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[bringthunder]

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𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 — the   least   favorite   son   of   the   god   of   storms;   a   man   out   of   time.   his   rage   towards   the   gods   during   the   second   world   war   led   him   to   an   eternity   trapped   in   a   lightning-scarred   amphora,   discarded   to   tartarus   for   good   measure   —   a   nice   touch   from   𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀.   found upon his escape by   those   who   would   overthrow   the   gods,   wayward   kids   of   their   own,   he   sought   to   protect   them:   for   those   who   allied   themselves   with   𝐊𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐒,   he   acted   as   a   mentor,   a   more   experienced   bomb   waiting   to   go   off.   he   had   hoped   to   die   in   manhattan.   give   others   a   cautionary   tale   in   death, if his attempt on his father's life failed.   those   he   had   helped   negotiated   on   his   behalf,   making   him   a   finder   of   wayward   demigods   &&   lost   souls;   a   creature   who   death   was   not   to   touch,   not   yet.   not   before   they   saw   if   any   good   was   left   in   them.   

independent && exclusive original character set within the percy jackson universe, as adored by tally (25, he/it). inspired by the locked tomb series, the myths of prometheus && heracles, and frankenstein.

MEMES STARTER CALLS CARRD ADDITIONAL LORE BLOGROLL

a study of a man who is not allowed to die; the hesitancy to change from anger; the difficulty in adjusting to second chances; the inherent believe that you will corrupt even the best of people.

[hasturs]

my old man killed the idea of a loving god being up there when i was six years old. nothing capable of kindness could make a man like him. well. turns out there are other gods. hateful ones. like the one in our my head.

𝐇 𝐀 𝐒 𝐓 𝐔 𝐑 𝐒. an independent  &&  highly  selective  original  horror  character.  heavily  influenced  by  eldritch  horror  and  existentialism.  as  adored  by  tally  (he/it,  25). template.

[ichorkind]

ㅤ

There is, and had always been - so long as Young - Soo had known him - a certain nuance to Verso. Loath, to admit they were, but they were still learning to navigate it all. He had been hurt - deeply so, by what they can wager - and masked it in a way that many MORTAL things did. With humor, with dismissal ... with violence.

But, was it not that same sort of hurt, in some way, that bonded them ? Two creatures of ILL REPUTE, forced to behave and act and perform in a way that was digestible. SUITABLE. They wonder, if he'll ever crumble those walls down around his ankles, let them see what lies beneath.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMaybe it's nothing. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMaybe it's everything.

He speaks of TEETH and THROATS, and they wonder in idle if it's something more. If the beginnings of VIOLENCE had been more of a display of love, than cradling and cooing and coddling. Young - Soo, could never understand that sort of thing ; violence, in the place of love. Their own fractured youth, had taught a distinct divide between the two. On one end, was a loving mother, where they shone in her eyes and was treated gently. The other, was a father who would show his ELATION for their success through fists. One, was love. One was hate.

They give a wary smile, but are fortunate the subject chugs on. Eyes of pretty lilac roll, hand waving dismissively. The cultural zeitgeist, held Twilight in HIGH ESTEEM, for the longest time. A favor, of pre-pubescent girls, and the woefully MORMON monster - lovers. At the very least, there is sympathy, over the array of misunderstandings. Vampires, did not sparkle, just as Hera did not love Hercules.

❝ Deal. ❞ they say with a soft laugh. However, the woes of mistaken mythology, raise another question. ❝ ... Why does it bother you, Verso ? Something of a history buff ? Or, is some part of your lineage too, immortal ? ❞ The LATTER, said in jest. The chance, of GODS ABOVE, COME DOWN, ought to be ... slim. But, given Young - Soo's very existence, it was not impossible.

[bringthunder]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄.  this  cannot  be  understated,  cannot  be  expressed  enough:  what  verso  sachs  loves,  he  loves  with  his  TEETH.  he  bites  and  tears  into  those  who  he  would  hold,  for  if  they  don’t  BLEED  on  him  then  they  were  never  in  his  arms  to  begin  with.  he  wraps  his  arms  ‘round  them  so  tight  that  breath  becomes  a  STRANGER  to  their  air-starved  longs;  he  pushes  his  self  so  thoroughly  into  their  life  that  he  MARKS  any  favored  place  he  goes  to  (they  cannot  visit  again  without  smelling  ozone  and  cigarettes,  HIS  CURSE).  he  destroys  what  he  loves  for  destruction  IS  love,  and  to  think  otherwise  is  to  be  a  fool.  

he  learned  this  early  on,  you  see.  he  learned  as  a  child  that  love  and  violence  are  one  and  the  same,  for  his  mother  had  bruises  and  so  did  he,  and  if  you  are  not  marked  then  how  would  you  ever  know  your  lover  was  THERE  AT  ALL  ??  by  their  shape  in  the  mattress  ??  by  their  scent  on  your  clothes  ??  not  him.  NEVER  him.  verso  craves  direct  love  as  a  wolf  craves  meat:  wholly,  desperately,  VIOLENTLY.

