twisted into a smirk.

Danny huffed. “Yeah, well. Thanks for nothing, old man.”

Clockwork fixed him with another unimpressed look, one eyebrow quirked, as his body shifted into his child-like form.

“I hate you,” Danny muttered, no heat behind his words. After the whole thing with his evil future self he had started visiting Clockwork more often, hoping for future knowledge, or at least hints on how not to bring about another apocalypse of his own making. Instead he’d been getting lessons on the Ghost Zone’s history, its geography, and ghost culture as a whole.

He’d complain about it, but it was kind of helpful to know. Besides, Clockwork wouldn’t steer him wrong.

Probably.

“Anyway, I had better head home, see what my parents thought of the new painting.” He paused, then dug his phone out of his pocket. “Wait, can I take a picture of you? To paint you later?”

“On one condition.” Clockwork shifted back into his adult form, gesturing for Danny to come closer. “Make it a picture of the both of us.”

“What, like a selfie?” Danny snorted, but huddled up next to the time ghost anyway. “I mean, I guess, but I was kind of hoping for a painting to give to my parents.”

Clockwork hummed, but didn’t reply. Danny rolled his eyes, but lifted his phone to snap a picture of the two of them anyway.

“Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once?”

“Yes,” Clockwork replied, deadpan. “How else would I have become a ghost?”

Danny snorted, flicking back on his phone’s screen to look at the photo. “Fair enough. Anyway, the pic looks fine, so… Are you sure I can’t snap one of you alone?”

“I am sure. Now get going,” Clockwork’s lips twisted into a smirk, “Wouldn’t want to be late, would you?”

“You’re the worst.” Danny stuffed his phone back into his pocket, floating over to the door of the Clocktower. “I’ll get you back someday, Clockwork!”

“Sure you will,” he said airily, the smirk still on his face. “Sure you will.”

Danny rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to reply, instead leaving the lair. Clockwork was so frustratingly cryptic, but he always told good advice. If he insisted Danny paint a selfie of the two of them, well… there must be some sort of reason for it.

Not that he could think of a reason, but still.

He made sure to turn himself invisible right before passing through the Portal, zipping into his parents’ lab unnoticed. It was a good thing that they had never installed ghost scanners near the Portal, because that would’ve made life so much harder for him.

Huh. No one downstairs. He peeked over at the clock, but it wasn’t dinner time just yet. His mom might be working on it already, but his dad should still be downstairs, right? Strange.

Intangibly passing through the ceiling, he found himself in the living room. Ah, and there were his parents. And his new painting of Dora! Maybe they were discussing what to do now that they figured out that he really was painting the truth.

“It just… It doesn’t make any sense,” his mom said complaintively. She gestured at the painting, almost knocking over the pan with peeled potatoes on the table. “Why would Phantom paint these for us? What’s the point? What kind of benefit is it hoping to get from this?!”

“I don’t know.” His dad straightened up, looking at Danny. No, straight through him, at some of the framed paintings on the wall behind him. “If it were human, or following human logic, it might be… trying to help us understand the Ghost Zone? Paint more of it so we don’t have to go explore there? But even then… We’re not on good standings. Why would it try to help us?”

“Exactly.” Maddie heaved a sigh, then picked up her knife and an unpeeled potato, starting to peel it. “With a human, it could a sign of… of trying to better our relationship. But a ghost? They can’t experience such feelings, such desires, can they?”

“But neither can they pick up a hobby like painting if it’s unrelated to their obsession,” Jack pointed out, shrugging his massive shoulders. “I don’t know if we can dismiss any options, Mads.”

“No, I suppose not.” She dropped the peeled potato in the pot, picking up a new one. “We could try assembling a list of possible intentions later, and then try to cross them off one by one, based on Phantom’s behavior and reactions.”

His dad hummed a note of approval, and, figuring this was a good moment to stop eavesdropping, Danny resumed his earlier flight. Phasing into his room, he finally dropped his ghost form, noiselessly landing on the floor.

“Man. I can’t believe they figured that out,” he mumbled to himself. “How could I… Oh.”

He dug his phone out of his pocket, digging up the picture he just took. “Clockwork knew, obviously. And he… wants me to make a painting of the two of us.”

Danny made a face, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. He’s never led me wrong. Unless he’s been resetting the timeline every time he did, but, well. Details.”

Dragging his ragged backpack to his desk, Danny spread out his art supplies. Straightened out a new piece of paper, laid out his phone for reference, and started painting.

Maybe he could include a little note with this one? Write it on the back, or something?

Yeah, maybe that would work…

---

Jack paused, the few letters he’d already leaved through barely hanging on. Was this…

He dropped the other letters, until the only thing left in his hands was the painting. An all new painting, the same style as all the other ones, but the subject matter…

“Mads!” he yelled, not looking away from the painting. “Mads, we got a new one!”

“We do?” Her voice echoed up the stairs, quickly followed by the sound of footsteps as she stormed up. Then she came up next to him, saw the painting, and paused as well.

He couldn’t blame her. Phantom must’ve somehow known that they had figured it out, or it gave up on subtlety.

The new painting depicted two ghosts, huddled up next to each other. Phantom’s arm was outstretched, as if the painting had been snapped like a photo. Maybe it was based on a photo. Next to Phantom was a large ghost Jack didn’t recognize; blue skinned, with empty red eyes and a purple cloak.

No, the focus of the picture was Phantom. It smiled at the camera, but it wasn’t its characteristic smirk. It was more like a genuine cheery smile, matched by a faint smile on the other ghost’s face.

Jack flipped the paper over, wondering if Phantom had signed it as usual. Instead he was surprised to find actual written text.

“A letter?” Maddie asked, leaning in closer. Jack held it out slightly so they could both read it.

“Dear Fentons,” the letter read, the handwriting scribbly like that of most teens, but still legible.

“I’ve been given to understand that you two have figured out that I’m the one making these paintings for you. And I understand that that’s probably pretty concerning, since you’re… not all that pleased with me and my… general existence. Some of the things I have done have been framed badly, yes, and sometimes I cause damage in my fights. Who doesn’t? But no matter what you think, or what this city thinks, I always try my best to protect everyone in this town. And I’m just one ghost, in the end. Even with Red around, I would feel much safer knowing that there are other ghost hunters around. And not just hunters, scientists, who understand how ghosts work, and who could teach others. So I tried to help you with that, tried patching your gaps of knowledge with some of my own. Only you did not realize it was based on the truth, because you didn’t know it was me, and now that you do… I fear that you still do not trust any of the information I’ve tried to teach you. So… I guess what I’ve been trying to say is…”

“Can I do anything else to help, to convince you?”

Jack startled, cursed, and dropped the letter. He twisted around to find Phantom floating behind them, its glow flickering.

“Phantom,” Maddie said, cautiously. Her hand crept to her hip holster, but it was a lost cause; she didn’t carry weapons in the lab. Too big of a risk of a malfunctioning invention setting them off.

“I’m serious,” the ghost insisted, its glow brightening slightly. It still flickered like a candle. Jack wondered why, since it didn’t seem like the ghost was hurt or otherwise hampered in strength. “I want to help you guys with your research. Without, y’know, dissection stuff. I know you haven’t been in the Zone, and I really wouldn’t recommend it because that place is dangerous, but come on! I can teach you all kinds of stuff; ghost society, culture, history--”

“Ghosts can’t have any of those things, though,” Maddie interrupted, eyes narrowed. “They don’t even have emotions. They act only on obsessions. That leaves no room for-- for society, or culture, or whatever else!”

“Oh, come on, you don’t seriously believe that, do you?” Phantom huffed, crossing its arms, and looking seriously peeved off. The glow flickered even more wildly, now. Was it… Could a ghost’s glow express emotion like that? “If I could only ever think about my supposed obsession, why would I make paintings like that? Huh?”

“Your supposed obsession?” Jack questioned, keeping a close eye on Phantom’s aura. “Are you implying that you don’t have an actual obsession?”

“No? Nobody has obsessions like you’ve described them.” Phantom shrugged, and its aura dimmed a little. Hmm, perhaps brightness was related to anger? But then what could the flickering be? Uncertainty? Anxiety? “Plenty of ghosts are obsessed, sure, but it’s no different from a human who is super obsessed with something. Like a hyperfixation, I guess. It certainly won’t kill them to do something else.”

“So if someone stopped you from fighting other ghosts, from protecting this town, you wouldn’t… It wouldn’t do you any harm?” Maddie asked, watchful eyes on Phantom.

“Well, no.” The ghost shrugged again. Its glow flickered harder. “I mean, if someone got hurt I would probably feel kinda guilty about it, but… I mean, nothing I could’ve done about it if someone stopped me.”

“I suppose that that makes sense,” Jack said before Maddie could speak. He wasn’t quite sure that Phantom was telling the truth about obsessions, but they were certainly wrong about the emotional capabilities of ghosts. Besides the interactions he had seen between Phantom and Dora in the park, there was no reason for them to express emotions via their glow; no human could understand that. It could only be used to communicate emotions with other ghosts. “I mean, I guess your obsession could be to be helpful, which would explain why you would learn painting to help us, but still. We were wrong about your emotional range. Who says we weren’t about obsessions, too?”

Phantom made a face, then shrugged a third time. “Eh, good enough for me. But, really, I would love to help you guys with your research by providing more knowledge.”

“Why would you send us paintings, anyway?” Maddie frowned, clearly confused. “Clearly you can take pictures, since this last one was obviously based on one. Why not send those directly?”

The ghost shrugged, then smiled sheepishly. “Well, uh. First of all, I really like painting and I could use the practice. And second, ghost stuff just doesn’t photograph well. The pictures didn’t do justice to the real things, so I figured I could paint them more alike.”

“I see,” Jack said, ignoring the sharp looks Maddie kept throwing him. “Well, we’ll think about it, okay? And we’ll let you know.”

Phantom’s glow flickered again, like a disturbed candle, but then the ghost nodded. “Sure. That’s more than I had expected, to be honest. See you guys around, then.”

The ghost raised a hand, then faded from visibility.

“And Phantom,” Jack shouted after him, assuming the ghost was still within hearing distance, “don’t enter our home without permission!”

“Yes sir!” an invisible voice chirped back, followed by the sensation of wind as the ghost flew away.

Maddie shot him an unamused look, but he shrugged. “Look, Mads. We clearly misstepped somewhere in our previous research. It’s undeniable that they have emotions, so maybe we were wrong about more?”

She watched him for a moment longer, then heaved a sigh. “If you say so, honey, you must have your reasons. At the very least we could hear him out, I suppose.”

“He’s not a bad kid,” Jack allowed, as he turned back to head towards the lab. “Definitely has a talent for painting, that one!”

#danny phantom #fanfiction #holiday truce 2019 #dp fanfic #phanfic #aedelia #jack fenton #maddie fenton #danny fenton #dark writes #im sorry i tried to add some clockwork danny bonding but i have the Hardest time writing CW #capturing his cryptic tone through a translation barrier is rough #title is from Saturn by Sleeping At Last

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unnecessaryadversaries · 4 years

Text

LOVE & DEATH [Alucard | Adrian Tepes x Death]

Summary: After Dracula’s passing, Death (also known as Mistress) returns to his castle to mourn. When discovered by Alucard the two of them find solace amongst one another. As their friendship deepens into something more, Mistress Death and Alucard learn to overcome ghosts of their past and challenges of the future.

