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seasons-of-ceres · 2 years

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Oh, Summertime

A/N: I have not written Overwatch stuff in forever but I've been having soft Cole Cassidy thoughts lately and wanted to do something productive. My neck of the woods is currently under a heat warning, so doing anything is just bleh, but I'm glad I at least did this.

The technician takes out the pole because one of the alley cats runs in front of his car, and he swerves out of the way and has no choice but to take out the electricity for the whole block. We collectively retreat to our basements when we aren’t filling coolers with ice and perishables. Lena is cobbling a fruit salad together, and I’ve told her it will explode because of all the acid from the oranges and grapefruit—I did the same thing one summer and it took thirty minutes to scrub my fridge clean, along with a good fifteen other minutes to clean the condiment containers and other containers. I did find a few berry seeds last week, nearly two years after the initial incident. Dad would’ve scolded me for not being thorough, Cassidy just laughs.

(Emily defuses the fruit salad bomb, by the way.)

Celsius pegs the temperature at thirty, it’ll fluctuate between twenty-fire and maybe even go beyond the infernal thirty. My cramps crumple me in half, I’m overly anxious about smelling like blood and sweat which is why I initially came to hide in the basement. The concrete is cold, I don’t know about the insulation, I know everything is unfinished; the pipes from the bathroom are bare and covered by cobwebs, the rush of water from the toilet pinpoints where Cassidy’s at in the house. I hear his feet above me, checking my room and then his, the living room. He pauses. I groan and bury my face in a pile of blankets rife with dog hair, and then—

“Darlin’?”

“Down here!”

Footsteps. The fifth and twelfth steps creak as he comes down. I raise my hand and wave when his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he spots me in a heap.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rumbles, “that bad?”

“Yep.”

Cassidy thrives in heat or else he’s immune. In comparison I’m lethargic and cranky, but the ease with which he moves implies a level of skill I haven’t acquired. Never will. Those of us born in winter linger always in frost. Still, his body reacts with the climb in temperature so like me Cassidy has found a pair of airy shorts that won’t stick to him. Big difference is the thin vest dripping off his shoulders, I reach out and press my palm into his stomach once he sits down.

“How are you so much cooler?”

He chuckles a little self-consciously, pulling my hand up between his pecs where it sinks into his chest hair.

“Just built different.”

“Jealous.”

Cassidy shrugs. “You take anything?” He moves onto his side, running a finger along my hairline, curling hair off my face and behind my ear. “No use sufferin’.”

While I do agree—suffering is needless—I also know this happens every forsaken month and I ought to buck up and deal with it. The pain will probably pass if I distract myself and do literally anything else, it usually does.

“Mm.”

Cassidy cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing as he lays a hand over my hip, thumb pressing insistently against my hipbone. I sigh, uncurling slightly, wanting nothing more than to bury myself into him. But it’s hot and I can’t stand prolonged physical contact.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, “you know I’m right.”

I blow a raspberry at him. “That requires getting up and walking upstairs into strife and heat.”

He chuckles and sits up, ignoring my pathetic whine. I curl up again, watching him examine the cold basement floor. Most of our laundry is done, what’s left are bedsheets and blankets and tablecloths. He hums thoughtfully and kneels, hand over my shoulder.

“Lemme do something real quick, OK?”

“Go for it.”

He manhandles me off my throne of blankets, folding a few of the fluffier ones into a solid foundation, and then swirling the rest into a landlocked cyclone. He lays me back down and promises he’ll be right back. I shrug, wondering if anyone else ever took a bunch of their toys and hid them in blankets, moulding them into caves or glaciers with tunnels and caverns. Cassidy walks the perimeter of the kitchen, the medicine cabinet opens with a click, shuts with a click. Then he moves further into the house again, near our rooms. Back down the hall, pause, through the kitchen.

“Still alive?” he calls down the stairs.

“Surviving.”

He produces an array of snacks in one arm with a tray of disposable cups, a pitcher of water, and something for the cramps and the headache in the other. Another object is tucked under his arm. It’s a good trick. Forgetting how shitty I feel, I’m suddenly awake and standing to take the load out of his arms. He sneaks a kiss into my hair as I grab what’s under his arm and take the tray.

