LOST!

Independent multi-muse by Rae

[perditos]

PERDITOS || Independent multi-muse, selective, private, written by Rae. Featuring muses from DC and Marvel Comics, Kingdom Hearts, Star Wars, BG3, and more! [RULES AND MUSES]

Mutual Only OC Friendly Mun 21+ No NSFW Iconless Dash Only

Personal blogs you are welcome to follow but If you reblog my posts, I will block you.

[perditos]

Come watch X-Men: 97, we have... A first season made by a weirdly racist gay man who got kicked off the show for being a sex pest; but the writing! Is... not good, and the characters arc? Also not good. The animation tho!? Looks wonky. Is it at least a fateful adaption of important character arcs and stories? Also no. But the QUEER REP, wherein, a pansexual non-binary sex pest asshole impersonates the wife of another man to proposition and sexually harass their unconscious, uninterested crush. Well, it convinces you that the X-Men are a team and... oh, no one wants to celebrate Jubilee's birthday and they don't even care when she's kidnapped by a TV Monster? But it DOES have Jogan and Rogueneto baiting, the two most despised ships in the fandom. Like, damn, girl, do you have any redeeming traits?

[perditos]

Update: Now there's Morph in the Sabretooth tag ffs

[perditos]

Come watch X-Men: 97, we have... A first season made by a weirdly racist gay man who got kicked off the show for being a sex pest; but the writing! Is... not good, and the characters arc? Also not good. The animation tho!? Looks wonky. Is it at least a fateful adaption of important character arcs and stories? Also no. But the QUEER REP, wherein, a pansexual non-binary sex pest asshole impersonates the wife of another man to proposition and sexually harass their unconscious, uninterested crush. Well, it convinces you that the X-Men are a team and... oh, no one wants to celebrate Jubilee's birthday and they don't even care when she's kidnapped by a TV Monster? But it DOES have Jogan and Rogueneto baiting, the two most despised ships in the fandom. Like, damn, girl, do you have any redeeming traits?

[perditos]

Me, nine completed runs into Hades: is this…… the parent trap but there’s only one child?

[gerudospiriit]

Nabooru continued the trek alongside Basil, impressed that she remembered all the points she brought up. What she shared about each race intrigued her, but much of the detail went over her head. It offered enough perspective to satisfy her purposes for now, at least, though direct attention to Halsin's size struck her as both curious and amusing. Outside of a preliminary assessment that he stood taller than her, an impressive feat for most outside of the Gerudo, she thought little more of it. Though, then again, she spent her life among people her height and taller, a few reaching heights that might surpass the druid's; thus, perhaps it left less of an impression on her for that reason.

Still, she did not understand why Basil felt it relevant to tell her that. Sure, the other two people in the party with pointed ears and were likely elves themselves were much smaller in height and stature, so Nabooru determined their size--they and all but one of the women were all closer in size to Hylians, she noted--must be the standard for elves. But it still seemed...irrelevant. Perhaps the druid's muscular form lingered in the other woman's mind and it slipped out...She knew that, even in the most dire of straits, people still made time for developing crushes and flirtation.

A luxury. One she could not afford here or at home, and so her mind so rarely ventured in such a direction. She had a people to lead, to get back to, in this case, mindflayer tadpole free. That is where her focus needed to lie. Not in who she could potentially bed. This did not change simply because she landed herself in a foreign land: the task at hand--saving the Grove, lifting some curse Halsin mentioned around Moonrise Towers, and ridding herself of the parasite in her head--always took precedence. Just as her duties did back home.

The scent and sounds of the creek greeted Nabooru before it came into view, a picturesque scene she might see in a painting. It reminded her of the grime caking her body and matting her hair, how she smelled like body odor, blood, and animal stench from spending so long in a cell next to the worgs. How she craved to immerse herself in the cool, clear water. To scrub her skin and hair with violent determination until it was raw but clean. So at least something with her could feel right in this new turmoil. Instead, she crossed it like the others and simply hoped once they reached the grove, she could beg Halsin, Basil, or someone there for soap and a place to bathe. Even if the only way she could bathe was to strip down and wash herself in front of everyone, she would gladly put on a show. For now, she would just have to settle for cleaning her bare feet as she waded through the shallows.

" I imagine so if these cultists have just been attacking like those refugees you and Halsin mentioned and grabbing people off the road to lock in cells, " she huffed, still sore that she found herself in such a situation at all. She did not understand why Basil needed a god to vow to for a calling like that, but she did not tend to poke holes in others' beliefs until they turned out to cause problems for her or others. " Though, with the amount of suffering there is in the world, I imagine you keep busy in less dire circumstances as well with such a cause. "

Though a million more questions circulated through her mind, deciding which of them to ask eluded her. Her eyes roved over the heads and backs of their allies. As if to save her from the literal dread in her head, her mind only focused on to battle ahead of them.

" How long have you been traveling with them? " she asked, nodding her head toward the pack in front of them. " Long enough to know their strengths and weaknesses? "

[perditos]

Ahead of them, unaware of the conversation that Nabooru and Basil engaged in, their companions hiked and chatted. Astarion was the only one who glanced back. He looked back twice, out of the corner of his eye, at Nabooru and Basil. Basil did not quite catch his eye but she did note his look. Was it curiosity? Or was he appraising their new friend? Astarion lacked Lae'zel's bold confidence and Gale's easy goingness. He was astute and cunning, and the calculative look was not missed on Basil. But then, he turned ahead and kept walking, grousing to Wyll about his feet being sore and wishing to wash the sweat off his brow. Basil let the moment pass with an idle thought. Her trust of Astarion was implicit: he was a victim before he was a threat. Nonetheless, he was the type of person who assumed the hostility of the world and treated it with similar scorn. Nabooru was someone new and uncertain: it made sense he sought to know her. Basil wondered how, when things settled down, how this subtle dynamic would change.

"Well, I suppose so," Basil said hesitantly. "I guess it depends on what you wish to know? I can at least tell you how we all met."

Certainly, by now she had a good handle on the personality and quirks of each of her companions, but assessing their ability in combat? That was a whole different skill set that she was not comfortable with. Basil had never spent so much time fighting in her life as she had since encountering the refugees. It seemed nearly everyday was another battle for survival.

"I became involved because I was traveling the Risen Road, and encountered the Refugees, being attacked by Goblins," Basil explained. "I rendered the aid that I could and joined them at the Grove, where they took refuge. There, I met Master Halsin, prior to his going to the camp and well... encountering you. After he left, this party of individuals, infected arrived. My understanding is that they were on a nautoloid, er, a mind flayer ship together. They had been captured, infected, and then when the ship crashed, re-convened before heading to the grove in search of a cure. Am I to assume you were on that same ship? And that perhaps, you were separated from the others prior to your capture by the goblins? Either way."

Basil waved her hand to dispel her tangential thought.

"I have traveled with this party since," she continued. "They expressed interest in going to the camp, thus, I decided to go with them. We have been together for nearly two tenday now."

Much waylaid by distractions, quests, hags, and giant spiders. Even if Basil had been over eager to find Master Halsin and return him to the Grove. But to at least, to hazard an attempt at Nabooru's question, Basil continued:

"In terms of personality, I can say..." she murmured. "Wyll is compassionate and moral, but lacks direction; he is a capable warlock. Gale has been, physically weakened, but as a wizard his intelligence more than makes up for it. Lae'zel is powerful but lacks... tact, and struggles to cooperate with others unless she is in charge. But no one listens to her as she lacks leadership skills, which frustrates her. Astarion is cunning and an excellent archer. They all work together better now than they did but, well."

