AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHPART5AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Ahahahahahaaaaaa me too, bestie. Me too 😂😂
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Fountain of Ichor
Sun Empire priests thought they were digging a well. What they tapped was something different entirely.
Artist: Grzegorz Rutkowski
TCG Player Link
Scryfall Link
EDHREC Link
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the whole plot confuses me can someone please get a plumber out there
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How dare I doubt myself.
Pictured here is my:
Favorite Oc: Ichor/Punishment! Technically he's the same guy, one of them is just from the original story (Undertale AU) and the other is his redesign! He also has a human form, but that's to deal with later 👀 (Fish!Ichor almost got put into Hardest To Draw)
First Oc: Clover! She was an Animal Jam avatar, but I count her as my first real oc. Or, at least one of them? Idk I just like animals, hehe. She's also the first Snow Leopard. Technically made long before Theory.
Latest Oc: Toast! It should really be a Trolls oc, but I'm not feeling many brain squiggles about them, so it's Toast instead! The oc-ified version of my PC.
Easiest To Draw OC: Fandango! He's a silly guy from my batim phase, and I purposefully made him easy to draw, which is rare for me lmao. He's one of my precious sons ♡
Hardest To Draw Oc: Nash! I bet there's some others I struggle with, but Nash has literally always been hard to draw. Between him looking really human (Furry Artist), being a buff man (Twink/Cartoon Artist), and being half-horse (He's a Centaur) it's always been a struggle to portray him correctly. This guy's in like his 30s or 40s and an actual Guy. Not a cartoon :( (he was also in the running for Favorite oc along with Light and Emphryean)
Artist: N! Decided to go with my persona for this one, just for fun since Nash almost gave me a headache lmao. (She was in the running for Easiest to Draw along with Ichor (skele))
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Unique Burdens.
Enver Gortash x F Reader.
Warnings: Dark themes™, unhealthy relationships, implied kidnapping and major power imbalances.
Word count: 1k.
Where there are sparks, there can be fire.
Concentrate. Hone your thoughts. Refine them, sifting through any impurities. Ichor is woven into your flesh like threads through a hallowed loom. These threads contain arcane energy that some spend lifetimes pursuing, their noses buried in esoteric tomes.
For you are a scion of a being most high — the Lady of Love’s darling daughter.
Sune’s always had a soft spot for you, fickle as her favor may be. Whispers carried by the wind offered encouragement at the beauty your artistry brought into the world. Your mother may be distant, but so is the sun, both of which provide satisfactory warmth regardless. This distance never bothered you. So long as you were free to wield a quill, lyre, or rapier, you were content.
Indeed, her distance never bothered you, until you realized that just like the sun, celestial bodies must give way to the night.
Focus, focus, focus.
The faintest hum of the Weave resonates within. It reaches out to you, incorporeal hands longing to touch. This is it. Your chance. Your spark. It’s tentative at first, a shy reunion—
—And then it’s gone. Silenced.
Extinguished.
Your shoulders droop as yet another failure joins your ever-growing resume.
Your shoulders droop as yet another failure is jotted down.
“I never took you for a masochist,” tyranny incarnate muses from behind. “That must be it. Why else would you torture yourself so?”
“I’m no more a masochist than you are a worthy ruler.”
You try to keep your tone steady and indifferent. Regrettably, of all your artistic talents, acting is not among them. The bitterness seeps out like blood through thin gauze. He must’ve sensed a fluctuation in the ‘connection’ you share. You thought yourself subtle with your tampering, but your sentimentality betrayed you.
“Ah. That’s where you’re mistaken. There are no ‘worthy rulers,’ only rulers who make their reign worthwhile.”
“That’s your intention?”
“That’s my intention,” he mimics your cadence.
Unwilling to withstand further provocation, you whirl around, ready to slink off. Your abrupt motion proves to be a mistake. The world loses its sharpness, the outline of every object smearing together as your balance falters. A wicked throb blasts through your skull — your reward for this little rebellion. The black fabric fastened around your throat greedily swallows the meal you just offered.
Its creator steadies your body as if he isn’t the source of your malaise. His hands, covered in golden gauntlets, slither around your bicep. You’re vaguely aware of the short journey to an outdoor table set. Water rushes from the garden’s ivory fountain, the sound crescendoing into something unbearable. The evening sun feels too hot, the summer air, too humid; and the deceptively delicate-looking choker around your neck too tight.
Gortash barks out orders toward the maids here to serve ‘you.’ They scurry about, their hurried gait like that of a discovered rat colony. You sit at his behest. Commanding others is second nature to him, he enunciates every syllable with the confidence of a man who knows he won’t be challenged. No good comes from fighting it. You panic, you struggle, and then finally, you sink, succumbing to a riptide you never had a chance against.
He holds a crystal vial to your lips, which you part without prompting. It’s syrupy on your tongue, an artificial sweetness intended to make the tonic more tolerable, owing to your many complaints. Whether he adjusted the formula for your sake or his, you can’t say.
The viscous liquid stubbornly sticks to your esophagus. Eventually, you force it down.
Gortash’s elixir circulates throughout your body and soothes the tempest you incited. There’s little you know about the magic that siphons your divinity, but you do know it’s volatile. The insidious inventor sat aside his pride to explain that much. He foresaw that you wouldn’t sit pretty while he sapped your celestial power. An accurate estimate, considering your current predicament.
He recognizes your lucidity returning before you do.