“There you are.” He says softly.

“Oh, stop.”

Few things have the same power as the warmth and tenderness in Cassidy’s voice. I am never going to get over it, never ever, and he knows. He knows and relishes every moment of it.

We settle back on the concrete, and I realize the object under his arm is a heating pad. Cassidy scoffs at the look on my face, pushing a cup of water into my hands and unscrewing the cap from the ibuprofen. He jiggles a single pill out and presses it into my free hand.

“Helped when I had mine.” He says shrugging, watching me swallow. “You never use one?”

“No. I’m all about that needless suffering.”

He shifts closer and gathers my hair out of my hair and off my shoulders, yanking a scrunchie off his wrist and tying everything back.

“Well. Not anymore.” His hands slide over my cheeks, and he brings our faces together, noses brushing. “How’s that sound?”

“Great.”

The heating pad does not require a plug. Cassidy simply presses one of three buttons and fits it against my abdomen as it heats up, we lie on our sides with cookies and chips between us. For a while, there’s no sound except for our quiet breaths and the hum of his prosthesis; my fingers trace out the different parts from the segments of his fingers to the larger panels of his arm, the cool blue lights running throughout it. He can’t feel this, but he humours me with a pleasant sigh and touches his forehead to mine.

“Better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” His lips press into my forehead. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

#Hex Writes #overwatch #cole cassidy #vague self-insert

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coolnonsenseworld · 4 months

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I've heard there are people who don't know what HEX klance is...... so lucky.....

linktr.ee/mezzy

#klance #laith #voltron legendary defender #lance mcclain #klance fanart #halloween AU #like that was the only thing i wanted to say abt hex #i also totally love how now people interpret it as an angsty fic i dont name because it breaks heart or something #nah i dont share it bc im writing it and i dont think it should be advertised tbh #but also on the other hand..... i cant shut up about it #so this were we are rn you could say its a..... hex situation ehehehe #anyway #have a great week guys

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hexiewrites · 2 years

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I’ve been thinking a lot about late-deafened Steve, and what that actually would have looked like. Because the thing is: I love this head cannon. Boy got bashed around so much, ESPECIALLY on his left side, theres no way he didn’t come out of that with some long term damage. And I’ve been thinking about what that means for him, when his hearing starts to go, and how isolating that would be.

Except. Then I keep thinking about Robin.

Give me child-of-Deaf-adults Robin. Robin whose parents met at Gallaudet. Who were confused and upset when the doctor said, relief clear on his face, oh thank god, how lucky, your baby is normal, she can HEAR. Robin who grows up a in a Deaf home with a Deaf family. Who learns ASL before she learns English. Who never learns to be quiet because at home it doesn’t matter, so she can blast trumpet all day long to no complaints, and forever feels uncomfortable in places where she has to try to keep it down. Robin who grows up learning ASL and English and thrives, loves the way her brain works when it’s parsing languages, and starts teaching herself French and Spanish too, blasting day time Spanish soap operas constantly whenever she’s at home, shouting along with the screen. Robin who interprets for her parents, taking on burdens no seven year old should when she’s the one who has to tell her mom the cancers back. Robin who, four years later, gets to tell her dad that the surgery worked. The cancers gone. Moms gonna be ok. Robin who, at eleven, doesn’t know the sign for remission but she signs CANCER-one hand eating at the other like the disease that almost took her Mom-and signs FINISH, signs NONE, signs MOM-OKAY, MOM-SAFE, and is glad her dad can’t hear how loud her sobs are because even she’s embarrassed at the noises she’s making.

Robin who doesn’t quite fit at home, the loud little girl in the odd quiet house (not that her house is ever quiet: if you dont realize you’re making noise you don’t do anything to tamper it), and who doesn’t quite fit at school, when she shows up in kindergarten signing instead of speaking and all the other kids make fun of her for years, call her spazzy Buckley and imitate the signs, crude and heartbreaking and she can’t even cry here because everyone can hear her. Robin who teaches herself to speak without signing, sits on her hands and tries not to internalize the hatred, but her fingers still twitch constantly along with the words. Robin who thinks she’s never going to fit in, and tries to separate out the two different parts of herself because it’s easier, most days, to pretend to be “normal” even though that feels wrong too.