She trailed off. Thinking of a few of their more chaotic battles and the lack of leadership on the field. It felt less like they reached victory as a team and more that they survived as individuals. It had worked so far but Basil wondered if their good luck would run out.

"If you have experience as a leader, your voice may be valuable, in a group such as ours."

[perditos]

Starter for @kyberled Ben w/ Braig

Ashterfell, a planet skating the edges of the Outer Rim, was halfway between Ben's destination and where he had come from. The surface was green and verdant, but with an ammonia based atmosphere it was uninhabitable to most species. It had one space port in its Western Hemisphere, constructed under a large multi-mile biodome, and with a population of around ten thousand, not including the regular influx of travelers, smugglers, and assorted types. Ben landed an hour before the planet's long sunset, when the sky was green and hazy with the thick humidity of spores and moisture from the trees. Inside, the biodome the area was stagnant and recycled. The port he docked at smelled of sweat and iron, fueling taken over by a gruff Twi'lek who informed him it'd be several hours of waiting in line. So, might as well get cozy, boy. Ben had grumbled his ascent and walked around the back of the building, found a quiet tucked away behind a corner, and sat down on the ground.

'You do not have to wait; kill and take,' The female voice whispered. She always sought violent solutions to various problems.

'Worthless. Weak. Pathetic.'

His hands slid into his hair working at the knots of his black curls. Ben's body ached, his shoulders rolled forward to avoid the tension spread between them. His fingers, knuckles, and arms were still scratched from crawling out of the rubble; the burns stung and a chorus of voice cried in his hand that the pain would make him stronger. Press his thumb into the bruises and he did, grip so strong the skin around his arm turned white. "It won't be long, have patients, my boy," Snoke counseled him. "Skywalker, does not own you anymore."

"I know," Ben whispered, knees pressed up to his chest.

He felt as though a blanket had been thrown over his head. Through which he could still see the dim shadows, passing over the muted light. Or, perhaps a fog, that softens and muffles over things. Normally, the port would be buzzing with the energy and lives of all its people; now, Ben could barely tell if he was alive at all. Something was wrong, Snoke would fix it. The answers were ahead of him, not behind. But his head lifted, someone was in the alley. An old man had turned around the building and was staring at him, older than Uncle Luke at least. Ben glared and then looked away.

Despite how the voice chanted for blood and murder, Ben did nothing but hope he'd leave him alone.

[ellaetal]

HE TRIED NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT, but it had been hard, for every bone in his body, whether that body was of a wolf or a man, yearned to belong to a pack. He wanted connection, beings to lie beside at night, bodies to keep warm and protect, but all that remained in this world were the ones who had taken that possibility from him, who had strung his mother up by her paws and dragged her through the woods when he was a mere pup.

It was lonely, but he would rather be alone, than watch it unfold again.

He glanced over at her hands again, but this time, his gaze lingered. It went against his every instinct to look in her eyes, to assess her expression while she was facing him; he'd been raised better than that, after all, and yet the wolf found himself watching her fingers work in the way a human might analyse a face. She was delicate in her way, despite the gory nature of the task at hand, and she seemed quite small in comparison to him, her bones in her hands slender and refined, skin far softer than his own. Tender, almost. No human had ever been so gentle with him.

"Thanks," was all Bigby could think so say, and allowed his head to drop once more.

He listened to her talk, merely nodding in response to the plan laid out before them. Halsin had already outlined it to him, explained his reasoning, and apologised in advance for how much interaction the wolf was bound to have with the two-leggeds. Anything to help a friend, Bigby had figured; his own wellbeing hadn't entered into his decision-making.

"The mouth," he replied in response to Basil's question, the response coming easily to him. "It sits on the front of your face, and it seems kinda... small, y'know? And you don't tear your food... you chew it, like deer. I figured predators would have tougher tongues or sharper teeth."

[perditos]

She was almost at the end of her row of stitches, tying off each with a practiced gesture. Two more, as Bigby answered her curious, conversational question. Basil breathed an amused laugh, briefly glancing up from her work at him.

"I suppose that is true!" She exclaimed. Basil hummed in thought, then replied: "we do a bit of both, I think. The back molars for grinding down, vegetables or herbs, and the front incisors and canines, to tear meat. It's for the best, I think. We are omnivores, after all. I like meat, and I enjoy some fruit or vegetables every now and then."

Did Bigby eat enough vegetables to sustain his human body? The nutrition of a wolf turned man was a curious inquiry. Perhaps, next time she wrote to Father Arnica she would pose it to him. He would find it a stimulating thought problem and no doubt supply her with a few tidbits of wisdom in return.

One more stitch and she tied it off to finish her work. Basil put away the suture kit and mopped a damp rag around the skin, to clean up any blood or dirt that lingered. Finally, she reached into her pouch and removed a numbing ointment that she used a small strip of cloth to apply to Bigby, lest she numb her own fingers.

"There, that should reduce the pain," Basil said, and she handed the jar of ointment to him. "If you feel discomfort or pain during the night, just apply a bit of that to the area. It should ease it up for you. Don't scratch or mess with the stitches, they might itch: apply the ointment instead. Now, to take care of it: you should avoid getting it wet, but also rinse it off with clean water once a day. Not river water, drinking water--"

She paused, realizing that 'drinking' water for a wolf may be quite different than that of a human.

"Come to me and I'll clean it for you," she said instead. "That may be better. Do you have any questions? Or anything else you need help with?"

[justbrcathe]

While it should have been a relief for Azula to be so confident in the fact Ozai did not burn his correspondence with their mother, it mostly raked up a sense of irritation and shame in Zuko. Azula’s haughty tone and the implication that he did not think just made it worse. She had delighted in making him feel foolish during their entire childhood, not much was different now. Zuko didn’t think it was such a far-fetched notion for him to reach, after all Ozai hid so many things. Mostly from his son.

“Right. I should know better than anyone that Father only burned things he was ashamed of.” The response came out so sullen and edged with the onset of fury that Zuko just felt worse. Only this time he could include himself as a target for his temper, not just his father and sister. Zuko should not have let Azula under his skin, falling into the trap of the old routine he had been trying to break from. He did so well back home, but it was easier for him when he was separated from the main sources of issues.

Muscles tensed more as Azula approached, jaw clenching as he tried to reign in his anger rather than release it to cause problems and derail the conversation. It wouldn’t be productive, he had to focus if he was going to find Ursa. Zuko took a steadying breath in through his nose and held it in his scarred chest. When he felt his pulse finally slow, he released the breath again.  Azula kept her distance, leaning against the railing out just out of reach of each other. Not that the space meant Zuko would be safe from Azula if she actually meant to hurt him. She was deadly from any posture if she wanted to be. Probably would be wise to keep an eye on her even while she slept. It was just Zuko’s luck right now that Azula’s current desire was not to cause him harm. Instead, she chose to look out over the pond in silence. Matching pairs of gold eyes watched the peaceful scene, each trying to figure out how to progress.

When she finally spoke, Zuko gave her his attention, turning his face towards Azula and giving her words his undivided attention. The first option of her proposal lacked efficiency and meant locating his mother would take far more time than Zuko wanted; eight years had been too long already. Somehow, the alternative was even worse. Biting back the instinct to shoot the idea immediately, Zuko observed Azula in silence.  She didn’t like it either. The realization struck him and further extended his pause as confusion and possibilities  whirled through his mind. Why would Azula not want to leave? All her cunning and ambition would return to the palace if the Fire Lord chose to release her. She would have a chance to escape, start a coup, whatever she desired. Even so, he could sense his sister’s hesitance, just a glimpse of it. Could that be a performance? A way to lull Zuko into a false sense of security, along with all the cooperation and assistance Azula had granted him so far? She called him the Fire Lord and let the choice be his….and yet Azula was brilliant at manipulation. His control could be an illusion she was trying to cultivate. A misdirection before she snapped her trap closed.