(A/N: This idea has been brewing in my mind for months after I finished season 2 of Castlevania. The character Death hasn’t been adapted from the games yet, so I took it upon myself to do it in my own way. Btw, this is only the first chapter so if you like what you read, the rest is posted on Ao3 under the same title.)

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I killed him… I killed him. My father, my flesh and blood.

I saw him. I heard him groan in agony as his body disintegrated before me. His blood still stained my gloves, and the smell of decay never left me. The ash from his burnt body still seemed to cling to my hair, and sometimes I'd catch myself flexing the hand that held the stake which pierced him as if it were still in my grasp.

I miss my father. He’s dead. I miss him.

So why then do these accursed memories plague me so? Why then do I see him there, clutching my mother’s portrait in his hand? This is no memory; this is no ghost…is this really my father? He’s dead. Has he returned? He’s dead. I killed him, he’s dead.

What is this?

“Who are you?” Alucard demanded.

Earlier in the night, Alucard had left the castle to wander the grounds in search of an animal to hunt. When he returned, an unsettling chill set into his bones as soon as he stepped foot in the foyer. It made him shiver and gave him goosebumps; it was as if this chill constantly crept down his back, making his hair stand on end. There always seemed to be some sort of quiet, ambient noise that echoed throughout the castle, however now it was unnaturally quiet as if time had stopped. Even his footsteps seemed too loud as he searched the halls for an intruder. The echo from his boots unnerved him, so he decided to levitate instead. As he approached the open door to his father’s study he gasped.

A tall, dark figure loomed by the lit fireplace; it wore a dark, hooded cloak and its back was facing Alucard. Its head was dipped to stare at the portrait of Lisa Tepes, which is held in its hand. It was as still as a statue. The outline of this figure was too sharp, it's body too solid to only be a memory or a spirit. Alucard fell silently to his feet and his mouth fell open with the intent to speak.

Is this my father? Tears brimmed his eyes and threatened to spill. Has he returned?

He hardened his expression and placed his hand on the handle of his longsword, ready to unsheathe it if necessary.

“Answer me, who are you?”

The figure lifted a hand to softly trace the outline of Lisa’s face with a long, pointed fingernail. It raised its head at the sound of Alucard drawing his sword and turned slightly to face him. He narrowed his eyes and posed to strike.

“Speak,” he ordered for the final time.

The figure sighed as if out of breath and lowered the portrait, then slowly turned to face him. His eyes widened slightly as he realized that this figure is… a woman? From what Alucard could tell she stood a few inches above him and she wore what appeared to be a floor-length, hooded black robe with long medieval sleeves. Underneath was a long, form-fitting, velvet dark blue dress that almost appeared black. The neckline of her dress was high and straight, hitting right below her collarbone. A three chained, silver belt hung loosely on her wide hips and tiny human skulls hung like charms from the lowest chain. An intricate, round silver amulet hung proudly from her neck; a red, cracked gemstone sat in the center. Her hood shrouded her eyes and nose in shadow and her full lips were downturned at the corners. Alucard gripped his sword tighter.

Who is this woman?

She made no further movements and only seemed to stare him down. Her stillness caused his stomach to turn. An odd and uncomfortable fluttering sensation permeated his gut; a sensation he hadn't felt since he had encountered his father with the intent to kill him. His hands started to sweat as the memory of that fateful night flashed through his mind once more, and his body began to involuntarily shake. The woman tilted her head slightly to the side as a corner of her mouth lifted into a small pitying smirk, "hmph.”

She brushed him off and walked towards the desk where the portrait hung above. Carefully, as if fearing to damage it, she lifted the painting, placed it back on the wall, and continued to stare at Lisa. He bared his teeth as irritation stirred within him. He felt humiliated, ignored, and he cursed himself for succumbing to the overwhelming unease this woman evoked. From her eerie silence to the unnaturally smooth way she walked —as if she were gliding across the floor— it set him on edge. She was unearthly and seemed far too detached from even the most otherworldly creatures he’s dealt with before. It alarmed him how nonchalantly she ignored him, like how a man would ignore a line of ants beneath his boot: too indifferent to pay them any attention but confident in the fact that he’d crush them in an instant. The thought made Alucard shudder.

He watched as this woman lifted her hand to caress the cheek of Lisa’s portrait longingly. His eyes widened and his mouth fell agape. What the hell?

The way she touched his mother’s portrait seemed far too intimate for his liking. His confusion quickened to rage as he imagined this horrid woman touching his mother like that when she was alive, and he grimaced at the thought. Despite his discomfort, his anger was enough to steel his resolve. He gripped his sword tight, raised it, and quickly lunged towards her. In the blink of an eye, he had pierced her heart from behind deftly. He paid no heed to whether she was too slow to react or simply did not care to put up a fight. She grunted and slowly turned her head. Alucard stared in horror as he watched her head begin to rotate at a perfect 180-degree angle to face him. Before she had a chance to completely turn her head towards him, he plunged his sword deeper, to the hilt, inside of her body. This caused her head to swivel back quickly, her head bowed as she hunched over and braced her hands on the edge of the desk.

He spoke gravely, “You come into my home unannounced and have the gall to touch my mother’s portrait like that.”

He leaned towards her by a few inches causing the added weight to push her slightly forward against the desk. She exhaled shakily. “Your presence confounds me, woman, and your disregard angers me, so I ask again, what is your business here!”

Silence filled the room once more apart from the crackling of the fire. Alucard’s chest rose and fell with the heaviness of his breathing, his eyes were narrowed, and his patience was beginning to fade. He felt his sword waver slightly as the woman’s body began to tremble and he almost couldn’t believe he began to hear light sobs and hiccuping.

Is she crying?

“To mourn,” she replied. Her voice was soft and barely above a whisper.

His brows knitted in confusion, “what?”

She quickly turned around causing Alucard to lose his grip on the sword and stumble back.

“I said—!” Her voice boomed.

Suddenly a mysterious force snuffed the fire out and the room was bathed in a thick, dark shadow that seemed to wrap itself around every corner. All at once the high-pitched whistle of a strong, howling wind resounded throughout the room, it’s screeching deafening. Alucard could not tell from which direction this wind blew, nor what caused it, but it’s iciness bit at his skin, chilling him to the bone; and its force blew his long hair around wildly. Without warning he was overcome with an overwhelming feeling of dread and distress; it was as if a heaviness had settled upon his shoulders. He staggered back and fell helplessly onto his rear. He could feel his heartbeat wildly in his chest; the thrums of this beating pounded on his chest and rattled his rib cage.

Bumbumbumbumbum!

He struggled to breathe and found it hard to swallow because of how dry his mouth had become. Panicking, he clutched his chest and choked. An ambient droning sound— akin to the buzzing of a multitude of flies— grew louder and louder in his ears, and static seemed to cloud his sight; invading from his peripheral vision and closing in towards the front, his line of sight becoming narrow. The figure of this woman loomed above him imposingly and he looked upon her in fear. He felt his nose begin to stuff as warm tears ran uncontrollably down his cheeks.

What’s happening! Am I going to die?

However, these sensations and the darkness were gone as quickly as they came, too quickly in fact for Alucard to process. It was as if nothing had happened. The fireplace was lit once again, bathing the room in an orangish glow, and the snapping of firewood filled the otherwise silent room once more. His chest expanded widely as he gulped down lung fulls of air. He dropped his head in his hands and carded them through his hair to tug on the roots.

Was that real? Did I almost die?

Alucard quickly realized that this woman was more dangerous than he’d originally believed, and he felt anxious at the thought of her harming the villagers who lived far beyond his castle. He released his hair and lifted his head to steal a glance at her through his parted fingers. He was afraid to stand, not wanting to seem like a threat. When he noticed that her head was bowed, he lowered his hands and cautiously raised his head to view her fully. She was trembling slightly, and she clutched her amulet in a tight fist.

“I—I said…” she began with a sad voice.

Hastily, Alucard scooted back as the woman walked forward to unsheathe herself from his levitating sword; it dropped to the ground with a clank! The woman followed suit, falling to her knees with enough force to shake the ground.

“…to mourn.”

Her sobs began again as she curled in on herself; Alucard’s eyebrows raised in disbelief.

To mourn? He looked at Lisa's portrait. She was mourning my mother?

It was then that he felt a slight tug on his heart. He hadn’t thought anyone else, besides his father and himself, had dealt with the pain of losing his mother. After killing his father, bearing the weight of loss became something he had carried himself, and it was such a heavy burden. At that moment Alucard had wished things were different, and that his mother’s love was enough to completely eradicate his father’s hate towards humanity. Maybe then he wouldn’t have needed to kill his father. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so drastically alone. He yearned for the presence of his father, and much more than that, his mother. These were desperate and grieving thoughts, ones he had thought he was able to subdue, but they clawed their way from the recesses of his mind and attacked him once again. His throat tightened and he chastised himself for losing control of these wild thoughts, ones that used to keep him up for days at a time. To calm his mind, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth; he repeated this technique a few more times before opening his eyes.

He steeled himself and spoke with a gentler tone, “I do not know who you are and yet I empathize with you. If you truly came here to mourn my mother, then please…tell me who you are.”

The woman's sobbing stopped gradually, and she exhaled deeply once she was finished. Next, she sat back on her legs with one hand splayed behind herself for support and the other still clutched her amulet, albeit with a much softer grip. Most of her face was masked from Alucard, so he couldn’t see the forlorn look she had in her eyes when she raised her head to look at him.

He looks just like her, she thought.

Fresh tears brimmed her eyes, but she was too exhausted to stop them from flowing.

She released her amulet to grip her hood, “very well.”

Frozen, Alucard didn’t blink as he finally saw this woman’s face. Her skin was a dark shade of brown and the richness of it was emphasized by the warm glow of the fireplace. This was contrasted by her wide eyes which were framed by thick, black eyelashes. The entirety of her irises and pupils were a blue so pale they almost blended in with the sclera, oddly there seemed to be some sort of inner glow that shone through, furthering her ethereality. Much to his surprise, they held a deep sadness that Alucard also saw in his own and momentarily reminded him of his father’s eyes moments before his death. Long, white, loosely waved hair cascaded down her back and echoed the same glow in her eyes. Though she looked to be in her early thirties, her face did not betray age-old wisdom.

Alucard gulped, she was beautiful.

Despite her grief, she lifted her head proudly and said with confidence, “I am Death, but you may call me Mistress.”

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writtenbyvenus · 4 years

Text

What We Do In The Shadows

( Warning, this is in RP format, but has been edited and proof read for grammar/flow. A change between writers with both characters is symbolized by italics. )

Chapter 2: Entering The Wolf’s Den

Werewolves and vampires: two species that are mortal enemies. But in a small town in Upstate New York, they seemed to find a way to co-exist by staying out of each other's way and minding one's business. However, the dynamics of the local pack of werewolves and coven of vampires would change when a certain pair got too close for comfort. Alfred is an over seventy-year old werewolf posing as local law enforcement, while Ivan is a centuries old vampire working at a blood bank. Both try to get through the struggles of being immortal creatures, who find themselves in a cultural and family struggle when they fall for each other. Between an anti-vampire pack leader, suspicious in-laws, and a death that could nearly tear two families apart, the pair questions if a relationship is a reality, or if they have too much baggage they carry.

