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the-wild-wolves-around-you · 3 years

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hear those bells ring: chapter 2 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Reader has to deal with the aftermath of Dynamight exploding through her window and trying to bleed out on her floor.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language.

A/N: Here’s chapter two, hope you enjoy! ~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

AO3 Link: Here

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here

Chaos. You intellectually knew the word, in several languages in fact, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the reality of it.

Information assaulted your senses in a deluge. The gust of cold air whistling through the broken window, raking icy fingers down your exposed arms. The bright flare of flames, even behind your clenched eyelids. The dissonant, haunting wails of several car alarms, each one just a second out of sync with the next, barely audible over the loud ringing in your ears. The taste of ash, gritty on your tongue as you sucked in heaving, panting breaths. The sharp smell of smoke and something… sweeter. Like caramelizing sugar.

The sweet scent, incongruous with every other heinous detail, seemed to snap you fully back into your body, and your eyes flew open with a gasp.

You were curled up in a tight ball below your now broken window, and you gaped at your ruined apartment. The lights were out, so the only illumination you had to see by were the flames behind you on the street, but it was enough.

It looked like a tornado had torn through your home. The remnants of your window and wall—broken bits of glass, wood, and plaster—covered everything in sight in a fine layer of white dust. Your sewing desk/kitchen table was in splinters, and even with the dancing shadows, you had the distant thought that the dress you’d just finished mending was most definitely ruined.

Then someone shouted outside on the street, and you felt it like a sledgehammer to the skull.

Oh, god. The villain. The heroes.

You scrambled up onto your knees, hissing when shards of glass tore through your sweatpants and bit into your skin. You’d worry about that later. For now, you focused on getting to your feet…

And not falling out of the gaping hole in your apartment wall.

You stumbled back a few steps from the edge, stabilizing yourself on one of your kitchen chairs that seemed to have survived the blast. The smoke was thicker now that you were off the floor, and you coughed and squinted against the hot, irritating air.

The street in front of you was a warzone.

The windows in the building across from you were all blown out, the empty frames like black gaping voids. The building housed a café/tea shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamato, and you felt a small modicum of relief at the knowledge that they didn’t live above the shop like you did with yours. They lived in a neighborhood not too far away, and they wouldn’t be happy when they came to open in the morning, but at least they were safe.

Safe…

“Mr. Takeyoshi!” you gasped as you remembered your neighbor. He’d been standing on the street and nearly attacked by the villain, but a blond hero had pushed the middle-aged man out of the way.

Your eyes scoured the street as you leaned forward as much as you dared, and just as your heart was beginning to clench, you spotted him. Mr. Takeyoshi was sitting on the curb across the street and about four storefronts down, hunched over with his head in his hands. Two heroes stood above him and seemed to be tending to him, and all three of the men looked whole for the most part.

“God.” You exhaled shakily, your heart still stuttering in your chest, and then movement in your peripherals caught your attention.

One hero seemed to possess a water quirk, and she was quickly working to spray down the numerous small fires still flickering up and down the road. As you watched her work, you realized the street wasn’t as badly demolished as you first assumed. It was still pretty wrecked—all of the asphalt was cracked and even just missing in some places—but aside from broken windows, the rest of the shops seemed mostly intact. The worst of the damage was centered just in front of your apartment, and as your gaze flickered over the large crater in front of you, you saw another two heroes dragging a third body out of the pit.

The villain.

The hero with the water quirk paused in spraying down the smoking remains of a car and turned to shout something at the other heroes. You couldn’t hear what she said over the persistent ringing in your hears, and you frowned as you focused your own quirk toward your ears.

In your hopped-up-on-adrenaline state, you didn’t even notice the energy dip, and a moment later, your hearing returned with a loud pop. Thankfully, all of the car alarms seemed to have been cut, so you could hear the heroes pretty well.

“—still alive,” a tall hero in a red and purple suit said. You didn’t recognize him. “He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it.”

“Great,” the water quirk hero sighed. “Let him be the cops’ problem now.”

As if on cue, you could hear a siren start up in the distant, slowly moving closer.

The threat was over. The villain was neutralized, the fires put out, and the authorities were on the way.

So… why did you feel so on edge, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“—fuckin’ Dynamight,” one of the heroes suddenly spat and drew you out of your thoughts.

You frowned in confusion as the words registered. Dynamight… why did that sound familiar?

Then your eyes widened as you remembered the blond hero, literally exploding onto the scene. His face—snarling and illuminated by the white-hot flare of his quirk—flashed in your mind’s eye, and you dropped your gaze back down to the street below.

Dynamight, Japan’s Number Two Hero. You couldn’t believe he had been the one to turn up and save you.

Well, not you specifically. Your neighborhood.

You’d seen the ash-blond on television before. Usually, the media just liked to harp on his crude language or brash attitude, but you’d seen this one story of how he had saved every single person from a collapsed building. A teary blonde gushing about Dynamight rescuing her had gone briefly viral, but the clip that stuck with you was when a reporter asked the pro hero why he decided to go into the unstable building without any reinforcements.

The blond had scowled into the camera, sweat and dirt still streaked across his pale face, his scarlet eyes flashing from beneath his black mask.

“What was I supposed to do?” he scoffed. “Leave them in there and sit with my thumbs up my ass while the fire department takes their sweet fuckin’ time? Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

Of course, the media had another field day with that response, but… something about it struck you as incredibly genuine. Yeah, the pro hero could have phrased it better, but the core of what he was saying was he couldn’t sit back when people were in trouble, no matter the risks.

You had thought that very brave.

And now you’d witnessed his bravery first hand. You weren’t confident—or really self-centered enough—to go down and thank him for what he’d done, but you thought you would just be satisfied with seeing him from afar now that things weren’t so dire.

But, the longer you looked, the more the pit grew in your stomach.

You couldn’t see the blond hero anywhere. He wasn’t with Mr. Takeyoshi, still hunched over on the curb. He wasn’t with the two heroes who were trying to establish a perimeter and keep out the arriving crowd of spectators. And he wasn’t with the other heroes standing watch over the unconscious villain laid out on the sidewalk.

The rest of the heroes seemed to be arriving at the same conclusions as you. You could hear Dynamight’s name being thrown about, and then the heroes were splitting up, taking different sides of the street, peeking into broken windows.

You wrung your hands as you watched them search from your apartment. No one had noticed you standing there yet, and you were just contemplating going downstairs to try and help in some way when a noise caught your attention.

In the grand scheme of things, the noise wasn’t very loud, especially given the shouting on the street and the loud sirens now that the police were arriving on scene.

But since you lived alone, someone coughing in your apartment, someone who wasn’t you, was cause for a little alarm.

You inhaled sharply as you glanced back over your shoulder, every atom of your being standing at attention. The apartment behind you was a study in contrasts, dark shadows and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside. Your eyes fell on the empty spot where your couch used to be located, and then your gaze followed the drag marks that had been carved into your wood floor.

The couch was half embedded in the wall beside your front door, with one of the armrests denting into the plaster and the other pointing toward your gaping window/wall. The sofa’s legs had been broken, so it slumped to the floor at an angle, and some kind of stuffing spilled out of several rips in the cushions.

But your eyes were glued to the leg sticking out over the armrest and the arm thrown over the back of the couch, which was blocking the rest of the… person from view.

Oh, fuck. That was a person.

Your legs reacted before your brain could even process what you should do, but you were at least cognizant enough to pick your way over the worst of the debris. Your thin, rubber-soled slippers would protect you from the small pieces of glass and rubble, but you really didn’t want to step on a nail if you could help it.

Since your apartment was so small, and there weren’t any full pieces of furniture in the way anymore, you crossed the distance in a handful of strides, but you jerked to a stop when you reached the back of the couch.

Your lungs seized up so suddenly they hurt. The smell of caramelized sugar was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and you actually had to grip the back of the sofa for support, your hand right next to Dynamight’s leg.

Because it was Dynamight half-strewn across your broken couch. Even when you first saw the leg, you hadn’t imagined it could be…

But there he was. And he looked surprisingly… human.

His face was lax with unconsciousness, lacking the perpetual scowl or snarl he wore in pictures or on TV. His hair, which looked paler and somehow softer in person, was tinged red along his brow line, where a cut was still trickling sluggishly. He wore a non-descript black hoodie over dark jeans and darker combat boots, but a glint of color and light around his midsection caught your eye.

You frowned and leaned down without thinking, your fingers reaching out to brush… something wet.

“Oh, shit,” you breathed when you lifted your hand to your face and saw, even in the darkness, that the pads of your fingers were red and glistening.

He was bleeding.

You moved a step closer, but then your foot lost purchase, sliding, and when you glanced down, you saw your once white slippers were dark, more wetness seeping in around your toes.

Oh, god. He was bleeding a lot.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You fumbled for the phone in your pants pocket as you scurried around the opposite end of the couch and dropped to the ground. Glass bit into your knees again, this time deeper, a sharp, brilliant pain, but you ignored it as you tried to turn your phone’s flashlight on. The touch-screen wouldn’t register your finger at first, your blood-slicked skin skimming across the glass, and you could feel a scream building in your throat just before the light flashed on.

If you thought things were bad in the dark, being able to see made it a thousand times worse.

Blood had already pooled around Dynamight, dark and glinting like an oil spill. The sleeve on his left arm had been burned off, and the skin below was pink and raw. It smelled like cooked meat, and the curry you ate what felt like a lifetime ago churned hotly in your gut.

But the burn wasn’t even the worst of it.

A wooden stake, about as wide as three of your fingers, protruded out of the pro hero’s gut by several inches. You thought part of it might have looked like your window frame, but the thought came and went when you noticed the tip of the wooden splinter was dyed red, which meant it must have come through his body.

That had to be where all this blood came from. Was still coming from. God, there was so much of it.

Your eyes shot to the gaping hole in your wall, your voice rising in your throat as you prepared to scream for help, but a sudden gasp nearly made you jump out of your skin.

You whipped back around to find wide, hazy red eyes trained on your face, and the hero’s mouth gaped open as he dragged in a ragged breath.

“Wh—hnng!” he groaned as his body seized, his right hand coming up to clutch at his stomach.

“Don’t!” Your phone clattered to the floor, throwing light, as you lunged forward, and you caught his hand before he could jar the piece of wood lodged inside him. “D-Don’t move, a-and try not to speak.”

The hero panted as he cracked open his eyes and looked at you. Or maybe through you. His gaze wasn’t very focused, and blood from the cut on his brow was still dripping into his right eye.

But the scarlet color of his irises was still striking, even in the dimness of your apartment.

“You’ve… been hurt,” you said as you met his eyes as best you could. You weren’t a doctor or an EMT, but you knew the best way to keep people calm in emergency situations was to let them know what’s happened and reassure them. “There’s a piece of wood inside you, so you can’t move or you might hurt yourself worse. But y-you’ll be okay. I’ll go get—”

“Villain,” Dynamight suddenly spat out, cutting you off and spattering you with a fine mist of blood.

“What?” His voice was rough and guttural, so it took your brain a moment to translate the slurred Japanese. Did he think you were another villain?

The blond hero winced and groaned again, and it wasn’t until he squeezed down on your hand that you realized you were still holding his. His palm was rough and calloused against yours—and warm, so inexplicably warm—but then he dug his nails into your skin, and you gasped.

“Vil… lain?” he rasped again, and you realized it was a question.

“Oh! The villain’s been arrested. You… you beat him.”

Dynamight scowled at you, brow knitting in confusion, and he grunted what sounded like a questioning noise at you.

Then he shifted his head, and you saw the dark stain of blood coming out of his ear.

He must have ruptured his eardrums in the explosion.

You didn’t want to shout and damage his hearing even more, so you squeezed his hand back and smiled in what you hoped was reassurance.

“You won,” you mouthed as clearly as you could. “You won, Dynamight.”

His narrowed eyes widened a little bit with recognition, and you could have sworn the beginnings of a smirk twitched across his lips before his eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The tension fled his body as he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, and your heart lurched up into your throat.

“Dynamight?” you asked, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you with his ears the way they were. “Dynamight?”

You squeezed his fingers, shaking him a little, but his face remained slack.

Dropping his hand, you reached up to flatten one of yours across his chest, the other going up to feel at the underside of his neck. A moment ticked by, two, but you found his pulse, weak and thready beneath your fingertips. His breathing was shallow beneath your other hand, and the knees of your pants were warm and soaked with his blood.

“F-Fuck,” you breathed shakily as you sat back for a moment, your hands limp in your lap.

He was dying. Dynamight… was dying. This was too much blood, and even if you called out to the heroes right now, and they got here in seconds, it was still ten minutes to the nearest hospital.

He didn’t have ten minutes. You didn’t think he had five.

You stared down at the pro hero’s blood-streaked face for half a beat before you made a decision.

Then you were moving. Consequences be damned.

Your hands went to the hem of his hoodie, and you flinched as you pulled it away from his belly with a wet sound. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you also didn’t think he was feeling much of anything now, so you worked the hoodie up and over the stake as best you could before you shoved the fabric the rest of the way up his chest.

The flashing lights from outside played across the dips and valleys of Dynamight’s abs, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the wooden stake. It jutted out between the hero’s belly button and his right hip bone, and every splinter was coated in tacky, crimson blood. More of the viscous liquid bubbled up around the torn skin at the stake’s base, and it trickled across his pale, alabaster abdomen like spilled paint.

You bit your lip as you considered your next move, but then Dynamight’s breath hitched with a wet sound, and you knew you didn’t have time for doubts.

“Okay, steady,” you muttered to yourself as you knelt over the hero’s prone body. Your knees burned, glass digging deeper into the skin by the second, but you shoved away your own pain as you reached out and wrapped both hands around the stake. Splinters tore into your palms, and your heart hammered out a staccato rhythm beneath your sternum.

Then panic started to creep up your spine like a million little spider legs. What if removing the stake only made him worse, killed him faster? What if you killed Japan’s Number Two Hero?

Just as you were about to let go of the stake, Dynamight hacked out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling out of his dry, cracked lips, and you felt the warm spray of it against your collarbone and arms.

The sound rattled something deep inside you, and before you could second guess yourself again, you tightened your grip on the stake and tugged it up and out in one single motion.

Dynamight wheezed once more, but you were already dropping the stake, hands slapping down against his abdomen. Warm blood pulsed through your fingers like pliable clay, and bile rose in the back of your throat before you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and called upon your quirk.

An instant later, agony like you’ve never experienced slammed into you, ripping a gasp from your lungs. It felt like someone had stuck a white-hot poker through your gut, ignited your insides, and twisted. The pain was so intense, your ears started ringing again, and when you cracked open your eyes, your vision quickly began to tunnel until the only thing you could see was the bare outline of your hands, lined with green, against the hero’s stomach. You gritted your teeth as unconsciousness threatened to pull you under, and you groaned as you shoved as much energy as you could spare into the dying hero.