“Foolish girl,” Gortash sneers. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing eye contact. The bags beneath his eyes appear darker than when you first met. You suppose you’re to blame for that. “Are you so eager to undermine that you’ll put yourself at risk?”
“What does it matter,” you reply, your glare communicating what your weary voice cannot. “Pain is all I know around you.”
Gortash releases you as if your skin scalded him.
“Pain? This? You know nothing of pain, aasimar. The word is lost on you.”
Righteous fury churns your stomach in on itself.
“Then show me!” You demand. “Show me, if that’s what it takes for you to stop flaunting your godsforsaken ‘benevolence.’ A benevolent warden! Can those two roles coexist? Or are you the one ignorant of words and their meanings?”
You fight for each breath. It’s been some time since you’ve snapped at him like this. For good reason, you think, noting the murky abyss in his eyes. Lord Enver Gortash isn’t to be spoken to in such a discourteous manner. People have had lips sewn shut and fingers unnaturally contorted for less. His cruelty isn’t random, there’s a methodology behind each stitch and snap.
Yet here you sit. Physically unharmed, adorned in fine garments, aureate bracelets, onyx earrings, and his favorite shade of rouge upon your lips. You don’t know what to make of this, you didn’t want to know for the longest time either. Should he confirm what you dread, well… at least you’ll have clarity amidst the revulsion.
He studies you like he would a defective construct he’s one adjustment away to fixing. You loathe how vulnerable you feel beneath his scrutinizing stare, that he has the means to take you apart and piece you back together.
An eternity passes before Gortash speaks again.
“... You’re frightened,” he surmises. “Frightened over what it means to be the subject of my affection.”
Your pulse quickens as the cool metal of his gauntlets brush against your hand.
“You want my wrath. The sting of a riding crop, the indignation from the welt it forms.”
The gauntlet’s tips dig into your flesh. It almost hurts, until he lessens the intensity of his grip. He’s mastered applying just the right amount of pressure to leave indents behind without breaking skin. He could break you, but he wants you whole, as proof he could conquer you at your best.
“Keep wanting, you won’t ever receive it. No,” Gortash smiles, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling from mirth. “Endure what it means to have earned my affection instead.”
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Kinktober2023 Day 11: Blood Kink
banner art by @/auroblaze
Fountain of Life
contains: masturbation, fingering, finger sucking, masochism, cis/trans, angel/demon
dysphoria warning: Pride is a trans man whose genitals are described with the following terms: folds, clit. Please use discretion if these words will trigger any dysphoria.
Kinktober2023 Prompt List & Neocities Page
Tips are appreciated!
Justice expertly julienned another carrot, metal of the blade flashing in his hand. He scraped the thinly sliced vegetables into a bowl, grabbed another whole carrot, and sliced it in half to begin again. Watching him from across the counter, close enough to reach out and touch, Pride sighed wistfully.
Even though he was banned from making meals for both of them, he made the effort to hover around while Justice cooked. Whether that meant gathering ingredients, giving unwanted advice, or simply standing around so Justice would have to acknowledge him at some point, Pride was there. He’d be eating half this dish, after all, so frankly he should be allowed to give some input!
Opposed to throwing together whatever happened to be in the fridge and hoping it was edible, Justice followed recipes to the letter. He kept the cookbook open on the counter even if he’d made the dish a hundred times, moving with practiced efficiency. Most of the time, Pride was distracted watching him work—especially when he got out the knives.
He couldn’t help himself, really. Justice was able to cut things quickly into evenly shaped chunks, and he made it look easy. Vegetable chopping prowess wasn’t the reason Pride had to stop and stare, though. Justice had a control, rarely utilized, that made him want to claw the walls. The way he gripped the handle, the confidence of putting his hand so close to the knife, how he slid his fingers down the flat of the blade to nudge any extras off. Pride swallowed hard.
“Are you going to help,” Justice asked, “or stand there?”
“Stand here,” he replied.
Justice glanced up from his carrots to eye him disapprovingly. Pride smiled back. Nothing would change his mind: watching Justice handle a knife was the most important thing he could be doing in the world.
“How many of these do you need?” Pride asked.
“This is the last one,” Justice said, “but then I have to dice the tomatoes.”
“Cool…”
He slid the first julienned half of the carrot into the bowl and grabbed the second. “You’re entertained by the strangest things.”
“Sure, ‘entertained.’”
“What would you call it, then?”
Pride tapped his cheek, pretending to think. “I guess I’d call it being ‘deeply aroused’ by—”
“Argh!”
The knife fell with a clatter onto the cutting board. Justice jumped back, clutching his fingers. Golden ichor stained the blade, along with the few slices of carrot he’d managed to chop.
“What happened?” Pride asked.
“Cut myself.” Justice rushed to the sink. “Can you get rid of those, please?”
“Sure, yeah.”
Pride reached across the counter and scooped up the sullied carrots. The ichor glimmered with power, radiating beauty. This was an angel’s blood—Justice’s blood. The inside of him was as bright as the outside, so pure his veins ran gold. Pride couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.
The ichor slid down the sides of thinly sliced carrots, threatening to drip onto the counter. Not thinking at all, he stuck them in his mouth.
It burned. As if he’d taken a bite of the sun itself, his mouth burned, rejecting the holy substance between his teeth. Down to his fundamental essence, his body revolted against it, setting every nerve on fire in an effort to get him to stop.