Alfred could tell he offended his baby bat. From his body language to ‘Don’t wait up’, his vampire was not pleased with being forced alone and having to wait. It seemed that the vampire had a lot of pride, they were prideful creatures after all. Being told by the wolf ‘Hang by yourself then’ must have hurt his ego, as he reached out to hang out with Ivan in the first place. Smelling the man’s disdain, once he got back into his room, he hoped that Ivan would knock on his door again. But when he didn’t he did pout. Perhaps he was too harsh on his crush. Rethinking his actions, he did wish Ivan would have knocked on his door. He would welcome the man in and enjoyed some light cuddling while he watched dragons breath fire on people. However, it seemed to be that the man was too offended by the idea. Watching the show, he got bored as he wished Ivan was next to him. Thinking for a moment, he came up with an idea to tempt Ivan into his apartment. Standing up, he didn’t bother to pause the show as he went into his room. Grabbing his pencil and sketch pad, he decided to let Ivan see his secret hobby: drawing. His love of anime and cartoons inspired him to take up drawing as a hobby. But he was very embarrassed about it, and would rarely show people his artwork. Even if it was great and matched up well with popular artists on social media, his own anxiety made it a hidden talent. He’d let very few people see his drawings, for him it was about the fun of it. He didn’t need validation for it, it was his hobby. He’d color, sketch, and draw, just for himself. Sitting back on the sofa, he decided to use a more cutesy-anime style. Drawing him and Ivan, he gave Ivan little bunny ears, and wolf ears on himself. Nicknames like ‘bunny’ and ‘ kitten’ were ones he saved for people he found cute.

It was ironic since it was the prey of wolves. He did want to eat up a cute bunny or kitten, but more in a playful manner. Ivan’s foreign accent made him think of a hot blonde he’d see at a ski resort. With the cutesy image of him and the bunny, he made sure to draw him smirking and showing off his canine teeth. Ivan didn’t look scared in the art, only giving the cocky smirk he usually gave Ivan. It was only their heads and torsos, and on the top, he wrote ‘After your sister’s leave, wanna get something to eat?’. It was Alfred’s peace offering. Getting up, he walked to Ivan’s apartment door. Instead of knocking, he simply slipped the art under his door. Ivan would come across it once he was around the area. He didn’t want to disturb the blood-sucking bunny current if he truly had plans. Going back to his room, he continued on his Game of Thrones binge, praying that the vampire would come by later. In terms of a ‘meal’, it could be anything the man wanted. They could go hunting together, Ivan finding some unsuspecting human, and Alfred a lonely deer. Or, more orthodox, actually somewhere to snack. Or just stay in his house and cook something homemade. Whatever the man had a thirst for, blood or food.

Over in his own apartment, Ivan put a sponge to his red-stained mugs, putting his strength into getting the crusted blood left to the bottom. When he turned his heel to load his dishwasher something white caught his eye. He set his dishes in the rack before scanning the floor before his door. Stepping away from the sink, he approached the mysterious note and turned his head to look down upon it. Recognizing the resemblance of his face, his cheeks flushed with red. He bent down and snatched up the paper into his hands. His heart nearly lurched from his chest and onto the freshly spotless floor. He'd have to deal with the recycled blood burning his face for a few more minutes before getting over the gesture. The strange conversation and insight earlier blended oddly with the feeling he had now. Mostly charmed, but slightly uneasy. He found it bold, not unwelcomed, but surprising from Alfred. His finger traced over the leaded indentations as he took a seat at his breakfast nook. It was beyond flattering, a style he hasn't seen before, but charming. He thought of it slightly egotistical to be set next to the man who drew it, but grateful for it. It made it easier on his eyes. Bunny ears. That was a new one for him. Bat wings were a popular addition for scriptures and etchings. He wasn't used to seeing some draw him in a kindly way. Most depictions of him resonated with evil tellings and horrifying accounts of his figure hunched over a decaying body. Town folk never were pleased when he would make an appearance in their streets. It's why moving was a must for him, he needed supplies like everyone else. Curiosity struck him as he wondered how much moving Alfred must have been up to. Being ageless caused too much suspicion. 'My, Avgustin, you don't look a day over twenty-five' were the last words he heard before leaving his old home behind. Sometimes he wishes to grow old.

The little question scribbled down beside the art was one he had to consider thoroughly. One that made his heart stop. He rattled his fingers across the surface of the table and reread the words. 'your sisters' it didn't make any sense to him, he swore up and down that he didn't whisper a word of his relations. Sighing and sliding the paper away from him, he sat quietly to calm his nerves and lay his head down on the table. He did plan on inviting his sisters over and that included sharing his haul of blood, but now all he wanted to do was head next door and talk to Alfred. The warmth clung to him like it usually did, an unbearable heat holding to his face. It would only embarrass him further to give in so easily. He pressed his face into the cool wood and closed his eyes for a moment before leaving it behind. Nothing would give him closure, he wanted to be next to Alfred and that would be the only way to get the werewolf out of his thoughts. Groaning, he began finishing up the rest of his dishes. After flicking on his dishwasher, he took the art and walked it back to his room. He was trying to wait out the lingering warmth to his face and most of it faded, but not all of it would give him that peace. Before he finally left his apartment, he messaged his sibling group that he wouldn't be home. There wasn't much his poor sisters could do if something were to go wrong, but he just didn't want them asking him to death about where he went. Hesitantly, he knocked on Alfred's door and waited. His heart didn't stop racing, he didn't find himself nervous around werewolves very often, but Alfred had that effect on him.

It was good for Alfred’s ego that he wasn’t there to witness Ivan’s reaction to the note. Seeing blushing, flattered Ivan would cause the wolf to grin, and show off his canines in the glory of knowing he charmed the vampire. It would be in Ivan’s best interest to let Alfred enjoy it if he enjoyed the ‘bunny’ persona, as Alfred would happily go with it. A cute nickname for a cute boy, not to mention, Alfred understood the niceness of not being referred to something scary. Alfred was like Ivan in that way, no one knew better than him what it was like to be personified into a godless beast, with nothing charming and cute about it. Being compared to something as harmless and pretty as a bunny was probably emotionally soothing, which was part of the reason Alfred did it. A bunny is adorable, warm, and cozy, the last thing that goes to someone’s head is fear over the animal. Ivan could be Alfred’s harmless, sweet bunny if he wanted too. Even if Alfred drew himself to be a wolf, he was still a childlike puppy in many ways, even with the slight bloodlust that he had. Minus that, he was a silly, carefree man. But the transformation did take some part of his personality and make it more intense. Alfred was lost in his marathon when he could smell Ivan walking down the hallway.

Sniffing the air, a smile popped out when he could smell the nervousness on him. Has the note made him nervous? He wasn’t sure if it was ’I’m nervous about how excited I am to see him...’ or ’I’m just scared of him’ anxiety, he couldn’t smell that. Only that the man was dealing with some emotions due to the note. He wondered if the part about his sister’s had made Ivan worried. In all honesty, it was just a bold guess on who was coming over. Alfred was aware that Ivan had siblings or at least relatives, he could smell other vampires around, and two females had a similar scent to him. He concluded that someone was either related to him, and a female. Sister’s were the most logical answer, but cousins, aunts, and other distant relatives were all possible. Alfred’s lucky guess had helped his case. Standing up, he walked to the door, offering Ivan a gentle smile as he raised a brow. “Did your plans cancel? That sucks. But, you’re welcome to come in, babe. I got a spot on the sofa for you.” He stepped back to let Ivan inside his house, the first time he’s ever done that. Inviting a vampire into your home? The biggest no-no in the world, but here was Alfred not caring, per usual. He was going to bring up how they’d dined tonight, either traditional or unorthodox, but he’d give Ivan a moment to settle in before speaking of murder and hunting. He was a gentleman after all! Sitting down on the couch, he leaned back and patted the seat next to him.

Being a man who admired his dignity more than his enjoyment, Ivan had already become irritated with his own decision. He was visiting a friend, he didn't understand why he had to make it stand out so much for himself. There wasn't any loss to giving in to spend time with someone you enjoy, but he couldn't help but consider how overly friendly the drawing was. Trying not to overthink it, he mimicked the grooves he felt and pressed them into the palm of his hand. He adored the small act, but it was overshadowed by the fact that Alfred was a suitable match against him. The fact that he actually found himself pining after the chummy little wolfman was alarming at times. He was risking many aspects of his life by even accepting the invitation to come over. If he ever got closer to Alfred, it wouldn't be logical. With the outgoing personality Alfred shined out constantly, he was sure that he couldn't be a lone wolf. There were others. He smelt them when he walked down the street or by chance in the meat section of the corner store. Werewolves, vampires, they all hid in plain sight, but it wasn't right for him to assume that all of their kind knew each other. Much like dogs though, he knew that werewolves must greet each other. Alfred had to have at least, he guaranteed himself that. It confused him to be welcomed in with that case, it scared him almost. He didn't understand why Alfred trusted him so much when he knew what he was. Unfortunately, a vampire's sense of smell isn't as powerful as a dog's thus he wasn't able to detect other bodies in the apartment. His nose was just used to Alfred passing by and in his baskets of clothes.

He wrote off the name babe quickly, trying to blame it on habit. "My plans didn't cancel. You were just acting particularly lonely so I thought I would give in and offer you some company." Teasing, he calmed down significantly at the sight of Alfred smiling patiently. Elated by the idea of finally setting foot into Alfred's humble abode with the help of some keywords, he beamed and eased his head through the doorway. He's never seen beyond the door so it was a new experience for him. It wasn't much different than his habitat, the layout was a given, but he didn't catch any deers hanging from the ceiling so it was a bonus. Ivan liked to keep his living area tidy along with his kitchen, but once someone hits his room, that's when everything starts falling apart. Never does he bother to make his bed or take out his clothes from the basket to hang them up. His nightstand, though barely a foot wide, somehow holds a lamp, three different alarm clocks, and always a few dirty dishes. A part of him wanted to head through Alfred's apartment and check out his bedroom. "When were you going to tell me that you knew how to draw?" He paced over to the sofa and took a seat away from Alfred, a cushion between the two of them so he had some space.

Alfred was pleased to have Ivan enter his house. The bunny entering the wolves den, almost. Stretching out his legs, he rested one of his arms on the headrest, eyes lingering to his shows. Ivan's excuse was cute, he didn’t even cover up with a lie about them canceling. He canceled on them for him. What about that, it added to Alfred’s ego. His eyes were careful not to linger too long, but every few moments, they’d turn to Ivan’s body as he found a quick way to verbally eat him up. “Well, thanks for giving the company. And I don’t really like talking about it since I get shy... It’s kind of a personal thing. I just draw things for myself, and no one else.” It truly was a personal hobby, but he would draw more for Ivan again if it made the man come around often. It worked the first time, so why not again? He wouldn’t mind after all. He smirked when someone was murdered on the screen. Alfred’s house proved to be on average with a clean to messy ratio. He wasn’t the cleanest guy, but he wasn’t the stereotypical dirty, living off of paper plates type of dude either. He knew how to mop, take out the trash, and vacuum, but sometimes would get lazy with dishes and let it pile up.