As your quirk flooded into the blond’s body, you received vague impressions of his injuries healing. It was hard to describe, but it was kind of like you could see flashes of the tissue in your mind as it was stitched back together. First, the jagged hole on his back sealed over, and then your power wormed its way through the hero’s insides, patching up nicked arteries and punctured organs. The pain was still intense, so intense that your already limited vision was blurred by tears, but once you reached the top layers of his abs, you ripped your hands away with a gasp.

You fell back on your ass, more glass and debris digging into your cheeks and the palms of your hands, and you sucked in ragged breaths as you tried to keep from passing out. The hero swam unsteadily before you, both from the tears in your eyes and because the entire apartment was swaying. Saliva pooled in your mouth as nausea clamped down on your stomach, but you focused on the burning in your palms to center yourself. Then you started counting deep breaths, and when you got to thirty, the darkness had receded from the corners of your vision, and the apartment more or less steadied out around you.

You still felt like shit warmed over, like you’d been run over by a car and then dragged for several miles, but the bone-deep exhaustion could be cured with a good night’s sleep. The rest of the nicks and cuts on your body still burned like a million paper cuts, too, but your quirk was down to embers and was of no more use to you.

But was it worth it?

The two feet of distance between you and Dynamight felt like a canyon that stretched for miles, but somehow you found one last burst of strength to drag yourself forward a few inches. Then you held your breath and leaned over the hero’s abdomen, wiping away most of the pooling blood with the hem of his hoodie.

There was still a significant gash carved into his skin, but when you shakily picked up your discarded phone from the floor and directed the light at him, you saw the wound was much shallower, maybe a few centimeters deep. The first few layers of skin were flayed back, but the muscles beneath were intact and healthy looking. A small trickle of blood continued to drip into the valley of the hero’s abs, but instead of a broken fire hydrant, it was just a leaky faucet.

You dragged your tired eyes up Dynamight’s body, and you very quickly realized his breathing was deeper and not as wet sounding. Just to be doubly sure, you reached out and tentatively wrapped your fingers around his left wrist, only absently noticing that the once raw, flayed skin had been partially healed from third degree burns to first.

You had poured more energy into him than you meant to, but it was hard to regret anything when you felt his pulse against your fingertips, strong, steady, and sure.

“Oh, thank you,” you choked out as you closed your eyes, tears stinging in the corners. You didn’t know who you were thanking. You didn’t know if you believed in a “god” in the colloquial sense, but you felt as if the universe had given you a gift just now, and you could be nothing but grateful for it.

You sighed as you slumped a little, and it was like weights were strapped to your eyelids as you struggled to open them and keep them open. You might have actually gone under, succumb to the exhaustion…

If you didn’t catch sight of two crimson eyes staring back at you.

“Fuck,” you gasped as a zap of adrenaline shocked you upright, and your phone clattered to the ground once again.

Dynamight squinted, irises still a little glassy, but unlike last time, his gaze was very much focused on you.

And the weight of it, the intensity, pinned you to the floor.

“Y-You’re awake.” The words tripped off your tongue, chased out by the panic running circles in your brain. Damn it, you hadn’t even had time to come up with a plausible backstory for the pool of blood he was lying in.

The blond hero’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at you for an immeasurably long moment, and then you remembered with a start that he hadn’t been able to hear you before. This could work in your favor, though. You opened your mouth, ready to pantomime an elaborate story, but his voice—deep and rough, like crunching gravel or an expensive engine turning over—cut you off at the knees.

“And you have eyes,” he said in clipped Japanese, a note of snide derision in his tone.

You blinked in shock—at his attitude, the steadiness of his voice, and the fact he could hear you just fine all the sudden—but he just barreled onward like he had barreled through your window.

“What happened?” he asked. No, demanded. “Who are you?”

“I—”

“And where’s that fuckin’ villain?” he cut you off as his split upper lip curled into a snarl, and his red eyes jumped to the gaping window over your shoulder.

You frowned at him, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are you going to let me answer?”

A part of your brain was screaming at you, distantly: Are you giving Japan’s Number Two Hero attitude after he saved your life?! You normally weren’t like this. Every inch the people pleaser, you were usually deferential to the point of your own detriment.

But you were still so tired, every inch of you aching, blood still dripping and slick along your exposed skin, and he was the one who decided to be rude first.

Plus, you saved his life, too, thankyouverymuch.

Dynamight actually seemed surprised by your response because his gaze stopped its frantic search of your darkened apartment and settled on you. Those scarlet eyes raked over you quickly, a flick from head to toe, before they met your own.

A beat of silence passed between you, and then his face pulled into a sharp frown.

“Well?” he grunted. “Are you actually going to answer me?”

The nerve of this man. Maybe the media had been right.

“What happened was you decided to practically drop a bomb outside on the street, and then you crashed straight through my window and destroyed my apartment,” you said in a short, clipped tone. “But don’t worry. My couch managed to break your fall, so you’re mostly in one piece. Oh, and you beat the villain, the other heroes are outside handing him off to authorities. Satisfied with my answers?”

You sucked in a deep breath after your little tirade, the blood roaring in your ears. Absently, you patted yourself on the back for the impromptu white lie you’d fed him. The couch did in fact break his fall… and shoved a stake through his gut, but he didn’t need to know that. Fortunately, you had dropped said impaling object behind you in your haste to keep some blood in his body, and you shifted a little now to insure it was blocked from his view. You had healed his life-threatening injury—and his hearing, apparently, though you hadn’t intended that—but he was still covered in scrapes, cuts, and minor burns along his left arm. It was a… plausible amount of wounds, so hopefully your little quirk indiscretion would go unnoticed.

Dynamight was still staring at you in silence, and you began to fidget, on the edge of saying you were going to go flag down another hero, when he finally spoke up again.

“No, I’m not satisfied. You didn’t answer all my damn questions. Who the hell are you?”

A flush of heat infused your cheeks—part anger, part embarrassment for being put on the spot again and being the subject of his intense glare—and you averted your eyes as you mumbled out your name.

“Hah?” he practically shouted as he leaned forward, bringing with him that bewildering scent of burned sugar, but he suddenly stopped with a wince that he quickly turned into a scowl. “Speak up, I hate when people mutter. Just like goddamn Deku.”

The last sentence wasn’t directed at you, but you found his mention of Japan’s Number One Hero intriguing.

You sighed and repeated your name for him, a little louder this time, and he grunted in what seemed like acknowledgment before he started to struggle upright again in the ruins of your couch.

“Don’t move too fast, you’ll start bleeding again,” you chided and scooted closer to stop him from aggravating the injury on his abdomen. You’d healed the worst of it, but it was still an open wound, and he was bound to be sore as hell after smashing through a window/wall.

“M’ fine,” he grumbled as he settled into a slightly more seated position. Then he looked down and noticed his hoodie was still partially rucked up around his arm pits, and his red eyes shot back to you. He studied you for a long moment, but his face was unreadable. “Undressing me while I was unconscious? You’re not one of those damn obsessed fangirls, are ya?”

Your cheeks flared red-hot, but you scowled at the ash-blond hero. “N-No! I—You were bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too b-bad. But, uh, the gash isn’t that deep.”

It was a little harder to make more articulate, detailed lies, especially when his blood was still drying on your hands and you could remember the exact feel of his pulse slowing beneath your fingertips.

Dynamight narrowed his scarlet eyes at you, and you knew you weren’t being convincing. Panic started to claw up the back of your throat again. His burning gaze was charring away at your weaknesses, your resolve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, confessing. You’d saved his life after all. That wasn’t a bad thing.

Then you remembered all the articles you’d looked up one anxiety-filled night, soon after moving here. All the stories about people using their quirks and causing damage. Of people with healing quirks trying to help and only doing more harm. The fines, the charges, and in rare cases, imprisonment.

You didn’t think you’d be locked up, but you couldn’t afford any fines now, and as an immigrant, any mark on your record could get you immediately deported.

Your mouth dried up. You couldn’t be deported, sent back to your parents as a failure again. What’s more, you had people who relied on you here, like Mrs. Kojima. You weren’t a hero, not important by any means, but… you had just found something to give your life a little purpose. A little stability.

No, you couldn’t be discovered. You just couldn’t.

Your newfound resolve stiffened your spine a little, but when you lifted your chin and met those piercing crimson eyes again, your courage—along with your tongue—shriveled inside you.

Fuck, how were you going to lie your way out of this?

Unfortunately, Dynamight didn’t give you any more time to get your story straight.

“Your hands are all fucked up.”

You startled at his rough voice, instinctively flipping your hands palm-side down and tucking them between your legs. Then, when your brain caught up to your body, you cursed yourself.

Could you be any more obvious, any more guilty?

“I, uh, i-it’s nothing,” you stammered, clearing your throat before you continued. “I cut myself on the broken glass from the window, but it’s not serious. Nothing a few bandaids won’t fix, anyway. Maybe some gauze and antiseptic, but definitely not a hospital visit or anything.”

You knew you were babbling but somehow couldn’t stop it, your anxiety just seizing control of your tongue, and you clenched your torn-up hands into fists until the stinging pain centered you a little bit.

Once again, Dynamight studied you in silence, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Did you nick your damn wrist, too?” he finally asked as his neutral mask twisted into his signature scowl. “Looks like a lot of blood. Don’t be an idiot and bleed out on me. I don’t wanna deal with the fuckin’ paperwork.”

Well, maybe not that carefully.

“I-I’m not bleeding out,” you protested with a frown. “I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?

The hero stuck out his right hand, palm up, his scowl only deepening. “Let me see your hands.”

Fuck. A drop of icy cold fear slid down your spine. Your hands were indeed “fucked up” like the blond said, but the cuts were all shallow and minor. They would in no way explain how you were coated in blood up past your wrists. None of your injuries would account for that.

And none of his current ones would, either.

“I—” You opened and closed your mouth several times like a gasping fish, and Dynamight’s eyes narrowed on you with what you were sure was suspicion.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, a small but bright beam of light suddenly flooded your apartment from over your shoulder.

“Dynamight?” a male voice shouted.

The blond hero clenched his eyes shut and turned away from the light, and you. “I’m here! Turn that damn light out.”

Said light cut out an instant later, and you seized the opportunity that had just been presented to you.

Quick as a whip, you leaned over and snatched a large swath of dark fabric that you’d seen in the brief moment of illumination, and you reeled it into your lap quickly. The fabric had been a personal project of yours, a gown you’d started on a whim, but that didn’t matter now. Dynamight was still rubbing at his eyes, grumbling about being blinded, so you kicked half of the unfinished garment under and around the base of the ruined couch, effectively covering up the large pool of blood that had congealed under the splintered furniture. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the bloody stake, and shoved it between the folds of fabric.

There. Now, most of the evidence was hidden.

And not a moment too soon, because in the next breath you heard the crunch of glass as the unnamed hero stepped into the apartment behind you.

“Hello?”

“We’re over here,” you called back, struggling to your feet so the hero could see you over the back of the couch.

The hero was silhouetted against your ruined window and the flashing police lights outside, so you couldn’t see much of his face, but you could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a red and purple suit you didn’t recognize.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the hero asked in very formal Japanese.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Dynamight cut you off. It seemed to be a habit of his.

“We’re fine,” he grunted, and you turned to see the blond shoving himself to his feet. A gasp caught in your throat, and you made a half-aborted motion to stop him, but his red eyes snapped up and glared at you, freezing you in your tracks. “Aren’t we?”

It took a moment for you to realize the last question was directed at you, and when Dynamight’s lip curled up into a sneer as he accusingly dropped his gaze to your hands, you realized none of your lies had convinced him after all.

“Y-Yes.” The word stumbled out of your mouth without your permission, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes off the blond as you felt your world falling in around you for the second time tonight. “We’re fine.”

The hero behind you said something, but it was lost in the static suddenly filling your head.

He knows. He knows. Dynamight knows.

The words cycled through your brain again and again, a broken record. What would he do? Would he tell the other hero? Or take you down to the authorities himself? And what then? Would they arrest you? Give you a few days to pack up and say your goodbyes before your deportation?

Just as you were beginning to spiral, movement caught your attention, and you watched as if from a distance as Dynamight suddenly stepped past you, the scent of burnt sugar stinging your nose as he went. He was talking, and the low rumble of his voice vibrated through your body since he was so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, but he seemed to be talking to the other hero.

Was he confessing your secret already?

You couldn’t seem to turn around, your slippered feet rooted to your debris strewn floor. Even in the dark, you could see the black stain of Dynamight’s blood on your ruined couch cushions, and without thinking, you leaned down, picked up another torn and dirty piece of fabric, and threw it over the stain, blocking it from view.

You didn’t know why you did that. It didn’t matter now. Dynamight knew, and—

“Ma’am?” A hand touched your elbow, and you jumped, whirling around. “Whoa, careful there.”

It was the tall hero in the red and purple suit. He was wearing a partial mask over his eyes, so only the lower half of his face was visible, framed by two pieces of dark hair. He smiled at you, a pleasant, reassuring gesture, but you could only gape at him.

“Are you alright?” he asked you again, a frown replacing his smile. His eyes started to look you over, but you shoved your hands into the pockets of your sweats before he could see them.

It doesn’t matter, you idiot, your brain screamed, but your body was still going through the motions of keeping your secret, twisting your hands in your pockets, trying to rub out the blood.

“I’m fine,” you said again and then realized repeating the same trite phrase probably wasn’t convincing. So, you smiled at the hero, or at least you thought you did. Your face felt strangely stiff and numb, but you flashed your teeth and crinkled your eyes just the same. “Really. I’m just a little… shaken up is all. I have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The apartment took the worst of the damage, obviously.”

You laughed, a hint of hysteria in your voice, as you gestured to the gaping hole in your wall behind the hero, hoping to get him away from your blood-soaked couch. And, blessedly, he did turn, so you took a few steps past him until you were both facing the broken window.

Then you noticed Dynamight was standing near the hole, very cautiously leaning against the last remaining, exposed stud in the wall, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. His body was facing out into the street, but his eyes were still locked on you, the red of them only intensified by the police lights still flashing on the street.

His eyes seemed to say, I know what you did, and all the saliva dried up in your mouth.

“Well, as bad as the damage is to your home, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured, ma’am,” the hero at your side suddenly said, and you jolted when you realized he was responding to your inane babble from what already felt like hours ago.

“O-Oh, yes.” You smiled again, just as forced and twice as shaky. “I was… very lucky. A-And thank you! For doing your part to s-stop that villain before he hurt anyone or caused even more damage.”