he  loves  like  his  father  loved.  in  this  they  are  the  same.  in  this  verso  has  all  the  more  reason  to  loathe  the  divine;  they  taught  him  to  use  his  claws,  and  they  taught  him  too  well.  to  mark  is  all  he  knows.  THIS  is  how  FLESH  loves  FLESH.  

absent  any  sign  or  indication  of  where  his  thoughts  have  gone,  verso  laughs  in  tandem  with  the  monster  to  his  side.  he  keeps  his  volume  low  enough  to  compliment  their  own  soft  chuckle,  a  baseline  underneath  it,  appreciative  of  its  melody.  then  the  question  of  parentage  arises,  however,  and  his  lips  purse  into  a  thin  tight  LINE.  whatever  contemplation  seizes  him,  it  is  gone  as  quick  as  it  comes.  furrowed  brows  and  pursed  lips  are  replaced  by  pleased  neutrality,  as  if  he’s  daring  to  WAIT  for  a  punchline  to  hit.  

❝    oh,  it’s  IMMORTAL.  ❞  no  point  in  hiding  it  now,  he  reckons.  one  of  them  sucks  blood,  the  other  is  made  of  storms.  ❝  greek.  i’ll  give  you  THREE  guesses  about  which  god  it  is.  ❞   he  brandishes  a  few  sparks  by  his  shoulders  as  an  obvious  hint,  then  dismisses  them  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.    

❝  no  harm  in  telling  you  NOW,  huh  ??  might  as  well  put  everything  in  the  open.  ❞  not  everything.  NEVER  everything.  soo  will  never  know  of  hell  or  how  it  made  his  hands  shake  or  how  it  brought  a  monster  out  of  his  ribs.  soo  will  know  him  only  in  so  much  as  verso  WANTS  to  be  known:  and  if  that  is  as  a  son  of  the  gods,  then  fine.  NOTHING  MORE. 

[laterkiss]

everytime i want something i should be shot in the head

[laterkiss]

wanting to get shot in the head for wanting something is also wanting

[shesnows]

starter for @bringthunder / starter call

❝ you are remarkably persistent.❞ from the lips of any other, the words would have undoubtedly been a compliment of the highest magnitude but spoken by khione's most disappointing daughter, they are more akin to a sardonic insult. maybe she doesn't even have any right to blame him. after all, isn't she the one who started this fiasco in the first place by even agreeing to consider helping some of the younger demigods with their training? she'd convinced herself it would be nothing but a short stint, a resigned acceptance as a means to an end and only indulged in hopes of steering clear of him once she appeased him with the bare minimum.

but try as she might (and gods did she try!), she couldn't seem to shake the guy. he was somehow everywhere all at once, a tornado of fizzing energy that seemed to have little trouble in breaching past the defenses of her cool aloofness.

the breeze is intent on wreaking havoc upon her hair, plaited stubbornly into a braid that trails down her back, but at present, she's more focused on the nuisance hovering at her shoulder. she leans closer over the gleaming metal railings of the andromeda, gaze fixed stubbbornly on the churning waves below rather than the company that's seemingly appeared out of thin air. for someone who seems to live life so loudly (at least in comparison with her much quieter life), the guy can move in silence when he so chooses. ❝ i think i've done more than my fair share with the kids, i've earned myself a reprieve. besides, they enjoy hanging out with you so much more!❞ for some, there might be a bitterness in admitting that another's company is preferable to people than their own but that has never been a difficulty for aurelia. she is quite aware of who and what she is.

❝ and let's be honest, all the preparation we've done is good, obviously, but nothing can really prepare them. there's this old military saying which goes along the lines of: no plan survives first contact with the enemy.❞

[bringthunder]

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓.  those  who  have  never  held  a  weapon  think  that  they’ll  be  the  first,  and  they  are  wrong;  those  who  have  waged  war  more  than  they  have  held  others  think  they’ll  be  the  first,  and  THEY  will  be  wrong;  the  most  stubborn  daughter  of  khione,  a  goddess  who  he  has  no  great  love  for  but  who  is  RAPIDLY  (and  quietly)  growing  to  occupy  SECOND  PLACE  on  his  loathsome  divine  hitlist,  is  RIGHT.  nothing  survives  first  contact.  not  monsters.  not  young  demigods.  not  her.  

oh.  wait.  she’s  talking  about  WITH  THE  ENEMY,  not  with  HIM.  well.  the  enemy  point  works  too,  verso  guesses.  

  leaned  ‘gainst  the  rail  of  the  andromeda  as  he  is,  his  back  flat  ‘gainst  the  metal  and  elbows  idly  resetting  on  its  rounded  railing,  one  could  easily  mistake  verso  sachs  for  someone  in  his  ELEMENT.  never  would  they  guess  that  he  was  a  foaming-at-the-mouth-MONSTER  all  but  a  few  months  ago.  the  confidence  with  which  he  carries  himself  would  bewilder  the  unfamiliar  and  annoy  those  unfortunate  enough  to  spend  time  with  him  -  and  that  is  PRECISELY  why  he  has  grown  to  enjoy  HER  company  so  much.  nobody  back-talks  thunder  quite  like  the  daughter  of  khione.  nobody  pisses  him  off  quite  as  well.  