And yet…

He wanted to trust her. His sister. Despite a lifetime of experience that should direct him otherwise, Zuko had the inexplicable feeling that Azula was not lying to him. It would be faster to find the letters or convince Ozai if Azula was with him rather than writing letters back and forth. Was he really that stupid? Was it stupid? Zuko released a sigh and faced the pond again. Since taking the throne Zuko tried to do much of the work on his own, but this choice was not something he could make without guidance. He was too close to it. He needed to talk to Iroh. Zuko had failed to take his Uncle’s advice when it came to Azula before and regretted it each time. Iroh would know what to do now.

“I have to think about it.” His tone was decided. He needed more time and would not be pushed. Zuko braced his hands against the railing, looking down at them rather than facing his sister. “Give me a few days. I will either return to take you with me or you will get a letter detailing everywhere I have looked.”

[perditos]

It was, in retrospect, quite fascinating and even notable for Zuko to stop and think. Azula was not being dismissive. No, she noted Zuko's display of maturity and patience in response to her idea with almost a note of pride. This, she thought, was the first mark of a Fire Lord: strategy and rational thought. The past year of leadership and responsibility had changed Zuko; as much as the scribes had changed Azula.

For their entire lives Zuko had been rash, outspoken, impulsive, loud-mouthed, and often, stupid, emotional, and irrational, or so at least, Azula thought. It was, she believed, what had led to their father's punishment and exile of him. If only dumb Zuzu could have kept his mouth shut or acted with even a modicum of cunning. Of course, her view on all those events had changed in the past year, but even upon meeting Zuko again after his exile he'd been stunningly easy to trick. Even when he had returned to the Fire Nation, Azula saw his constant hesitation, second-guessing, short shortsightedness, and general lack of complete confidence. Outbursts were common. She knew that Zuko could be the heir apparent he was always meant to be. Yet, he could never act like it.

But now for the first time that Azula could ever remember, she saw Zuko hesitate. Her chin lifted in mute curiosity and slight amusement, but not judgement. She wanted to see what his brief pause for thought would net him. If Azula truly had been setting a trap, she would twist the knife, make him double down on his first, hassled impulse. Many times bit, Zuko was well afraid of her jaws. But no, she waited, and Zuko did not take the bait that was not there. What a bizarre interaction for them, as siblings that is. In their childhoods, none of this would ever play out like this. Azula would have much to think about in the coming days.

She would have to decide if she liked this new image of herself and her brother.

"Very well," Azula said curtly. She bowed to him, the gesture holding all the meaning she intended to convey. "I assure you I will not be going anywhere, any time soon. My training and meditations will continue; perhaps one day, I will be of true use again. However, when you have need of me, you will know where to find me." And because well, she truly couldn't resist, Azula smiled, teasing. "Don't be a stranger, Fire Lord Zuko."

Zuko departed the island that evening. Azula did not think that he would be back, truly. Although, she also was certain that he would not find the letters on his own. She expected a letter. Thus, she went about her days as usual: awakening for morning meditation, training, scribal work, and the regimented rhythm of life at the temple. It was slow progress, rebuilding the power she had lost at the end of the war but Azula felt that everyday her fire return to her. Increment-by-increment, but a slow progress was still progress. But a handful of days after his departure, Zuko returned. It was late afternoon, during a couple hours of personal time allotted to the scribes everyday. Having seen his ship approaching from atop the mountain, Azula waited for him at the gate.

They exchanged formalities and she tilted her head towards the living quarters.

"Lets go inside, we just brewed some tea," Azula commented. "We can talk in my room."

As she said, the scribes had brewed tea. They handed over a tray with a fresh pot, cups, and a few light snacks; which Azula carried upstairs. Her room was the second on the right, kept tidy and neat, with a table on the floor which she indicated Zuko to sit at. Politely, she poured them their tea.

"Don't look shocked by the meager accommodations, I've learned to make do." She chided.

[justbrcathe]

"So, we're not too different."

Katara’s jest coupled with the proud lift of her chin turned Zuko’s smile into a real laugh. A rare sound that had even more eyes around the room shifting in their direction as they danced. They were about as different as the celestial bodies that ruled the strength of their bending. Moon and Sun. Fire and Water. Opposites that, against history and all odds, found a compatible common ground. It started in the caverns below the Earth Kingdom Palace when they discovered each had lost their mother, but it did not end there. 

Penguin sledding and Igloo making… Maybe Zuko’s childhood would have been easier if those were the lessons drilled into him as a kid. Something leaden that sank into his stomach, despite the lightness in his chest Katara elicited, made him feel that he wouldn’t trade. Not ever. Zuko had been too proud before and now- Now fate had set him into the position where he could finally do something good. He took it seriously.

As the steps of their dance progressed into something more intimate than before, Zuko failed to notice eyebrows raising from onlookers. How could he see anything else when Katara was so close? He had spent years at sea, yet even on the calmest days the waves had never matched the depth and blue of Katara’s eyes. He felt just as lost looking into them though; adrift and unable to find a way out. Unlike his former exile though, Zuko really did not want to escape this. Unfortunately, Katara herself brought him back to reality. Her weight shifted, taking a misstep, and Zuko adjusted his hold, squeezing her hand to steady her. In the end it was unnecessary, Katara caught herself and to anyone watching the slight mistake was unnoticeable

“You are an honored guest. Hardly less important than anyone else.” Zuko answered her jokes with blunt honesty. Perhaps not everyone in the hall agreed, but it was his job to set the example. Even convince Katara if she needed it. “You’re also the daughter of a Chief, a fact I was unaware of when we fought at the North Pole, and you saved the life of this Fire Lord just before his coronation.” Zuko lowered his voice so that she was the only one who would catch his words. “And you are currently saving me again from having to dance with anyone else.” Zuko had not brought up the social pressure he was feeling in his letters to Katara. All conversations of a romantic nature had been avoided in order to preserve his sanity. For starters, Zuko was not a good liar, another of Azula’s innate abilities that he lacked, and if the subject was brought up then she might discover his feelings. Plus, if his woes were discussed then the subject of Katar’s relationship with Aang might come up. It would be impolite to ignore it within such a discussion. The pursuit wasn’t completely unbearable for now. His eighteenth birthday wasn’t for a few more months. He was still young enough that his advisors had not brought matrimony up despite the fact there was a complete lack of succession beyond him. Zuko was uncertain how long their silence on the subject would last. At least until other political matters settled down more. 

“But if you are worried about titles, I have been considering that we should change yours. What do you think of Ambassador Katara?” It was a thought Zuko had for a while, and the delegation’s visit would be the best time to discuss the matter and make an official announcement. Only if she agreed, of course. It was equally likely that Katara would not want to spend enough time in the Fire Nation to hold the position. “The Northern Water Tribe has a representative, but your people have different needs to be met. I think you would be perfect to speak for their interests.” Perfectly plausible and true reasons beyond just desperately wanting her nearby.

[perditos]

For the first time, Katara really noticed Zuko's hands.

Despite being a prince, and now a no doubt pampered Fire Lord, his palms and fingers were calloused. A rough texture against her own. Small scars and nicks along the knuckles. Katara's hands had been roughened from early childhood from chores, filleting fish, cooking, climbing ice and rock, sailing boats, tying ropes, and all the requirements of life in the South Pole. She could still see where needles and blades had caught her fingers; and she could see the same for Zuko. All the marks of a life lived beyond the palace walls. Little imperfections. And like the rest of him, like the fire he commanded with such perfect mastery, his hands were warm. Warm against her own cool skin, now warmed by the exertion of their dance. Why would she notice all this now? Such as the long, slender shape of his fingers; the sun kissed olive of his skin tone. Even the feint dusty blue veins running over his knuckles. Focus on the dance, Katara, not on Zuko's hands or the muscles of his arms.