Pride didn’t stop. Through the pain, he admired the taste of the ichor—the taste of Justice. Somehow, it tasted like comfort. It was a warm hug. It was peace, one of the building-blocks of eternal rest. Heaven. It seared his tongue and gave him hope. Pride didn’t know what to do other than suck on them a little to—
“What are you doing?”
Pride jerked up. Completely baffled, Justice gawked from the sink. He clutched a paper towel around his sliced fingers, gold bleeding through the thin material.
“Getting rid of ‘em,” Pride answered, muffled by the carrots still in his mouth,
“I meant throw them in the trash,” Justice said. “Not eat them.”
“Too late now.”
Pride chomped down on the reject carrots, and Justice cringed the whole time. The ichor burned all the way down, fire racing down his throat. He shivered.
“Are you… okay?” Justice asked.
“You’re one who’s bleeding.”
“And I felt your pain. That’s technically a holy substance, Pride, do you need—”
“I’m fine.” It wasn’t a lie, he felt more than fine. “It’s okay, I—I liked it.”
Too shocked to reply, Justice sputtered at him, but he wasn’t paying attention. Pride circled the counter, came up to him, and took his hands.
“Can I,” he asked, “see it, for a minute?”
“See this?” Justice confirmed, raising his injured hand.
Pride nodded, swallowing thickly. He must have looked as desperate as he felt, because Justice unwrapped his hand and held it out for him. Two cuts, one on his index and middle finger, gushed shimmering gold ichor. It smeared over his skin, fingers slightly curled. He almost whined.
“Pride?” Justice asked, voice softening.
“Don’t—Don’t fuckin’ judge me for this,” Pride breathed. He picked up the hand and pointed the fingers towards his mouth. “C-can I…?”
It was clear in his eyes that he didn’t understand why, but Justice nodded. Pathetically grateful, Pride slid his fingers onto his tongue.
The ichor burned, but this time he moaned. It scorched his gums and made his teeth rattle, but the gentle aftertaste made all the pain worth it. Pride lapped up more, aching for the fiery calm. Dizzy from pain and pleasure alike, he shoved a hand down his pants, pushing past his wet folds to rub his clit.
“O-oh, okay,” Justice said, standing there with a dirty paper towel and an addled expression.
“Msorry,” Pride mumbled, between his whimpers. He didn’t know why he apologized. The comforting flavor of the ichor made him weak.
“No, no, if this is what you need, I’ll—I guess I’m already helping.”
Pride laughed around his hand, and moaned when Justice stroked his tongue. He sucked more ichor out of the tiny wounds, and Justice let him, the cause of both his aches. Already, his mouth felt raw, burned over and over. He didn’t stop, didn’t even think about stopping, sucking and licking and rubbing himself in frantic circles.
As much as he loved it, Pride hated it too. If the ichor had been painful and nothing else, he might have been able to salvage some dignity, but the softness was what brought him back. The tenderness wrapped around his chest and squeezed him tight, until he wanted to explode. Such a holy thing wasn’t meant for him, and he knew it. That was why he couldn’t get enough.
Justice stroked the inside of his mouth, bleeding all over it, and he nearly sobbed. The ichor coated his tongue, his teeth, his throat, setting it all on fire then kissing him with blessings he didn’t deserve. Pride bucked into his own hand, too overwhelmed to keep an even pace. His head spun with countless emotions, and then he really did sob, a single tear racing down his cheek.
“Oh, Pride, no,” Justice murmured, kissing his forehead. “I’m here, I’m right here.”
Pride keened for him, taking his fingers as far back as he could. He knew Justice was here for him, protected him, loved him, bled for him, and every mechanism of creation said he wasn’t supposed to. Pride was never meant to taste divinity again, so thoroughly barred from forgiveness that anything holy burned him alive. But Justice gave him anything and everything he could, just because he wanted it. Pride choked and whined and sucked and fucked his hand, because he knew this was the best he’d ever have. Sucking the blood out of an angel was as close to Heaven as he’d ever get again.
Seeing his dissolved state, Justice reached down to help in a second way. He joined Pride’s hand against his clit, rubbing him firmly. He moaned so loud, so needy, not even the fingers in his mouth could muffle it. The burn of the ichor faded in the face of it, replaced by a hot bliss. Pride jerked his hips against them both, racing closer to his finish every second. All he could taste was fire, all he could do was want it, all he could see was Justice, watching him with fond eyes.
“Love you,” Pride mumbled through his hand.
“I love you too,” Justice said. He still didn’t know what was happening, Pride could tell, but that didn’t matter. Justice loved him.
His orgasm didn’t happen at once. Instead, it washed over him like a wave. Pride arched against the counter, whimpering softly, and Justice guided him through it. He stroked his clit until the very end, when Pride went limp, and dropped his mouth. Justice took his fingers back, slimy with saliva.
“Well, I’m not bleeding anymore,” he announced.
Pride managed a dizzy laugh, mouth stinging. He slouched against the counter, staring off into space, for minutes.
At some point, Justice brought him a glass of water. “Go rest,” he said. “I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”
“’Kay,” Pride mumbled.
He waddled out of the kitchen, and collapsed on the couch. Later, they ate there together, and Justice had two small bandages around his fingers.
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N7 Month, 2023 - Day 22: Grenade
A silly little ME1 drabble about anti-thorian gas.