is  it  the  foundation  of  a  wonderful  friendship  ??  no.  far  from  it.  it  is,  however,  the  HIGHLIGHT  of  his  week  to  get  to  pester  her,  and  so  he  does  so  with  no  hesitation  and  AMPLE  energy.  

electricity  dotes  on  him.  small  sparks  twist  and  twirl  ‘round  his  knuckles  like  trained  threads,  a  few  ALMOST  skirting  to  make  contact  with  her  before  shying  away.  as  if  to  say  in  the  voice  of  a  younger  sibling  to  their  elder  -  I’M  NOT  TOUCHING  YOU,  i’m  not  touching  you!  

❝  don’t  be  like  that,  the  kids  LOVE  you  !!  ❞   half  of  them  are  terrified  of  her  and  the  other  half  want  to  be  like  her,  and  he  isn’t  sure  which  is  worse.  ❝  i’m  GIVING  you  a  reprieve,  aren’t  i  ??  no  toddlers  in  sight.  gone.  basically  continents  away.  ❞  he  can  hear  them  ‘round  the  bend,  children  chattering  amongst  themselves  while  exchanging  MYTH-O-MAGIC  cards.  he  ought  to  look  into  that  game  at  some  point  or  other  when  he  isn’t,  you  know,  training  to  FIGHT  HIS  DIVINE  FATHER  or  egging  winter’s  daughter  on  in  her  eventual  MURDER  of  verso  himself.  

the  wry  grin  he  has  fades  none  too  easily,  stubbornly  clinging  to  him  as  a  half-smile  when  the  topic  of  SURVIVAL  comes  up.  verso  shrugs  his  shoulders.

❝  of  COURSE  the  plan  won’t  survive.  that’s  why  I’M  here.  somebody’s  gotta  watch  the  brats  in  a  real  fight,  and  somebody  ELSE  has  to  show  them  how  to  shoot  a  bow  the  right  way.  which,  by  the  way…  you  might  want  to  try  aiming  WITH  the  wind  next  time.  ❞   the  smugness  to  his  voice  cannot  be  understated.  he  lazily  raises  one  hand,  stalling  the  wind  trying  to  wreck  havoc  on  her  braid  as  a  courtesy.  

❝  just  saying.  tends  to  make  stuff  EASIER,  PRINCESS.  ❞

[polarean]

need is gonna burst his lungs, his voice, his heart. the more charles has, the more his teeth search for more, tear the flesh of verso's lips, press ugly purple into his throat, sated and hungry. were they torn apart by monsters now ( oblivious to the world that charles is, noisy and growling and more reckless than he has ever dared be ) he's certain he would leave verso's touch having taken his fill. and yet : for every inch of him, a cavern opens, a wound that he needs this man to press into, breaking bone, marring flesh, and ruin.

opened as he is ( not as a blossom, but as a rift, as an earthquake can tear asunder the world ) he meets each thrust into him with more force down, shoves verso's name into his own mouth, curses against the bruises that have become of their lips, " deeper, yes, verso verso verso, " as thousand meanings pressed into it, and each and every one of them stained crimson and aching. and verso's prayer, tumbling back to him, yes, gods charles can grant it, throbs with the need to return it, and tightens his grasp.

it doesn't occur to him that squeezing harder may make verso pass out ---- not when he can feel the man's heartbeat against his palms, the blood racing through him, the very sensation of his voice rippling up charles' hands, his wrists, into his chest. desperation closes his grasp tighter, and his mouth breaks from verso's so he can rest his forehead against his, so he search for his eyes, meet them, drink in intensity itself, gorge himself upon it.

and in the wetness between their stomachs, as charles feels the way verso fills him, his climax mingles with blood and sweat, quaking through his body. he tenses, all over, everywhere holds so tight to the other, head thrown back, tears dripping from his eyes, sweat stinging and smarting in open wounds, hip - bones near bruised with how tight they are grasped, skin threatening to tear away beneath verso's hands ---- " fuck, verso, fuckfuckfuck! "

his body doesn't want to let go, even as he sinks down, near - collapsed and shaking, presses them as close as their bodies will allow, so sensitive to the convulsions rocking between their bodies ( as if touch now hurts, which only has him leaning harder into it ) and so unsure of where these seismic shakes begin. slower, then, are the attempts to rise and fall upon verso. if this is what it gets him, charles is determined to tackle verso to the ground more often.