No wonder all those girls were chasing after him. Zuko was rich, one of the most powerful people in the world, and undeniably handsome. Handsome in a way that she first noticed in Ba Sing Se and only recently truly came to admit. For a moment, her gaze swept past him and over the crowd of onlookers which had formed around them. Others still dance but they were not the object of focus for the room. It was as though every set of eyes had suddenly fallen on them in scrutiny and jealousy. Jealous of Katara for dancing with the Fire Lord. The water tribe peasant was his friend and had earned his favor. Only now did Katara truly consider what this looked like. A sudden reminder that the war was over and the world was changing. Their lives were changing. Zuko was no longer the fellow kid that bunked with them in the last few weeks before the comet, sleeping in tents and sharing dinner over a fire. He was the Fire Lord now and there were a lot of people watching him.

Katara tossed her hair and added a defiant flourish to her part of the dance. A crescent kick of her leg that made her dress swirl and showed her utter pride. Like Zuko said, she was the daughter of a chief, a master of water bending, and an honored guest. Plus, she was Zuko's friend. Maybe, inevitably, he'd marry a noble, rich girl, like Mai or someone to her effect. But that wasn't Katara's concern!

"I'll dance with you all night if it'll keep you safe," Katara teased with wink. "Don't worry, Zuko, I'll protect you from all those beautiful rich girls! Aren't you too young to get married, anyway? In my tribe girls usually don't get married until they're at least twenty."

It had been quite a shock when they went to the Northern Water Tribe for the first time to learn that Yue, who was only two years older than Katara, was engaged. 'Of age,' they said, and yes, for ice dodging or to speak up in tribe assemblies. Not to be married off. No wonder Gran-Gran left -- maybe the Fire Nation was just as strict and conservative?

But she paused, thinking about what Zuko said: his proposal. It lent credence to her position at court, beyond just being her father's daughter and the Fire Lord's son. It sounded cool and important. And most of all, it would come with the real authority that she'd want to make changes at home and in the Fire Nation.

"Ambassador Katara?" Katara repeated with a grin. "Hm. I like the sound of that."

The song was slowing, come to a momentary lull of swaying and gentle movements as it wound down towards its end. It gave Katara a chance to bring up a thought she'd long had, even since she had left the South Pole. In fact, it was one of the reasons she had come to the Fire Nation.

"Actually, Zuko, there's something I want to discuss with you," she said. "But I know, and you know, a lot of Southern Water Tribe artifacts, including bending scrolls, ended up in the Fire Nation during the war. I'd like to find those things and bring them back home. Especially the bending scrolls. If I'm going to actually revive Southern Water Tribe bending I'm going to need them. I know you have a lot on your mind, so I don't need help, so much as I need... permission?"

She nodded, satisfied with that word.

"I think that would be a good first job, once I'm officially an ambassador. Don't you?"

[gerudospiriit]

Nabooru bit her tongue on the scathing retort brought on by a lingering bitterness that hid between her ribs. Since rising to the role of Gerudo chief, since she awoke as the Sage of Spirit, friendship felt like a luxury she could not afford. One inappropriate to her station. Not only that, but following seven years in which her consciousness slumbered while her body served Twinrova and went about her life with no one being any the wiser, with this new consciousness of this ancient being swirling around within her and granting her knowledge and memory that were not hers...she felt utterly lost in her own body. At times, she looked in the mirror and failed to recognize herself. She did not feel like herself, like her skin was an ill-fitting coat. In her discomfort, in role and identity, she kept all at arm's length, including those she held dearest before the witches ensnared her in their gnarled grasp, no matter how much, on some level, she craved that closeness.

How she took advantage of it before. How others so carelessly denied themselves of it for not real reason. She did not know if Basil fell into the latter category, but she sincerely hoped she had a good reason for choosing her lonely path.

Though...here, she did not have to be anything to anyone, at least. Maybe it would give her a chance to...rediscover herself. For lack of a better word.

" Then this must all be quite the change for you, " she opted for instead, a smile creeping its way onto her lips, banishing her angst back into its cage. " I can't say I'm ever so alone; I'm typically surrounded by my people after all. But this is probably the most time I've spent with people outside of my tribe in...well, perhaps my whole life. "

Slender fingers traced the rivulets in the tree's bark, dipping between the deeper divots and back to the surface again in admiration. She hummed, processing Basil's request about her homeland through committing the feel of the rough bark beneath her fingertips to memory. Where did she begin to describe a place as misunderstood as herself or the people who dwelled there?

" I suppose in some ways, it is what you would expect: blazing heat in the day, freezing winds in the night. Sand everywhere and rain more than a rarity, " she began, at last letting her hand fall from the tree. Though the evening air cooled around them, it still remained temperate compared to the extremes she described. The days and nights here proved pleasantly balmy thus far, even at the higher elevation. It made travel easy. Life in general, she imagined, simpler at least.

" Most write it off as barren and hostile, nothing but sand and death as far as the eye can see. But I know better. I have seen its beauty and the hardy life it breeds up close my whole life. The way the dunes glitter like gold beneath the sun, the oases with their palms, and the rare blooms that flourish there. All manner of cacti and desert fruits dotting the landscape, creatures of all sizes and shapes surviving. Our city and the temples, despite most outside of that to our Goddess of the Sand being in disrepair, display the stunning architecture of our ancestors. The night skies are clear and free of light pollution or obstruction, and the stars and moon shine bright and endless on the black sky. And though this, " she swept her arm outward, indicating the sun sinking below the horizon, " is beautiful, a desert sunrise and sunset puts even this to shame a thousand times over. "

[perditos]

There was something almost a little forced about the way Nabooru smiled at Basil. As though, her own thoughts did not inspire such joy or happiness. But again, whatever it was that churned in the woman's mind, she kept it within her own chest. Thus, Basil was left to only wonder. This, Father Arnica had told her, was merely curiosity and it was good. To doubt, to wonder, to be curious about others, was itself, a sign of care and compassion. But there was a thin line of prying. To push, without breaking; to care, without overwhelming. But then again, Nabooru was not a patient nor a grieving stranger. Basil liked to consider her a friend, even as old clerical habits died hard.

She noticed a fallen log nearby and sat down on it, smoothing out her tunic across her lap. Basil nodded and admitted:

"I am on pilgrimage," she said. "By obligation to my god, I cannot stay in anyone place longer than three months. Typically, I would not stay in one place longer than a week or two, depending on the need. I have been all over. As far North as Never Winter and as far South as Amn. Most days, I spent traveling, by foot. It has been incredible to see so much of the world for these past eight years and I have met people all over. But yes, it has been lonely, especially these past four after my mentor left me. Still, I wouldn't trade them for nothing."

Basil listened as Nabooru told her about the dessert she called home. She painted a vivid picture, almost in gem tones of sapphire skies and golden sands. Cacti green as emeralds; a moon of silver, on an obsidian sea sky, perhaps. Yet, so very real, as though Basil could feel the grit of the sand on her hands and in her clothes. Hot days, cold nights; Nabooru spoke with clear love and adoration. By contrast, their current local: flush with summer foliage and damp with occasional rains, was certainly a change of situation. But Basil heard nostalgia in Nabooru's voice, that she did, in fact, miss her home. In a strange way, that was an emotion that Basil, who had no home, could not empathize with. She would give anything to never return to Baldur's Gate again.