Give me Robin, who knows Steve inside out and who knows what it looks like when someone can’t hear you but pretends they can. Robin who clocks Steve immediately, even though he tries to brush her off like he’s been doing to everyone. Robin who finally takes him home to meet her parents, explaining it all in the car (into his right ear, which is better than the left though still starting to fade). Robin who gives Steve the gift of understanding and hope for the future. Who holes up with him and teaches him sign, slow at first (because Steve has never been good at grammar, and he constantly furrows his eyebrows despite her pleas that eyebrows are important in ASL and he needs to use his face more or he’s going to confuse everyone, it’s the visual equivalent of lilting your voice up like every sentence is a question and it’s weird, Steve!) and then faster as he starts to realize how useful it is, starts to bring her lists full of signs to learn, starts to lean on and cherish the experience of this new way to communicate. Robin, who helps him practice lipreading even though she’s terrible at it. Robin, who finally convinces him to get a hearing aid and lets him sob into her shoulder when the doctor says it’ll help for a few years, but long term there’s probably nothing they can do, and then tells him to buck it up because there are way worse things than being a little deaf and besides, now the Buckleys will just have to adopt him for real because they did always talk about adopting a deaf child or two, if there was ever one in need.

Give me CODA Robin, whose never felt like she belonged until she nearly gets murdered by Russians with her best friend. Who brings Steve into her life, shows him Deaf culture, gives him a place where he fits. Robin who finally realizes that this is her place too, and it’s so much sweeter for getting to share it with the people she loves.

And then, after, give me Eddie knocking on the Buckley door and begging to learn ASL too. Give me Robin’s mom, somehow roped in to teaching him and the party, as they try to learn in secret to make Steve’s life easier (and their own, because ASL is god tier for pulling pranks from opposite sides of a high school cafeteria). Give me Dustin, excitedly telling Miranda Buckley to FUCK-OFF every week for months because he thinks he’s saying THANK-YOU and she finds it too funny to correct him. Give me Eddie trying to surprise Steve and ask him out on a date, but instead of signing HUNGRY, WANT YOU&ME GO AFTER WORK? he signs HORNY, WANT YOU&ME GO FUCK?

And give me Steve, who thinks about it for a long minute (partially because Eddie totally botches the grammar, but partially because he looks so hot, standing there nervous and trying to communicate with Steve in a way that will make him the most comfortable) before he smirks and signs back YEAH, and takes Eddie on the best goddamn first date of his life.

#sorry i just!!! had so many thoughts #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #steddie #at the end there #deaf steve harrington #disabled steve harrington #CODA robin buckley #asl #stranger things #stranger things headcanons #is that what youd call this #idk #word vomit #hex writes stuff #kind of!#oh and uh sorry about the angst in the middle #i couldnt help it

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hexedbug · 5 months

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"sfw fetish" discourse is complicated because on one hand you definitely shouldn't be thinking outright fetishes are sfw but what if you genuinely want to draw stuff like pooltoys or transformation nonsexually? at that point it's not a fetish but people are still gonna see it as that

#hexed says #discourse tag #btw the power went out as i was writing this. like the universe was trying to stop me from having thoughts on the internet #unfortunately it saved

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listen-to-the-inner-walrus · 7 days

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Accidentally paused on a fantastic frame from the latest Game Changer episode

Apparently Game Changer is now an analog horror series on YouTube/a straight-to-DVD found footage horror movie.

#game changer #dropout #sam reich #game changer spoilers #game changer deja #game changer deja vu #i paused because i was like wait what if the hex code is a word written backwards somehow and needed to write it down before i forgot #its not #as far as i know #anyway #everybody do the wenis

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riality-check · 2 years

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The first time Eddie needs an ambulance, he’s just trying to make his brain quiet.