[bringthunder]

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓.  beyond  the  taste  of  whiskey,  verso  has  grown  AVERSE  to  losing  consciousness  in  most  forms  (he  would  not  need  so  many  empty  glass  bottles  to  fall  asleep  if  he  were  fine  with  it,  if  he  were  HEALTHY);  he  has  grown  so  trigger-happy  whenever  the  world  starts  to  slip  out  from  around  him  that  it  will  DAMN  HIM  if  he  ever  goes  under  without  a  fight.  never  again  will  he  be  caught  unawares  on  the  shores  of  some  flaming  river,  NEVER  AGAIN  will  he  be  but  meat  for  a  monster  to  rip  into.  

the  heat  of  charles,  the  tightness  ‘round  him,  the  others’  mismatched  eyes  STARING  into  his  own  -  all  of  this  should  ground  him,  and  he  knows  it.  all  of  this  should  bring  him  some  uncertain  peace  not  because  he  is  in  the  hands  of  someone  who  he  TRUSTS  nor  because  he  is  in  the  hands  of  a  WELL-VERSED  PARTNER  (this  is,  perhaps,  the  MESSIEST  first  hook-up  verso  has  EVER  had),  but  because  he  knows  that  they  share  a  bond.  charles  cannot  kill  him  because  if  he  does,  the  game  STOPS.

chiron  will  be  mad,  certainly,  but  the  bigger  consequence  is  this:  a  dead  verso  is  a  loss  of  a  high,  and  he  reckons  charles  is  already  something  of  an  ADDICT  in  his  own  right.  

this  does  not  stop  him  from  tensing.  hands  tighten  ‘round  his  throat  and  verso  recognizes  within  the  MILLISECOND  that  the  grip  is  too  tight.  his  lungs  ache  worse  than  before.  his  throat  SCREAMS  in  some  strange  bliss-hell.  the  world  begins  to  tip,  spin,  TWIST  -  breaking  from  his  exhaustion,  verso’s  hands  abandon  charles’  hips  to  GRAB  at  the  other’s  wrist.  electricity  flicks  about  him  more  as  a  THREAT  than  FLIRTATION;  without  saying  a  word,  verso  draws  a  line  in  the  sane.  perhaps  one  day.  but  NOT  today.  not  here.  

this  is  the  only  objection  he  gives.  charles  rises  slowly  just  to  fall  against  him  again,  and  verso  props  himself  on  his  elbows  to  meet  the  man.  again  he  seeks  charles  neck,  his  LIPS,  but  there’s  a  sloth  to  it  now.  it  won’t  last.  already  he  can  feel  need  boiling  back  up  in  his  stomach,  ALREADY  he  feels  a  craving  for  that  wrath  again  -  but  for  a  moment,  there’s  an  exhaustion  to  it.

this  is  the  only  reprieve  most  of  his  lovers  get.  charles  will  receive  the  same  privilege  only  as  much  as  verso  thinks  it  is  DESERVED. 

[local-lesbian-tree-demon]

i think there is something fundamentally wrong with me but that's okay

[polarean]

it is maybe the most obvious thing charles has ever said. i care about you. of course he cares about verso. he cared about him before they're started hooking up ( if these psycho - sexual bouts deserved such a normal - sounding name ) and he'd continued to care about him since. even in the way he'd carved the shape of his hands into verso's throat, or the outline of his teeth across his chest, saying let me have a piece of you. and hadn't he, every time, made sure the wounds saw something like tending before they nectar and ambrosia could clear them? what was that supposed to be ---- casual interest?

" what the ---- where the fuck are you going? " comes his shocked voice, as his hands hold the air where a man had laid a moment before. verso's warmth, his white - heat, not yet fled from charles' skin, the taste of him still upon charles' tongue. he is there, and then he is gone, and charles has felt less raw after having his flesh chewed bloody. what the fuck is going on here?

it doesn't even register as rejection, for a moment ---- we all make mistakes. what fucking mistake? had he bitten too hard? been, somehow, too mean? of course not. there'd never been a limit before, and as charles had been making a meal of verso's thighs, he'd heard heard nothing but praise, until some stupid taunting had led his mouth to that fatal phrase. certainly not where he'd wanted to land his teeth. by the time he pushes himself up, verso is already wearing pants again. he's . . . leaving? absolutely not. not like this.

as has become his habit around lightning's son, discord reacts without thinking about it. he's up from the bed and standing, ass - naked and hard ( really not an ideal situation, but it's beginning to occur to him what his ' mistake ' may have been, and it makes him fucking frustrated ) in front of the motel room door. the streak of stubbon in charles is goddess - created.

he presses his palms into the door frame on either side of him, so verso will have to throw him outta the way if he wants to be so fucking stupid about what should've been obvious to him forever ago.