"You make it sound a worthy place," Basil observed. "I have no doubt that words fail to do its beauty justice. Perhaps, one day, I can visit the Gerudo Desert and you can show me yourself what you tell of me now. I have been to the edges what we call the Great Sand Sea, which is many miles east of here. I considered traveling with a caravan through its breadth but realized my calling remained closer to the Sword Coast. Still, what little I saw was spectacular: standing from a dune you could see for miles upon miles, to where the sky met the sand. It was also very hot, I treated about a dozen people for heat stroke in the span of a week!"

She smiled, grinning at the memory.

"Do you miss your home? Will you return, perhaps, after you rid of the parasite?"

[gerudospiriit]

The tepid water caused little more than a slight twitch of muscle in the warrior's side as Astarion applied it, the sting mild and short-lived as it flowed over the tender skin. A far cry from the sting the usual serums and antiseptics typically applied under more controlled circumstances (or if Basil or Halsin nabbed her before Astarion). She could hear Zana's voice in her head about shirking proper care of her wounds whether in the field or not, but it would suffice for the moment. Until tents and torches were erected and they built a campfire in the center of their selected locale to rest for the night, at least. Then, she would either give it a proper cleaning herself or, more likely, end up in the hands of a healer.

In truth, she was grateful for the general lack of magic used in tending to her wounds for the first time since they arrived. Though her adverse and instinctual response to magic used around and on her lessened by necessity, it still caused her stomach to churn and her heart to patter a little quicker for a few beats. Her body still tensed in preparation for pain, the searing heat of fire or the sharp chill of ice, and a haunting cackle still echoed in her skull for the briefest moment. She understood that healing magic was simply faster, necessary as the trekked through forests and along this mountain pass at a clip their life or death scenario incentivized.

Nabooru peered past toned bicep, watching him work. " You have yet to give me reason not to trust you, and you seem to be as much of a team player in all this as anyone else. " She shallowed her breaths, ensuring that her ribs would not expand outward, especially not when he began to stitch. " I want us all to make it through this in one piece, but I also know that, if anyone tries to seriously delay a cure, I can deal with any one of you if the need arose. "

A lick of overconfidence, perhaps, but she understood her capabilities and already took the time to better understand theirs in the short amount of time she traveled with them. More for the sake of strategizing in combat than learning how to deal with them should ally turn foe, but the knowledge would be useful should it come to that.

And she sincerely hoped it didn't. A few of them were rough around the edges, but they seemed dedicated to the cause and, so far, did not show a selfish streak that would leave any of their camp to perish should the tides of battle turn against them. A situation they had yet to experience, granted, but she would not abandon any of them; she meant it with her whole heart that she expected to see all of them emerge from this ordeal intact and parasite free.

Still...several in their camp had their fair share of warnings when it came to Astarion...

" Some of the others seem to think I shouldn't trust you though, " she intoned, toeing her boots off. At this point, she might as well get comfortable. " They say you're a vampire, but that means nothing to me. All they've told me is that you drink blood to sate your hunger. Though, considering you haven't tried to make a snack of me or seemingly the others yet, I see no reason to be worried about that. "

[perditos]

There was a numbing agent in his bag, some medicine that the cleric made up and supplied to everyone in the camp. Since, as she reasoned, she may not always be present to provide aid: they should be able to tend themselves if needed. Astarion knew from experience that it would not completely dull all pain but it would at least ensure Nabooru could tolerate the stitches without suffering utter agony. Astarion thought cynically about how such medicines and balms were so readily available to the world, yet, Cazador never thought of them. He had been wounded many times and stitched many times. Sometimes, he had been stitched by his own hand and the pain of the needle, and thread, had been worse than the torture itself. Such regard he was was showing to Nabooru! A regard that no one had ever shown to him. Oh, well, she'll like him more if this hurts less. And he did desire her approval.

Astarion removed the small, flat bottle, and screwed free the lid to dab some onto his off hand. He applied it to the skin around the wound, noting how it left the very tips of his own fingers numb and tingling. Ah, no wonder the cleric always used an applicator when using this stuff. Perhaps she knew what she was doing after all... He hummed along to Nabooru's points and now, with her wound (mostly) cleaned and (mostly) numbed. He thread the needle and put it to skin.

"Deep breath, darling," Astarion said before dipping the needle into the edge of the wound. With a skilled hand he sewed the frayed edges of the wound, blood staining his fingers where it smeared along the exterior of her flank. "Just a few pricks and it'll be all over."

She smelled sweet. Much akin to the sweet, hot buns that the vendors of Baldur's Gates would sell in the Lower City as the night waned, usually to hungry and stumbling tavern goers. Sticky with honey, burning fingers and leaving them tacking. He had never had one, as Cazador forbid him from eating. But the scene never failed to make his stomach growl and long for that which he could not have.

Nothing was stopping him anymore. And her neck seemed to pulse with the lovely red blood of her life's essence. It would be trivial to put his teeth into her.

"You, do not know what a vampire is?" Astarion asked. Running his tongue over the tip of his fang, as if to quell its sudden itchiness. "Do they not have my kin in your home country? Hm, how strange. I thought we were as prolific as door mice."

What an interesting situation: someone not so prejudiced against his condition and then, perhaps, sympathetic. He would do well to take advantage.

"Vampires, we are sort of an, undead creature," he began. "Which, typically, feed upon the blood of living things: animal or human, to sustain our immortality. Of course, I ate nothing but rats and bugs until as of late, and thus has been much reveling in my feasts of boars, deer, and the occasional bear. Thus, despite the warnings of your companions, my dear, your lovely neck is much safe from my fangs."

He smiled sweetly nonetheless.

"Unless, of course, you wish to share it," Astarion made sure his tone was flirtatious, teasing, a game. "I am, naturally, just a spawn. Not a true vampire: all of the vampiric lusts and problems, and none of the perks. My master, Cazador, could turn into a cloud of bats, and compel us to torture ourselves. If he so wished. I am perfectly harmless. Him, not so much. Tell me, having learned all this, are you now afraid of me?"

[justbrcathe]

No, Rey had not minded seeing Ben in his quarters, shirt off and chest exposed, much as she had tried to pretend she did at the time. She had done a very poor job in convincing herself, and apparently also Ben, that the discomfort she felt was solely because she hated her enemy. Rey had hated him then. She had been beyond angry and hurt by the violence and loss he inflicted….but there had been strong attraction too. A fact she could not deny a year later as they helped each other wash away grime and sweat. It was almost like wiping away the past so they could start something new. There was a lot left to be done to have a true clean slate, but this was a start.

Rey began to eat, less enthusiastic in her enjoyment now as she considered their options and the ordeal they were headed towards. Thankfully the food was still warm, delicious and filling despite the change in the atmosphere of their rented room. Ben was correct that they needed to get off the planet. She had already spent more time than she should have without communicating her status with the rebellion. Her friends probably assumed she died in the confrontation with Palpatine…they would have been right if it weren’t for Ben showing up to fight by her side.

“We barely had enough money for food and new clothes.” Rey pointed out after swallowing down a large bite of the meat covered in melted cheese. She casually licked remnants from her fingers. “Hailing the rebellion is free.” It had been Ben’s suggestion, but Rey knew it was the last option he wanted them to pursue. Despite his hesitation, it was their best course. “And more trustworthy than a smuggler who could turn on us for the right price.”  Ben was worried about facing the rebellion but they weren’t the only ones with reason to seek revenge. Twice a traitor in the eyes of many, not that they would recognize his face. Rey moved to sit next to Ben on the bed, her hip against his and her shoulder pressed to his arm in a scant point of contact as they ate their meal. He was going to do what she chose. Rey hardly needed their bond to know the truth of that in the marrow of her bones. They had been in opposition for so long that Rey knew what it felt for his will to struggle against her own and this was not the energy between them now.  She picked up another piece of fruit and let the sweetness of it burst along her tongue as she considered ways to make him feel better.