It’s so loud, all the time, and between his memories and vivid nightmares of the Upside Down, he misses silence more than anything. Music isn’t enough to drown it out, no matter how much he cranks up his stereo or his amp. People work fine. As long as he’s talking to or listening to someone, it’s fine. The whole party has been a big help. Dustin, Wayne, and especially Steve help the most.

But they’re not always there. They grow up, move away, and have their own lives. And even though Steve is his boyfriend, and they live together, it’s unrealistic to always expect him to be there, too.

He’s got his own shit going on. He doesn’t need Eddie’s on top of that. Eddie ignores the fact that he will always help Steve.

So, because music doesn’t work and people aren’t there, alcohol is a wonderful thing.

Eddie usually tracks his drinks. He does. But it’s the anniversary of the whole shitshow, and the nightmares are worse and he had a fucking flashback this morning because of the lights. He hasn’t had those for months.

He just needs some goddamn quiet.

He remembers throwing up on the kitchen floor, too sick to make it to the bathroom.

And then he wakes up in a hospital bed, feeling like death reheated.

(He knows, intimately, what that feels like.)

Steve is crying beside him, and Eddie just thinks back to his ten year old self, the little stringbean kid who had to make the call and tried to clean up the vomit before the EMTs got there, and he swears to himself, Never again.

The second time Eddie needs an ambulance, he just got carried away.

It’s too easy, with the clubs he plays in. It’s too easy to lose track of the drinks audience members offer him. It’s even easier to do a line because what the hell, it’s just one.

It’s easy because he and Steve have been fighting. A lot. Steve started drinking more than usual, and Eddie’s been trying to get him to stop. Steve says he’s hypocritical, that Eddie didn’t take rehab seriously because he still keeps beer in the house.

He didn’t think he needed to quit completely; he just needed to get it under control.

He’s aware of the fact that he’s been out of control all night. He’s crossed to hell and back, but he takes another shot.

Steve stayed home because he was sick. Eddie stumbles inside and can’t even close the front door before he’s on the ground.

He hates that he knows what charcoal tastes like now.

The third time Eddie needs an ambulance, he’s scared shitless.

Steve keeps talking about family. About having kids. Eddie looks at the chip on the kitchen counter and can’t help but think, How old would the kid be before I had to explain that to them?

Every answer he comes up with is too young.

Eddie is scared shitless because he knows, he knows that he’ll be just like his parents. He knows that he’ll end up a deadbeat, a drag on both Steve and that kid, and he won’t do that to them.

He thinks about being six years old and being left alone for days at a time. After the first time, he always made sure the cereal was in a spot where he could reach it.

He thinks about being eight years old and cooking for his parents, not the other way around. He had to use a step stool to reach the stove.

He thinks about being ten years old and calling the ambulance because his mama was on the ground again, and this time his pa was out, too.

Eddie will not do that to this kid, and he won’t do it to Steve.

He thinks about an article he read a few months ago. Some new study came out, saying that addiction is genetic.

Figures that’s the part of them I carry with me, he thinks right before his mind slips into nothing.

He wakes up in the hospital again. He’s starting to wish he wouldn’t wake up at all.

The fourth time Eddie needs an ambulance is the first time he’s alone.

After the third time, Steve and him fought like hell. They almost lost each other, and that’s when Eddie realizes he would rather die than have that happen.

He took rehab seriously, and Steve joined AA, too, despite not being as bad. Eddie doesn’t play in clubs anymore. There’s no alcohol in the house, hasn’t been for years. He cut off all contact with his old dealers.

He misses it.

He doesn’t miss the high, not really. Not when he can have something better by being with his family. Not when he gets the same rush from listening to his favorite albums or turning his amp up to max. Not when he’s with Steve because everything is better when he’s with Steve.

Eddie misses the low because he’s still hurting. Bad days still happen and they’re a bitch to deal with. He still can’t sleep right, after all these years, and he still doesn’t always believe that he deserves a life this good.

He’s hurting, and nobody notices because he looks fine. He’s healthy.