" what in fuck is this about? " mismatched eyes, which he'd locked on his partner ( that's what verso is to him : partner, in so many sense of the word ) are, for once, neither adoring nor wild, but narrowed with something worse than ire. betrayal, maybe. sadness, even. not regret. charles doesn't regret saying anything. if that's what it is ---- well, he'd meant it, so he'd said it. " what'd i do? "

[bringthunder]

𝐈𝐅 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐋 for  every  time  someone  wound  up  blocking  him  from  leaving  while  hard,  verso  sachs  would  have  two  nickels.  it  isn’t  an  impressive  amount,  but  it  is  strange  that  it’s  happened  twice  in  his  life.  the  first  time,  granted,  was  far  more  entertaining  and  substantially  less  tragic:  a  hook-up  who  thought  verso  had  ROBBED  HIM,  insisting  that  the  son  of  zeus  had  a  wallet  shoved…  SOMEWHERE.  gods,  looking  back  on  it,  verso  wonders  if  he’s  ever  laughed  harder  than  he  did  in  that  moment.  

this  time,  though,  he’s  not  laughing.  he’s  rummaging  about  for  his  shirt,  looking  here  and  there  for  it.  it’s  spotted  a  beat  later,  then  pulled  on.  he  takes  a  second  to  refamiliarize  himself  with  the  texture  of  the  fabric  and  finds,  much  like  with  his  pants,  that  the  bites  and  bruises  do  NOT  appreciate  the  closeness.  he  tells  himself  to  suck  it  up:  he’ll  find  some  way  to  numb  them.  it’s  usually  charles’  job,  but  evidently  he’s  unknowingly  gotten  FIRED.  

oh,  right.  that’s  still  UNKNOWINGLY.

verso  rubs  the  back  of  his  neck.  his  eyes  lack  the  manic  want  for  MORE,  MORE,  MORE  that  they  had  only  a  few  moments  ago,  and  in  its  wake  is  a  certain  ANNOYANCE  hovering  about.  he  finds  his  sunglasses  without  too  much  effort  and  puts  them  on  before  the  world  can  give  him  a  WORSE  migraine.  gods,  he  hates  his  eyes.  would  that  tartarus  had  just  blinded  him  instead.  at  least  then  he  wouldn’t  have  the  aching  temptation  to  turn  his  head  to  the  sky  still,  knowing  full  and  well  that  doing  so  will  HURT  every  goddamn  time.  

he  puts  his  hands  together,  palm  to  palm,  and  fixes  his  attention  on  charles.  

❝  you  said  the  thing,  ❞  verso  replies  plainly,  as  if  THE  THING  is  a  universally  known  fact.  ❝  the  whole…  the  CARING  thing  ??  yeah,  no,  mistake  made.  don’t  care  about  me.  it’s  a  HUGE  turn  off,  and  also  a  mistake  of  ORPHEUS-LEVEL  proportions.  ❞  he  punctuates  that  untrue  fact  with  a  pair  of  fingerguns.  ❝    as  for  where  i’m  going,  PROBABLY  hell  in  the  longterm,  but  in  the  short  term  i’m  going  to  get  shitfaced  and  or  high  off  my  ass,  so…  ❞  his  voice  trails.  he  motions  to  the  other’s  naked  form.  ❝    move  your  bare  ass,  and  next  week  we  can  do  this  again  like  it  never  happened.  COOL  ??  cool.  great.  glad  we  had  this  talk.  MOVE.  ❞    

[polarean]

verso can take as much as he wants : charles give and gives. it is his victory! and he wouldn't call it pyrrhic, for whatever is taken, he wants carved out of him ---- and in return, he soaks up contact, every inch of flesh that bleeds on his own ( blood mixing between them, rusted and hot against their stomachs ) every promise verso presses into him, that tell charles how much they both want this.

later, when he is once again capable of thought, he'll feel that he'd taken off more than his clothes, and it won't seem like the failing that it had always been.

it's the farthest thing from his mind now. now, he's not even thinking :

the first bite to piece his throat make him whine, a sound that echoes off the alleyway's imposing borders, and charles' digits wrap into verso's hair, pulling just to pull, daring not remove those roaming teeth. each bite, another electric pulse, another skip of his heart. ( he's gonna need to go to the emergency room, and he doesn't care! ) " you can go harder, " comes a growled challenge of his own, and it's not just about the canines tearing his throat to ribbons.

and at the same time, because verso's nails feel like they're gonna break the bones of his hips, charles grinds into the urgency on his own. rising and slamming down against how verso thrusts into him, each time so hard that he can hardly catch his breath, that the demand threatens to overcome him. let it! " there ---- " it's harder to speak, words breaking into grunts, " gods, verso, you feel so good, there, yes ---- "

and oh, fuck, verso bucks into him just so, breaks against some nerve within that charles wasn't sure he knew about before, and his partner's name becomes a curse and prayer, verso verso verso, as if he needs the gods to know the name of the man who has him shattered. as though he needs to proclaim that they are here, to raise his claim, as a conqueror raises a flag over a ruin.

charles doesn't want to relinquish where he's buried his claws into verso's skin, but damn he wants to finish him good, wants to sweeten his triumph. he claws his hands back beneath verso's chin, around his throat, tears the teeth from his own neck ( what a shame! ) so he can get a better hold 'round that bruised throat. " come inside me, " he moans ( or maybe it's a hiss ) and his hands find the same hold as before, thumbs pressing in beneath verso's mandible, feeling beyond skin for muscle and artery. he kisses him again, kisses him feel the blood running out of them, to have everything verso can give to him.