“I promised not to let anything happen to you, and I meant it. Contacting them like we have nothing to hide is for the best.” Rey leaned into him more, her temple resting against the rough fabric covering shoulder. “And this way we can see only a few of them to begin with instead of the whole rebellion at once. Finn and Poe will probably volunteer. I can plead your case. Get people on our side.With less people we can fight and run if needed.” If Rey was correct and Finn and Poe were the ones to come collect her and those two would be her best shot at securing allies in protecting Ben. Not that they would be sympathetic to him, but they knew her. They cared about her. Finn at least would never raise a hand to her and Poe would go along with Finn. Poe was also close with General Organa and seemed unlikely to shoot her son on sight if he was surrendering. Even with their history combat seemed unlikely, but Rey wanted Ben to know that she would do what was necessary for their future together and his freedom. Rey wouldn’t hurt her friends, but she would run…just not not before attempting to bring her worlds together. Not before seeing if she could reunite mother and son.

[perditos]

He ate, shoveling food into mouth. Ben could read Rey's mind, he already knew where she was going and so he already knew that she was right before she made her point. All roads led back to the Resistance, so long as he stayed hitched to her, and at this point unhitching was not an option, even if Ben wanted to. Which, he did not. He chewed, he thought, he listened. She listed down the facts of the situation and directly stated what was true. Ben simply had no argument but that, of course, did not mean he liked the idea. He knew very well that for the last six years he had given into every whim, every worst impulse and instinct, obeyed his master to commit the most grievous crimes and horrors. For the past year, he had been the Supreme Leader himself. Although, Ben would be the first to admit that he had been all too eager to give up control. He had settled on the throne once and realized he absolutely hated it. That didn't change the reality of what the First Order had done; the pain and grief of seven years of tyranny; or the no doubt copious amounts of axes left to grind still in the now victorious rebellion.

There were going to be calls for his head and they would be righteous calls for justice. And Ben would not heed them. He may be better but he's still selfish.

Ben finished eating and put aside his food tray. He huffed a sigh, and then, leaning back against the wall, slung his arm around Rey's shoulders. It was not unlike the posture they had found themselves in last night with her tucked underneath his arm. Almost cozy. He ran his tongue over his teeth and let her get comfortable. This was nice, this was good. The feeling of another warm body pressed up against his, the scent of her now clean(ish) hair. She almost molded into him. In moments like this, Ben almost didn't need the bond at all. Rey was close enough that the buzzing between them silenced and they were just one. Everything was quiet. There were no voices in his head except his own, and sometimes, hers.

It occured to him, that this was the first time in his life that he had heard silence.

"You're right, the rebellion will be the easiest, quickest, and cheapest way to get off this planet," Ben agreed. "And I do want off this planet. Just as much as you want to go find your friends. But I can't say that I share your optimism.I don't, I haven't seen... her, my mother, I mean, Leia, in almost eight years. I killed Han. Her brother is dead because of me. Yes, most likely, if I hadn't followed Snoke -- all of the rest still would have happened. The First Order, Star Killer Base, the destruction of the Republican. There's a lot of people dead because of me and a lot of people who will be angry about that. I cracked open Poe's head with the force like it was a melon; Finn was a soldier under my command. Forgiveness, will not be their first reaction to me."

He huffed and untangled himself from her to lean forward over his knees. Ben regarded his own hand, the flex of muscle and tendon, and calloused skin.

"I know what I did; I can accept that," Ben said. "But for the first time in my entire life, I'm free. And I am never, ever, going to let anyone take that freedom from me. Rey, you may be walking us into an unwinnable situation, and yet one, that is completely unavoidable."

He shrugged, looking back at her.

"But if that's where you want to go. I'll go too."

[justbrcathe]

“I only meant-” The hurried defense of her intentions died on her tongue when she realized Astarion was playing with her rather than accusing. In truth, it had been an almost entirely innocent and altruistic offer on Duri’s part. She had been concerned for Astarion and the change that seemed to have occurred in him since they had left the Underdark and stepped into yet another realm of never-ending darkness. While both lacked sunlight, there was a distinct difference in the feel between the two. The Underdark had been teeming with life, peculiar and strange, but life nonetheless. Everything about their current surroundings was gloomy and dead, rotten through and through. Even though they were fairy-blessed and safe from the worst ravages of Shar’s curse, the dark magic still left Duri feeling hollow in moments of quiet loneliness. Which meant that the mood Astarion was in was more than welcome. 

The tiefling bit her lower lip as he approached with predatory grace and hunger in his eyes. Hells, Astarion truly was the most handsome person she could remember meeting. His sharp features and effortless elegance never failed to capture her attention. Part of Duri thought it would have been impossible to forget somebody if they came close to comparison, much less surpassing him. Her pink cheeks flushed even warmer as he called her ‘adorable’ and the anxious flick of her tail morphed into an excited motion. The purr in Astarion’s tone nearly brought forth a similar embarrassing rumble to her own throat that she had been trying to suppress ever since the vision of him biting into her neck came to mind.  Duri had only thought to fulfill the spawn’s need for blood, but she would have been lying if she had claimed there wasn’t something intimate and sensual about the event. The first time Astarion fed from Duri had been innocent, providing a means for strength and survival until he could hunt. Even so, the pressed lips and tongue on her throat, the cold and sharp sensation with just enough pain, the quiet sounds of his pleasure as he drank her life away…it had excited her. The memory had dwelled in her mind, returning again and again unbidden for days. It had been almost like another urge, only insistent and less dark. When the two finally met together under the moonlit trees, it seemed perfectly natural to tilt up her chin and offer another taste as she offered up the rest of her body. From the way Astarion’s clever fingers curled into her clothes, pulling her closer and brushing her skin, it seemed that Duri was not the only one for whom the two actions were entwined. She didn’t put up any resistance. She rather enjoyed being caught by him.

“A trade?” She asked with a light laugh, head tilting and coal-bright eyes gazing up at him. “I think you might be getting everything from that deal, Astarion.” Duri would enjoy all of it too, but that went without saying since he could read her far more easily than the Necromancy book they had discovered. A smirk pulled at Duri’s lips as she leaned in, voice lowered as if the answer was a secret between the two of them. The truth was that if anyone in their party cared to peek out into the darkness beyond the camp-fire where they had gathered to eat, they would easily see the pair locked in this flirtatious embrace.  “I accept.”

Glowing eyes glanced around Astarion’s shoulder into the darkened woods beyond…not exactly the same sort of safe and romantic forest they had spent the night in before. 

“Do you have somewhere private in mind?” She hadn’t really thought that far ahead before making the decision to offer him dinner. "I would hate to get ambushed by meazels." Duri wrinkled her nose in joking distaste. "A bad time to get garroted."

[perditos]

Astarion rubbed fabric, light cotton, between his index-and-thumb. As though merely admiring the texture of her robe. Yet, his eyes flicked from their lower fixation back to the charming gold of her eyes. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled innocently. Astarion saw the flickers of desire-want, the same way that a shopper eyed a good cut of meat for sale, hanging from the hook at a butcher's shop. A transaction, gold for meat; blood for sex. He'd seduced hundreds, perhaps thousands, Astarion knew well when the fish had nibbled the bait. When his prey's eyes lit up and their gaze lingered, cheeks flushing. There was a mournful part of him that knew that Duri saw no deeper than pale skin, desired no deeper, at the least. And if she did, she would not be pleased by what she found; a selfish, broken, frightened monster. This was a transaction and it would be foolish of him to expect, or want, anything more. She, well, she would get everything that Astarion had to offer.