“Yes, well, there was still more damage than I would have preferred,” the hero replied, and you didn’t miss the dirty look he shot Dynamight, who just deepened his scowl because he was still looking at you. “But let’s get you down to the street. The paramedics will look you over, and the authorities will want to take a statement. But don’t worry, they’ll also put you up in a hotel for the night since you obviously can’t stay here.”

He threw the last part of the sentence at Dynamight like a dagger, and the blond finally tore his eyes off you to glare at the other hero.

You waited for the explosive hero to… well, explode, but he only stared down the tall man beside you before he rolled his eyes, glanced at you one last time, and then jumped out the hole in your wall.

“No—” you gasped, stumbling forward like you could stop him, but an instant later, you heard a mini-boom out on the street, followed by Dynamight barking orders at someone.

Oh, yeah. You remembered how the blond had burst through the air while fighting the villain and realized he didn’t just ruin all your hard, illegal healing work by face-planting onto the concrete.

You sighed and suddenly swayed, like the blond leaving had finally cut all of your tense strings. The adrenaline was fading at last, exhaustion leeching through your veins in its place, and you listed into the hero beside you.

“Ma’am?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“Sorry,” you mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to find your balance. “I think… the shock is wearing off. Just… tired.”

“Would it be alright if I carried you down to the street?”

You wanted to protest, say you could take the stairs down to your shop, but your tongue felt sluggish in your mouth, and all you managed was a vaguely affirmative sounding hum.

“Okay, hold on.”

You felt one hand wrap around your shoulders while the other scooped you up around the knees, and usually, you would protest, insecure about your weight, but the hero settled you against his chest with ease. The instant you were off your feet, every muscle in your body went limp, and you were too tired to even be embarrassed when your head flopped against the hero’s collarbone.

You had the vague thought that he didn’t smell like warm sugar, followed by a flash of disappointment, but then the hero was moving, jumping, and you were falling through the air.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the luxury of passing out.

Once you hit the street, it was all sirens and shouting, flashing lights and flashes of people, so many people.

True to his word, the hero in the red and purple suit carried you over to an ambulance and two waiting paramedics. The American in you panicked, instinctively trying to refuse care because your shop and home were just destroyed, you didn’t have money for an ambulance ride, too.

But as the medics peppered you with rapid fire Japanese questions, you were reminded of where you were, and the bright flashlight shining into your eyes sure woke you up a little.

The next half an hour was a blur. The paramedics tended to the wounds on your palms, knees, and, embarrassingly, ass, but all of the cuts were shallow, and none of them even required stitches. You knew they wouldn’t require stitches anyway, because once you rested up, your quirk would heal you, but you kept your mouth shut and let the medics wrap you in gauze and bandages. You seemed to have rubbed away enough of the blood on your hands that they weren’t suspicious, but it brought you no relief.

While they worked, you watched the heroes and police out of your peripherals. They were still working to seal off the scene and tend to your neighbors, who were gathered further down the block behind some yellow tape. It didn’t look like anyone else had been injured beside you, and for that you were grateful.

But your stomach was still in knots.

More than once, you heard Dynamight’s brash voice bark over the sirens and other voices, and as the paramedics were finishing up the bandages on your hands, a head of ash-blond hair jutted out over the police car closest to you. Unable to stop yourself, your eyes zeroed in on that distinctive hair color, and you saw the explosive hero was speaking—well, yelling—at two police officers.

Your mouth felt suddenly dry despite the multiple cups of water the medics had fed to you. What was Dynamight saying?

As if he could hear your thoughts, red eyes snapped to the side and locked onto yours, and the breath hitched in your chest. That crimson gaze held you trapped, unable to look away, so when the two officers he’d been speaking to suddenly stepped into your field of vision, you gasped.

“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” one of the officers said. He was a middle-aged man, balding, with a serious face and a no-nonsense expression. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”

You swallowed, your throat clicking, and your heart stuttered into a breakneck pace beneath your sternum.

“O-Of course,” you replied, only stumbling a little over your Japanese. You smiled at the officers, but the expression felt stilted, and fear seized you by the throat and squeezed until your breaths were shallow and grating in your ears.

“Thank you.” The balding officer nodded. “My name is Detective Nakahara. I’ve been told you witnessed and were injured in tonight’s attack.”

You thought the injury part was obvious, given your myriad of bandages and the fact you were sitting in the back of an ambulance, but you nodded to confirm anyway since your voice had abandoned you.

This was it. He was going to ask you the damning question, and you were going to tell the truth. Lying to a hero in the heat of the moment had been one thing, but lying to a police officer during an official statement was another thing entirely. It would take one database search for them to confirm your quirk and Dynamight’s story, and then you really would be in trouble. Maybe imprisoned instead of deported. You cursed yourself for not knowing more about the laws that were going to quickly ruin your life.

But… then Nakahara started asking you about the villain and what you saw, and you stuttered out an answer to the best of your ability. You thought this might have been a disarming tactic, to lull you into a false sense of security, but when you got to the part of the story where Dynamight burst through your window, the officer sighed.

“I take it that’s your apartment there?” Detective Nakahara asked as he gestured to the gaping hole.

“Y-Yes.” You nodded. “And I own the shop below.”

Which you now realized looked no better than your apartment. The windows were all blown out, black scorch marks along the door frame, and you didn’t want to even think about the shape of the interior.

“What kind of shop is it?” he followed up, but he sounded more curious than interrogatory.

“Clothing alterations,” you said. “M-My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited the shop about a year ago, after they passed.”

“My condolences,” Nakahara murmured with a small dip of his head, and he seemed genuine. “For your grandparents, and your home and business.”

You blinked in surprise at the turn in conversation. “O-Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Do you have anywhere to go for the night, or were you on the way to the hospital?” he asked as he looked you over.

“No,” you said quickly and then blushed. “I-I mean, my injuries aren’t serious enough for a hospital visit. Just some cuts and scrapes.”

“Alright.” Nakahara nodded. “Is there any family we can call for you? Or take you to?”

“N-No,” you repeated, a little more timidly this time. “My parents… don’t live around here, and I don’t really have any other family.”

“Any friends?” he asked with a furrowed brow.

Your face was red-hot now, and you dropped your eyes to your lap, fiddling with your bandaged fingers. What were you going to say? That you were an introvert, and the only “friends” you had were the old ladies who frequented your shop?

“None that I would want to bother in the middle of the night,” you muttered before you suddenly remembered something. “But, um, one of the heroes said you could maybe take me to a hotel?”

“Of course, we can take you right now, and we’ll also pay for the night,” the detective said.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started to protest as you snapped your head up, but the officer held up a hand.

“The city has funds to aid those displaced by villain attacks,” he explained. “The next forty-eight hours are guaranteed, so if I were you, I would use the opportunity to rest.”

Detective Nakahara glanced down at your bandages, and you bit your lips as you nodded.

“Okay, thank you for your help then, sir.” It was all you could think to say.

“You’re welcome.” Nakahara nodded back at you and then reached out to help you out of the ambulance. “If you’ll come this way, we can have an officer collect some things from your apartment, and then we’ll head to the hotel and get you settled.”

The finality in his tone and the idea of a hotel drew you up short. What… was happening? You had thought the detective was going to interrogate you about your quirk, not… chauffeur you to a nice hotel.

The practical part of your brain was screaming for you to let it go, but the words were high-diving off your tongue before you could stop them.

“I-Is that all?”

Detective Nakahara paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is what all?”

“I—” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “You didn’t have any more questions for me?”

“No,” the detective said simply. “We have your statement, and it matches the others we’ve obtained.” Here, he frowned and seemed to study you for a moment. “Did you have any other questions for me?”

“I… was just wondering what the next steps are for my apartment and shop,” you blurted out the first thing you could think of. “Will the… city pay for repairs? Do I have to fill out some forms?”

It was an honest question, a real one you had, but your mind was still reeling. He wasn’t going to ask about your quirk? Had… Had Dynamight not said anything?

Nakahara sighed but held a hand out for you to take, and you absently let him help you down from the ambulance. Then he slowly began walking toward one of the police cars, and you had no choice but to follow since you were still holding onto his arm for balance.

“Unfortunately,” the detective started, “the city will not be able to repair your home or business.”

“Why?” you asked with a frown. “I thought you said there were funds.”

“There are,” he said, and when you looked up at him, you noticed his lips were pursed into a thin line. “And, if the villain himself had thrown debris through your window, then the city would compensate you. But, in this situation, Dynamight caused the damaged.”

The detective practically spat the blond hero’s name, and your surprise must have shown on your face because Nakahara quickly cleared his throat and schooled his expression.

“Because of this, his agency will be responsible for repairs, so you will have to contact them,” the officer finished.

Contact them? You had to contact Dynamight’s agency, which meant… fuck. You felt the blood drain from your face, and your expression must have shown your dismay because Nakahara patted your hand that was still looped through his arm

“But you can worry about that tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get your things and get you to the hotel so you can rest.”

You nodded blankly and let the detective lead you to the open backseat of a police car. Nakahara called another officer over, and the woman asked you questions about where things were in your apartment. You answered numbly, listing out different clothing items and how to get to your bedroom. Then she was gone, and Nakahara stepped away to do something else, so you were suddenly left all alone.

Unbidden, you looked up and searched for that pair of scarlet eyes, that head of ash-blond hair, but the explosive hero was suddenly nowhere to be found.

The crime scene continued to bustle around you, but all the while, two thoughts circled each other in your head, like binary stars stuck in each other’s orbit:

Dynamight didn’t reveal my secret.

But I’m going to have to face him again.

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get-shiggy-with-it · 3 years

Note

heyo friend, I hope you’re doing well 🖤 What about the “You know I hate it when you do that, right? Keep doing it” smut prompt + shigaraki? With a gn!reader?

✧ pairing: tomura shigaraki x gn!reader

✧ warnings: brat taming themes, smut, references to violence, blood mention, handjobs, villain!reader, 18+ minors DNI

✧ word count: 1.5k

✧ a/n: hey mootie! thanks so much for your request. I know you were looking for some brat taming so take my subtle, sleep deprived attempt at some lowkey bratty behavior.

“You idiot, what the hell was that?”

The door slammed hard enough to reverberate through your chest. The momentary shake in your ribs was nothing compared to the adrenaline trembling in your fingers as they flailed in front of you, catching your fall. The bar top was cold and unforgiving in your grip.

Just like the floors under your feet and the roof over your head and all the people uneasily asleep upstairs.

Cold.

Unforgiving.

Tomura Shigaraki cut a menacing figure—and when didn't he?—as he stood cloaked in the darkness of the hideout. You could still feel the ache of his grip on your arm, can feel the dull throb of forming bruises there. He left faint crimson footprints behind when he stepped fully into the dim, overhead lights.

The short, baby curls around his head shone in the glow like some blasphemous halo.

But he is your savior tonight, so the comparison seems a bit less jarring.

“You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific than that, boss,” you tried to sound less winded than you are.

For someone so skinny, Shigaraki had some fucking stamina. Both beaten and well bloodied, the two of you certainly cut a striking image. And while you were panting from your escape—legs on fire after carrying you down innumerable alleyways and feet numb from the slap of the pavement through worn out soles—your boss seemed barely winded.

Untouched by the fight and subsequent flight halfway across the city while tugging you along at his heels.

Though, he also didn’t get his ass straight up hyperdrive blasted into a brick wall. You’d give yourself some credit where it was due.

“I don’t need you taking hits for me,” he snapped, coming nose to nose—well, hand to nose with you.

Every muscle in your body protested as you stood straight and stared him down, feeling how the bruises cut deep through your skin and stained your ego like rotting fruit.

“Really?” you asked, not quite delusional enough to be incredulous, but getting there. “Cause that fucking black eye says differently.”

There was a nasty red and purple mark spreading from the side of his temple that disappeared under the hand that hid most of his face from view. You’d watched him take that kick straight to the side of his head and not even stumble.

He was right.

Shigaraki didn’t lie—that’s why you followed him.

That’s why you couldn’t help the strange, second nature movement of your feet as you had watched one of the dozens that ambushed you wind up to fire a super-powered punch off at Shigs chest. The whole moment existed as a slow motion memory, something you watched from above—a voyeur in your own mind. The way your boss’ eyes went horribly wide, the glow of the man’s fist, the way your body went limp like a rag doll in mid air and slammed against the adjacent wall.

How your assailant was nothing more than a pile of ash only seconds later.

Though you tried not to read too much into that particular detail.

“You know I hate it when you do that right?”

You became peripherally aware that the ache in your chest was being exacerbated by his body weight pressing you back into the polished wood of the bar. As two hands caged you in with their pinkies comically raised to keep you trapped, you felt a familiar rush of defiance in the face of this show of superiority.

“What? When I save your dusty ass?” you tried to smile but his unwavering gaze made it die on your lips.

To be completely fair, you had just watched him take so many hits that should have killed him outright and keep fighting like the inevitably fractured bones were nothing but pinpricks.

You’d always known Shigaraki was intimidating, in his self-assuredness and confidence you knew was not unfounded. But you’d never seen him put his money where his mouth is before, only heard the stories from the rest of the League.

Now you understood.

“When you talk back to me,” he hissed.

He didn’t bother to correct you. He didn’t need to. You both very well knew that if anyone had been saved tonight, it was you as he retreated from the fight, pulling you to safety and not stopping until he—and doors of the bar—were firmly placed between you and feral city streets.

“Oh come on—” you were halfway through an eye roll even Dabi would be proud of when he reached up to grip the hand on his face and pulled it aside.

The smell of formaldehyde dissipated as it landed with a thunk on the bar and Shigaraki stared at you with newly unencumbered intensity.

“Keep doing it.”

You blinked in stunned stupid silence.

“What?”

It was only then that you realized it, and once you saw the subtle flush of his cheeks and the twitch in his fingers, you weren’t sure how it had ever escaped your notice.

Villainy had always been attractive for the rush, alluring in the sense that it afforded you the feeling of being so painfully alive. The adrenaline fueled, full body shaking that flooded you with invincible endorphins—that made your face hot and your blood sing. That was what called to you. That was what had you flinging yourself in front of punches and sprinting down the worn out city streets.

And that was what Shigaraki was feeling now as you held your own against him.

Challenged his authority.

Took what you were given and gave just as well.

You could imagine most people would have given up the smartass act after one too many brushes with a dusty end, but you were a stubborn piece of shit.

In fact, you were a little fucking brat.

And Tomura Shigaraki liked it.

“I won’t tell you twice,” he said, and when exactly did that gravel road rasp in his voice become so spine tingling?

His chest was flush with you now, and the familiar firmness pressing against your thigh only confirmed your revelation.