++
The drive across the skyway from the Exogeni building had been tense. Not only were the geth out in force to try to stop them, but Shepard was preoccupied thinking about what the Exogeni had allowed to happen to these colonists.
Now they stood at the door to the garage for the colony. Kaidan and Garrus stood on hand, looking nervous. Shepard didn’t show it, but has was nervous, too. Dr. Baynum had given him the anti-thorian gas compound that would knock out infected colonists, but there were about five grenades worth and plenty of colonists. And… well. Shepard tried not to worry about that.
“Alright, no hurting the colonists, even if the Thorian makes them fire on us. That’s what the gas grenades are for.”
“On your order, Commander,” Alenko replied, raising his rifle. Shepard opened the door and at once heavy fire rained down on them from above. Three colonists in a defended position up above. On the ground, a half dozen thorian monsters rose up from their strange huddled posture, sounding like air was being breathed into them as they rose.
“Open fire!” Shepard shouted. The creepers ran at the fire team, black ichor fountaining out of the bullet holes being pumped into them, until there wasn’t enough vegetal matter to support the creature anymore, and it collapsed lifeless. This is what could happen to the colonists, this or something worse, Shepard frowned.
The colonists were still firing from above, and the fire team was pinned down behind the Mako.
“Cover me!” Shepard lurched out from behind his cover, opening fire in a wide spread that wouldn’t hurt the colonists. He stormed forward, a dead sprint through the empty garage and up the slope to put him on a level with the colonists. His shields absorbed shot after shot, nearly breaking, but Garrus and Kaidan managed to keep the colonists pinned. Shepard reached for a grenade, took aim, hurled the grenade. It whizzed like a frisbee the 25 meters to the colonists position.
And exploded harmlessly in the air above their heads.
“Goddammit,” Shepard growled. The colonists returned fire and Shepard stormed forward again, muttering obscenities under his breath. He hurled another grenade.
It went wide, a small green puff down below when it finally exploded. Teeth grit as he ran, Shepard’s shield broke just as he vaulted over the crates the colonists were using as cover. The butt-stroke he delivered to one colonist’s head was harder than he meant it, but it did the trick and the man slumped to the ground unconscious. He turned on the other two, who looked crazed. Two more strokes and the colonists were down.
“Come on,” Shepard called down to Garrus and Kaidan, running up to meet him. Garrus stared at the unconscious colonists, then gave Shepard a quizzical look. “We’re not talking about it,” Shepard ground out.
They passed through the door and were immediately assaulted by two more colonists. Shepard chucked a grenade around the corner, it pinged off a wall and rolled away where it exploded causing a momentary green smoke-screen, but no affect on the colonists. Shepard cursed.
He dove out. Stroke. Stroke.
“That’s two more colonists,” Shepard grimaced.
“I don’t understand,” Kaidan said, checking his rifle. “The anti-thorian gas doesn’t seem to be affecting the colonists…”
“It’s… it’s not that…” Shepard groaned.
“We haven’t actually see a grenade get anywhere close to the colonists, yet,” Garrus said, amused.
“I can’t throw. Not a football, not a baseball, not a grenade. There’s a good reason I never use them.” Shepard couldn’t make eye contact with Kaidan, but could practically feel Garrus beginning to smile next to him.
“Do… you want me to?” Kaidan began, but the next moment, creepers ran up the stairs for them and the team was nearly over-run.
There were more colonists firing on them when they got to the downed ship: they had the place well defended. Nothing a couple well-placed grenades couldn’t have handled.
Shepard didn’t bother. Screaming like a demon, he stormed at the covered position, wildly swinging the butt of his rifle like a bat, the colonists not even having time to look shocked before they were careening to the ground with the imprint of Shepard’s rifle butt in their foreheads.
May O’Connell? Butt stroke.
Arcelia Martinez? Butt stroke.
Fai Dan. Butt stroke.
Shepard stood panting and unopposed at the center of the colony, the littered corpses of creepers strewn about and already rotting, and the unconscious colonists.
“Come on,” Shepard urged as Kaidan and Garrus caught up with him. His armor was pocked with bullet marks. “I am going to fucking kill this Thorian.”
Kaidan and Garrus shared a smile and followed on.
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There is a pained cry behind him, gurgling and desperate, and then silence, and Chip’s blood runs cold. His throat feels tight as he turns to face the fountain, the heaping mound of marble and ichor where he last saw Gillion Tidestrider, his co-captain, his best friend. He blinks at the rubble, watching the last of the dust settle, revealing the wreckage.
His heart stops.
i just think those few moments before they filled chip in on the plan had to have been horrifying
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moonmaiden's grace
feeling so so normal about Isobel and Aylin and i love introspective short fic so. you know.
The adventurers return from the mausoleum, and Isobel isn't sure she can trust the bright green hope they bring.
The adventurers leave Last Light and all she can do is sit down, heavily, on the edge of the dried out fountain, eyes on the sky. Of course she had seen the radiant light in the sky, silver like the moon. It would have been unmissable even if she didn’t spend all her time looking at the skies, praying to the Moonmaiden to keep the darkness at bay. For the briefest moment it had reminded her of everything she had lost. A century of darkness, stillness, only to be brought by her father in an act of perversion, death seated deep within her lungs. Brought back to a curse, Aylin long gone.
The grief lingered like the ichor of death in her lungs. She could breathe around it, had to, until she couldn’t. It always took her by surprise, no matter if she believed she’d gotten used to it. It crawled up her throat when they told her the source of her father’s immortality had been a woman, trapped under the mausoleum, set free to aid in the battle to come.