"Please, my dear, you know by now that I'm hardly a selfish lover," he teased. "You've yet to see all that you're going to get out of this bargain; or rather, feel it. Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. Have I ever dissapointed?"

Ah, he had her, she was already looking for a place to lay. Lucky for her, he had already planned this far head. He grasped her wrist and tugged, eagerly to pull her towards the edges of their camp. Obviously, anywhere out of sight was out of the question. Much like Duri: Astarion was not eager to be eaten by shadow fiends tonight, thank you very much. He was not going to survive two hundred years of abuse with Cazador to meet a violent and gruesome end in the middle of fucking nowhere.

"Not to worry," Astarion said. "I know the perfect spot."

They had taken camp near some old ruins. The buildings had been torn apart by time and the tremors that split the land, over a century ago. Astarion led Duri around the back of an old stone building, out of sight and probably out of ear shot. The floors were dust strewn and vines grew-up from fissures in the ground, choking the broken remains of the furniture. Astarion kicked aside a few shards of old pottery. Hardly high class digs but certainly more private than a tent.

"Now I won't say that a fire or light spell, cast somewhere near the entrance," he admitted. "Would be a bad idea. Don't want to get interrupted mid bliss, yes?"

But he reeled her in by the wrist, tugging her closer.

"And then you decide where we start. My meal, or yours?"

[zimwy]

as soft and yielding as james is, makes themself to be (all the pretty parts both feminine and masculine, presented just for victor to sup upon; they were distrustful of others, would shirk away from an errant hand, marking the weight of this vulnerable display), they're confident, and at no risk of collapse under victor's weight--both literal and proverbial. they can take the strikes of hunger and need, lashing like flies for a bit of satiation; they can take his teeth and those rending claws, heal well in a day or two. they can take every inch of him, let him nest in their supple and velvety core.

the last time they'd done this willingly had been with dmitri, one of their zephyrs, who only mingled about their memory in watercolor strokes now. he wasn't quite as big as victor, but bordered on his impressive stature, and he'd been so gentle, so reverent with the winter soldier, despite how his hands could meet near the smallest point of their waist and remind them of their frail humanity. even as victor closes a hand about their windpipe, they don't struggle or startle, trusting that the grip wont tighten and sever their flow of blood and oxygen. their confidence is well placed: instead, james is awarded with a needy expression of desire, bites and laps that brush a near tawdry pink across the span of their jugular. the colors will bloom into a sunset of red and purple before they heal over, but at least victor's ministrations will remain evident for longer than mere moments.

a little yelp sounds from james, whiny in their throat as one of victor's big palms brush the note of their mounting arousal, the tent of their cock trapped in their cheap boxers proof of their aching want. their hand falls upon one of victor's pectorals, gleefully squeezing at the presented muscle, as if laying some mutual claim on the felid man blotting out their vision. the winter soldier would not be owned without leaving marks, not anymore, no matter if creed would rapidly heal from them. ' Это мило. you wanna hear it from my mouth? .. i want you to bury your cock deep inside me, victor. mark me from the inside, like territory. ' that gropy hand comes instead to cuff the back of victor's neck, threading again through his hair to do so. for all his purported roughness, he took good care of it; the fibers were sleek and soft against his skin. their metallic digits snake to his waistline, slowly tugging at the cloth below the wealth of him to slide it forward. ' use me as long as you want. stop when you've had enough. i can go a long time. да? '

[perditos]

He hasn't had anyone since Logan. The idea of undressing, being seen, being touched, it's made him sick for years. All worked up in knots, been making do with his own hand for a while now, and it's never been enough. What's a few saltine crackers compared to a full course meal? Nothing. Had it all and it all went sour, and bad; and nothing compares, nothing compares to Logan. No one ever touched him the way Logan did. Looked at him the way Logan did. Like, he actually meant something and had some kinda worth. Course, it was all a lie, all some kind, bullshit. Probably the way James was gonna go, eventually. When the novelty of Sabretooth wore off and they realized they had better options after all.

But James looks so good, warm, and firm, and soft. And Victor hesitates for a second, taking them in. He wants, he never knows what he wants, or how to trust, but fake it 'till ya make it, right? He wants this, wants James', even all it means is feeling good and a little less empty for an evening. Don't have to be real. So, he lowers himself down to rest between their legs. He knows pretty damn well what he's about to do, already pushing down James' boxers, finally freeing the half-heard length of their cock. There's an impulse to just rip the underwear off but he behaves and he grumbles, maneuvering himself and James to get the garment off intact. Don't say he can't be nice.

"Ain't you sweet?" Victor chuckles, hands skimming down James' sides, feeling all the knobs of their ribs and the jut of their hips. Skin's smooth and supple, thanks to that healing factor of theirs, no doubt. Not a lot of hair either. "Ya want me that bad? All impatient like? Heh. Just wait, I got somethin' I want first."

Victor pushes up James' thighs, hands bracing into the thick and corded muscle, letting him settle down onto his stomach on the floor. He keeps a knee underneath him as he presses his mouth into the interior of his leg, tongue wet with spit and teeth scraping at the skin. Victor likes that he can leave a mark, nipping to leave indents the shape of his fangs. He works to the base of their cock, eyes locked upwards, onto James' face, measuring their expression. For all his bluster, Victor wants this to be good, wants James' to be satisfied, happy. Happy with him. He turns his head to the side to mouth at the length of James', tongue laid flat over his teeth, all the sharp, ugly bits of him softened and warmed, more palatable. But his claws curl in, pricking at the exterior of James' thighs, his grip strong, unyielding. He moves up, sucks and tongues at the tip.

"I think," Victor smirks. "I like the taste of ya. Could eat ya whole, Jimmy."

[apotheotica]

scott is used to the mindscape, far more so than any non-telepath has any right to be. having been surrounded by telepaths ever since his teenage years, it isn't as jarring to be woken up into a scene like this as it should be. that, or maybe his sense of danger has been dulled down to the weakest of mental impulses, years being in the frontline of the x-men as he has.

it still rattles him to see his late wife all the same; it's one thing to have the living messing with his mind, but the dead...

then again, after what happened in new york, the inferno risen there, would madelyne die as others do? he has seen stranger, and if she truly is made of the same cloth as jean, then resurrection is well within her wheelhouse. he knows deep down the comparison would likely scorn maddie more than intended, but it is no less true for that.

as he feels himself materialize (for a lack of a better word: this is not a physical scene, he knows that much) here, he walks towards her, but stops a few awkward steps away from the bench. a little voice in his head reminds him he has no right to sit by her side when he made his own choices and, by consequence, made his bed far, far away from the woman who had given him his child. "i'm not disappointed. somehow, it doesn't feel out of place that you'd survive." in part, at least. as she said herself, she no longer has a body. can that be life, then?

he doesn't want to think too hard about it.

she mentions jean and his expression tightens, jaw setting a little. it isn't anger as much as it is a little bit of self-awareness. what follows is honest, at least. "he's drawn to her. you two are like twins," he doesn't want to speak of the cloning, as if avoiding the obvious violation will soothe the wound it left behind in all of them, but most of all, in madelyne herself. "so i figured that may be why her presence helps him cope."

(it helps scott cope, too. but they can leave that unsaid.)

[perditos]

Scott is like a box. Like, a literal box, with compartments. Everything in his life: thoughts, feelings, plans, ideas, gets tidily tucked away into its neatly labeled drawer. All organized and rational, and it works just fine for him. The same brilliant mind that lets him calculate the exact angles to ping an optic beam off three surfaces to hit a target around a corner, applied to every relationship and person he deals with. She saw the hints of this system when they lived together; really realized it when her mutant powers awoke. Oh, how easily the entirety of their relationship and marriage fit into a compartment in the box, labelled, tucked away.