His habit of being sexually open also gave him a reason to keep his apartment good looking. Showing a cute boy or girl a disgusting, dirty apartment would be embarrassing. His room was surprisingly not that bad, his only problem with being lazy and letting clean clothes stay in a pile and not putting them away. He’d also never make his bed, but he’d always throw away garbage in fear of getting ants in his room. He was proud of a fox fur blanket that he had, he’d love to show Ivan. It was during a couple of days in wolf form, he hunted down several silver foxes. They are known for being used heavily in the fur trade, and lucky enough, he was able to find some living in the wild nearby. It took a few days of stalking, but he was able to hunt down enough for the blanket. Another older werewolf knew how to skin fur and make coats and blankets, and helped him with the process. It was special to him, proving his strength and hunting skills. It was also soft and luxurious; usually, he had to lie to people and say it was a gift or passed down in his family. There wasn’t much pride in saying someone gave it to him. But with Ivan, he could open up and tell how he got something worth thousands of dollars in his hands; he worked for it. The warm fur was perfect during cold winter nights in upstate New York. “I’m so lucky to have a nice friend like you. I owe you a warm meal after this...” He teased, patting Ivan’s leg before putting it back in his own lap, eyeing the TV.

"You being shy? That's a first. With the way you draw, I thought you would boast about it." Ivan was trying to compliment his host, something small, but not enough to curse himself with. In both ways, Alfred's ego was something he had to handle with caution. Cheer on the man too much and he'll be putting up with cocky smirks up until the time he had to leave. Say something a little too cruel and the bubbly wolf will turn into a babbling mess. Simply acknowledging that fact to Alfred would tear him up one way or another, Ivan knew it and planned to keep things nice and light. "You somehow captured your narcissism on a single piece of paper, it's really impressive." He made sure to sound disingenuous, eyes taking note of Alfred's position. As time went on, the show became less interesting to him. Any shock value or plot development was drowned out by the way the werewolf's face lit up. The small dust of color that humans held in their cheeks was pumping across Alfred's face. He could feel the warmth radiating off the other body. If he buried his face into Alfred's shoulder, he could get a little taste. He didn't plan on chomping down hard, just a small nip. All he needed was a drop of blood to satisfy his burning curiosity. Alfred was too smart, the vampire knew that he'd be shoved away if he even kissed his neck.

There was pride in tackling down a difficult opponent, he understood that. He had grown immune to feeling too miserable about killing some creature or human off. Animals weren't inherently evil, but humans could be. He's witnessed hundreds and hundreds of years of solid proof of how villainous a single human can be. It gave him some peace to think that he was killing off someone who deserved it, but the consequences of his actions stabbed into his thoughts when a moment was too quiet. They were all just people like him and his sisters, but he couldn't help the survival of the fittest. It was inevitable that he would kill again, he knew that his blood bank job wouldn't last forever. Eventually, he'd have to relocate again, find new prey and discover more immortals. Alfred, for now, was a dash in his timeline, but he hoped to extend it. He wanted to stay a little longer and enjoy his time with the werewolf. The thought of dining outweighed heavily on his mind, but one he was certain that what he was nearly drooling over wasn't what Alfred was implying. He could lurch over and sink his fangs into the nape of his dear friend's neck and sample the blood. "I'm lucky to have a good friend like you too... and, as friends, I'm sure you don't mind me asking how old are you- how old you really are." Returning the physical contact, he reached over and pinched at Alfred's cheek. It slightly broke his heart to be called a friend, but it was what they were and he'd rather be on Alfred's good side than be against him.

“I’m glad you like my art.” He commented, rolling his eyes as he slightly blushed from the words. He was embarrassed by the skill but loved it still. He had plans of doodling Ivan later if he had the time. Perhaps even slipping it under his door again. But it was the best of Ivan’s interest to not kiss or go near Alfred’s neck. While he did adore the vampire; he wasn’t born yesterday. Far from it, and it would win a physical push or any other action that showed dominance. The wolf inside him was an Alpha, no doubt. There would be no neck biting, kisses, or smooches unless Ivan wanted a bite back in his neck. But Alfred did accept the pinch, finding it cute that the man was finally getting to the point. After all the time they’ve been neighbors, now he wants to know some real information? He’d play, as long as Ivan played back. “My age? Well, I like to tell people I’m twenty-three. Most people buy it. I was really born in 1941 though, so I guess I look young for my age! Ha! What about you?” He turned, his eyes smiling along with his lips. Raising a brow, he looked at Ivan up and down, checking out the man. He picked up details from his encounters with Ivan and compared to it how other vampires acted. “What are you? Four? Five? Six hundred? Oh wait- Are you post or pre Catherine The Great?” He teased, knowing basic Russian history. His adulthood was during the height of the Cold War, so he knew a lot about Russia.

He was about to make a joke about if Ivan was post or pre ‘Commie-Russia’, but he didn’t want the man huffing and puffing out of his house. Ivan appeared to be the type that might be highly offended by a stereotypical ‘commie’ joke, so he wasn’t going to play his cards. He had the bunny in his den, no need to ruin it. Taking a chance, he decided to lay his head on Ivan’s outer leg. Adjusting his body, he laid on his sides as his eyes stayed on the screen, but his head was resting on top of Ivan’s thigh. He wanted a way to feel Ivan without touching her per se. His messy, blond hair was screaming to be touched, Alfred’s cheek pressing against his leg. He tried to act relaxed as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Man, sometimes I feel old but I bet you feel ancient when anyone speaks to you, huh?” He joked, appearing not to be startled by the conversation. He wondered, was Ivan’s skin soft? Could he blush? Was his fat soft? If he squeezed him, would it feel like a stone? Or skin? He never got close enough to a vampire to touch them intimately, the only times he’s had his physical contact with vampires was in wolf form, killing them in his bite. Not a great comparison to what he wanted to do to Ivan.

Ivan was thrilled to receive a blush, it always warmed his ever slow and cold heart. It made the involuntary expression even more rewarding when regarding that Alfred was a perilous creature just as he was. He felt a bit guilty for not having anything ready to give back when he came over. Drawing wasn't much of a passion for him, he was more into crafts. He could knit something for Alfred, but he wasn't sure if that would be too bold. With how high strung he wound himself up to be, he figured that the werewolf didn't fall far from the feeling around him. Anything made to comfort was suspicious as if to butter the other up. He had to be careful not to cross any lines and set alarms off in Alfred's head. Even if he wanted to drag the relationship further along and at least get to hug on Alfred without being awkward or stepping over bounds, he knew he had to be slow. It was a precaution for himself and Alfred. Hearing the werewolf's real age was a good step, not too big but not too small of a step. "Ah, so you're... in your seventies? My, I guess you really have aged well. Twenty-three does fit you more than an old man who's lived through a world war." It was better to congratulate Alfred than to compare himself to him. To be given a seemingly honest answer was a bit of a surprise to him in the first place. There were a dozen more questions he wanted to ask about the American. He's never found a werewolf civil enough to sit down and talk to; he wanted to know everything about the culture and the process. He wasn't clear on whether or not Alfred was joking or not, grimacing either way. "Do I really come off as that young? Young enough to be post Catherine the Great... That's nice to know." The home he knew wasn't quite developed enough to secure the capital and allow a ruler. "I was there before they even had tsars."

He held his tongue when Alfred cozied up onto his leg, a faint smile to his lips as his hand twitched. "I prefer the term antique... even if being born in 1174 does make me more of a relic." Propping his head upon the armrest, he inched his fingers along his thigh towards Alfred's head. He could abuse the trust, grab the werewolf, and snap his mouth around his waiting neck, but he had better control over his intrusive ideas. "How do people become... werewolves? Is it by a bite from a werewolf or maybe something more ritualistic? I assume they don't consent to it, right?" Asking along, he slowly combed his fingers through Alfred's hair. Later on, he'd have to scrub himself down to get rid of the scent before his family meets him pinching their nose. "Or should I not ask that? It might be too personal." His smile calmed as he teased the other by scratching at the area behind his ear. "I'm sure you don't mind though."

He was happy to feel Ivan’s fingers play with his neck and hair. Ivan not rejecting his touches, but accepting them was all he wanted. Yawning, he closed his eyes as he let his body relax around the man. He was even getting used to the smell, the overly sweetness not bothering him much anymore. “Wow... You are antique... I feel young compared to you, and I can remember Vietnam, Korea, the Middle East, and the Cold War.” Fighting for freedom and America was close to his heart. “My father fought in world war 2, and I entered Vietnam.” Coming back from service due to some injuries was how it happened; one day, camping with his comrades celebrating a return from service, they were attacked by a wolf. Alfred was the only one who survived, getting a deep cut on his chest. He put a silver bullet in the chest of the wolf, making it pay for taking his friend’s lives, but in the end, it’s curse never stopped. “You get bit or scratch. I got scratched, really hard. Most people die when they get bit or scratched, but I survived. I killed the wolf who attacked me and my friends. One silver bullet. That’s all it took...” Alfred whispered, his leg twitching when his ear was scratched. “How did you become a vampire...? It’s your turn to tell....” He asked, wanting to know every detail. “Did it hurt?” He asked, wondering if the transformation caused pain. It did for Alfred, becoming human to a werewolf the first time. The pain he wished he could forget. He turned his head up, looking up at Ivan with big eyes. Curious eyes that wanted the truth, not games. He pushed his body up, so more of his back and head was laying across Ivan’s lap, not just his thigh. Like a true puppy, he wanted to take all the attention and show his dominance. Laying on Ivan, and getting a pet was truly dog-like at this point. But the man could be more of a puppy than a wolf, he just had to be in the right mood. A great, calm, playful mood.

There was no heat coming off Ivan’s body, the only source of warmth was Alfred. He couldn’t feel any heat over his clothes, he guessed if it put his hands on bare skin, Ivan would be chilly. He wondered if vampires feel hard or still have a softness to them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m just curious. Vampires, are you guys stone? Or is your fat soft? Do you guys blush?” He asked, attempting to seem innocent. Blinking a few times, his innocent expression turned into a cocky grin. “If I grabbed your ass, would you move in my hand and turn red? Or? Would it be like grabbing a rock?” He asked, knowing he’d get an eye roll from Ivan, but he didn’t care. He needed to know the answers to his weird questions. His brain wondered a lot of things about Ivan and vampires overall. While he assumed that Ivan wouldn’t let him touch him with a ten-foot pole, he still is curious if the occasional thought is accurate.

"I guess you really earned your dog tags that day." Ivan offered lightly, laughing quietly at the puppy-like mannerisms of a grown man visible unwinding over his lap. Turning into a werewolf sounded just as much of a travesty as being a vampire to him. He didn't have to imagine what waking up in a new body was like, but he didn't think that he could ever really fully understand what Alfred went through either. How he earned his status as a vampire was a shorter story, but he'd spare Alfred the details. There wasn't much special about the day when he first laid eyes on the tall lanky figure barrelling toward him, but the pain was still distinct and stabbing. If he hadn't been at death's doorstep that day, he would have put up a better fight, but being at his age back then was a time for letting the earth take you. His body was preserved in the age he died and awakened. His eldest sister landed at twenty-nine and his youngest encased himself with health by being eternally twenty. They could age at will, but never make themselves younger. In that aspect, he considers himself lucky, but being a vampire wasn't his fondest thing. The moment was still fresh on his mind, how vulnerable he was, and how he let the same fate happen to his sisters. It was embarrassing to retell his inevitable cowardice. Since then, he's become more agile and stronger, but that was mostly due to his transformation. "There's a serum that comes out only from certain fangs, but you can feel it course all over your body when they stab into your neck... It hurts about as much as someone sticking two needles into you- you don't like those, do you? That's fine." He continued to tease Alfred over the blunt lie, refusing to call him out on it. It was hard for him to give that up. "I couldn't turn you into a vampire though, I'd only end up sucking your blood because I don't have the stuff to inject you with."