He’s healthy, and that’s the problem, because Eddie misses being sick.

So he crashes, and he crashes hard, and he doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he finally goes out.

He wakes up in the hospital alone.

Alone.

No sign of Steve.

And that’s when Eddie realizes he fucked up the last good thing in his life.

His voice is shredded, but he asks the nurse where he is. She says she’ll call and find out.

Maybe he went to get food. Maybe he went home to sleep. Maybe-

She comes back in and tells him that Steve says he’s glad Eddie is okay, but that he’s not coming back.

Eddie doesn’t bother going back to their apartment before he goes to rehab.

He takes it seriously again. He knows the goddamn script by heart, knows what to do and what not to do, what to say to get out.

It’s the fastest he’s ever gone through the program.

He goes back to their apartment. It looks like Steve never lived there in the first place.

Eddie cleans it up. Calls a few people. Calls Dustin, who lets him know that Steve is alive but doesn’t say anything else.

It’s quiet. Eddie just barely keeps himself from going to the liquor store.

Instead, he gets a fish.

It’s a stupid looking fish. A goldfish that isn’t supposed to last long, maybe a few months. He names it Bagagoth and buys it a tank and makes sure to feed it regularly. If he takes care of himself, he doesn’t kill the fish.

Bagagoth lasts two years before he dies of natural causes. It’s sad, but Eddie doesn’t take it personally. By that time, he’s got a hognose snake named Lancelot and a cat named Ozzie depending on him, too.

If he dies of an overdose, they’ll eat his face. Eddie wants an open casket funeral.

He doesn’t play in bars anymore. He puts down the electric guitar and all its dim-lit, drug addled memories.

He picks up the acoustic and starts playing the music he grew up with. Stuff he heard on the radio as a kid, songs he learned for Wayne when he was first starting out.

Eddie told himself that he wouldn’t play any more hick shit once he learned electric. Hick shit brings him a comfort like no other.

He expands it to some pop, some softer rock. He starts writing his own stuff, much tamer stuff. He stays solo. He plays in cafes in the middle of the afternoon.

It’s boring as shit. It’s better than the headache of a hangover or the bill that comes after a hospital stay.

He actually goes to meetings. He makes new friends and hangs out in parks and at people’s apartments and at comic book shops. He joins a new D&D group as a player, not as a Dungeon Master. His character is a chaotic half-elf bard running from his past.

He makes enough to actually afford a therapist. She’s nice, about his age. She’s got experience with addicts and children of neglect. It takes Eddie a year’s worth of sessions to realize that he is not his parents, and a few more for him to realize that he still deserves good things even after all his fuck ups.

Eddie calls Wayne every Friday night, when two years ago he’d be at a bar. He keeps in touch with the kids and the rest of the party. Dustin tells him Steve got accepted into some master’s program in Chicago, and Eddie tries not to let that hurt so much.

He’s become a regular at a coffee shop a few blocks away. They’ve got an open mic, and while it’s not a paying gig, it gives him the opportunity to play new stuff instead of the acoustic Journey covers a lot of other places want from him.

The best thing about recovering from addiction is that it gave him a lot of new song material.

He sings about darkness, and fear, and pushes and pulls. But he always follows it with light and love and the hope of being battered but not broken.

That’s what he is. He’s got scars that never quite faded, but that chip is still on his counter, and there’s still breath in his fucked up lungs.

He’s almost at the end of his set when he spots Steve in the crowd.

Steve, dressed in a cozy looking blue sweater. Steve, with round frame glasses. Steve, with the tiniest streak of gray in his hair. Steve, whose eyes are alert and shining. Steve, who looks as handsome as ever.

Steve, who’s staring right back at him.

He stammers out an intro to his last song before he just plays, letting the music take over. He sings the first song he wrote after that last rehab stint, when he came home to an empty apartment and instead of cleaning up right away, grabbed his notebook.

It’s the only one he’s ever written that never changed from the first draft.

Steve comes up to him, after, and tells him he doesn’t hate him. Eddie says he doesn’t hate himself anymore. It’s mostly true.