And only strengthened your resolve.

A grin on your face, you locked eyes with your boss.

“Oh, Shigs,” you mused, shivering at the way he smirked down at you in all his bloody, beaten glory. “I think you absolutely will.”

The bar behind you creaked under his grip and you suddenly missed the power in those deadly hands, pressing fingerprint bruises into your skin. You doubted you’d have to wait much longer for that though, not with the he twitched against your hips as you shifted to press back into him.

“Maybe you’ll listen better with your mouth full.”

One of those long fingers was trailing softly through the gashes in your top, running across your chest and tapping at your lips. He rolled what was undeniable a fucking unfairly large dick against you just so there would be no mistaking the direction this was clearly going in.

And what a hot fucking turn of events it was.

“Now boss, if you want me to keep talking, you’re gonna have to fill up something else.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little proud of yourself at the ability to formulate comebacks even as the hand at your lips slipped down to yours and drew it to the fastenings of his jeans.

“Don’t think I’m going to reward you for being so fucking irresponsible.”

He seemed at once so simultaneously wrecked and completely untouched by you that your head spun. Shigaraki kept his voice even, his face stuck in that same pleased expression. The only thing that gave him away was the raging hard cock you now palmed easily through his underwear and the pink flush that was spreading slowly down his neck and under the low collar of his shirt.

“Bold of you to assume this isn’t a reward,” you muttered, entranced by the way the blush lit around the razor edges of his scars, thin silver lines prominent against the blood rushing under his skin.

Your mouth watered and Shigaraki—Tomura? Should you call him Tomura now that his length was falling free into your palm and leaking across your fingers?—did nothing to stop you from leaning forward and latching onto one of the rough patches of flesh.

Shigs didn’t seem ashamed in the least or try to hide the gasp you yanked out of him with your tongue pressing deeply over the veins in his neck.

However, he also didn’t allow either of you to indulge for long. Seconds later a hand gripped the back of your shirt and the wrist that was currently pumping your boss’ deliciously heavy dick, stopping your movements entirely.

The rational part of your brain was not quick enough to catch the whine that left you when he moved to step away.

Shigaraki’s rare chuckle almost made it worth the embarrassment.

“Yeah,” he was grinning again but it was different this time. Predatory—a beast caught scent of blood, ready for the newest struggle to the death. “That’s what I thought.”

When he finally guided your hand back to his cock, warm with a beautiful red tip that gushed enough to slick your palm, you found it incrementally harder to formulate a response.

But you hadn't quite given up the fight yet.

When you smiled back at him, it was all teeth.

All claws.

Ready and waiting to be tamed.

#tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #bee.writes #bee.requests #tw blood #tw brat taming

126 notes · View notes

valaks · 3 years

Note

ASK GAME ASK GAME! 1, 2, 12, and 15! And for 15... ooh... Gentleman's Agreement and/or Adopted and/or The Devil You Know??? (Sorry, am terrible at choosing XD)

Thanks for the ask! I am combining a few that came in:

1. Has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you laugh out loud?

Several. This fandom is full of aspiring comedians and I particularly love the good puns Olya left on Jurrastic Measures. Galimau and I read through all of them together on the phone and laughed through the whole thing because each commenter pulled a different part out of a fic that had been a silly way to get me over my post vaccine fever.

2. Has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you cry?

There were a few flames back in ye olden days of the fandom when I was first writing. I don’t remember them but probably deserved it given the quality of my writing back then. Lately? There were some comments on Devil Went Down to Georgia that got me a little misty because so many of us couldn’t go home and our little slice of self indulgence fic was able to help them through that even a little bit.

4. What would this fic be about, based on the title? A Gilded Cage

Julia Rothman has always liked her toys and spy or not John Rider is one of them. If he wanted to leave SCORPIA for his family, surely he will stay for one of them as well.

The five times John saw Alex in SCORPIA and the one time Alex saw him.

———-

Rothman kept her control by digging into old wounds - for Yassen it was his initial failure, for Nile it was his ranking, for Hunter it was his family, and for Alex it was his father. Wherein rather than have Ash kill him, Julia gives John the horrible choice: your wife or your son. John chooses the one that isn’t useful to her and is safe in Ian’s arms. He remains an instructor at Malagosto kept in sight at all times, and, most importantly, in her bed. It’s a life he almost grows used to, until Alex Rider stumbles into the Widow’s Palace - tired and desperate for answers about his dead father. Explores the complicated relationships of Rothman, Yassen, and Alex with John in a world that he survived but could not raise him.

11. What grammar mistake do you keep making no matter how many times your beta corrects you?

Blonde for males. “Gotten” too if you’re a stuffy Brit XD. Both of these are now out of spite. But Galimau might legitimately throttle me if I don’t write out the numbers.

12. What headcanon will you keep implementing in your fics, even if canon ends up contradicting it?

All of them. This is Alex Rider nobody cares about the source material contradicting when it contradicts itself. But specifically Ian Rider was born the day John Rider died.

15. Describe (one of) your wip(s) in the weirdest/most contrived way possible!

Kid comes back home to take a job with his old employer after going off to school and travel the world. He has a blast.

#alex rider #alex rider fanfiction #the good good asks #bless yall #thanks to everyone

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geraskierficrecs · 4 years

Note

Could I possibly prompt some feral buffskier? Or inhuman Jaskier? :D Congrats on 3K!!!

Thanks for sending in a prompt! I decided to explore some nonhuman Jaskier that’s fully feral. I haven’t seen a whole lot of nonhuman Jaskier stories using Celtic mythology so I’m going to be a little self indulgent for this, but I hope you like it! (Bonus points if you can guess what Jaskier is before it’s revealed!)

_____________________________

The sound of a fight stirs him from his slumber.

Even trickling through the still waters of his lake, the sound of flesh meeting flesh is unmistakable. As is the soft, gritted noise of pain.

He shifts, body fluid and inky black as the waters around him. The water parts like a lover before him and he revels in the familiar sensation of power and control. These are his waters. His home.

So why was someone hunting in his territory?

Another sound--a scuffle and another grunt of effort--and Jaskier scents blood in the air, beginning to seep into the shallow waters on the shore. He drifts closer, the predator inside of him writhed beneath his skin. Eager. His mouth opened to run the tastes over his tongue as the water passed through the gills at his neck.

At the surface, he was careful not to create any ripples that might give away his presence, but he needn’t have bothered.

Two muscular forms were rolling across the ground at the shore sending mud flying and breaking the rushes that grew there. His ears pricked, equine head rising up out of the waterline when he saw the flash of steel dart through the air to land among the bushes farther back. Humanoid features twisted in a grimace of pain that matched the scream of triumph from the creature atop the warrior.

He didn’t need to scent the fire and ash in the air to know what beast was hunting so close to his home. Caorthannach, his lips shaped on a subvocal growl. A creature of heat and anguish that reveled in the agonies of others, relishing violence for violence’s sake. It never tired. All it knew was hunger and the desire to spread its own fury and pain into others.

Even worse, it had attracted a Witcher.

This, at least, was an exciting enough development to justify being disturbed from his sleep. Jaskier had heard the legends of the humans who’d been experimented on by their own kind to become monsters of their own. Faster, stronger than their kin and capable of standing against the darkest shadows that lurked in the night. His mother--before she’d chased him away from her nest--had warned him often not to ever attract the attention of humans and their terrifying guardians.

Now there was one only a few yards away, struggling to avoid the claws and flames of the demon above him. He should be afraid, angry even. The Caorthannach’s presence has ensured his relative peace in this remote lake was in danger. He should sink back into the depths and stay quiet until the Witcher left. Instead, he found himself moving closer, breathing in air filled with the scent of blood and more enticing notes of leather and sweat.

Something primitive within him stirs at the strength lingering in each block and shift beneath pale skin. It spoke of power, of promise.

Mate, his beast purred. Mine.

The thought was enough to make him go still. His kind weren’t known for their pairs except in rare occurrences. They were too wild, too territorial to risk allowing their kind to get close. Tales of true mates, of soul bonds and love, were just that--stories to cling to when the water’s cold seeped too far into your bones and your thoughts felt brittle enough to break under the strain.

The Caorthannach shrieks and lunges forward, teeth jagged and eager. The Witcher hisses out a breath full of pain, blood pooling in the dark mud. That quickly, any hesitance Jaskier feels disappears beneath the roar that rips free from his throat.

He rushes forward, shedding water like he sheds his skin in favor of legs designed for running over the earth. The demon has enough time to look up in surprise before Jaskier is on top of him. He lashes out with sharp hooves, connecting bodily and throwing the other beast away. He barely takes the time to glance back at his Witcher to ensure he was still breathing before he focuses on his prey.

It screams in rage at him, spitting a blast of fire like a wipe that burns the hide along his flank and adds to Jaskier’s fury. He bugles like a stallion and rears up to lash out with his front hooves, herding the beast towards the water where the mud slows its movements. The Caorthannach flounders, instinctively wanting to avoid the element that was so contrary to its own magic, but pinned by its furious attacker.

Jaskier is fierce with the knowledge that his mate is injured and still in danger only a few feet away. He wants to draw out the battle to repay the blood debt, but he is eager to see for himself that his Witcher is alright.

So he uses his size to his advantage. He kicks out, again and again, ignoring cuts and burns from when the demon strikes back. He herds it back into the water until stumbling in the knee-high waters. It flounders, trying to get back to shore, but it’s already too late.

Nothing can escape a Kelpie in its own waters.

The sounds of splashing slowly drown out the rush of fire and roar of the Caorthannach. Then there was only silence.

Slowly, Jaskier pulls himself up out of the water and stand at his full height. Water drips over dark hide and makes his muscles gleam in the moonlight. He watches the Witcher’s eyes widen and preens.

Like all Kelpies, he shifts between forms at will based on his needs. To his victims, he appears as a dark horse with a dripping mane with wild eyes. He prefers to target the bandits that prey on unwitting travelers on the main road, only occasionally going into town to find men and women whose homes were filled with muffled screams and cries of pain from small voices. He likes the stories that warn others to avoid the main roads at night.

When he’s bored, he appears as a lean man with dark hair and the same pale blue eyes that follow him between forms and visits the taverns. He likes the humans and their quick laughter and cheerful songs. It’s so different from his own lonely life, even if he feels like an outsider lurking among them.

Jaskier lets his human form step forward out of the water, uncaring that he steps out naked aside from the cuts left behind by his battle. They’ll disappear within a few days and he relishes the proof that he’d protected his mate.

The Witcher sits up, his fingers pressed against his side where blood is darkening his armor and his golden eyes wary. “Kelpie,” he murmurs quietly.

Jaskier tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Witcher.”

His voice is hoarse from lack of use, but the Witcher seems to enjoy it judging by the way his pupils dilate. He smiles and risks taking another step toward the man.

“Are you going to kill me too?” his mate asks and Jaskier feels pride war with instinctive horror at the bravery displayed.

“I would never hurt you.”

The Witcher frowns at the obvious honesty and runs his eyes over Jaskier in a cursory sweep for weapons. They both know he doesn’t need them, but Jaskier recognizes the habit for what it is. “Why did you help me?”

“The Caorthannach was in my territory,” he says, dodging the truth easily, “I would have killed it even if you did not.”

“No one told me there was a Kelpie in this region.”

“I avoid humans whenever I can.”

“But you chose to help me,” the warrior frowns at him and Jaskier buries a smile, “Do you know what I am?”

Mate, his beast growls.

Mine.

“A Witcher,” he says instead.

His mate looks more confused by the answer. His eyes flick to the silver sword Jaskier can smell in the bushes nearby. “I could kill you.”

Jaskier’s grin is quick with promise. “You won’t.” The Witcher shifts, wincing when the movement tugs at the wound he’s favoring along his side. Jaskier takes another step toward him, hand outstretched in a placating gesture. “I’m not going to hurt you either,” he promises.

“Why not?”

The derision is obvious in the man’s tone, but it’s the lingering weariness that makes something inside Jaskier want to reach out and wrap himself around the Witcher like a protective shield. He knows the Witcher has no reason to trust him at this point.

“The world has been unkind to you, Witcher,” Jaskier finally says, “but I have no quarrel with you. You smell of death and heroics--not cruelty.”

“Hmm.”

He smiles at the disgruntled sound, daring to close the distance between them and take a closer look at the wound in the other man’s side. “I’m Jaskier.”

For a moment, he thinks the Witcher will ignore the silent question in his eyes, but then:

“Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, enjoying the way the syllables taste. “Will you stay here? At least until you’re healed?”

Geralt watches him for a long, lingering moment. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” The grin he gives him is near feral with excitement. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll give you a ride you’ll never forget.”

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

Good Omens - “An Enchanted Gift” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Anathema gives Aziraphale and Crowley a special gift - a homemade bottle of a holiday drink with some very peculiar side effects. (2299 words)

Notes: Written for the wonderful @theantichristmaszine :) Warning for sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Crowley’s flat is positively a picture, fit for printing on a Christmas card.

Fire roaring on the hearth.

Garland and tinsel draped over anything that doesn’t move.

Fairy lights brightening the dark corners, wound around the rubber tree and the Chinese Evergreen, weeding through the leaves of the dieffenbachia.

A host of red velvet, gold taffeta, and white satin ribbon hanging from the ceiling till no white marble can be seen.

And at the center of it all, a tree - an honest-to-Satan floor-to-ceiling pine that Crowley had tromped into the forest and tore out of the ground himself with his own two hands. An ax would have been simpler. Heck, he could have snapped the thing back to his flat, trimmed and mounted, ready for decorating. But his method seemed so much more festive considering he’d been bellowing holiday carols the entire time.

He let angel take the lead decorating. Aziraphale had a merry time covering the thing in frosted globes, glass candy canes (since the real ones didn’t last long enough to hang), gingerbread men (only slightly nibbled), reindeer, clove oranges, crocheted white-lace snowflakes, and other ornaments of the like, purchased from artisans all around London.

Crowley had gone so far as to include a manger scene for the benefit of his angel-in-residence. However, instead of hanging the Archangel Gabriel using the provided hook, he hung him over the birthplace of the Lord by a noose. Aziraphale giggled when he saw it but recommended fixing it - to ward off bad karma or something along those lines. Not wanting to sully his spirits listening to a lecture about tempting fate (which is all Crowley does), Crowley remedied it.

He replaced Gabriel with a vintage Troll doll key chain Pepper accidentally forgot at Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“There! Top notch replacement, if I do say so meself! Looks just like ‘im!” Crowley declared, gesturing to the absurd trinket with its vibrant purple hair.

“And which part, might I ask, looks just like him?” Aziraphale had asked.

“The head! It’s huge!”