She could feel it bubbling with every breath now, threatening to choke her. One deep breath follows another, shaking hands balled into fists. She didn’t dare to hope, not really. Not after everything, all the grief and darkness, her home fallen to a curse of her father’s doing. And yet…
She pushes the bright green of hope back under, no room for it here. Perhaps it would have to be enough that these adventurers set out for Moonrise, no matter who the woman they’d set free was. And still, she can’t shake the feeling, no matter how the darkness around her chokes anything that dared dream of better.
The Harpers have long since left for Moonrise, when she finally rises again, Last Light quiet as the grave, and she steels herself, wiping her hands on her robes. Soon there would be nothing left to ward here. Either the adventurers dethrone her father, and her wards are no longer needed, or they fail, and sooner or later the wards would fall, snuffing out the last light in these shadow-cursed lands.
Whichever way the coin lands, the ward will hold without her for these final hours. The least she can do is see the conclusion of it all for herself, and perhaps she’ll allow herself a sliver of hope.
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am I too late for a littleeeeee 🔀 for steddie?? 🫣 🥰
🚨⚠️🚨
My bb requests an au!! 🥰✨️ and wow did this song deliver. It's so cinematic and I'm a little obsessed and might have to actually write this.
Steve always felt that itch beneath his skin when one was near - one who drank from others as if they were fountains. His parents always said that he would know when one grew close. They kept him trained, skills honed, weapons sharpened for the first two decades of his life. They grew soft in the third, though. Let their guard down and settled into the peace that their life and prosperity had afforded them. They were out of touch, out of practice because the creatures stopped seeking them out.
Or so they thought.
His parents grew cocky, letting their pride overtake their logic. It only took a moment in the midst of a foolish pursuit of gory nostalgia - a blink of an eye, the space between heartbeats being more than accommodating to house the final breaths of Harold and Talinda Harrington.
Steve, however, was fearsome, if his reputation were to be believed. Eddie heard how the corridors of Harrington Hall had been left slick with the black ichor of those who came to retaliate. Of Eddie's kin.
Eddie watched for weeks and wondered why the heir didn't follow in his parents' wake and move to slaughter.
Eddie watched and saw a man haunted and reluctant. One who only flourished in the presence of his sister and his wards.
Eddie watched, captivated and enchanted, and stayed, even fending off those who came to finish the job, consuming their power in the process. He watched and waited, keeping to the shadows until the night that Eddie revealed himself.
"They came for us."
Steve stared in shock at the creature who stood propped against the wall. It looked about his height with a curtain of dark curls, shiny beetle wing black eyes glinting even in shadow. Expression hard and alluring. Predator beholding a prey more than capable of fighting back. Of winning, even, Steve told himself as he thought about about what the creature said, about how his parents had been absent during the last-
"The last new moon," the creature continued, with a slow approach, making Steve's stomach twist from the feeling of the its breath fanning across his neck.
"They knew we'd be weak," the creature said, punctuating the word by grabbing Steve's jaw and squeezing, digging its nails into Steve's skin.
"Do it."
The creature cocked its head, eyes dark and curious and dangerous.
"Do what, Harrington?"
"Kill me. Avenge your slain. Feed. It doesn't matter."
"You grieve," it purred.
"You grieve. I exist."
The creature brushed the pad of its thumb across Steve's bottom lip. "I grieve because you exist."
Because Steve intrigued him, occupied ever inch of his mind and Steve's main objective was to kill his kind, just as Eddie's base function was to prey on Steve's. Eddie was infatuated and it defied nature.
But Steve swallowed, taking in the more solemn implication.
"Have you not felt it?" the creature whispered in Steve's ear.
"I've sensed you for weeks."
"Just me?"
Steve gave the creature a guarded look, his eyes unsure in retrospect. Then it clicked. "You're a scout."
The creature bit at its lip, watching as Steve's moved to form more words:
"How long?"
The creature smiled, teeth glinting with the flickering candlelight. "Whenever I say. If ever I say."
"How many?"
"Ohhh, pet," it leaned in, running their nose up the column of Steve's throat. "Legions."
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The Jester and The Courier: a wild wasteland love
Chapter 11: Only God Knows.
The Atomic Wrangler was not what Cicero was expecting, then again he had never been in a “casino” before, it was dark and filled with the scent of smoke and alcohol, there were strange machines and tables where card games were played.
“Hey Myr-FUCK!” a man behind the bar suddenly jumped as he saw Cicero, “oh…sorry James, forgot you had a fear of clowns, this is my buddy Cicero he’s new to the Mojave and I’am showing him around”, “to the whole Mojave?” a woman cleaning glasses pondered “yep, new to the whole of Nevada actually, comes from WAY up north, Francine” Myrtle said as she took a seat at the bar.
James snuck away to the back of the bar to get away from Cicero while Myrtle and Francine chatted…seeing the fear in this man…this triggered a twitch in Cicero’s brain, an old itch he HAS to scratch…
It’s been a while since he’s killed someone…
“Cicero…um…needs to…” he looked around, “do you need to go pee?” Myrtle eyed him as he danced around a little, Cicero nodded, “C’mon, over here, I’ll show you” she said as she led him down a hallway and to a door “in there”.