Hand the fucking baby over to Jean Grey. Fine, replace her as a wife, who gave a shit. But replacing her as a mother? Oh, hell didn't have enough fury. Jean and Maddie fit so nicely into each other's boxes, he probably didn't even realize when he swapped them out. Ha, if Maddie and Jean traded places for a day, do you think he'd notice?

Would he care.

Would Nathan notice? And how old will he be, when he too, no longer cares? Or even worse, when will he? When will Madelyne Pryor no longer be his mother because Jean Grey had always been there?

"I can read your mind, you know that right?" Maddie spat. "You can say it. I'm a clone. A copy. And what use is a copy, when you have the original? I fit so neatly into the 'Jean Shaped Hole' in your heart, didn't I? A balm to the wound of your lost love. And now that she's back, you have no need of me. That's fine. Whatever."

Yes, Maddie had married a man knowing she looked just like his dead fiance. A coincidence, the cognitive dissonance of her mind had soothed, and yet, yes. Yes. A stupid, foolish, idiotic, young, naive, hopeful, dumb, moronic, part of herself thought Scott loved her, for her. That Jean could come back (not that she ever would) and Scott would pick her. Apparently not.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"But Nathan is my son!" She declared. Maddie stood, drawing to her height, fist clenching. "Not hers, and on this matter, I will not be replaced."

Yes, that, that! Even as timorous, terrified, scared bit of her soul trembled about how small the genetic difference it would make. Jean didn't carry him, Jean didn't give birth to him alone on a kitchen floor, Jean didn't hold him, and cut his umbilical cord with the sheers out of the drawer. Jean didn't sell her soul to free him from Sinister! So, why does she get to be his mother?! Nathan is hers. God, just one thing. One thing. Give her this one thing. Let her have her son.

"I will be back, Scott. And when that day comes, I will. Want. My. Son." Terse and flushed. "Don't let my 'sister' get so attached. Yes?"

[cryptidsncurios]

It was quite easy for a demon such as himself to reduce every mortal he encountered to a series of simple, anatomical parts: bones, organs, flesh. Portions to be admired, portions to be fucked, portions to be ignored. And there was always something in the way they would all be formed from their genetic roulette---connected together with various tissues, the manner in which their marrow would form, how their meat would settle upon the shape of their skeleton---that was always so utterly fascinating.

Some of these humans had proven to be promising morsels to be savored, their components delectable to his infernal tongue---others, simply lumps to have their essences passively siphoned without second thought.

But Neraine.

Oh, Neraine.

Her form was utterly exquisite---truly a sculpture borne of the highest-caliber clay of mortals. As though divine hands had gracefully pressed her flesh into shapes unfathomably succulent---and, in response, his demonic essence had been reduced to a screaming state to be satiated.

And here he was now, at last, admiring her every inch---the curves of her frame, the suppleness of her skin, the way her naked, exposed torso tightened as she leaned back, her breasts heaving with each breath---

Ah, at last, at her final quip, Luxu allowed himself to break away from his trance---for would she truly accept his advances if he wasn't an absolute smartass about everything he did?

"Don't worry, 'Raine, I ain't gonna disappoint."

Thus, he commenced an agonizingly slow crawl towards her---the pointed movements of a famished predator, a starving beast, at last approaching his long-sought-out prey---

Each palm gripped at her knees, then, sliding upward along her thighs, pressure insisting she recline underneath his touch---there, within each action, an unspoken coaxing for her to lie horizontal, to allow him to work his unholy magic.

"Lemme know when you're properly seduced, yeah?"

[perditos]

There was a point where Neraine's feigned confidence ran out of pavement. Where she could no longer pretend she knew what she was doing because she really, truly, had no idea. That point was about when Luxu laid his hands on her knees. She hesitated, caught in the golden glare of his one good eye. He loomed over her, large and strong, and his hands rough and warm. For a brief moment, she was taken-up. She could get the seductive appeal that had lured so many victims and prey for his long, long lifespan. Neraine could finally sympathize with the want to be devoured. Her lips parted, as if to say something smart, but nothing worth saying came to mind. Instead, she shuddered and leaned back onto her elbows, laying into the plush of the bed. Her legs spread to accommodate his bulk, the thin fabric of her shorts and underwear the only barriers left between them.

"I would expect the expert to know when that is better than I do," she said breathlessly. Her chest rose and fell with the soft exhale-inhale, that fluttered her lungs. Neraine lowered down from her elbows and laid on her back, slowly, finally, giving into him. Her arms lifted above her head and she grasped her own wrist, nervously.

What Luxu planned to do to her, or with her, she didn't know. The unknowing, her complete lack of control, almost seemed the source of her nervousness. If this were a fight or a dance between her and him, then Neraine would seize control. She would dictate the pace and the direction. But here, now, she felt disarmed and exposed. Literally, laid bare before him, wondering if he truly would like her now that he'd caught her. Years spent in the chase, would she be worth it now that the hunt was over?

Neraine hooked her calves onto either side of his legs, laid spread before him. She could feel the heat out of his body bleeding into the chill of her skin. Yet, her blood ran hot, her cheeks flushed.

"I- I don't know what to do," she finally murmured. A confession, which she seemed reluctant to admit to: he had truly disarmed her.

[perditos]

< Dad! > comes the excited telepathic call of Charles’ son. A six year old David, all messy black hair and bright blue-green mismatched eyes, runs up to his father. He puts a sketchbook on Charles’ lap and points enthusiastically to the drawing it’s open at. It’s a surprisingly detailed sketch of a flower David had been staring at for about an hour earlier.

< Colours? > he asks, features barely changing expressions but a nervousness in the way his feet shift and hands bunch.

[from legion-transcendent, here Charles. Have your son at his cutest]

Charles w/ David @legion-transcendent

His office door was open but Charles couldn't say he was eager to have visitors.

He was drowning in paper work, research studies, notes, and accumulating mugs of half drunk coffee, abandoned when they'd gone cold and bitter. There were deadlines on the calendar he didn't feel confident he'd make and emails piling up in his inbox that he had no interest in answering, despite their pressing, incessant need. Charles left his forehead in the palm of his hand and tapped-tapped-tapped, the tip of his pen against the notepad at his side. Scrawled with ideas, incomplete equations, and a couple small doodles done for his amusement. The words blurred and he fought a yawn. He sought solace in lukewarm coffee. At that moment, heralded by the patter of feet on the stairs and the ever energetic, chaotic thoughts of a child, David emerged into the room. Without invitation or the humility which Charles' own father would have demanded, when he sought an audience. No, David didn't understand the boundary of the office door way and so, freely and eagerly, the drawing was thrust into Charles' lap.

Should Charles have behaved that way, the scolding, perhaps even the abuse, would have been catastrophic and violent. A cacophony that would send him into retreat. But David had far more license than Charles ever did and so Charles leaned back in his seat, clutching one side of the drawing between thumb-and-finger. Discerning, he looked it over as a curator analyzed and valued a piece of fine art, humming and humming.

"What do we have here?" He mused. Clearly, it was a bit beyond the skill of a child. "Where did you get this? It's quite lovely. Yes, it has good many of bright colors. I quite like shading on the petals."

Yes, there was work and deadlines, but nothing so enjoyable as the relief of his son's hands, pressing at his lap. Leaning onto wobbly toes to look at the picture at the same time as Charles.

"Perhaps we should get the pastels out this afternoon, and try to make our own flowers?"