Demons aren’t much for celebrating. But this year, with everything Crowley had to be grateful for, he honestly couldn’t help himself. At its root, Christmas is about love.

Family.

Birth.

A chance to shed the skin of past sins and start anew.

This year, Crowley couldn’t see letting Christmas pass unacknowledged.

“You know, I may not be a connoisseur of holiday shindigs,” Crowley says, leaning back on the floor and gazing up at the spectacle that is their cheerfully burdened tree, “but I would say tonight has come pretty close to perfect. Wouldn’t you?” He rolls onto his hip, beaming at Aziraphale seated not too far from him, a loopy grin nudging his mouth up at the corners.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale lifts his bottle of Burgundy, prepared to propose a toast. It comes up off the floor far too quickly, an indicator the thing has been drained dry.

“Looks like we finished that one.” Crowley looks left and right in search of another, but doesn’t see one. “Augh! Don’t tell me we went through them all! I’m sure I had another three at least!”

“Don’t fret, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I may have just the thing.” He crawls over to the tree on hands and knees and rummages underneath. A second later he crawls back out, accompanied by a rustic-looking green glass bottle and a triumphant little, ‘A-ha!’ “This comes courtesy of dear, sweet Anathema.” He presents the bottle to his demon for approval. “She said she made it with love.”

“Really?” Crowley snorts while Aziraphale uncorks the bottle. “And what ingredient is that then? Wolfsbane? Mandrake root?”

“Honey, I think.” Aziraphale gives the mouth of the bottle a sniff. “Maybe blackberries?”

“The important question is - is it alcohol?”

Aziraphale brings the bottle to his lips and knocks back a gulp, coughing at the finish. “That it is.”

“Give it here then. I’d like to partake of some love, too.” Crowley indulges, tilting his head back and taking a huge swig. He smacks his tongue, then licks his lips, shivering when a wave of heat enters his bloodstream and works its way down his spine. “Wow. That’s tasty.”

“Isn’t it? If being a witch doesn’t work out for her, she should definitely take up a career distilling.”

“Love, you say?” Crowley peers into the bottle, pondering the ingredients as the drink settles onto his taste buds. “Do you think that’s something she orders by the pound, or gathers under the full moon?”

“To be honest, I have no idea---oof!” Aziraphale sways, planting a hand flat on the floor and locking his elbow to keep from toppling over.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley snickers. “Having a bit of trouble holding your drink?” His forehead wrinkles with concern when Aziraphale doesn’t recover right away. “That’s not normally like you---”

Crowley’s teasing cuts off when Aziraphale’s mouth crashes into his - hot, demanding, tasting of mulling spices, apples, sour plum, and brandy. It takes Crowley a moment to realize Aziraphale is kissing him.

Then another for him to start kissing back.

This isn’t just any kiss. It’s the kiss he’s been longing for. The kiss he’d feel on his lips every time Aziraphale looked his way and smiled. It’s the kiss he thought about the century he slept. And even though there have been many kisses between them, Crowley ranks this as the first.

Because it’s the kiss of dreams.

Aziraphale inhales sharply and backs away. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, my dear! I don’t know what came over me!”

Crowley looks him over curiously, waiting for an explanation, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have one. Aziraphale loves kissing, but he doesn’t go about it this way - doesn’t rush in, doesn’t take what he hasn’t asked for. “Turn about’s fair play, I’d wager.”

“What do you …?”

Without another word, Crowley sneaks a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and kisses him back.

Another kiss follows. Then another. With each one, the room becomes inhospitable - too warm, too stuffy, too difficult to stay in wearing all their blasted clothes! Aziraphale tries to relieve the pressure at his neck, but he can’t seem to manage his buttons, so Crowley helps him undo those. Likewise Crowley’s zipper becomes uncooperative, so Aziraphale tasks himself with unzipping it. Article by article they tear through until the two become too frustrated to care about the inevitable paperwork and snap off the rest.

Crowley kneels behind his angel, completely naked, kissing every spot he can get his lips on. And God, how it tingles! No. How it burns - each touch of his lips to Aziraphale’s flesh sending surges of razor sharp and magma hot straight from Crowley’s mouth to his groin.

And he wants more.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants it scalding his throat, searing his lungs, consuming him from the inside out. Let it dissolve him into ashes that blow away on the wind, let him die in an orgasm of violence and fire and angelic light.

As long as it comes with Aziraphale.

What a way to go.

“I have to have you, angel,” he moans. “Now. Right now.”

“Are you … are you sure? We’ve always said that we wouldn’t allow alcohol to make us amorous.”

“I don’t feel drunk. Do you?”

Aziraphale focuses inward, taking stock of his corporation. “No,” he says, surprised considering the bottles of wine they’d polished off before they started in on Anathema’s gift. “I don’t. Not at all.” Aziraphale locates an empty bottle and concentrates, tries to push the alcohol of the night from his system, but nothing appears. Not a single drop. “Far from it, it would seem.”

“That’s right. We’re not drunk. We’re completely in our right minds.”

“I wouldn’t say …”

“I want this, angel!” Crowley pleads with a sense of urgency. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. More than ever,” Aziraphale admits.

“What do you want me to do?” Crowley whispers, voice husky with a lust he has inspired in others but has never once felt himself. “Tell me.”

“Make love to me?”

“How?”

Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, grinning at his demon chomping at the bit. “You seem to be in the perfect position. I suggest you start there.”

Aziraphale expects Crowley to mock his snark, but he doesn’t, diving immediately back into the task of kissing across Aziraphale’s shoulders, lingering over the joint where his wings would connect if he let them out. Crowley swirls over it with his tongue, painting overlapping circles, and Aziraphale sees stars. They’ve made love in this position before, and Crowley has kissed every inch of his back, but he’s never spent so much time on this particular area.

The decadence of this sensation should be criminal.

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands on his body everywhere at once - massaging his muscles, fondling his cock, scissoring him open. Could Crowley be using magic to pleasure him? That’s not something they’ve ever done before due to the implications of Hell finding out. But seeing as Hell is no longer a concern, that puts every card at their disposal.

And thank God because this they need to do again!

“Aziraphale,” Crowley utters as he enters him, his angel’s name like sugar in his bitter mouth, and fuck!

There it is.

When he enters him completely.

The fire.

Inside his angel.

And Crowley has become its fuel.

“Oh, Crowley …” Aziraphale shifts his weight onto his palms and leans forward, raising his rear in the air. “Oh, yes. Just like that, my dear …”

“Like this, angel?” Crowley pulls back, then thrusts hard - harder than he would normally, sending Aziraphale swiftly to the verge. With Aziraphale’s grunts of ecstasy mirroring the rhythm of Crowley’s hips, Crowley knows that regardless of anything, this he cannot stop.

It would be unforgivable.

“Yes!” Aziraphale whimpers, bracing against the marble floor with knuckles white. “Yes! Crowley, yes!”

“Yes …” Crowley echoes beneath his breath, a lightness settling inside his mind, siphoning his ability to think. He’s done too much thinking already. Now is not the time for thinking. Now is the time for serving. The time for feeling. And what he feels is soft beneath his hands, tight around his cock, a quest for satisfaction, for completion, wrapped in a braided rope of love, love, and more love. So much love it fills his flat from corner to ceiling, leaves its mark on the walls and on the doors.

And on the marble beneath them when Aziraphale, spiraling out of control, comes unannounced on Crowley’s living room floor.

“Oh,” he squeaks with embarrassment though he knows Crowley would say he shouldn’t be. “I apologize, my love, but I seem to have sullied your floor.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and cleaning the mess as he shudders through his own orgasm, which had snuck up inside him and granted him release less like an accomplishment and more like a reward for what he had done for his angel.

“Well,” Aziraphale manages even though he’s breathless, which isn’t a bother for him. “That was … interesting.”

“Just interesting?”

Aziraphale blushes. “More than interesting. But I would hate to think that was all because of the drink.”

“I wouldn’t say it was. I think the brew just sort of lowered out inhibitions. Enhanced the experience.”

“Do you think that was meant to happen? I find it difficult to believe that Anathema of all people gave us some sort of love potion as a Christmas present.”

“Not sure. Could be a side-effect of being witch made. Probably affects us more because we’re occult.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue Crowley’s word usage. “Or … what if it’s something worse?”

“Worse?” Crowley arches an eyebrow. “What worse?”

“What if it did what it was meant to, but it was supposed to be a present for her young gentleman?”

“Ugh! Aziraphale! Don’t!” Crowley groans, wrapping his arms around his angel and holding him tight. “You’re going to put me off!”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale chuckles, hugging Crowley’s arms about his waist. Locked in the cozy cocoon of Crowley’s embrace, a thought pricks Aziraphale’s brain.

There is a secret third possibility.

A week or two ago, Aziraphale went to Tracy Shadwell’s place for tea and rum cake. While he was there, he’d confided in both Tracy and Anathema that as much as he loved his sex life with his husband, physical intimacy had become somewhat of a chore. Not because he didn’t love it, which he did, but because Crowley seemed stuck on every love making session between them being more romantic than the last. First came the champagne, then the candlelight (so much candlelight …), massages with complicated names, and, as of late, dramatic musical choices. It’s nice, the care Crowley puts into being his lover, but it also puts a tremendous amount of pressure on Aziraphale to keep up appearances.

Makes the whole ordeal feel like a performance.

Some nights, by the time they get to the good stuff, Aziraphale is ready to hit the hay. Seeing as he despises sleep, that’s awfully telling.

Aziraphale has come to the conclusion that, often times, he’s just … how did the youths say it … down to fuck.

So this drink may have done exactly what it was meant to, and he and Crowley may have rightfully been its intended targets.

But Aziraphale isn’t about to tell Crowley that.

“What should we do now? Should we lock it away or …?”

“Seems to me there’s only one thing we can do …” Crowley looks the bottle over, gauging the level of the liquid still inside. He grins, the firelight flickering in his eyes, making him look more wicked than Aziraphale has seen him in decades.

And he takes a hefty swallow.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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glorious-blackout · 4 years

Text

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Epilogue

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Aaaaaand it’s over! This is technically more of an optional ending as I suspect you’ll prefer the conclusion to Part Seven, but a certain character would never have forgiven me if I didn’t let him get the last word... 😉

Thank you so much for all of your lovely feedback and sorry for making you wait so long for these last two chapters! And now it’s time for me to finally start listening to Arctic Monkeys/Muse albums that *weren’t* released in 2018 😅🥰

Also I would like to thank Matt for unknowingly writing the perfect end-credits music for me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8tpkpoSW5I

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

*********************************************

A million miles away, on the desolate remains of the planet once known as Earth, a lone observer watches silently as a pair of retreating figures on a cramped TV screen ride off into the unknown.

Surrounding him on all sides are thousands of similar screens, stacked atop each other like building blocks, though for the moment he only has eyes for one. Only a week ago, every single screen was proudly lit up, showcasing the intimate details of his subjects’ mundane lives and thus allowing him to observe with unrelenting scrutiny. Now, however, a worrying proportion of those screens are fizzing with broken static; the worlds they once displayed forever lost from his grasp.

The sight should enrage him, and perhaps one day it will. Every barren screen represents the loss of constant hours of effort and imagination, and as the aftershocks of Matthew’s assault continue to ricochet, he imagines he will lose countless more over the coming weeks. Nevertheless, for the moment he cannot bring himself to mourn the loss of realities which brought him little pleasure in the first place.

Murph, or The Creator, or whichever title he chooses to wear on any particular day, does not consider himself a cruel being. Contrary to the vile accusations his peers have levelled against him, his games are not designed with the intention of torturing the subjects within them. In fact, one could consider his efforts to preserve the collective consciousness of a dying species to be a noble one. Humanity would be nothing more than a distant memory had he not intervened at the opportune moment. And yet, despite his good intentions, acting as a benevolent observer often fails to bring the satisfaction he desires. Sometimes boredom settles deep within his bones and he cannot help but interfere with the idyllic lives his subjects have created for themselves.

And he cannot deny that the thought of these two particular playthings discovering hope which will ultimately be torn away does put a smile on his face.

Most of that satisfaction lies in the prospect of punishing Matthew, though he has no doubt that toying with Alexander’s heart further will provide its own brand of levity. Where bitter vengeance is concerned, however, the former is the one he truly has unfinished business with. That particular human has been a thorn in his side from the very beginning; his knack for slipping into paranoia at any given opportunity had made constructing a believable reality for him an almost insurmountable challenge. The temptation to simply banish the man’s mind into the void had flared up once or twice, but in the end Murph had been somewhat successful. Matthew had bought the truth of his reality with relative ease for the first few years, to the point where any cracks that appeared were easily ironed out with a simple rewrite of code.

Until one day, Murph’s interferences were no longer sufficient to sustain the lie. Matthew’s conviction shattered and his mind with it; without warning, he set about tearing the carefully constructed world around him to shreds and treated his lifelong friends with open hostility. Murph could easily have given him up for lost at that point. Matthew had always been an infuriatingly willful creature – incapable of appreciating Murph’s efforts even after stumbling upon the truth of his feeble existence – and killing him would have been as simple as swatting a fly.

And yet, Murph had allowed him to live. Not out of any form of mercy, heavens no, but because the promise of a challenge was far too compelling. Matthew’s resistance made him special, whether he realised it or not. Most of his subjects were docile creatures; passive participants in a charade they refused to acknowledge. The ones who had come into his care willingly were the worst offenders, having subconsciously convinced themselves that they were caught in a blissful afterlife preferable to the miserable future they would have endured on Earth. Perhaps they’re right, but humans living in quiet contentment have always made for boring viewing. In the form of Matthew, Murph had finally stumbled upon an active participant he could slowly unravel at the seams, and after years of steadily building ennui, the thrill of the chase had been downright intoxicating.

In contrast to Matthew’s blatant rage, Alexander’s resistance had been... unexpected. The strength of it even more so. Murph cannot help but wonder if the sheer force of his suspicion – his feeling of utter wrongness in a place he’d once willingly called home – would have reduced his world to dust even in the absence of Matthew’s influence. Perhaps this shouldn’t have surprised him. For as long as he can remember, he has always had more trouble maintaining the lie when the subjects have been unwillingly brought under his control. The same is true for all species he has salvaged; it is the same factor which no doubt played a role in Matthew’s refusal to accept his own reality. Murph can manipulate their memories all he likes, but the inherent desire to escape their miserable fate is forever latched onto their souls.

The new identity had been an inspired touch in the beginning, keeping Alexander’s naturally insightful tendencies at bay for a while. Mark had been a more amicable creation while still retaining plenty of Alexander’s attributes, and the latter’s imagination had always made his reality one worth visiting. However, the line between the two identities had grown considerably blurred over time. Memories had melded together in ways that no longer made logical sense, and Alexander’s yearnings for home had translated to a bitter exhaustion and loneliness which Mark simply couldn’t overcome.