They got their asses in gear. It sticks, this time.

Eddie moves into the apartment Steve has. He takes Lancelot and Ozzie, who are both confused and pleased about their new surroundings. He decorates it with posters and enough plants to constitute a garden because while a lot of things have changed, Steve’s lack of design skills haven’t.

They have a kid. The moment Eddie has her in his arms, he realizes that she will alway be his top priority. Always.

And he knows Steve thinks the same way.

They don’t drink; they dance in the kitchen. They still fight; they have a rule about not going to bed angry.

They love each other, and it sticks this time because they’re not young and self-destructive and plain fucking stupid anymore.

They’ve got years and pain behind them, and they’ve got a lot more years and a lot more love ahead.

(Click here to read Steve’s POV by my wonderful enabler, @hexmionegranger )

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #stranger things fic #i’m so sorry this is so angsty #steddie fic #yeah i can’t think of any other tags #yeehaw and thanks hex #fic collab!#this is so rough once again i’m sorry #ria writes

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celestiaras · 4 months

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don’t ask me why it took me so long to watch doppio’s lore video but it’s so well made and

XSOLEIL SPEAKING JAPANESE LIKE ANIME CHARACTERS THEY ARE SO DAMN FINE 🛐

#💞. the princess is in love #nijisanji #xsoleil #doppio dropscythe #hex haywire #ver vermillion #meloco kyoran #kotoka torahime #i’m writing so many fics for them i promise

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morningstargirl666 · 6 days

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WIP WEDNESDAY

This is your daily reminder that there should be more Bonnie & Caroline friendship in fics, thank you for coming to my ted talk.

“God, I’m so excited for Tyler to finally be able to come home.”

“He won’t have to take orders from Klaus when he’s dead, that’s for sure,” Bonnie muttered. She glanced up when Caroline remained quiet, frowning slightly. “Elena mentioned he invited you to the ball? Why would Klaus do that?”

Caroline scowled up at the ceiling, annoyed by the direction the conversation had taken. “I have no idea.”

Bonnie stopped looking through the grimoire. “Well, what did he want last night?”

“I don’t know.” Caroline shrugged, a little lost, throwing a hand up. “He asked me to dance, we talked, he showed me his artwork-”

“Artwork?” Bonnie echoed.

Caroline frowned slightly, worrying her lip.

“Yeah, he’s an artist, I guess,” she tried to shrug off, like it wasn’t a big deal. Even serial killers had hobbies, right? She didn’t mention the drawing he’d done of her - nope, not happening. She scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure interpol has half his art collection listed as stolen or missing - like the feds would have a field day if they raided that place.”

“So he asked you to dance, spent time with you, showed you his personal art collection…” Her best friend paused, slowly closing the grimoire, eyeing Caroline critically. “...like a date?”

Caroline shot up into a sitting position, glaring at Bonnie.

“It was NOT a date,” she hissed, slicing her hands through the air, as if to ward the accusation off. “There was no ‘dating’ of any kind.”

Bonnie’s eyes widened a fraction and she deliberately turned her gaze back to the grimoire.

“Sounds like a date to me,” she muttered under her breath, opening the book back up.

Caroline tried to push the memory of Klaus admitting he fancied her out of her head, something fluttering in her stomach.

“He was just cozying up to me to get to Elena,” she tried to excuse. Her eyes shot to Bonnie, pleading with her to agree. “Right?”

Bonnie sighed, regarding her sadly. “Is it really that impossible to consider that a guy may actually like you?”

“Bonnie,” Caroline carefully enunciated, “It’s Klaus.”

Her friend rolled her eyes, closing the grimoire again and throwing it to the side. “Yeah, obviously I’m not saying you should date him, Caroline. I’m just saying you’re,” she shrugged, gesturing to all of her, “you know, a catch. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

Bonnie leaned forward, grasping Caroline’s hands in hers as she smiled softly. Touched, Caroline couldn’t help but smile back.

“Hell,” Bonnie continued, “Tyler doesn’t even deserve you after he left you for dead in the woods and then ghosted you.”