The science behind being a vampire wasn't widely available, but he tried to pass on the information he learned over the years as best he could. "The original vampires are the only ones who carry the serum to turn others into vampires... I'm not sure how they came about- no one does, but them." He separated and wiggled his fingers through more sections of Alfred's hair as he explained, grinning at the way his leg jerked like a dog. It was precious to his heart. "Every millennium or so, they show their face from their tomb and bite a few more unsuspecting victims. That's what I and my sisters have gathered from different vampires at least." The facts were hazy and never written down in fear of discovery. His thoughts trailed off as he enjoyed the heat coming off Alfred when he stretched across his lap. The inquiry seemed wholesome enough at first and he didn't mind answering it until Alfred had to make it dirty. "Oh, I don't know. If I slapped you in the face, would it be soft? Would you be blushing?" He snapped sarcastically, squishing Alfred's cheeks together in turn. "We're not gargoyles! Our skin is just the same as human flesh... So, yes... I guess if you were to grab my ass, it would turn red and move, but I'm not about to give you an example." Patting his face before returning to play with his hair, Ivan furrowed his brows. He grew up in a different time, getting those sorts of comments wasn't something he was used to. "Why are you curious about that sort of thing anyway? What makes you think I'll answer any questions after that?" Frustrated, he went back to scratching behind Alfred's ear to calm himself and the warmth sprouting over him. "Make it up to me by telling me how the moon affects you.

Alfred was shocked to learn the truth about vampires. He was told that all vampires had venom that had the potential to kill. Finding out that only a few did make him relieved, vampires aren’t as dangerous as he was told before. Seeing that even other vampires were unsure how they got the venom explained why his own kind was misinformed. Not to mention, vampires never made it clear about that little fact, nor would Alfred see why they would. Most vampires would rather seem scary and dangerous, having a poison inside them looming over someone’s head. “So? If you bite someone, you don’t have any venom? You’d inject nothing? That’s crazy, everyone thinks all vampires have something in their teeth.” This didn’t mean vampires were harmless, he knew that the creatures had superhuman strength and skill just like him. If a vampire wanted a werewolf dead, it was completely possible. Alfred was biased, and always thought he had the upper hand against vampires. In his personal, werewolf opinion, they were faster and stronger than vampires. But it came to pride than anything else, Alfred would never let his kind down. Even if he thought being a werewolf was more of a curse at times, he would show honor and stand up for himself and his other pack members. They weren’t human anymore, but they were still living beings. “Werewolves, we are different I guess. In wolf form, I think our saliva and body fluids when entering someone else’s skin, can turn them. I think of it as an illness... You get exposed, you’re one of us. With bites, it’s easy to see why it gets into someone’s bloodstream. I’m less sure about scratches though, how it turns us into werewolves. I’m gonna guess there’s just something in our claws that carries the virus.”

Alfred was no scientist, and there wasn’t exactly anyone out there experimenting and explaining the biology of werewolves. He couldn’t hold back his laugh when Ivan pinched his cheeks and got annoyed with his question. He deserved all the cheek squishes! “I just wanted to make sure my wet dreams were scientifically actual, that’s all.” He teased, closing his eyes when Ivan scratched the back of his ear. “Mm....” He lightly groaned, his leg twitching slightly. “Ugh. I hate full moons, man. It doesn’t make us mindless or crazy; we just are forced into wolf form as long as the moon is out. So usually, we have to stay outside. It isn’t too bad in the summer and spring, but when it’s cold out it's kind of annoying to have to find shelter. Nowadays, I go over to my friend Allen’s house during full moons. He has basically a farm and tons of areas that we can just... chill and wait out the full moon. It’s why I left the city, it’s one thing to find somewhere to hide during the countryside, another thing we’re everyone’s running around.” Alfred viewed it as more of an inconvenience if anything. Having to plan his life around one night was annoying! Making sure he had no work, no one visiting, no one expecting him, and if anyone needed to contact him, he was M.I.A for about twelve hours. Alfred got over being horrified about his werewolf status, so more just bothered. “It’s just irritating to have to plan around full moons. But it’s just one day of the month a least....” He took a deep breath, deciding to ask Ivan a question. “Vampires, do you guys like....? Do you guys have a preference when it comes to blood? Like, do certain races taste different? Or is there a difference between boys and girls?”

"I may not be able to turn you, but I can still drain every ounce of blood out of you and leave you as a husk." He didn't like being underestimated. While he found Alfred semi charming, it was made clear to him that the werewolf was still a threat. It was only right for him to assure that he was the same, someone who shouldn't be tampered with. He didn't plan on devouring the sweet neighbor, but he's considered it. The man might just be naive enough to feel safe around a vampire. He didn't even feel comfortable around a vampire he barely knew. It came down to territory between him and a member of his kind. If there were too many vampires in the area, then suspicion rises. Too many bodies are dropping and someone isn't getting enough to drink. He's never personally killed a vampire, but he fought a great few years ago. Times have changed, most vampires have mellowed out and found alternatives to slaughtering a cognitive being. While Ivan has cooked up some solutions to give him the nutrients he needs in a blood-soaked diet, he finds the rich frothy taste of real blood to be too tantalizing. It's been a few months since he's actually stalked and killed someone; he's proud of himself for it. If his tracks are uncovered at the blood bank, he may have to come back to that lifestyle. Living life as a murderer was less glamorous than living life as a hunter. Hearing Alfred say that he could only turn people when in wolf form was a relief. He thought that at least he wasn't stumbling around accidentally making people immortal. "So you can only turn people into werewolves when you're a wolf?... I've never heard about the claws part, that's new to me." It wasn't known to him whether or not he would become a werewolf too if he was bitten, but it was most definitely a concern to him now. A werepire? A vampwolf? Whatever it was, it was conjured up disturbingly in his head. He'd keep his distance from now on if that was the case.

Rolling his eyes at the wet dreams comment, he stopped rubbing his hands through Alfred's hair. "Are all werewolves this dense and vulgar? Or is it just you?" He'd roll the big puppy off his lap if he wasn't going to end up on the floor. Angering a werewolf was something he found surprisingly easy so he kept calm and tried not to seem too upset with Alfred. He liked the company; he didn't want to lose it. "Only during full moons? So you're essentially powerless up until then." Werewolves weren't too strong if they couldn't change at will. He felt significantly less threatened by Alfred's habit of showing his teeth. It was more of a parlor trick to him now, a small way to tease him. He thought of himself as lucky to have his powers with him all the time. It meant that he could tease and frighten Alfred all he wanted until the full moon popped out. He smiled to himself, gently rubbing a thumb to the American's open neck. "We do have preferences actually. The flavor really only varies with the blood type. My least favorite type is B-negative... it's a little bitter. Ah, but my favorite blood type of all has to be O-positive... thankfully, the most common." Shutting his eyes, he leaned back onto the headrest. It was always funny to him when someone walked into the clinic asking for a blood test to be done on them when he could just tell them then and there what they were. To remain undetected, he had to take a blood sample and let the customer wait out the process. He's seen a handful of mythical beasts walk through the blood bank doors while undercover, but those were the only creatures he couldn't seem to smell around. "Usually I can sniff out someone's blood type as they stand- but I can't detect your type on you. Your... werewolf musk has been blocking me." Furrowing his brows with sorrow, he twirled a piece of Alfred's hair between his fingers. "It's made me nothing but curious to find out yours- mere curiosity, trust me. I don't bite."

Alfred wasn’t scared of the warning of getting his blood drained, as Ivan didn’t scare him. The vampire could puff out his chest and appear more frightening than he is, but Alfred stayed unfazed. He was too prideful to let a vampire put any terror into him. He scoffed when Ivan said that he was only powerful during a full moon. “Ha! Who said that I can only turn during a full moon? I said I’m forced to turn during the full moon, I can turn anytime I want the rest of the month. I could turn right now. It rips my clothes off, so I would rather not give an example.” Ivan shouldn’t feel any more relief in it, Alfred had his power all year round. “Don’t think I could turn you, though. I think our... virus is immune to you guys. Vampires aren’t alive, so it just... dies on you. We just end up killing you with our strength and fighting powers.” He explained, never hearing of a vampire and werewolf crossbred. He didn’t think it was possible, but who knew. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying getting his hair played with. A smirk crept up his face when he was accused of being vulgar. “I’m just a vulgar guy, that’s all. I say what I think.” That was true as well, Alfred didn’t have much of a filter, especially around other immortals. He was a man who laughed and cried easily, who displayed all the emotions he had in his heart. It was just who he was, and he didn’t want to change anytime soon. He offered a cute act of nuzzling his cheek on Ivan’s thigh, wanting his attention again. Getting his hair played with was a major comfort. His body would relax, and calm down when someone’s fingers ran through his dirty blond locks. There was something about Ivan that offered him comfort, even if he was a vampire. His disgustingly sweet scent wasn’t bothering him anymore, and his soft voice was more soothing by the moment.

He smirks again when he hears about the blood type. “Oh? Then you’d love me. I’m O-positive.” He confessed, not scared since he knew Ivan wouldn’t bite him. If Ivan was going to drain him of his blood, he would have done it by now. Ivan didn’t need to cuddle up with him on his sofa to do it. “I’m glad my werewolf musk blocks it. Protects us from being victims of hungry, thirsty vampires like you. I’m not shocked at all that you work at a blood bank. I’m just surprised that you haven't noticed that you are stealing all the blood. How do you steal it anyway? Don’t they have protocols and stuff for this?” He questioned, always wondering how Ivan did it. He was either extremely talented, or the office was just stupid and lazy with their security. Who knew a man could get away with stealing countless pints of blood, but it was better than him going into town and murdering men in cold blood. “I’ll be honest... if you need some victims, I got a list of every sex offender, pedophile, and creep in town. Some people escape justice. So if you are hungry.... just tell me. I’ll get you a meal.” He had a sneaky grin, loving the idea of Ivan doing his dirty work. Instead of hunting these sickos in wolf form, his blood-sucking bunny could find a use for them.