The fact that everything Murph had built had ultimately been derailed by a bottle of scotch and a friendly conversation was as clear a sign as any that Mark’s world had been hanging by a thread far longer than he had appreciated.

It probably took more effort than it was worth to salvage Alexander’s mind from his dying world and place it in an entirely new one - costing countless other simulations in the process - but he cannot bring himself to regret that decision. It hadn’t seemed fitting to let such promise fizzle out with a mere whimper. Entertainment is a rare commodity in these trying times, and he’s learned to take what he can get.

Matthew has certainly contributed his fair share. Having decided that killing him outright would be a waste, Murph had invested a lot of time in their frantic game of cat and mouse. While his plaything remained confined within the limits of his own reality – a frightfully boring seaside town on England’s coast – Murph had upped the ante by unleashing a horde of mutated creatures, using them as vectors to introduce a virus which reduced the population to rabid monsters driven solely by bloodlust. If Matthew had been particularly shaken by this new development, he’d masked it well. If anything, he seemed to glean a sense of bitter enjoyment out of receiving confirmation that his reality was little more than a façade, and had risen to the unspoken challenge admirably.

Before long it had occurred to Matthew that an absence of limitation placed upon the imagination could also apply to him. He learned not only how to play the game, but how to adapt the rules in his own favour. Murph had quickly come to rue the day he placed Matthew in a technologically inventive time-period, for his opponent had taken advantage at every opportunity; fashioning makeshift weapons and vehicles out of little more than scrap metal and a vast imagination. No particular engineering prowess was necessary. Before long he was summoning technology out of thin air with an ease that almost rivalled Murph’s own.

Even then, Murph had been unconcerned. Despite Matthew managing to slaughter any mutated creature he crossed paths with, the threat he posed to Murph himself seemed so miniscule as to be easily dismissed. At least at that point Matthew had mostly been sticking to the rules. Once the penny dropped that his reality was merely one of thousands in an intricate web, however, he’d accomplished the unimaginable and injected something which might have been fear into Murph’s long-decayed heart. Disbelieving eyes had been glued to the screen as Matthew fashioned a portal from scrap; one which should, by rights, have been unable to accomplish anything of merit. And yet, once its construction was complete, Matthew had stepped into the blinking red void without a trace of fear, smashing his way through the walls of one reality and emerging into another, whole and seemingly unscathed.

Quashing his efforts had become a much greater priority at that point. Treating Matt like a dog-eared chew-toy in his own reality was all well and good, but the man had gained far more intelligence and influence than Murph could tolerate. The prospect that he could potentially infect other realities with his schemes threatened to send Murph’s entire empire crumbling to ash if he wasn’t careful. In the more futuristic settings, he had been able to station guards designed in his own image, with the sole intention of blasting Matthew into atoms if he dared worm his way into their reality, but rather predictably Matt had dodged their attacks with a wry smirk, bending the rules to his will with an expertise that was almost frightening. Despite the seriousness of the man’s objective to track down his loved ones and rescue them from an existence he naively deemed to be diabolical, Murph got the distinct impression that Matthew was enjoying himself far too much. He was still treating his escapades like a game, long after Murph’s own objectives had darkened.

Well, if he insisted on playing dirty, then Murph could resort to that as well.

He’s still proud of his next trick. The brutal reaction it had elicited had been nothing short of delicious. With vivid gratification, he recalls the momentary spark of hope in Matthew’s eyes as his gaze settled upon the avatars of his friends, during a visit to a simulated reality which almost resembled Earth. He remembers the moment his opponent had allowed longing to override logic; remembers the point where all thoughts of the chase were abandoned and, with a cautious smile, Matthew had fooled himself into believing that he’d discovered the true forms of the men he’d loved since he was a teenager.

What must it have felt like to see them again, Murph cannot help but wonder? The Christopher and Dominic of Matthew’s own reality had been dispatched early in their charade, infected and mutated by the same creatures Matthew evaded with relative ease. No doubt the only reason Matthew survived their losses was because he’d already accepted that they were nothing more than sorry substitutes for the real thing. A part of him must have wondered, however, if that was truly the end. If the last association he would ever have of his two best friends would be the sight of them clawing their way towards him in a mindless rage.

The cold mix of terror and heartbreak that crashed upon Matthew once the blatant hatred in the eyes of his friends became crystal clear is an image Murph still treasures. For one bittersweet moment he’d honestly suspected that Matthew would surrender and let fate carry him away, rendering Murph the victor and granting fleeting satisfaction in the aftermath.

Alas, survival instincts had kicked in at the last possible second, and Matthew had fled the scene at a sprint before his familiar assailants could shoot.

The temptation to do the same to Alexander had arisen once or twice, on the occasions where boredom reared its ugly head. It would have been a simple enough task. The avatars for three of his best friends were already buried in the simulation; a simple rewrite of their code would have turned their inherent fondness for Alex into hatred in a heartbeat. He could even have added one additional ghost into the mix, just to twist the knife until the pain would never stop. Alex had never done anything to warrant that level of torture, however. Playing with Matthew’s heart had been entertaining - not to mention earned - whereas playing with Alex’s would have been like kicking a puppy just to see how it would react. Momentarily thrilling, perhaps, but ultimately predictable.

Besides, Matthew had made him pay for his cruelty, albeit not quite as successfully as Murph has led him to believe. His constant hopping from one reality to another had rendered Murph’s creations vulnerable. His brutal smashing through virtual walls left aftershocks in the wake of his adventures, although that in itself was easily fixable. Murph had quickly grown tired of his continued insolence over time. Not so much his continued survival, though he did make a point to send the morphed versions of his friends after him at every given opportunity. However, Matt had an unfortunate habit of forgetting that, in the wake of Murph’s towering influence, he was little more than a cockroach waiting to be squashed underfoot. The lack of respect had forced Murph to step in, to confront this tiny creature and remind him that he was simply an insignificant plaything in the grand scheme of things.

Matthew’s lack of fear when faced with him for the first time had almost been impressive, though Murph had been able to sense his feeble heart racing with adrenaline. The human had stood impassively on a steep cliff-edge while Murph towered over him, revealing his true form for the first time. From a distance Matt must surely have looked like a blot on the horizon and nothing more.

Such a meeting had no doubt been Matt’s intention. Murph allowing himself to become invested in the game rather than erasing Matthew from existence in the first place had been a mistake borne of arrogance, and he now knows it would serve him well not to make the same mistake again. The mind-numbing aftershocks stemming from the moment Matthew powered up a metallic glove and aimed a colossal, fiery beam of energy at his tormenter serve as a bitter reminder that he must learn to be more careful.

Physically the assault had done nothing at all. Even if Matthew’s corporeal body were standing right in front of him at this very moment, any attempt to attack would have the same effect as a mouse trying to destroy a mountain.

The mental assault, however, had been far more powerful than Murph could ever have anticipated.

Perhaps Matthew himself believed the weapon he’d designed was a physical one; he seems willing to accept the possibility that it killed its target after all. What the beam had truly unleashed, however, was a sheer, unrelenting wave of emotion. All of Matthew’s simmering rage and heartbreak had drowned Murph under its weight as his consciousness was overcome by burning sparks of light. All of Matthew’s love for his friends and family - which had become so intertwined with grief during his entrapment - reduced Murph’s mind to a blank haze, and beneath it all the sheer power of hope and determination had shattered the reality they’d both been standing in.

A similar feeling of powerlessness had overcome Murph not long before, when Alexander somehow anticipated Murph’s attempts to erase Matthew from his mind and erected a mental block so formidable that his very reality had trembled. This was different, however. Alex’s attempt had been powerful but clumsy, like batting his arms against an unseen enemy in the dark. In contrast, Matthew’s assault had been the direct attack of a man desperate to burn Murph to the ground without a care in the world for whether he himself survived the aftermath.

Murph had awoken in his nest, surrounded by screens and caught in a daze. In a moment of madness, he’d spared Matthew’s dying mind from the crumbling reality he was trapped within, fashioning a new one in the blink of an eye. One with considerably less tricks and theatrics. One that resembled the home Matt yearned for so desperately, recreating it so convincingly that his insightful mind appears to have taken the bait.

Murph cannot help but wonder if it would have been easier to let Matthew die. Alex too. The latter’s knack for questioning his authority will no doubt prove troublesome, now that he knows to be distrustful of the reality presented to him. For now though, Matthew remains his greatest concern. His mind still aches in the wake of the man’s assault. With each passing second, he can feel more and more worlds fade into nothingness, leaving only static in their wake and claiming the souls of thousands in the process. Losing them all is not a possibility he wants to comprehend. He has not spent enough time on Earth to justify heralding humanity’s extinction so early, and alternative dying planets are harder to come by than one might expect.

He wonders how Matthew would feel if he knew he’d disrupted and destroyed the minds of so many people. People who were once as human as him and Alex, who are now gone without the faintest trace that they ever existed in the first place. People who had no say in their fate, nor any stakes in the game they’ve both been playing for far longer than necessary. Would he be so overwhelmed by guilt that he would no longer be able to function? Would the realisation be the final straw in snapping the man’s mind like a twig once and for all?

Or will he consider those people to be liberated from their prison like the naïve fool that he is?

No doubt Murph will find out the answer to that eventually. This particular ammunition is too valuable to waste.

That can wait until later though. Matthew and Alex still need to be eased gently into believing that their current reality is real; there will be time for twisted revelations and sacrifices later. Besides, regardless of the eventual outcome, Murph can take comfort in knowing that his ultimate victory is inevitable.

He wonders how long it will take for the penny to drop. For those final, fearful memories to return. For the realisation to sink in that, for all their struggles to return to their beloved realm of flesh and bone, they’ve chosen to embark on an endeavor which is entirely futile.

They have no physical bodies to return to. No means of roaming the Earth as living creatures. Any vessels they may have previously inhabited sputtered and died when their minds were pulled from their heads; their bodies buried long ago, having been wept over by the same people they insist on mourning now.

As for their minds? Well, they’ll remain in Murph’s capable hands until the moment he tires of them and blinks them out of existence. No doubt it will be a long while before he’s driven to such extremity, of course. These two are fortunate that they’re as entertaining as they are annoying, and tormenting them further will certainly be one way to pass the time.

As it stands, time is all he has.

So for now, he’ll gladly let them indulge in their fantasy. He’ll construct a small band of survivors five miles from the beach, offering food and shelter and an explanation for their ruined earthen surroundings which somewhat mirrors the truth. He’ll offer campfires and music; will allow pleasant recollections of their previous lives to return to them in the form of dreams. He may even offer whispers of other survivors closer to the city, with descriptions matching the loved ones whose arms they wish so desperately to return to.

There’s no rush. No need to pull the rug from under their feet too early and spoil the fun.

It’s only a game after all.

#honestly i probably should have watched the ST movie before writing this thing #this chapter really was me trying to piece together some semblance of a story from the music videos/gifs #hopefully it's not completely incoherent 😅#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Arctic Monkeys #Muse #my fic #writing

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knittingdreams · 4 years

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Fireheart - Chapter 7

Hello, hello! Time for a new chapter of Fireheart! :) Thank you to everybody that’s been liking, sharing, and leaving lovely comments! Means the world to me! I promise I will make the master list today to be able to find all the chapters easier n_n

CHAPTER 7

Pretending to be a normal teen

Celaena decided on an inconspicuous entrance to the party: jumping over the tall back fence of Dorian’s residential House and landing around an area with few people. She showed up in the backyard as if materializing out of thin air. She knew there was no point sneaking in, and that she could have just used the front door as everybody else did, but she wasn’t like everybody. It was thrilling to do things her own way, and especially to sneak past security without being seen. It was also good practice for a possible future.

Nehemia found her almost instantly, showing up by her side with two red plastic cups in her hands as if she knew she was about to arrive.

“I’ve been looking for you, my friend,” she said happily as she passed her over one of the drinks. “How long have you been here for?”

“Just a little while,” Celaena smiled.

“Dorian’s parties are always the best,” Nehemia replied. “I’ve been here for a while myself,” she said casually as she wrapped an arm around Celaena's shoulders.

Her body went stiff automatically, and she had to make herself relax into the touch. She was so unused to people being nice that she even wondered if all girls treated their friends like that.

“What do people normally do here?” She asked, and noticing Nehemia’s raised eyebrows, she corrected herself. “I mean, are there any particular games you play in Rifthold or anything I need to be aware of to fit in?”

“You’d fit in even if you didn’t want to,” Nehemia replied, sounding almost a little sad. “But no, there’s nothing special here. The bees normally drink a bit and dance, except during the season, when they stop drinking in order to stay in shape, some of them do sometimes indulge in some other… forms of intoxication, but most people here are clean,” she said, looking away from her and into the house.

Celaena looked at Nehemia’s thin brows lowering and wondered why this girl was so worried about those kinds of things. She knew for a fact that drug and alcohol abuse had skyrocketed in the lower levels in the past few years. She knew about it from third-party experiences and things she had seen in dark alleys and dodgy basements. She had seen the effects some of those drugs had on the young kids that spent their nights on the streets, looking for their next fix. She wasn't surprised to hear it had made it to the upper levels too.

“Do you ever… you know?” Celaena asked, being a little more direct than she normally would be.

“No, I hate that shit!” Nehemia snapped as she let go of Celaena’s shoulder and wrapped that same arm around her own torso. Deciding not to push the matter, and feeling a little bad about upsetting the only girl that had tried to befriend her, Celaena decided to get out of her comfort zone to cheer Nehemia up.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go inside and see if there’s any dancing going around.”

Nehemia’s dark eyes lit back up like two opals shining under the moonlight.

“I’d love to dance!” She said happily, drowning the remaining of her drink and tossing the cup into a nearby bin.

If the yard was packed with groups of students talking, drinking, and playing, the inside of the house was even fuller. The furniture from the massive living room had been pushed to the walls, where a few people were lounging on the couches. And in the middle, there was a big dance floor where most of the cheerleaders were dancing, their arms in the air, red plastic cups in their hands.

Nehemia and Celaena joined the throng of girls and the few boys on the made-up dancefloor, swaying to the rhythm of the music. A few eyes darted their way, and after a moment there were guys asking to dance with them. Hands were wrapping around their waists and bodies were brushing against them from all sides. The music, the lights, the faint smell of smoke, it was almost intoxicating; and Celaena felt like she was in the middle of a disco. Even if just for a fraction of a second, she forgot all about her worries, her mission, her secrets, and she let her body get lost to the notes and pulses running through her body.