Cicero zipped inside and Myrtle left…
Myrtle returned to her barstool and sat with her friends “can I?-”, a plate was then sat in front of her, “2 Lake Lurk lady-rolls with extra butter and iced nuka-cola?” Francine smirked “I know your friday usual” she chuckled.
Inside the bathroom was a small window, just big enough for Cicero to squeeze through, he knew he had to be quick if he wanted to remain appearing innocent …if a little strange…
Cicero hopped out the window and creeped through the alleyways…
Oh, OH how he has missed this, slunking and slinking through shadows, crawling and creeping like a spider in the night…
He savored the THRILL of the HUNT…
Finally he caught the glimpse of someone, in the alleyway was a man in a suave suit, a poor man Cicero will send to Sithis…
He crept up and grabbed the man by the mouth, locking him into a body lock and holding the blade to his throat…
“Hush now, Cicero will send you to the void soon~” he hummed, his muffled cries for help sounded so sweet, such soft music to Cicero’s ears…
Cicero slid the blade down to the man’s chest, the knife’s tip easily piercing the skin and sending a tiny stream of beautiful, beautiful ruby ichor against his tan skin…
Cicero sucked in a deep breath as he raised the knife high into the air…
STAB, down it whent and the man’s muffled cry, his pleas for mercy, to be spared fell on deaf ears.
Warm hot blood trickled from the man’s mouth onto Cicero’s hand…oh Sithis the rush he felt…
STAB, twice he brought it down into the man’s chest, blood spurting out like a fountain of crimson.
The smell of blood in the air…the whimpers and cries…the body squirming beneath his…
Cicero drank it all in…he longed to do this…to be an assassin again…
STAB, thrice he plunged the gorgeous knife that gleemed so brightly into the man’s chest, there was a stillness in the man
Cicero sighed contently…he needed that.
He made it back to the Atomic Wrangler’s bathroom and washed himself of blood, he looked in the mirror and saw a picture behind him…it was of Myrtle…in THAT black dress…the one that showed her legs…her chest…that clung tight to her waist…
Cicero’s stomach flipped in knots, the rush of murder mixed with…this…lustful feeling…
Oh sweet Sithis…
Cicero shook his head and splashed water on his face, no, No, NO! He can’t be thinking of such things…
He thought about his duties as Keeper of The Night Mother, they said he could not do such things as…well…they didn’t explicitly say…
They just said he could not hold anyone above the Night Mother and Sithis, that usually ment Keepers were never married and never had special partners…
He…he could…technically…
There was a knock at the door “hey bud you’ve been in there a while” Myrtle called out, “OH, yes…Cicero will be out in a moment, just washing his hands!”
Cicero cleaned himself up and made sure there was no trace of blood.
Lunch was amazing, Cicero had never eaten anything as good as Lake Lurk meat, it was even better than mudcrab!, “mmm…what is a lake lurk?” He turned to Myrtle who was sipping her drink and watching Boone teach Joshua how to play pool.
“Hmm…they are these Abe-sapien wannabe lookin-ass motherfuckers” she shrugged, “...that does not help…Cicero has no idea what you just said?”, “oh…well I’ll take you hunting for them some time and I’ll show you then, I can’t really explain what they look like other than the creature from the black lagoon’s bootleg cousin”.
They were on their way back to the 38 when one of The Followers came up to them “oh sweet mercy, Myrtle there’s been a murder”, “what?!” Myrtle gasped, “over by the old Silver Rush, we found a body, please we need your help”.
Cicero got a little nervous…what if she found out?
“On it, I’ll-”, “why doesn't Boone take this one Myrt? You have a lot on your plate right now” Joshua butted in, “But I-”, “and you and I need to have a chat”, Myrtle sighed “I’ll call up Gannon, see if he can do a forensic autopsy on the body, find out how the victim died” she turned to Cicero “I’am gonna hand you over to Lily and Raul. Lilly’s a sweet gal, basically my third grandma, you’ll love her and Raul is one of my oldest friends, been with me almost as long as Boone”, Cicero pondered “Can Cicero help with the murder? He’s very good at mysteries!”. “eh…I don’t know” Myrtle sighed “you have any skills in medicine?”, “Oh yes, YES! Cicero knows all about corpses, for a time he was a mortician!”, “...well…that…that is certainly interesting…and could be helpful” Myrtle nervously laughed, “talk with Gannon, you can work together on this.”
Joshua and her then returned to the 38…
(Outside the Old Silver Rush)
Gannon looked at the body, Cicero knelt beside him examining it closely…
“Hmm…the man was stabbed to death with a combat knife” Arcade turned to Boone, “ok…not uncommon…combat knives are easy to get”, Arcade shook his head “a special kind of combat knife…” he sighed “notice the serrations on the sternum?...on the top and bottom of the bone?...that’s caused by a 1.9mm double serrated edged blade” he deduced “only 2 blades like that exist…standard issue NCR multi tool knives…and Myrt’s blade: Longinus”.
Boone glanced at Cicero while Gannon checked the body for more clues…
“You were in the bathroom a long time”, Cicero nervously chuckled “big bladder” he lied, “hold up, I found something” Gannon got up and showed Boon and Cicero 6 little golden coins that looked like septims and a strange little metal box “Legion Denirises…and a holotape”.
Boone and Gannon looked at eachother “well…this makes things more interesting…”
They took the holotape to a holotape player at the Mormon fort and listened to it…
“Haec est vestra missio. Inveni et ligones dominam necare. quod facere debetis. ad gloriam cesar!”