It shut Ivan's small victory down when he heard about the ability. The possibility of seeing wolves walk around during the day skyrocketed and he wasn't sure where his emotions landed on the issue. Everything about having the upper hand over someone was comforting to him, but he felt as if it wasn't that overwhelming. Alfred was harmless and most of his worries about werewolves came from prejudice. The only rivalry between the two creatures was one he welcomed. He had fun flirting with and teasing Alfred, but he didn't want to risk being too attached. If something were to come up that jeopardized his facade, then he'd have to book it out of New York with his sisters not far behind. Knowing Alfred's own immortality, he was sure the situation would be the same for him. He'd end up miserable if he grew even fonder of the man only to disappear the next day. Anyone else, he didn't care to shatter their heart, but the cute playful furball was just too hopeless. "You talk like a child telling me about how strong their favorite superhero is when you describe your own species." He humored, rolling his eyes at the nonchalant bragging. There wasn't much that annoyed him about Alfred, the man was pleasant to be around, but he had his own honor to attend to. Being a blood seeker wasn't glamorous by all means, but he had to defend what was a part of him. The relief felt from immunity still didn't suffice against the show off's insistence. Every step of the conversation was an act for him to prove that he could stand up against a werewolf; the worn-out joke tired him. He wanted to feel comfortable around Alfred, but nothing felt genuine as if he was waiting for something specific to come out. It reminded him of a patient puppy. Most stereotypes held about the bouncing, yapping few. Like dogs, they roll onto their back and practically beg to be pet, loved on at the very least.

Giving in before the manchild started whining, he scrubbed his fingers along Alfred's scalp and through his strands. His eyes lit up at the confession, a big grin attached to his face. "Oh really? It's the most common blood type... but the most special to me. The rarity of it is only measured by my own longing for it." He wormed the corners of his mouth slowly down to mask his eagerness to jump on Alfred and dine out. "It's a very sweet taste- you should let me lap up any cuts you have in the future. I'll come over in a heartbeat and suck your wounds dry." The talk of blood left him parched, he distracted himself by fluffing up Alfred's hair. He wasn't entirely sure how his blood stash was known by the mutt, but he wasn't about to question it. His trust was growing high enough that he didn't care. "Most people don't know a pint from a pint and a half... it's a little dangerous for the donors, but I do sneak out an extra snack for myself when I think someone's gullible- so, I'm technically not stealing from the blood bank because they still get their pint of blood... I just drain another pint for myself. " He assured, hoping Alfred wouldn't rat him out. It would slip his mind often that the man was a cop. The only reason staff picked up on his master plan was the high rate of lightheaded donors coming out of his section. Now and then, they sent someone to check the equipment he was using, but nothing came of it. He's slowed on the packs he takes home to cool down the heat trailing behind his tail. "I might take you up on that offer someday, but my hands haven't been this clean of blood in a while... Unless you're in dire need of my assistance then I can help mark off some names for you- at a price, of course." Leaning down, he placed a chaste kiss to Alfred's forehead and gently brushed back the hair in his way. "Come over to the blood bank and I'll give you a donut if you behave... then maybe we can go track down some pedophiles and rip them apart together."

Alfred didn’t have too many plans for leaving the town soon. He only had lived there for a few years, and he knew he could get away with his non-aging status for a while. People usually only would start to talk about how young he looked. Alfred would just lie and credit on genetics. ’My parents look super young too. ‘Our whole family doesn’t age.’ he’d lie, and it worked. He looked young and was young to everyone else, so no one questioned his age. He guessed he could last until he was in his mid-thirties before people thought it was just downright weird that he hadn't aged. It was why he attempted to stay out of the spotlight. Keep to himself a few groups of friends. It was hard, he was an extrovert. He is a popular personality, everyone would know who he was and wanted to be around him. But that changed when his mortality did, and unless he wanted to become a scientific experiment for the government, he had to keep a low profile. But he always came out at night, hitting clubs and finding relief in intimacy. If he couldn’t be surrounded by dozens of friends, he’d surround himself with pretty girls and boys, even if it was just one night. A sucker for love, it was even more troubling knowing he couldn’t get into a relationship with anyone. That was the hardest about this life, knowing he’ll always be alone. Almost everyone in his pack was male and straight. How come there were only a few queer werewolves? He was aware that he should branch out to new immortals, but it was difficult since his pack was so tight. There was a sense of betrayal being around other werewolf packs, it was frowned down. Your pack was your family, case closed. You suffered with them.

[ Here is the link to my Ao3, thank you if you read it <3 ]

#rusame #amerus #aph russia #aph america #fanfic #I've just decided to keep it in its OG format #but i still edit for flow #yeee everyone have a good night

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sebastianshaw · 3 years

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I'M HERE TO YELL ABOUT THE WEREMOLES AGAIN THEY'RE REALLY AMAZING AND INTERESTING AND UNIQUE AND I LOVE THEM

-While a lot of the other Changing Breeds all dislike each other for one reason or another, or at best just don't interact, the moldwarps actually had it in their laws to aid their cousins in their respective duties for which Gaia created each of them, but -- "Killing Sceatha with the Garou, allowing Ratkin to travel to Run’s End, or showing the Moldwarp Burrows to other Breeds’ Kinfolk all fall outside of the realms of acceptable aid." CLEARLY THE RATKIN DID SOMETHING LIKE I HAVE NO DOUBT THERE IS GOOD REASON FOR THAT RULE (the wererats are chaos incarnate and I love them) -k so there is basically a trinity of spirits in this setting, the Triat---the Wyld, the Weaver, the Wyrm. Generally speaking, everyone is fighting the Wyrm and sometimes also the Weaver. But the moldwarps seek true balance between all three. And there's a small group of them called Apes Redeemers who want to basically exorcise the Weaver AND Wyrm out of human beings--- "Redeemers take humans in direct service to the Weaver, or with strong behavioural traits in its favour, and attempt to cleanse them through a mixture of psychological abuse, isolation, and repurposed rites. Freethinking Moldwarps shun this Hill’s ideals as quite beyond the pale, but Redeemers hold up examples of humans who have been forced into bestial states of primitive regression, the Weaver’s hold utterly stripped away, as evidence that their methods are in fact effective." (The Weaver is like...organization, society, technology, tools, etc. Normal humans are very much Weaver creatures.) - AW BUT THERE ARE ALSO PLAGUE DOCTOR MOLDWARPS WHO GO TO DISEASE RIDDEN AREAS TO TREAT PEOPLE - In addition to being the jailers of Gaia, they are also the undertakers, burying the dead of other creatures - There are different “Warrens” or types of weremole, based on their role in weremole society and the jobs they have. Most notable to me are the Cleansers and the Wardens. Cleansers “strive to emulate the motherly aspect of Gaia in all that they do. Calm and considerate, their lot is to cure the fallen, correcting their spiritual bearing and keeping them healthy during their stay in the Den. Sadly, despite their caring natures, Cleansers make for arguably the worst weremoles to act as the face of a Sett while interacting with other Fera. Speaking of tainted beings as patients needing treatment wins few friends in the wider shapeshifter community, and Cleansers find it difficult to adjust to the more punitive mindset broadly shared by most Fera.” “ They act as their communities’ confidants and carers, conduits for the worries, stresses, and strains which would otherwise hinder important work” “ Passionate and creative both in conflict and at peace, Cleansers tend to the Burrows’ feeding, nursing, and childrearing tasks outside of their main duties” “ Most Cleansers adopt a calm and measured persona following their Vision Crawl, and are incredibly difficult to infuriate.” Whereas the Wardens are “the closest thing a Burrow has to a standing force of warriors” and “the least empathic of all Warrens. Where Cleansers are the good cops, the Wardens are their counterparts, expected to keep Sceatha in line by any means necessary for them to be successfully rehabilitated. They embody force, conviction, and authority, and are granted Gifts which reflect such qualities in order to contain and recover the corrupted.” “ these Moles are tough, courageous, and stoic. These qualities are much called upon, for it is their burden to contain, monitor, and protect Sceatha held in captivity” “ Wardens embody intimidation, conviction, and authority in every action they take. This can sometimes be expressed with the exciting encouragement of an elder sibling, the sternness of a loving parent, or the detached professional attitudes of their human namesakes.” There are others, like Trackers and Diggers and Architects, but those are more concerned with burrowing tunnels or simply finding/retrieving Sceatha (Wyrm-tainted or otherwise corrupt creatures in need of healing/rehabilitation) rather than actually guarding and treating them, so they’re of less interest to me. The Diggers do also make tunnels in the Umbra, which is the spirit world, which is a pretty cool concept. - Their Homid (human) forms are as wonderfully unglamorous as moles themselves-- “ usually naturally heavy, with excessive body hair and poor eyesight. Their hands and feet are often disproportionately large compared to their small stature and otherwise short limbs, but for these physical shortfalls they make up with greater levels of strength, health, smell, hearing, and directional coordination” A far cry from the ridiculously sexy werewolf boyfriends of paranormal romance fiction. Love it. They also typically have jobs in sanitation or rehabilitation-- “ These individuals find employment as city planners, prison guards and wardens, subway and sewer maintenance operatives, and similar jobs focused around organisation, rehabilitation, and the conservation of resources both material and human. It’s a rare occurrence that an up-and-coming track athlete or singer enters the Vision Crawl.” Again, love it. - Their Crinos form (the hybrid form or “war form”) is HORRIFYING-- “ a large amalgamation of mole and human standing at 7 feet tall and over 80 stone in weight, a hunched monster which could never exist in the natural order of the surface world [. . .] twisted faces and sightless eyes [. . .] Knife-like teeth protrude along the length of their muzzles and shovelling claws grow from each clubbed hand” - Most wereanimals are weak to silver. Some varieties are weak to gold. But weremoles are weak to obsidian and other black gems. - Unlike most wereanimals, moldwarps can become vampires, and these unfortunate creatures are called The Baogane, also known as Bugbears. They are the saddest things I have ever heard of. “ The existence of a Baogane poses burning questions to her Sett. Should she receive an honourable Final Death and be given over to Gaia? Should she be put through arduous cleansing in the small hope it works? Or, more dubiously, should she be allowed to serve the Burrow eternally? Setts who are unfortunate enough to lose one of their own to a Leech make their own decisions on what to do with their fallen kin.” “ Baoganes look similar to how they did in life, save for their fangs being unnaturally long even for vampires. In Crinos form, these fangs splay out either side of their face to resemble the curved tusks of a boar, and sometimes punch through the flesh of their gums and lips. The fur of all forms - even Homid hair - becomes permanently sharp, coarse, and patchy, again similar to that of a boar.” “ Soil does not merely cling to the fur and skin of a Bugbear as it would to any other subterranean creature, but latches on with supernatural power, reflecting the earth’s desire to see such a monster dead and buried. Over the space of but a few nights, the Moldwarp may become so covered in filth and earthen debris that her size and shape cannot be discerned.” “ Baoganes often spend their unlives trapped within cleansing chambers, awaiting rehabilitation that may never come without their much-sought-after destruction. Many are granted the Thing of Salvation, though some willing penitents are denied even that.” The “Thing of Salvation” of course, is final death. The weremoles call very important ceremonies or celebrations, Things. Thing of Deliverance, Thing of the Hill, etc. - I honestly can’t overstate how new and crazy it is they wish to rehabilitate the Wyrm-tainted and save the Wyrm itself. For DECADES the entire point of this game has been FUCK UP THE WYRM’S SHIT. The Wyrm has always been the ultimate evil, even more so than the Weaver who is technically the one at fault for it going crazy, and EVERY wereanimal has had “destroy the Wyrm’s servants” in their own laws. And yet in the weremole’s laws, you’re NOT allowed to kill Sceatha unless your own life is threatened---” Sceatha are not of sound mind and so do not deserve unnecessary harm, irrespective of their most vile actions; only once they are cured are they to be judged as independent beings by the rest of the world. If that judgment is death, then they must be returned to Gaia without delay. Destroying befouled artefacts out of hand, meanwhile, is wasteful and disrespectful of their already-violated spirits.” Like this is just...so out of line from EVERY OTHER WERECREATURE it’s WILD, and it’s no wonder all the other critters are distrustful of them AT BEST. - So, Run’s End, that place they don’t ever let the Ratkin go? It sounds AMAZING, like so beautiful and spooky. It’s this realm “where death and decay occur, but peacefully and purely. This peace, however, is maintained only by the avid cleansing of its space by high-ranking Moldwarps, making it a nigh-impenetrable refuge of solemn deathliness suspended between zones of total corruption. Only by travelling along the Run, or traversing the turbulent dimensions held up by Run’s End to eventually find a border between worlds, may a being enter this place of pure, tranquil death. All is not quite as it should be, of course, for vicious battles constantly rage at the borders of Run’s End” “ The geography of Run’s End is reminiscent of an ancient Mayan jungle, at the heart of which stands a colossal obsidian temple to the Balance Wyrm, the structure in which the Lord of the Run resides beside his High Scrivein, Sanctus, and Thegn. This temple, the Body of Death, plays host to any great debate waged by high-Ranking Moldwarps, including each and every Althing. Around the Body of Death stretches the Fungal Forest, with mycelial growths a hundred metres tall stretching as far as the eye can see, generating natural luminescences of deep purple, dark red, and ochre green. From the unseen roof of the realm slowly descend all manner of remains - of humans, animals, plants, and even concepts, hopes, and dreams long forgotten - like snowflakes, landing gently atop the fungal canopy to be slowly digested. A fine film of red, brown, and green covers the undergrowth, having seeped down from the mushroom caps high above. Amongst these fungi are found equally decomposed but animate carrion beasts of all varieties lapping up the rotting fluids: insects, corvids, and Consumer Worms as long and thick as oak trunks winding amongst the mushroom stumps, soaking in the decay Despite its dire aspect, the fear of death for any being present in the Fungal Forest is simply absent; the fact that death comes for all is readily apparent, but comes as a comfort. Though not part of the Underworld proper, the Forest is a manifestation of final rest. From the gentle dripping of corpse-fluid to the slow undulation of the Consumer Worms, there is no violation or undue destruction in this Forest, only the equalising end of all things. Indeed, all beings who enter Run’s End begin decaying almost immediately; only those with some form of supernatural regeneration, or whose protection has been specifically petitioned for, may withstand it. Equally, the Body of Death allows only full-blooded Moldwarps to enter, with instant death and rapid decomposition coming to all others. At the Obsidian Reach, young and old Moldwarps alike dig to find something that they believe will bring them renown and acclaim, with no actual promise that anything lies beneath. The Obsidian Reach was actually discovered by the Gazers of the Deep during their very first visit. The Reach is infinitely high and wide and consists of solid obsidian, which naturally is almost unbreakable by Moldwarp standards. The stone itself bears the scratch marks and gouges of generations of claws trying to breach its shell. Beyond the stone’s infinite blackness, it has been told, are beings swept up in a storm mocking those who try to reach them, lands of shining cyclopean architecture, and even the resting bodies of mighty but unborn giants. Such claims are overlooked by all but the Gazers, but this does not prevent adventurers from ceaselessly trying to breach this inky vault.” LIKE THIS IS SO EERIE AND UNNERVING AND YET STRANGELY LOVELY AND SOOTHING TO ME? I AM REALLY LOVING MOLDWARP LORE