She was so lost in the music, that she didn’t notice Sam dancing by her side until he wrapped an arm around her waist. She snapped her eyes up to him, and pulled on a playful smile, telling herself it was for the crowd around them.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Cortland?” she whispered in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear her over the music.

Sam put both of his hands in her waist and followed her movements before leaning closer and whispering in her ear.

“Apologizing. And I thought this was the best way to start out a real-life relationship, you know? A way for people to see that we are.. getting to know each other. You won’t be able to avoid me at school anymore,” he said, making her heart leap in annoyance.

“You are unbelievable,” she said to him, not worrying about whispering anymore.

“And you are a fantastic dancer,” he said, loud enough for the few people around them to hear him. He had the biggest smile on his face, a little dimple showing on one side, which melted Celaena’s barriers in an almost imperceptible way.

There was nothing she could do to get away while being in front of so many people, so she kept dancing, pretending that she wasn’t too interested in the guy in front of her. But at the same time, not showing her contained anger through any of her movements.

When the song ended, Dorian approached them, showing up from in between the crowd.

“Could I have the next dance?” he asked, shoving Sam to the side lightly with a shoulder and boring into Celaena’s eyes. Sam huffed, and stood his ground, but didn’t say a thing.

After looking back and forth between them, Celaena fanned herself with a hand and pretended to be exhausted.

“Actually,” she said, “I need a breather, Nehemia?” she asked as she turned around to look for her new acquaintance. “Keen on some fresh air?”

“Sure! Let’s go,” the girl replied as she grabbed her long dreads with both hands and tried to tie them up into a bun on top of her head. “It’s so hot in there,” she said as she pulled a red silk band off her wrist and secured her messy bun with it.

Both girls sat on the grass, their legs stretched forwards as they leaned on their elbows. Celaena’s feelings were jumbled as she realized she really did like the girl sitting next to her, and she hoped for a moment that she was under different circumstances. There was no way she could start a friendship based on so many lies, and this girl didn’t even know her real name to start with.

“Oh, there comes your new team,” Nehemia said, taking her out of her daydream. Only a second later, Lysandra was standing in front of them, a few more cheerleaders trailing behind her.

“Enjoying the party?” The queen bee asked.

“We are,” both of the girls sitting on the grass replied at the same time.

“Just keep your drinking on the down-low,” Lysandra said looking at Celaena. “You should take care of your body.”

“Sure thing, I don’t drink much anyway.” Celaena leaned back further, looking up at the sky.

She knew she was meant to get involved with Adarlan’s cheering bees, but she wasn’t feeling it at the moment. Truth was, she was really enjoying Nehemia's company. And Lysandra sounded cocky and stuck up, and she didn’t want to spend any time with her outside of practice if she could avoid it.

“Sweet,” she heard Lysandra say in a nonchalant tone. “Will see you ‘round.” The queen bee walked away with the rest of the hive trailing behind her. The two following closely behind and holding hands were Thea and Kaya, a clear example that opposites attract each other. Thea’s pale skin contrasted against Kaya’s golden tan, and while the first one had straight ash-blond hair that brushed her tailbone, the second one had dark auburn curls, which barely reached her shoulders. Thea’s eyes were the darkest shade of brown, but they glistened whenever she looked into her partner’s baby blue eyes.

The other two to the back were Briar and Imogen, two sophomores that had made the team during tryouts as well as herself. Briar seemed like a nice girl, with kind blue eyes that popped like bright lights now that her hair was as dark as Nehemias’. Celaena thought it bold that she had dyed her natural ash-blond hair, and she almost liked the girl for showing her bravery like that. Imogen on the other hand was a mystery. She had entered as a base, and the skinny girl surely was strong. What puzzled her the most though, were her midnight eyes that seemed to hide so many secrets; it didn’t help that she rarely smiled.

Celaena watched as they all walked away to the opposite end of the yard, where Lysandra wrapped her arms around Aedion’s neck as the cheers joined the team.

“Keen on some more dancing?” She asked standing up and reaching a hand down to help the girl by her side to her feet.

“I’m always keen on dancing,” Nehemia replied with a huge smile.

The music was still blasting inside, and as soon as they made it through the glass doors, the volume seemed to double. They went straight to the middle of the dance floor, where a few familiar faces were gathered. She could see Dorian in the middle of a big crowd as he danced with a blond girl that she didn’t think she knew. As soon as his eyes found her, he made his way over slowly as he danced with everybody that he ran into.

“You’re back,” he said as he stood close to her, their bodies swaying in unison. “I still owe you that cocktail if you’re keen,” he said with a grin.

“The one with my name on it?” She asked, mindlessly biting her lip.

“Come on,” Dorian said, grabbing her hand and leading them out of the crowd. She brushed Nehemia’s arm on her way towards the kitchen, letting her know she’d be back soon.

As they stepped into the open plan kitchen, Celaena wondered if there was a single room in the house that wasn’t crowded. There was a couple making out in a corner, a few guys standing around the island in the middle trying to figure out how to connect a keg, and a bunch of girls by the doors that led to a deck, their heads together in gossip.

“What does this cocktail have in it?” She asked Dorian as he found an empty space on the bench and started grabbing a few bottles of spirits and looking through them.

“Well, you’ll have to stick around to find out,” he replied with a grin.

He grabbed a tall glass out of a cabinet and filled it up to the brim with crushed ice. Then he signaled for her to stay where she was, and went out of the room, coming back a moment later with a bottle of aged whiskey.

“That looks extremely expensive,” she pointed out.

“It’s from my father’s collection, so yes, it is, but I needed something just like you. Refined, classy, yet a bit… what is the word I’m looking for?”

“Aged? Are you saying I'm old?” Celaena joked.

“No, not aged,” Dorian said, containing his laughter. “Peated,” he concluded.

Celaena raised her eyebrows at him and smirked. Peated wasn’t a bad word to define her, and she wondered how Dorian could have read her so well so quickly. There was definitely a lot of smoke and ash in her inner self. Dorian poured a measure of the whiskey into the glass, and then laughed to himself.

“My father would kill me if he saw me mixing one of his favorite whiskeys with anything at all, but trust me, this beverage is going to be fantastic, and just like you,” he said.

He walked to the fridge and came back with a can of cream soda, making Celaena lift her brows again. It was even her favorite brand. He filled up half the glass, and then added some soda water until the glass was almost full. After that, he added a splash of raspberry syrup, looking up at her he added, “you seem like a raspberry kind of girl, and there’s certainly a kind of sweetness to you.” She bit her tongue not to say anything and had to make a huge effort not to roll her eyes. She was chewing on her bottom lip as Dorian added a dash of fresh lime juice.

“That’s to add some acidity,” he laughed. He added a straw and passed the drink over to her.

She took a small and careful sip as Dorian watched her with attentive eyes. She couldn’t help herself as she pressed her lips together and half-closed her eyes.

“That bad?” Dorian asked.

“No,” she said sarcastically. “It’s… delicious, want some?” She offered him the glass and Dorian tried a sip. He almost spat it out as Celaena started laughing.

“Hey! It’s not that bad!” He said, still laughing while taking a second sip as if trying to prove his point. He struggled to swallow, and Celaena found herself laughing again.

“I need to head over to the bathroom,” she said shyly as their laughter quieted a moment later. “Is there only the one under the stairs where the long queue is?” She asked as she bounced from one foot to the other and pulled on her best pleading eyes.

“I wouldn’t say this to anybody else,” Dorian said as he leaned closer to her, and she knew he had probably used that line another thousand times. “But there’s an on-suite in my bedroom upstairs that you can use, it’s the third door to the right. Just make sure you don’t go looking into my underwear drawer,” he added with a wink. “I can always walk you over too, you know.”

“I’m sure I will find it on my own,” she said as she patted him on the shoulder.

She sneaked between the bodies of half-drunk and completely pissed students that were filling up the halls and made her way to the marble staircase. Once up, she made sure there was no one around before she rushed to the last door at the end of the hall. She tried the handle, but the door was locked. Looking quickly over her shoulder, she pulled a pin from her hair and opened it up. Picking the lock took only five seconds, and she was inside with the door closed behind her before a single soul could see her.

Looking up a room in a blueprint and studying it from security footage was normally enough to give her a clear idea of what to expect and where to look. She went to the computer first and turned it on, the lights blinking to life almost instantly. She pulled a small drive from a hidden pocket in her laced-up boot, and inserted it in the USB port; the program started on its own, and a loading bar showed up on the screen. She had fifteen minutes.

Celaena rushed to the huge window, and peeked through the curtain, making sure there were no eyes looking her way. She hadn’t turned any lights on in the study not to get attention, but you could never be too careful. She looked through the bookcase that covered the whole wall facing south, and the drawers of the desk before checking the time again. Five minutes left. She checked some more drawers and looked through the papers on top of the desk.

She was about to look around the few shelves on the opposite wall when she heard a noise and stopped dead. She looked to the door and saw the knob move. She glanced at the screen: Two minutes left.

Fuck.

Take a guess! Who do you think is about to enter the office? :o

#tog #tog fanfiction #throne of glass #celaena #nehemia #dorian #chapter seven #fireheart

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pikapeppa · 5 years

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Incaensor

Chapter 44 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which Fenris, Hawke, and the whole damn crew face off against Corytits Corypheus. Read on AO3 instead; ~6400 words.

********************

Fenris, Hawke, and their companions set off at a brisk but measured pace for the Valley of Sacred Ashes. As always before a high-stakes battle, Hawke tried to keep things light.

“Let’s play a game, shall we?” she said brightly as they jogged along the snow-covered path. “When we get back to Skyhold, I’ll buy a drink for whoever can come up with the most creative way of killing Corypheus.”

Cassandra shot her a quick frown. “We must deal with his dragon before we can kill him.”

“I will deal with his dragon,” Morrigan said smoothly. “It bears on the rest of you to deal with the magister himself.”

“Exactly,” Hawke said. She flicked Cassandra’s arm as they ran. “So, Cass? How would you finish Corypheus off if it was up to you?”

“This is a serious matter,” Cassandra said severely. “I won’t indulge this game.”

Hawke pouted at her. “You really are like Aveline sometimes. Fine, fine, on to Dorian then. I bet you have some fabulous ideas.”

“I do, in fact,” Dorian said. “I thought it might be nice to start by pulling out each little piece of red lyrium in his body. Humble him a bit by turning him back into a regular-ish sort of fellow before killing him.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Hawke said keenly. “Who’s next?”

“Me!” Sera exclaimed. “I have an idea! Bees in his–”

“–breeches, we know,” Blackwall said patiently.

Sera elbowed him. “Wrong. He doesn’t wear breeches, beardy. I was gonna say bees in his ribs, you know? Shove ‘em right in there and get him all stung and swollen on the inside until he explodes. ‘Boom! Ahh! Oh no, ain’t got any lungs anymore because they’re blown up by bees.’”

There was a general murmur of approval and disgust, and Bull chuckled. “It’s creative. You have to give her that.”

“I dunno, Buttercup,” Varric said. “What if the bees get infected by the red lyrium in his body?”

Sera’s eyes went wide, then narrowed suspiciously. “They couldn’t. You’re having me on.”

Varric grimaced. “They might. Who knows?”

Sera gaped at him, then wrinkled her nose. “Well then, never mind.” She tsked. “Why everything’s always got to be so weird…”

“I have an idea,” Bull said. “Tear him apart into a thousand little pieces. Then we burn the pieces, and we place the ash in a sealed container with some of that acid from those pools out in the Exalted Plains.” He gave Hawke a knowing look. “My idea is the most thorough, little Hawke. You can’t deny that.”

She patted his arm. “That is pretty damned thorough,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at Solas and Cole. “What about you two? Any creative thoughts?”

Fenris glanced at them as well. Cole looked more vacant than ever; it didn’t seem like he was listening at all. Solas, however, answered Hawke’s question. “A discussion of strategy would not go amiss, truthfully,” he said. “Like any powerful mage, Corypheus’s attacks will rain upon us from a distance. If we can–”

“Boring,” Sera complained.

Solas ignored her. “... if we can have our warrior companions to pin him in place and weaken him, our chances will be improved.”

Bull let out another rumbling laugh. “That sounds to me like Solas is agreeing with my strategy. Hack the bastard up into little pieces.”

“I like that strategy, too,” Blackwall said. “The more pieces, the better.”

Varric patted his crossbow. “Bianca wants some action, too. If we’re talking about pinning this guy in place, a few dozen bolts could do the trick.”

“Arrows too!” Sera exclaimed. “Don’t forget arrows!”

Hawke laughed and waved a hand. “All right, all right, I’m loving all of these ideas. But so far I think Dorian’s is my favourite.”

Dorian preened. “Why thank you, Hawke. I surprise even myself with my cleverness at times.”

Bull reached over and pulled him close. “Could’ve fooled me, big guy. You’re always going on about how clever you are.”

Dorian huffed and tried half-heartedly to push Bull’s arm away. “I am not. How dare you slander me so? And don’t you wrinkle my clothes, or I’ll make you pay.”

Bull let out a dirty laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly. “I have had a thought. It would be nicely ironic if we could feed Corypheus to his own dragon. I know it is not possible, but…”

Hawke gaped at her in delight, and Varric whistled. “Damn, Seeker. I think that’s the best suggestion yet.”

“It absolutely is,” Hawke marvelled. “That poetic justice, though? Beautiful. All right, Cass, I’m buying you a drink when we get back to Skyhold.”

An uproar of laughter and protests ensued, and Fenris listened to their carry-on with a vague mixture of amusement and anxiety. He was thankful to Hawke for keeping everyone’s spirits up; this was, after all, one of her finest skills: putting a humorous spin on a terrible situation. As much as Fenris wanted to enjoy the banter, however, he couldn’t help but worry about what was to come. The Breach was open again, and if Corypheus turned the power of that blasted orb on all of them…

Eventually they reached the rubble that was once the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was even more grim than when Fenris had first come here with Cassandra and Varric and Solas: only the bare bones of the building still stood, and the red lyrium veins that were semi-dormant a year ago had shoved their way out of the ground in huge malevolent crystalline spikes.

A handful of Inquisition scouts were valiantly trying to fend off a pack of howling demons. Twenty paces away on a platform at the mouth of a crumbling doorway, Corypheus stood with his cursed elven orb hovering over his hand.

Fenris curled his lip in anger, then phased toward the nearest demon and materialized inside of it, blasting it apart in a cloud of ichor and scales. He looked up at Corypheus and hauled his sword from his back. “Enough,” he barked. “Come and face your death, mage.”

Corypheus let out a sinister laugh. “I knew you would come,” he said. He offered Fenris a mocking bow, then twisted his hand beneath the hovering orb.