[bringthunder]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐈𝐒  𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓  but  hunger.  something  in  him  needs  to  be  filled,  sated,  torn  to  pieces;  something  in  him  needs  to  be  devoured,  needs  to  devour.  no  need  to  hold  back,  no  need  to  think  -  christ,  verso  LOSES  himself  in  charles  entirely.  the  praise  sung  in  his  name  rings  between  his  ears  like  church  bells,  divine,  desperate.  he  needs  to  hear  more  of  that.  damn  everything  else.  damn  breath.  damn  anger.  damn  WHISKEY,  even.  he  needs  to  hear  charles  say  his  name  like  a  prayer  more  than  he  needs  that  stupid  thing  called  AIR  in  his  lungs.  

hands  wrap  around  his  throat  again,  press  into  his  mandibles,  and  the  sound  that  escapes  him  would  make  aphrodite  BLUSH.  no  sooner  does  the  wheezed  bliss  escape  him  than  are  charles’  lips  meeting  his  own  again,  blood  and  bruises  and  teeth  and  TONGUE.  for  the  first  time  in  what  feels  like  FAR  too  long,  verso  is  made  dimly  aware  of  thought  LEAVING  him,  and  he  may  as  well  be  waving  it  on  its  way.  his  lungs  burn.  instinct  beckons  and  barks  for  him  to  pull  the  world  into  his  maw  again,  to  suck  in  air  so  hard  that  it  hurts,  and  he  REFUSES.  

charles  gives  him  a  command,  and  verso  TREMBLES.  obedience  has  never  tasted  so  sweet,  drenched  in  copper  and  stinging  on  its  way  down.  he  presses  himself  as  close  as  he  can  to  charles,  rocks  himself  further  into  the  man  as  though  their  skin  itself  has  become  a  barrier  that  he  needs  to  SHATTER  somehow—

release  sends  him  REELING.  his  grip  on  charles  must  be  bruising,  but  he  doesn’t  care;  he  holds  to  the  other  man  like  one  might  to  the  last  SHRED  of  safety  amid  a  storm,  deepens  the  kiss  as  if  to  find  SANCTUARY  between  charles’  teeth.  

half-formed  words  tumble  out,  syllables  and  drunken  wishes  for  TIGHTER,  TIGHTER,  TIGHTER.  somewhere  in  there  is  a  wheezed  and  deprived  wish  for  the  other  to  drain  him  HOLLOW,  to  take  everything  he’s  ever  been  stupid  enough  to  offer  anyone  else  —  and  when  the  high  fails,  when  he  finds  himself  back  on  solid  ground,  he  is  CERTAIN  that  he’ll  look  back  and  roll  his  eyes  at  such  lust-stricken  PLEAS.

right  now,  however,  the  only  thought  which  he  cares  to  recognize  is  the  one  which  tells  him  —  in  no  uncertain  terms  —  EXACTLY  how  baldy  he  has  lost  this  fight  and  exactly  how  GOOD  defeat  feels. 

[local-lesbian-tree-demon]

they should invent a body that feels normal to be inside of

[bringthunder]

JASON ( @madefate ) said, of course i trust you. this was never about trust.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐈𝐓  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓?  verso’s  expression  screws  up  in  both  confusion  and  annoyance,  brows  furrowed  and  glassy  eyes  narrowed  at  his  younger  brother.  jason  is  a  damned  BEACON  on  the  motel  room’s  doorstep:  the  world  outside  is  so  devastatingly  dark  that  his  eyes  can’t  discern  parking  lot  from  street  from  defunct  downtown  stores,  but  he  swears  there’s  a  GLOW  to  his  brother.  jason  takes  in  light  and  makes  it  his  own,  and  suddenly  verso  is  aware  of  how  DARK  his  room  is.  

his  left  hand  rises  and  rubs  the  back  of  his  neck.  dried  blood  HUGS  his  knuckles,  stains  his  forearms  where  recent  gashes  -  remnants  of  monster  fights,  broken  windows,  nasty  things  -  flash  bits  of  STRAY  SINEW  to  his  brother.  he  starts  to  trail  his  hand  around  to  his  jaw,  but  stops  short  at  the  first  sign  of  stubble.  how  long  has  it  been  since  he  shaved  ??  there  was  a  razor  somewhere,  he’s  sure,  scattered  about  the  bits  of  broken  glass  in  the  bathroom.  some  of  it  was  haphazardly  swept  near  the  knocked-down  shower  curtain.  most  of  it  was  left  where  it  was;  walking  over  it  felt  like  HOME.  

❝  great,  so  you  trust  me,  ❞  grumbles  zeus’  most  defunct  child.  something  foul  is  on  his  breath,  a  cocktail  of  alcohol  and  cigarette  smoke  and  a  thousand  things  left  BETTER  UNNAMED.  ❝  so  why  are  you  HERE  ??  i  iris  messaged…  what,  a  few  days  ago  ??  ❞  

today  is  saturday,  he  thinks.  he  iris  messaged  jason  on  thursday.  TWO  DAYS  is  not  a  long  enough  absence  to  warrant  such  worry.  his  gaze  recenters  itself  on  his  brother,  or  ONE  of  the  jason’s  currently  standing  before  him.  gratitude  for  the  doorframe  he’s  leaning  against  trickles  down  and  through  verso’s  ribs;  without  it,  he  probably  would  have  fallen  on  his  FACE  by  now.  his  glasses  are  already  askew,  a  fall  would  just  make  it  WORSE.  