“Any idea on what it said?” Boone turned to Gannon, “no…I don’t know enough ancient languages to understand latin”, “Latin?...is this language of your close to Imperial? Because Cicero understood what it said”, Boone and Gannon turned to him “well…what did it say?”, “oh it talked about killing a “lady of spades”...OH! That's Miss Myrtle!” Cicero realized.
Boone sighed in relief “welp at least…we can rule this one off as stopping an act of terrorism instead of murder”, Gannon pause “but…who knew he was an assassin?”.
Cicero giggled quietly to himself…
(At the 38)
“Joshua I-”, “would you like some cocoa?”, “what?” Myrtle bliked, “would you like some cocoa? I think we should have some while we discuss what troubles you, chocolate has been known to release endorphins and make you feel happy, I want you to be happy Myrt, even when you are feeling down I want you to try and look for something positive, a “light in darkness” if you will” he chuckled. Myrtle nodded and took the cup of hot chocolate from him.
“Now…what troubles you?”, Myrtle was quiet for a time “it’s…it’s Lanius, Joshua I…I CAN’T” she screamed “I CAN’T FIGHT HIM, he’s a walking army and I’ve gone through life basse on my luck…I’am sorry…but I…I can’t do it…but I have to”, “why do you feel that way? Why do you feel that you Can’t…but Must?” he said as he dipped a cookie into his cocoa.
“Because I Am THE COURIER 6, people see me as some sort of Messiah of the Mojave, they treat me like I am a god sent gift, that I will deliver them from the evils of the Legion, the raider gangs and everything else!” she covered her face with her hands “I FEEL LIKE IF I FAIL THEM THEN I’AM WORTHLESS…that I failed her…” she sobbed.
Joshua sighed and patted her shoulder “so you turned to vices and unhealthy ways of dealing with stress”, “yeah…fucked up right?, I’am supposed to be a beacon of hope for people and hear I am being just as bad as any chem fiend” she mumbled “what a hypocrite am I?” she laughed, Joshua sighed “we are all hypocrites, it is our nature, we are but humans. Just as is in our nature to be afraid” he hugged her “Myrt…I don’t blame you for being scared of Lanius…I’am quite frightened of him myself…but you know better”.
He looked into her eyes, his gaze soft and understanding “you have us, you have your faith and you have courage in your heart. You want to know something that I think?”, “what?”, “I think that the son of god had the courage to give his life for others because he loved them, not because it was his duty”.
Myrtle hugged Josua tightly “thanks…I needed this…I-I should talk with the others though…apologies…for getting snippy with them…especially Boone”, “if you ever have doubt in your heart, come to us, we will help you, always” he said with a gentle smile.
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saw this image in a post. god who caressssss. i took a poetry class for my creative writing major and i don't even remember if it was required in and of itself or if it was the only one that fit my schedule and major requirements for that semester but i sucked at it and it was unfulfilling experience and i was unhappy with it because i knew i wanted to focus on fiction more than poetry (not to mention the usual executive dysfunction hell). WHAT is with this notion tumblr users have that universities are the hallowed fount of the pure ichor of enlightening knowledge and to take a class in something is to put your lips to the source of this fountain and come away enlightened and cleansed and with an expanded soul. sometimes people struggle in school and are not interested in the classes they take and sometimes the classes themselves are kinda shit and this is morally neutral okay
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Farah Headcanons
The serious ones
Suffers from chronic pain due to the corruption - for them, the corruption is centered on their back, specifically the right side of their back / body thanks to an injury they suffered during the cataclysm (the ground crumbled under an ally and Farah swapped places, so they fell quite a long way and suffered internal damage thanks to a couple broken bones that have not herd properly, another source of chronic pain)
Their right eye is the primary sign of corruption due to the discoloration of it (the sclera is permanently black and the grey turned to purple). They cannot see the natural world out of it very well, but they can see heat signatures as well as things like leylines and magical sources far more easily thanks to the corruption
They had a sister, Chandra before the cataclysm who they took care of. The current status of said sister is unknown to Farah but there's a chance she became a samachurl
Chandra is part of why the corruption has not turned Farah into a husk yet, and that is due to her placing a blessing on Farah while Khaenri'ah fell
However, Farah does struggle with moments of blind rage / falling into a more husk like state at times. These tend to happen when they have traveled far away from the cleansing fountain in the Chasm for a rather long period of time, or when something triggers the corruption inside of them to become more active (sometimes the sight of a statue of the seven can cause this, sometimes abyssal magic, the causes are quite varied)
They can usually get away with being near hili and samachurls - partly due to being a corrupted Khaenri'an knight, and partly due to having an intimidating presence
Mita and Lawachurls are more likely to attack them though (it's the territorial aspect to the big guys, they take Farah's intimidating presence as a challenge)
Farah always says a prayer for the -churl's they end up fighting once the deed is done. Not to ask for forgiveness, but a prayer to guide lost souls home with hope that they will finally be able to rest
They have mastered all the martial fighting forms used by the black serpent knights within the Chasm but tend to stick to the claymore (they almost treat the polearm they have as one might a delusion weapon)
However, they are also very capable of brawling if it gets to that point and will use claws / teeth if they have to
For those who have seen Castlevania, Farah fights a lot like Striga (capable of throwing their claymore around like it means nothing and moving very fluidly through combat)
Their skill + burst abilities draining them of health is due to the corruption flaring up when said abilities are utilized
The scarring under their mask (around their right eye, think Dains' but pink and gold and more floral looking) sometimes oozes black ichor, especially if they have a particularly brutal fight or are actively struggling to keep hold of their mind