#owod #werewolf the apocalypse #wta #world of darkness #moldwarps #weremoles #out of shirt #this has basically become a wod fanblog on the side

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submissivebookmark-motherofchaos · 4 years

Text

A Force of Nature- Chapter 21

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22982413/chapters/61147405 Harry. Harry was hunched over Diggory’s body letting out sobs, his fingers clutching the other boy’s jumper as he wailed, ‘He’s back, he’s back!’ She stood frozen on the spot, her legs glued to the ground as Harry continued to wail about someone being back and Diggory being dead. She couldn’t look away, she couldn’t move. Harry looked up when Dumbledore tugged at him to move and his eyes locked with hers. “Hermione...help me.” She was moving before the words left his mouth, his eyes were wild with fear. Hermione had never seen that particular look on his face before and wanted to do anything to erase it. Even though they were supposed to be avoiding each other for his safety, she couldn’t help herself. Dropping to her knees on the other side of Diggory’s body her breath hitched in her throat. He was dead . His eyes were open, not seeing anything, his chest still. She placed her hand on his chest as Harry reached over for her still struggling against Dumbledore’s hold and grabbed the back of her neck and yanked her down. “Save him, you have to save him. Do what you did before, I saw you!” Hermione lifted her gaze up and panic began to set in. There were too many people here to witness her use her power if she was able to bring him back, she was scared. She’d been working with her elements but she honestly couldn’t remember how she brought that creature back. She hadn’t touched it, just hovered over it as she cried. She swallowed thickly as it came to her. Her tears. One of her tears had landed on the spider , the shimmering fluid sinking into the small thing and suddenly it twitched and scuttled away. Tears were gathered in her eyes already and she was torn at what to do. Her heart felt heavy as she heard Diggory’s father begin to wail as he made his way to them. She only had a moment to make her decision before it would be too late. She squeezed her eyes shut as Harry flexed his fingers on her neck pulling her closer to the body on the ground. She felt the tears slip from her eyes and they continued to fall when she opened her eyes because she knew, she knew there was no turning back from what she’d done. If this worked people would know, even in this chaotic gathering around her, some would know that she was much more than a simple elemental. Her tears fell onto Diggory’s face sinking into his skin, the same shimmering fluid as the last time. She was suddenly yanked back, an arm wrapped around her. She heard a gruff sound in her ear, “Come along, Miss Grindelwald.” She felt cold dread hearing that voice. It was Professor Moody. Harry was passed off to him and tried to struggle against his grip. Professor Moody released her and wrapped his arm around Harry, his other grabbing his cane as he started to hobble away. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Come along, Harry will need you.” She didn’t want to go anywhere with him, there was something wrong with him. His actions throughout the year were suspicious and she just couldn’t put the trust in him that she’d done with her other professors. She’d heard stories about him being the best Auror ever, and though cruel to Death Eaters he didn’t fit what she’d envisioned. On top of that, she saw the way Dumbledore looked troubled when he looked at him. As much as he frightened her, she knew what he said was true. Harry needed her, so she decided to follow as Harry was led away. She needed to make sure Harry was safe even if it put her in danger. It’s always been that way since the troll incident in first year. She always had to be at his side when he faced danger and warning bells were now screaming at her. They made their way to the DADA classroom, Moody pulled Harry up the stairs to the back office and Hermione pulled out her wand to make sure she wasn’t caught unaware. She was sure that Dumbledore knew where they were but there was no telling when he would come looking for them. She stepped into the interior of his office, Harry was sitting on a stool next to the fire staring blankly at the flames. She crossed the room and knelt in front of him and looked at him through her lashes. She just now noticed that he was injured. Lifting her hands she tilted his head side to side and he pulled away from her as if she had burned him. “Why?” he said in a low voice. Sitting back on her haunches she waited for him to speak. He slowly looked at her, his eyes hard looking at her as if he didn’t know her. “Why didn’t you save him? You could’ve done it, I know you could. So why? Why didn’t you? He was our classmate, Hermione!” She flinched at the tone of his voice. It was cold and heat at the same time. With each word, he got louder and louder. “Harry...I…” “Save it, Hermione,” Harry said flatly. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. You have these powers and you just let someone die when you could save them? How can you be so callous? Get… Away... From... Me.” Swallowing the lump in her throat she stood and stepped away from him. This was not the time nor the place to argue with him. She moved to the corner of the room, her back against the wall trying to melt into the background. She bit her lip trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. She wouldn’t let him see that his words hurt her, she knew that he was hurt and clearly upset about something. She had no idea what happened in that maze of horrors. Moody stumbled back in, slamming cabinets open, tossing bottles to the side as he spoke to Harry. He must have forgotten she was in the room because what he said shocked her. It was him. He had orchestrated this whole thing. He put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire and moved people in such a way that Harry was successful. But to what end? Why would an Auror break the law to put Harry in such peril? Then Harry said something that caught her attention, “I never said I was in a graveyard.” Moody’s body tensed for a moment before he snatched Harry’s arm and pressed his thumb hard against the open wound that was freely bleeding, “What’s it like? What’s it like to have the same blood as the Dark Lord flowing through your body?” Hermione’s stomach lurched when she understood. He was back. Harry stood and backed away from Moody as he muttered to himself and actually sniffed the blood that coated his fingers. Hermione stepped to the left so she was able to see Harry clearly, his body coming closer to hers where she hid near the flowing curtains that separated the rooms. When Moody raised his wand and aimed it at Harry, Hermione acted on instinct. She hadn’t even thought about it as she placed her body between Harry and Moody’s. Moody managed to get Avada out of his mouth when Hermione spread her arms open wide and a rush of air rushed from her and slammed Moody into the chair behind him and then against the wall just as the doors burst open. Moody was coughing and struggling to stand as Dumbledore pointed his wand at the man and disarmed him. Hermione shifted back and pulled Harry’s arm to move out of reach of the man as the room was crowded with Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall. She moved him until his back was against the wall and she took a protective pose in front of him, her eyes taking in everything that may pose a threat. Suddenly Moody began to writhe and scream. He tore the magical eye away from his face and threw it to the ground where it spun crazily. Hermione’s eyes widened and his face seemed to melt and reform into someone completely different. She didn’t know how long the transformation lasted, but when it ended a stranger sat where Professor Moody once was. She looked up sharply when she heard the Headmaster mutter Barty Crouch Jr. She continued to watch silently, still protecting Harry behind her as Crouch began rambling and yanked up his sleeve. His dark mark writhed and moved on the pale flesh of his left forearm. “He’s back. It don’t matter none what you do to me. He knows everything,” his eyes drifted to Hermione and he let out a mad laugh, “Oh, yes, he knows all about you, love. He’s coming for you, no doubt, he’ll come for you, make no mistake. Too bad I won’t get to have a taste of you meself.”

#a force of nature #fanfiction #multiple pairings #tomione #dramione #theomione #sevmione #elmentals #Dumbledore Bashing #gellert grindelwald #vinda rosier #Hermione is the granddaughter of Grindelwald #Slytherin Hermione #Dumbeldore is a douche canoe #angst #eventual HEA

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d-a-anderson · 3 years

Text

Conjunction

On a rare stellar occasion, two gods, a father and a son, discuss the merits and flaws of the human race.

Also published on Medium

Source Image: NASA/JPL-Caltech/Space Science Institute. Photo manipulation by author.

The old man was a haggard, sickly father who’d long since abandoned his sons. His shoulders were hunched inward, but his belly was swollen, veins visibly drawn across his stomach, and it stirred with kicks like the womb of a pregnant mother. He sat at a workbench with a butcher’s cleaver, hacking at a meaty haunch while a vulture looked on. The barn door was open. Outside were his fields; they’d been left unplowed for years but were nonetheless full with grain. His scythe sat in a corner, rustless but always wet, ever sharp.