❝  listen,  i’m  SORRY  you  worried  or  whatever,  but  i’m…  it’s  FINE.  we’re  good.  totally  fine,  jace.  don’t  need  to  be  babysat.  ❞

[stygicniron]

A small puff of an exhale darts through his lips--something that might even be called a laugh by people that know Nico better, but couldn't be called anything close to a laugh by normal standards. It's not the first time he's been called a corpse and it's almost certainly not going to be the last. "Exactly, so maybe I know a thing or two about the walking dead," he continues, breezing past this nickname much more easily. He's used to being called 'dead'.

He can feel the air starting to tremble around them, and it makes the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle, not just from the lightning either. Ever since he woke up from the Lotus Hotel induced fever dream, he's not liked storms. Nico can remember Bianca tucking herself next to him in the couple of weeks they had between Nevada and Maine, making sure he was safe when lightning cracked overhead. Of course it's years later that he learns, and only somewhat hazily remembers why he might have such a fear of storms, and although it doesn't send him crawling into the nearest storm shelter for safety, he's still wary of dangerous weather.

And Verso, among everything that he is, could definitely be categorized as dangerous weather.

"It is if you're going to do something stupid. Something more stupid," he says instead, eying the demigod for a critical moment. If they are supposed to go on a mission together, he would like not to get electrocuted by mistake at a minimum. Electrocuted on purpose might be too much to ask at this point.

It's like father, like son, though--and he can't stop the deeply sarcastic smile from stretching across his lips at Verso's comment. "Your dad already tried. He missed. You want to do the same thing again or are you actually going to take a break?"

[bringthunder]

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐈  𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐒  𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐓.  verso  can’t  say  that  for  the  dead  one,  but  he  can  say  that  for  the  living  one  well  enough:  nico  is  too  confident  for  his  own  good.  he  ought  to  get  humbled.  verso  WOULD  eagerly  claim  such  an  honor  if  it  wouldn’t  land  him  in  the  ire  of  his  permanent  landlord  once  his  heart  stops  beating.  this  fact  does  nothing  to  keep  the  older  of  the  two  from  snarling  a  curse  under  his  breath  like  a  frustrated  FIGHTING  DOG.  

annoyed,  verso  brings  one  hand  up  to  pinch  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  it’s  a  poorly  disguised  means  of  rubbing  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  trying  to  force  sleep  to  leave  him  ALONE  for  a  little  while  longer.  or  maybe  to  invite  it  in  ??  he  can’t  tell  if  sleep  would  be  a  BENEFIT  or  a  BANE.  he  doesn’t  want  to  find  out  around  the  ghost  king.  the  brat  would  be  smug  about  it  FOREVER.  or  he  would  never  mention  it  again,  and  that  would  be  WORSE.  

❝  shut  up  before  i  break  your  JAW  OFF.  ❞  and  it  sounds  as  though  he  MEANS  it.  the  crackle  of  lightning  like  encouraging  devils  ‘round  his  shoulders,  and  the  snares  of  vibrant  electricity  breathed  out  with  the  promise,  betray  as  much.  

still,  he  can’t  deny  that  nico  is  right.  not  really.  trying  to  FIGHT  right  now  would  be  asking  for  an  injury,  and  maybe  that’s  the  point  of  it.  verso  banishes  the  thought  before  he  has  time  to  feel  bad  about  it.  

❝  mention  zeus  around  me  again,  brat,  SEE  WHAT  HAPPENS.  ❞  verso  yanks  his  attention  away  from  the  son  of  hades,  if  only  because  he’s  seeing  THREE  where  he’s  pretty  sure  only  ONE  stands.  he  shoves  his  hand  back  into  his  pocket,  jerking  his  head  back  to  straighten  his  sunglasses  without  needing  to  extend  the  damned  effort  to  do  so  with  his  digits.  

❝  i  don’t  need  SLEEP,  and  i  don’t  need  a  LECTURE,  either.  i’ll  be  FINE.  in  case  you  haven’t  noticed,  ❞   he  nods  to  the  lightning,  to  the  frustrated  storm  about  his  person,  ❝  i  have  defenses  COVERED.  fuckin’  dare  any  monster  to  try  me,  i’ll  SHRED  ‘EM  before  they  even  get  CLOSE.  ❞

[bringthunder]

had a very busy few days with an interview + finishing coursework, but will be doin some writin' tonight / tomorrow evening !!

[kosmogrl]

[kosmogrl]

sorry I didn’t show up it was because umm.. you see, I was busy. maybe another time??