“He’s trying to break the sire bond for me, Bonnie,” Caroline pointed out, her glare half-hearted. Secretly, her friend’s fierce protectiveness warmed her heart.

“Even so,” Bonnie conceded, letting go of Caroline’s hands, “it was a dick move, one he made on your birthday of all days. You don’t have to excuse him all the time.”

Caroline sighed - Bonnie was right. She let her head fall into her hands, running her fingers anxiously through her hair. Biting her lip, she looked back up at Bonnie.

“And if Klaus does actually…like me?” she asked quietly.

Sheepishly, Bonnie smiled, the expression halfway to a wince. “Start growing wolfsbane in the garden?”

“Would that even work on a hybrid?”

“He’s part werewolf, right?” Bonnie shrugged, picking up her grimoire again. A wicked smile curled around the corners of her face. “You’d assume so.”

Caroline shook her head, grinning too as she pulled out her phone. “Guess I need to google where I can get wolfsbane from, then,” she said, like it was a great chore.

“Check Petco, maybe you’ll find the dog version of catnip.”

Unable to keep straight faces, they giggled, both of them doubling over laughing.

#klaroline #klaus x caroline #klaroline fanfiction #the big bad wolf #tbbw #klaroline wip wed #morningstar writes #this is after the mikaelson ball btw #if you don't think Klaus counted that night as their first date you are lying to yourself #just like caroline here #my girl is so hopelessly flattered and trying to hide it #like urgh klaus why would you give her fEeLiNgs #how rude of you #also also #you may forgive your exes but your friends certainly don't #especially witchy friends who have hexes ready to go on hand

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pumkinbones · 8 months

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For both your boys: 4. Has your character ever been hurt or betrayed by someone they thought they could depend on? What happened?

Varian

"I honestly don't know what I expected by trusting him..." Varian sighed heavily, fingers tracing over a hidden scar on his left side idly as the memory bubbled to the surface. "While not the dependable type, I thought I could at least depend on his predictability. I hoped he could have waited." Bright red ears twitched with anger as he bit his lip in attempt to prevent an outburst. Taking a moment to calm himself before speaking again, softer, more shaken. "Zenos..."

"We are both monsters and fiends. Our battles made me feel alive. But I had a duty to fulfill, so thus I drew a temporary line in the sand. I thought he would respect that..." The chimera drew in an exasperated breath and shook his head. "He didn't. Instead he let Fandaniel toy with me. Let AMON twist my body to his whims once again."

Green eyes flashed brightly with a hatred that no one, not even the scions have ever seen. Varian let out a seething hiss, "That sundered bastard is the reason why I'm like this! This undying amalgamation of dragonkin parts. And to watch my 'friend' march up to those I love with only the thought of causing untold devastation... Breaking our promise. Showing them the real monster under my skin." Varian straightened up stiffly, sweeping the hair out of his face. "That I cannot forgive."

"That is why in our final fight... I had to win."

_________

Rhys

With a steely gaze he signed two words:

BROTHER and then BETRAY.

His brow knotted together and his lips pursed as he finger spelled, "R-A-V".

"HE AND G-A-R-L-E-A-N-S KILL BROTHERS. I ESCAPE." Rhys paused his gestures and ran his fingers over the thick scar across his throat. He tapped it lightly and slowly signed, "R-A-V CUT, BROTHER Y-U-R-I SAVE ME." With an angry grunt he continued, "WILL FIND R-A-V, KILL HIM, REVENGE FOR Y-U-R-I."

With a wave of his hands he was done. Getting more than that from him would be a task as this hurt ran deep. It was his whole reason for existing, for joining the Maelstrom, and fighting with Eorzea against the Garlean threat. He would find his back-stabbing brother, find out why he set upon killing his own, and make him suffer as he had.

#ffxiv #endwalker spoilers #character asks #varian asmadi #rhys jaspera #hex writes #tw: death #sorry I couldn't do the art for this #but I still wanted to answer in character #the caps are signed words #I liked this one #It really had to make me think with Varian

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