The scarring from their corruption is black and looks thin and spiderweb-like, with the right half of their back, upper right thigh and arm looking covered in numerous black scars (varied thickness)
And the less serious + slightly silly ones
Farah is 6'5 and built (think Wriothesley and add a little)
They like birds quite a lot and have a variety of birdcalls memorized which they can mimic to a near perfect degree
They can and will catch birds with their bare hands just to hold them. If your muse ever wants to pet / closely inspect a bird (for research purposes, among others), Farah will be happy to grab it
They have, on occasion, 'pecked' something / someone before (tends to do so more in their helmet as that has a 'beak', without the helmet they just headbonk - gently)
They crocheted before the Cataclysm (and would probably pick it up again if they knew where to grab supplies)
Their sense of smell is heightened compared to most people. This is a boon in that they love most scents of nature (rain, flowers, trees, etc), but they can get overstimulated via their sense of smell as well (especially within cities)
They have little fangs
They are a very tactile person, partly due to having to relearn about the world and what's become of it after being stuck in the Chasm for 500ish years, partly because physical touch was always a thing for them before the fall and is a way they can ground themself to the present / stay in control of their mind
I have a few different ideas for how they got the mask / who made it or gifted it to them, but for interactions and plotting this can be left vague :3
They are fiercely protective of kids (+ anyone that reminds them of Chandra)
They also tend to be quite protective of anyone with the Khaenri'an eye
Even when they get clothing that will help them stand out a little less while traveling, they keep their armor close and have the ability to teleport their armor directly onto their body
Also they're autistic
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[cracks fingers] lets DO THIS!! and since this has a lot of punctuation and my anon mark will mess it up i'll preface this by saying this is indeed evil anon. ichor is the blood of the gods in greek myth so that what i use instead of blood for *poeticness*, and also my interp of gijinka pk would still have four arms so thats why he's described as such
----
The Pale King cannot breathe.
He's only felt like this once in recent memory, when the first husk was brought before Him and His court, and He'd recognised the burning light in it's eyes - undoubtedly, Her attempts at returning.
It's different now, yet exactly the same. He braces himself against a wall, trembling with ichor-loss and exhaustion and dread and pure *grief* as His vessel lets out a terrible, lurching scream from it's throat - no, their throat, they're alive, it must be true, She couldn't have taken them if they were alive - as their nail slides in and out of their chest, through carapace and chitin to the soft void-flesh underneath. Back in, back out, until the carpet underneath them is stained with their ichor.
And what's worse is that He can see Her infection briefly leave their eyes before they crumple to the floor.
After a few moments hesitation, He gingerly crept towards them, placing one of His hands on the wound while another supported their head and another their back. He cannot find it in Himself to speak, for He cannot even find the words. He could not say those simple placating mantras offered to wounded footsoldiers on the battlefield, the simple "You'll be alright" and "Everything will be fine" of the common dying bug, because in His heart He knows that it isn't true. His child - for that is what they were, His child, His baby, not just the bars of Her prison cell - was going to die in absolute agony, and it was His fault for not realising sooner.
But perhaps a small, desperate part of Himself had known all along. The fountain in Hallownest's Heart was proof. You do not create memorials for a tool, you do not erect statues in honour of an empty thing. You create them for a life, a living breathing being with thoughts and feelings and *hope* and-
A strange, hacking noise interrupts his tram of thought, and He realises it comes from the Vessel - is that really what He should be calling them now? - as they cough up a mixture of Void and Infection, night-black and orange dripping down their mouth and onto His robe. It streams from their eyes, too, Her cruel mockery of tears which He had never designed them to shed. Then, they begin to make a strange gurgling sound, and He looks at them in confusion for a few seconds before He realises they're choking on the foul mixture, too weak now to spit it out. Gently, He tips their head ever-so-slightly to the side, so the fluid can fall out with relative ease, and then back again.
And then it happens. The Vessel shakily removes His hand from their wound and onto the hilt of their discarded nail. Almost as if they were asking Him to.. no. He won't do it. He wouldn't dare, there may still be a chance, He *won't.*
The shaky, rattling breaths that they're still able to take begin to slow, and the King can only watch as it stops.
He sits there for a few seconds, staring blankly, before He begins to cry for what must be the first time in His life. The hall outside the door is suddenly rife with activity, before it opens and He is met with Hornet's shocked face. Then the Beast whisks her in her arms, burying Hornet's face in her neck so she doesn't see any more. Her face twists into an angry, accusing glare that not even He had witnessed before.
"What in the ever-loving *fuck* happened here, Wyrm?"
THE WAY I SCREAMED
I HAD to read this out loud and I'm genuinely crying holyyyy fucking shitttttt
I don't think I brought enough tissues imma be honest
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what if i just vomit black ichor in a fountainous plume that covers the whole earth in a rain of venomous bile. what then
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{Tyrant ventures into the village and stops by the fountain, attempting to clean some of the ichor off himself.}
Ugh, I never imagined it would be so messy killing that…what was it, a “gorgon”?
{They accidentally stumble and fall backwards into the fountain. Xe just sits there for a moment in shame.}
…God damn it.
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