[bringthunder]

AURELIA ( @shesnows ) said, i thought i told you i had this under control. / accepting

𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐈𝐃. she  did  say  that  she  had  all  of  this  under  control,  and  he  should  have  listened.  he  should  have  known  that  aurelia  was  going  to  be  fine,  that  she  wouldn’t  need  him  to  hover  ‘round  her  shoulders  like  an  anxious  parent  every  other  breath.  she  fought  in  manhattan.  she  SURVIVED  who  knows  how  much.  she  can  HANDLE  this.  she’s  skilled,  she’s  dangerous,  she’s  lethal-

she  is  the  love  of  his  life,  and  he  STRUGGLES  to  catch  his  breath,  his  heart  still  roaring  in  his  ears  loudly  enough  to  ALMOST  drown  out  her  words.  his  entire  body  is  electric  with  nerves  and  adrenaline,  with  the  odor  of  death  itself  clinging  to  him  like  his  longest  friend.  she  had  this  under  control.  he  didn’t  have  to  worry.  why  is  he  worrying,  then  ??  why  is  he  still  looking  at  her,  eyes  darting  about  her  silhouette  and  stature  to  find  any  hidden  injuries,  any  scrapes,  any  bruises  ??  

❝  DON’T  do  that  again,  ❞  it’s  half-command  half-plea,  an  order  and  retreat  all  at  once.  he’s  sure  the  rest  of  the  monsters  are  gone  now,  but  they’ll  be  back  soon,  and  what  if  she  gets  out  of  his  sight  again  when  they  reform  ??  she  had  it  under  control  this  time,  but  what  about  next  ??  the  time  after  that  ??  the  time  after  THAT  ??  how  long  will  she  have  it  handled  ??  she  could  be  fighting  and  get  tackled,  mauled,  destroyed;  she  could  be  in  the  middle  of  knocking  an  arrow  when  her  bow  is  flung  from  her  hands  and  her  arms  detached  from  her  torso  by  wild  claws;  she  could  do  anything,  anything,  ANYTHING,  she  could  get  HURT.  

❝  i  don’t  care  if  you  have  it  handled.  don’t  do  that  again.  ❞   the  tight  hold  on  his  blades  should  make  the  trembling  in  his  hands  harder  to  see.  it  instead  makes  the  tremors  all  the  more  visible,  the  blades  practically  vibrating  with  the  force  of  it.  

❝  don’t  be  a  DUMBASS.  ❞   there  is  only  a  hint  of  a  bite  in  his  voice  then,  and  it  is  already  being  drowned  by  excess  adrenaline  and  RELIEF.  

[bringthunder]

TANNER ( @ximerose ) said, i thought i told you i had this under control. / accepting

𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐀  𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓,  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐎𝐍  𝐎𝐅  𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓  of  all  verso’s  anger.  lifetimes  of  it  swell  in  his  chest,  push  against  his  ribs  from  the  inside  out,  it  DEMANDS  acknowledgment.  for  a  moment,  verso’s  lips  curl  back  in  a  growl  that  shows  teeth  and  tongue  like  a  rabid  dog,  READY  to  bite  into  the  not-yet-feathered  throat  of  a  primordial’s  mortal  spawn.  he  needs  not  to  imagine  what  aether  tastes  like;  he  has  had  hell  once,  and  he  reckons  a  primordial’s  blood  would  be  LITTLE  different  to  tartarus’  dirt.  they  are  worth  about  the  same.  

❝  and  i’m  elvis  presley,  ❞  spits  the  eldest  of  zeus.  his  grip  on  his  blades  does  not  loosen;  his  knuckles  glow  WHITE  with  the  force  of  his  hold,  nothing  shy  of  death  itself  capable  of  retching  them  away  from  him  in  the  moment.  nothing  can  take  his  weapons.  nothing  can  take  his  claws.  if  something  manages,  he  will  simply  have  more.  everything  about  him  is  a  knife  ready  to  stab.  

❝  are  you  STUPID  or  something  ??  ❞  hisses  verso,  stepping  towards  aether’s  presumably  favorite  (if  only  by  low  supply)  child.  ❝  jesus  CHRIST.  you  could  have  gotten  HURT,  and  i’m  not  going  to  drag  your  sorry  ass  back  to  camp  to  get  LECTURED  !!  ❞   he  doesn’t  want  to  drag  the  other  to  camp,  period.  he  doesn’t  want  to  come  through  the  gates  with  tanner  on  his  back,  bloodied  and  half-dead.  he  doesn’t  want  to  sit  in  the  infirmary  and  wait  for  the  kid  to  wake  up,  he  doesn’t  want  to  worry.

he  gets  ANGRY  instead.  

❝  stay  BEHIND  me.  i  don’t  CARE  about  whatever  hero  complex  you  have  nowadays,  i’m  not  gonna  get  bent  because  YOU  decided  to  hold  open  the  door  for  THANATOS,  got  it  ??  save  your  death  kink  for  whatever  sorry  sap  you’ve  got  as  an  emergency  contact.  ❞

[sentrysvoid]

The Punisher: One Last Kill dir. Reinaldo Marcus Green | 2026