He paid no mind to the storm outside. Rain beat on his barn’s roof shingles, and its rafters creaked in the wind. A crow flew into the open window looking over his bench, resting on the sill. Its inky feathers burned blue against the light of his oil lamp. It cawed at him.

“Leave—shoo,” the man said, and he waved his cleaver at the crow’s feet. It hopped, landing back on its spot with a flap of its wings. It cawed again and cocked its head, turning. One of its eyes was whitened, blind. The vulture, sitting idly, squawked back—a glottal, halting cry. The butcher stopped his grizzly work, studying the crow and its plumage.

“Leave me, Graybeard.” He gave the haunch another thwack on the cutting board. “This one wasn’t yours.”

The blackbird looked at the meat on the board, eyeing the vulture, then the butcher. It flew off, cawing into the distance as it did.

The man plucked up a piece from the knife. He threw it at the vulture, saying:

“Mimas—here.”

The vulture caught the piece in the air, quickly gulping it down.

The rain continued to pour, and he felt its dampness underfoot as a stream trickled over the foundations of the barn, licking at his toe. Distant thunder rolled, but the man paid no mind. He continued to cut and savored a morsel for himself, gobbling it down like the vulture did.

“Fodder for my stirring sons and daughters,” he muttered, licking his lips. “Stay placid—save those kicks for each other; spare your sweet father.”

Thunder cracked again. This time lightning lit up the barn’s interior like a magnesium flash. He dropped the cleaver and it clanged on the floor. He swore in his mother’s tongue and recomposed himself, picking up the knife again. Looking behind him to the barn's entrance, he saw nothing but his open fields under gray skies. He turned back to his workbench, wiping the knife down on his apron.

Another lightning flash, this time off in the distance. But its light cast a long shadow across the far side of his workbench and up the wall. He looked over his shoulder to see the silhouette of a tall, built man with streaming locks and a beard. Some kind of bird was on his shoulder—he didn't bother to see what kind.

“Leave me,” the butcher snorted. “I already told your hoary fortuneteller of a father that I didn’t harvest his bloody einherjar.”

The bearded man strode into the barn as the butcher picked up his cleaver, swinging it down into the meat. It sliced effortlessly, quivering as it struck the board beneath.

“You mistake me.”

Instantly, the butcher recognized the lilt in the man’s voice. It didn’t belong to the crow's master—this was an Aegean accent. He turned. The man’s hair was dark like oakwood, not blonde, and was thick and curly, his skin olive-colored. His irises were bright pale: electric storm-gray. The bird on his shoulder was an eagle.

The butcher grunted: “Jove, my boy.”

“Saturn,” the god nodded, then adding, “—father.”

“On what occasion do I owe this visit?”

“Our great conjunction. You are the cosmos’s timekeeper, aren’t you? Surely you out of anyone would know.”

“Ah—our conjunction,” Saturn mumbled, raising an eyebrow at the syllables. He smeared a bloody hand on his apron and fumbled in its pocket. He pulled out a timepiece and flicked it open. Its face held a hundred hands at a hundred different axes, all rotating wildly like the stars in the sky. “How could I’ve forgotten… of course.” He flicked the pocket watch closed and dropped it back in his pocket.

“We’re the closest we’ve been in over half a millenium. Last we spoke, the claymen, our humans, were building houses out of thatched grass and nestled stone. They’d just nearly mastered war and had gone to slaughtering each other en masse.”

“Of course,” said Saturn, grinning from beneath his dirtied beard and mustache. “I’ve barely had to plow my fields since then. Easy harvests.”

“They’re exploring their world. Soon they’ll cross seas instead of just rounding them. They’ll build empires that stretch from one side to another.”

“Sounds like more war to me,” Saturn said, turning back to his cleaver and meat. He noticed Mimas studying Jove’s eagle. “My bales will continue to be thick—which I prefer.”

“But you can’t deny their ingenuity,” the thundergod responded. “Millennia ago, no more than our hands have fingers, they were children with sticks and fire. Now they model themselves after our courts and speculate on our true nature. Don’t you have any opinion on their future? After all, times are few and far between that we get to discuss them so intimately.”

“My opinion,” Saturn muttered, the end of the word cut off by the thwack of his knife on the board, “—is only as deep as the roots of my grainstock. Only as complex as my hunger. So long as they continue to sacrifice, ignorant of why or not… that is my investment.”

Another thwack as he focused on his butchery. He continued:

“I wonder at your fascination with these creatures, boy. I think even the Aesir only care insofar the offerings are sweet. Speaking of—care for some?”

Old Kronos held out to young, glittering Jove a blood-soaked lump of flesh. Jove’s mouth dipped in revulsion; he waved it away.

“I don’t share your appetites.”

“Of course you don’t.” Saturn threw the piece to Mimas, who gobbled it up like he did the last. “But you have others. These clay men and women are as much your playthings as they are mine. Your choice of play is simply… different.”

Jove’s eagle gave a cry out at the vulture, who squawked back like he had at the crow.

“I’m not here to bicker over our differences,” Jove said, ignoring his father’s insult. “I’m here to discuss their fates.”

“What fates? Different than us gods?” Saturn sneered as his cleaver let loose another thwack on the board.

“You might be disinterested, but I’ve seen their work up close. They may live as long as mayflies, but even now, they’re bursting at the seams of their planet. It won’t hold them for long. Their powers are simple, but the arrangements of their tools grows complicated. Soon they won’t be content to cross the seas enclosing their land… they’ll want to cross vaster seas: the seas that enclose their planet—even the seas that enclose their minds.”

“Damned titans loosened the box and let wildfire run amok,” Saturn said. “Let the clay entertain itself. Who am I—or you—to interfere?”

“You don’t think their empires would impinge on our own, at worst? Or, at best, they might have something worthwhile to add to us as allies?”

Saturn snorted at the word, but said nothing. Jove continued:

“They love, hate, and bicker like us. Their microcosms are merely smaller than ours—but those boundaries grow thin. Sticks and fire were their beginning, not their destiny.”

“You sound like you admire them,” Saturn said. “Are you so quick to get over Prometheus’s duplicity?”

“I admire their ingenuity,” Jove admitted with a shrug, “…their cunning, their persistence—even a god can evolve. Maybe you should consider it as a strategy. It might serve you well someday.”

“I am old,” Saturn growled, letting his cleaver rest on the board. Mimas shuffled on his haystack, still watching the eagle. “I'm older than you. And let me tell you something, Zeus, god of thunder: when Pandora spread her box's lid, it upset more than the balance I’d instilled since before you were a stone and just as dumb. The rings on my orrery are carefully weighted. The slightest change brings disruption not just to me or you, or even the world of petty humans—the whole cosmos tilts, and worlds with names they barely know will slide off the table. Gods don’t feed off Earth alone, but few places pose such risk. Do you know the balance I had to maintain, that I still maintain? A wayward titan or giant here or there grants a lump of dirt a lit arrow and suddenly they’re jumping rings on my timepiece, planning vacations to Luna for a thrill—“

He slammed his cleaver's blade into the workbench, its handle erect; Mimas’ wings fluttered as Saturn roared hoarsely:

“If you had a care for either god or human, you’d think like me, and maintain the balance that persists as I do. Instead, you instigate, you whisper sweet nothings in their feminine ears and grant fateful boons by way of your own ineptitude. Your thunderbolts aren't flashes of genius; they start fires at random. You’re a rebel, a chaosmaker—not a ruler. A king applies laws, he governs. By that standard, your brother Pluto would be a better caretaker than you.”

Jove had his arms crossed, and Saturn was secretly impressed that his son hadn’t lunged at him already. Instead, the Olympian let his eagle off his shoulder, where it flapped its wings and nestled itself on the ground. Saturn added, his tone more even now:

“I am the cosmos’s timekeeper, boy. My accounts are carefully measured. The humans won’t ascend to godhood like you surmise, despite your minor insurrections and naive hope. They are too petty; their own technology eclipses them. If you think their spirits can evolve as fast as their ability to wield various forms of fire, you’re as deluded as they are.”

“Then to what conclusion, this experiment?” Jove asked. “They’ll just consume themselves? Evaporate in a fit of self-annihilation?”

“Of course,” Saturn said, removing his cleaver wedged in the bench. “Gaia will survive even if humanity doesn’t. She is a hardy ground and even more inventive than them. Clay to clay, dust to dust.”

He heard Jove shuffle to the edge of the barn door’s entrance. He could make out his shadow leaning against the frame.

“Say what you say happens. Who will offer sacrifices then? Whose souls will grow as grain in your fields?”

“Gaia is inventive, I already said,” said the harvest god. “Some other clayform will come along while you still walk, I’m sure.”

“And say what you say doesn’t happen. That my naive optimism in them isn’t misplaced—that they do jump your rings, that they cross our skies, and even harness my thunderbolts. What then? What will be the nature of your harvest?”

The vulture squawked at the eagle who stretched his wings wide at the barn’s entrance. Saturn plucked another piece from his board, ripping it between his teeth.

“Why shouldn’t you be worried too, in that case?” He finally replied, chewing skin. “They’ll forget their sacrifices and fancy themselves like the Titans did. On that day I’d imagine you’d come to my side, ready to settle the score.”

Jove nodded, looking across his shoulder to the grain fields outside. Saturn held his cleaver and cut carefully, his knife cutting its way around a thick bone.

“Wouldn’t that be fitting?” Jove said. “They had a genesis once after all, and so did we as gods. That was counted by your orrery even before you made it. Perhaps their fates are set in stone too. I’m sure you could ask the Aesir about that.”

Saturn turned on his bench, letting the cleaver slide in his hand. It nicked the bone.

“Meaning, boy?”

Jove’s glance nestled back on Saturn’s, and his eyes crackled:

“It would be so godlike of them to surpass us in the same way I surpass you.”

The cleaver ripped from the bone and, with barely a thought, flew from Saturn’s hand. Its blade whirled in a tight orbit, headed for Jove’s neck. There was another magnesium flash, and Saturn was blinded briefly. Blinking, the lightning’s afterglow drawn down his sight like a neon vein, he looked for his wayward son.

He didn’t see him. Instead, he saw the oak-colored wings of the eagle in the distance, flying across the grain field. There was a glow beneath its wings on the horizon. Saturn blinked again—the lightning strike had lit the fields aflame. Fire fanned upward even as the storm continued to pour.

He got up from his bench and passed the barn's threshold. The cleaver was resting just at the edge of the field where he’d flung it, but it had hit nothing but air. It still had fresh blood from the cuttings on his board. He picked it up and wiped it on his apron, looking to either side. There was no one. The eagle in the distance was a fading speck; thunder rolled on.

Saturn turned to go back to his work. He heard the distinctive caw of a bird, but it wasn’t from Mimas inside. He looked up and saw a raven sitting atop his roof’s shingles near the weather vane. It croaked again, turning its head to look at him. Its eye on that side was blind, as white as snow and as blue as ice.

Saturn sneered at it. The raven merely croaked again, then once more, as if in a laugh—then lifted its wings and left. The wind changed as it did, and the vane swung the other way in the storm.

Saturn reached into his pocket to pull out his watch—then hesitated, and stopped. Instead, he grasped his cleaver and went back inside to finish his butchering.

#fiction #short story #shortstory #saturn #jupiter #conjunction #greek #roman #norse #mythology #speculative fiction #2020

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