A spike of discomfort pulsed through Fenris’s left palm. Then the ground beneath them shuddered, and with an ear-splitting groan of cracking earth and tearing trees, the remains of the temple rose into the air.

They all stumbled to keep their balance. “Maker save us,” Cassandra breathed. “How…?”

Hawke clicked her tongue and glanced tentatively over the edge of the hovering landmass they were now standing upon. “Well, this is going to make it awfully obnoxious to get home when this is all over,” she drawled.

Fenris glared at Corypheus; the magister was looking more supercilious than ever. “You have been most successful in foiling my plans,” Corypheus said. “But let us not forget what you are: a thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat.” He raised his arms grandly. “We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

Fenris sneered. “You are no god, and neither am I. The only thing we will prove here is whose life will be forfeit.”

“Yeah,” Hawke added belligerently. “And it’s not going to be Fenris’s.”

Corypheus let out another smug laugh. “Ah, the blood that attempted to bind me,” he taunted her. “Such mortal hubris you showed. You could not kill me then, and you shall not kill me now. I will be crowned a god over your bloodless corpse.”

“Try it, maleficar,” Fenris snarled. “I will tear the blighted lyrium from your flesh shard by shard until you crumble into the dust that you should have become a thousand years ago.”

“Hey,” Dorian protested. “That was my idea.”

From behind Corypheus, there was an enormous crunching sound, like the sound of a very heavy footstep. Another crunch ensued, then another, and then Corypheus’s dragon appeared over the top of the crumbling skeleton of the building.

They all took an instinctive step back, and Bull whistled. “Vashedan, that thing is huge.”

“Not the time to be admiring it, Tiny,” Varric said tensely.

Fenris watched the dragon warily. Its eyes were fixed on him, and there was already a fulminating crimson ball of energy writhing between its teeth. It wiggled its haunches like a cat about to pounce, and–

An enormous dragon with violet scales soared overhead and slammed into Corypheus’s dragon with an ear-splitting screech.

Corypheus whipped around in alarm, and Hawke whooped and punched the air with her fist. “Get it, Morrigan! Yes!”

Corypheus turned back to them with a snarl of rage. “You dare?” he hissed.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “And so we fight,” he said. With Hawke’s warm barrier on his shoulders and his greatsword in his hands, he phased toward Corypheus.

Blackwall and Cassandra began to run toward Corypheus as well. Fenris swung his sword at the backs of Corypheus’s knees, but before the strike could land, Corypheus phased out of his reach.

Venhedis, Fenris thought angrily. He’d forgotten that Corypheus seemed to have the same Fade-stepping ability that he and Cole – and apparently Solas – all had.

Corypheus waved at his orb again. A small pair of rifts appeared, and demons began falling through.

“Bull,” Fenris barked, but Bull quickly waved a hand in acknowledgement; he, Varric, Sera and Solas were already attacking the demons.

Another teeth-rattling dragon shriek rent the air, and Fenris looked up. Morrigan and the false archdemon were flailing and ripping at each other as they sailed through the grey and fractured sky.

Fenris dragged a hand through his hair and tried to think. He needed to close those small rifts before more demons came through, and they needed to distract Corypheus to stop him from opening more rifts, since each one he opened would only widen the Breach. But they couldn’t outright kill Corypheus until his dragon was dead.

He looked around. “Cole,” he barked.

Cole appeared at his side. “I’m ready to help,” he said.

“Good,” Fenris said brusquely. “Follow Corypheus as he moves across the Fade. Antagonize him as much as you can. Keep him busy.”

Cole nodded, then disappeared and reappeared behind Corypheus, who snarled and swatted at him before spitting diatribe at Blackwall and Cassandra. Fenris then ran toward his companions at the rifts.

He flung his left hand toward the nearest rift and pulled, dragging the edges of the rift together until it closed with its customary thwomp of pressure. He phased through a demon toward the second rift, then closed that one as well before turning to Solas.

“You are familiar with the properties of the orb,” he panted.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Solas replied.

Fenris nodded briskly. “Can you quell its power? Dampen it so Corypheus can’t tear the Breach wider?”

Solas bowed his head. “I will do my best.”

Fenris turned to the others. “Bull, Sera, Dorian: keep an eye for demons. Varric, focus on Corypheus. I forgot that he phases,” he gritted.

Varric patted his elbow. “Don’t worry about it, elf. Bianca and I will keep him busy.” He turned toward Corpheus and started loading his crossbow.

Fenris turned to Hawke. “You–”

“I’ll stay with you,” she said.

He hesitated. This was what he wanted; he wanted Hawke by his side, protecting him and keeping him safe as she always did. But she was the only healer they had, and if she was farther back from Corypheus, she might be safer…

He shook his head. “You need to spread your attention. Keep an eye on everyone as best you can. Defenses and healing,” he insisted as her eyebrows rose in protest. “We’ll need you–”

“I’m putting barriers on you first,” she interrupted. “Don’t even try and talk me out of it. That’s what’s happening.”

He glared at her stubbornly lifted chin, but Solas’s calm voice broke in. “Your life is tantamount, Fenris,” he said. “Only you can close the Breach. We are all well-served if Hawke protects you above everything else.”

“She’s going to do it anyway, elf,” Varric said over his shoulder. “Better let it just happen.”

Fenris dragged a frustrated hand through his hair, then gripped Hawke’s arm. “Remember what we talked about,” he said urgently. “Don’t–”

Sera suddenly shrieked and leapt into Bull’s arms, and they all looked up in alarm. A spiky array of red lyrium crystals as tall as Fenris’s waist had just appeared in the place where Sera had been standing.

“Move,” Fenris barked, and they all ran away from the red lyrium crystals that Corypheus had thrown their way.

“Almost got me, that did!” Sera exclaimed. She rubbed her arms and shivered as they ran toward Corypheus and the others. “I hate this stuff. Gems are for stealing, not for stabbing through the ground at people!”

Fenris didn’t reply. Frustration and impatience and – yes, a little fear – were pulsing through his blood. Without further ado, he phased toward the magister and lashed at him with a pulse of lyrium-powered energy and a roar of rage.

The ensuing fight was chaotic and frustrating and tiring. Corypheus kept jumping across the battlefield to higher ground, forcing Bull and Blackwall and Cassandra to run after him. Despite Solas’s efforts to stabilize the orb, Corypheus managed to open another rift, thus drawing Bull and Dorian and Sera’s efforts. All the while, Corypheus continued to pontificate at them in a loud ringing voice.

“You will fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will,” he shouted. “You dare to touch an avatar of divinity?” He sneered at Fenris. “Look at you, wearing slave markings on your face with pride. You are nothing. A race of snivelling cowards that shrank before Tevinter power!”

“Slave markings?” Hawke panted. She threw a barrier over Bull and raised an eyebrow at Fenris. “Is he talking about your lyrium marks? Why would he think you’re proud of those?”

Kaffas, Fenris thought. With everything that had been happening with Solas and Morrigan, he’d forgotten to tell Hawke about the grim origin of vallaslin.

But there was no time. Overhead, a terrible and mind-numbing shriek tore through the air, forcing Fenris to cover his ears. The dragons were still clawing and snapping at each other, dripping blood and ichor through the air. But Corypheus’s dragon was faltering. One of its wings was clearly broken, and it was swiftly losing height.

As Fenris watched, Morrigan peeled away from her foe, then rose swiftly in a nearly-vertical trajectory through the air before wheeling around and diving at the dying fake-archdemon. Her claws sank into its belly and her teeth sank into its neck, and it let out a terrible agonized screech.

“No!” Corypheus bellowed.

Hawke, Bull, and Sera all cheered, but Fenris was alarmed. As Morrigan was driving the dragon down, he’d noticed the open gash in her draconic side – a gash so wide and deep that he could see her ribs.

“Hawke,” he said sharply.

She looked at him with a smile, but her face fell as she met his eye. “What’s wrong?” she said urgently.

“Morrigan is injured,” he said. “Her side–”

There was an enormous, ground-shaking thud as the two dragons slammed into the cracked paving stones a hundred paces away. A moment later, the violet-scaled dragon melted back into Morrigan’s human form – a completely still and unmoving form.

“Morrigan!” Hawke gasped. “Shit. I’ll be back.” She ran off.

“Fenris,” Blackwall shouted.

He looked up. Blackwall was standing with Solas, Bull and Cole, and they were looking up at Corypheus, who had phased to a higher level of the crumbled temple. A thin stream of glittering light was streaming from the dead archdemon’s body back to undead magister.

Corypheus doubled over as the light sank back into his malformed body, then straightened with a snarl and pointed at Fenris. “It ends here,” he shouted, then raised his arms again. “Let the skies boil. Let the world be rent asunder!”

The ground was shaking again. Boulders and rubble were starting to float. As Fenris watched in horror, cracks began to appear in the ground around the structure where Corypheus was standing.

He looked desperately over at Hawke. Sera was crouching beside her, and Hawke was cradling Morrigan’s pale cheek while holding her glowing green palm over Morrigan’s still-bleeding side.

He stared at Hawke’s precious dark-haired head for an agonized second. Then he turned to Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian, who were clustered around him. “Let’s go,” he told them. “We have to pursue Corypheus.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re leaving Hawke here?” he said.

“She’s not going to like that,” Varric warned.

“I know,” Fenris said brusquely. He glanced at Hawke again; she was pouring healing magic into Morrigan’s side with both hands now. If he pulled her away from Morrigan’s side now, Morrigan would likely die.

And if Hawke stayed with Morrigan, she would be safely out of Corypheus’s reach.

Fenris swallowed hard, then turned to Cassandra. “Stay with her,” he said. “Guard her while she works.”

Cassandra nodded, but Varric folded his arms. “Fenris,” he said warningly. “She’s going to be pissed.”

“I know that,” Fenris snapped. “But we don’t have time to wait for her. We must catch Corypheus before–”

“Fenris!” Solas shouted.

His voice was a commanding snap. Fenris looked up just in time to see the cracked ground starting to split in two.

Kaffas, he thought. He needed to be on the other side of that crack. If he was here and the others were stuck with Corypheus, with no way to stop the magister from widening the Breach…

He turned to Cassandra. “Go,” he commanded. “Tell Hawke that Varric and Dorian are guarding me. It will put her mind at ease.”

“Inquisitor,” she said with a brisk nod, and she bolted off toward Hawke and Sera.

Fenris turned to Varric and Dorian. “Let’s run,” he shouted, and they took off toward the rest of the group at a sprint.

The ground was shuddering beneath Fenris’s bare feet, and his aching heart was pounding out a frenzied tattoo in his ears. The closer they got to the fissure in the ground, the wider it seemed to yawn, and – venhedis, if it got any wider, they might not be able to clear the jump…

He glanced at Varric. “Will we need to toss you across the gap?” he gasped.

“I’ll shoot you if you try,” Varric yelled back. Together, the three of them flung themselves across the crevasse.

Dorian landed on the other side with his usual grace. Fenris slipped slightly before righting himself, and Varric managed to catch the edge of the crevice with both hands before the ground split off and rose higher into the air.

Fenris and Dorian hastily grabbed Varric’s arms and hauled him onto the ledge, and the three of them sat in a heap on the ground for a moment as they caught their breath. Then Dorian spoke in a tired voice. “Fenris, is it just me, or is it extremely flattering that you’re using me as a defense against your wife’s future wrath?”

Fenris grunted and pushed himself to his feet. “As always, Dorian, vishante kaffas.”

“I’m quite serious,” Dorian said. He used Varric’s shoulder to pull himself upright. “I do think this means you count me as close a friend as Varric.”

Varric snorted, and Fenris shot Dorian an exasperated look. “Maybe you can fish for compliments later. Right now, we should–”

“Fenris!”

It was Hawke. Her voice was faint from the distance but sharp with fear, and an instinctive vice of longing seized his heart.

He looked over the edge and down at the platform where he’d left her. She was kneeling still beside an unconscious Morrigan and Cassandra had a hand on her shoulder, but Fenris could only stare at her face, which was twisted with distress.

“I love you, you fucking asshole,” she yelled.

His eyes burned with a sudden sting of tears. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but he couldn’t shout anything back, because his heart was lodged in his throat.

No, that wasn’t true. His heart wasn’t in his throat. It was down on the platform below and staring up at him with shining copper eyes.

He swallowed hard, then leaned away from the edge and turned to Dorian and Varric. “Let’s catch up to the others,” he said gruffly. He pretended not to hear the thickness in his own voice, and he was grateful when Dorian and Varric ignored it too.

They dodged more floating boulders as they ran up the cracked stairs toward Corypheus. The others were already battling with the cursed magister: Cole was flitting around him with his daggers in hand, and Bull and Blackwall were swinging and charging at him valiantly despite his phasing. Solas, meanwhile, had one glowing hand outstretched toward the orb and was throwing bursts of raw Fade magic at Corypheus with the other.

Corypheus caught sight of Fenris, and his grotesque face twisted into a mask of rage. He made a brisk pulling motion with his right hand, dragging the orb out of Solas’s range, then thrust his left hand at Fenris.

“Shit!” Varric yelled, and all three of them threw themselves aside just as a fresh array of red lyrium spikes appeared in the place where they’d been standing.

Fenris shoved himself to his feet. He was vaguely aware of Dorian’s vibrating barrier dropping over his shoulders before he lit his lyrium scars to life and phased toward the blighted magister.

Without thinking, he swung his sword straight at Corypheus’s ribs. The blade glanced off of the red lyrium spikes with a resonant clang.

Venhedis, Fenris thought furiously, and Corypheus laughed. “For months you have spoiled my plans. For months you have tried to stop me. And what have you learned? Nothing. For my will is the will of a god, and I will not be broken!” He clenched his fists, and a violent red glow began to build around them. A second later, he lashed his fists in a wild gesture, and a flare of ugly red energy lit the entire battlefield.

There were exclamations of pain from Cole and Blackwall, who were too close to Corypheus to dodge the attack, but everyone else was shielded by Dorian or Solas’s barriers. When the burst of energy died away, Blackwall stumbled toward Cole and thrust an elfroot potion at him. “Take that, boy,” he gasped. “Step back–”

Corypheus thrust his hand at Blackwall, and Blackwall hastily lifted his shield to block a volley of red lyrium crystals. He looked over at Fenris. “What’s our strategy?” he shouted.

Fenris knew what to do. The strategy he would use had worked with Meredith and with Samson, and he could only pray to the Maker or to Mythal or to whatever damned gods were out there that it would work with Corypheus too. But this time he was doing it without Hawke’s support…

He glanced at his lyrium tattoos – the tattoos carrying his magic – and took a deep breath. “I’ll weaken him,” he called to Blackwall. “Get the others ready.”

Blackwall nodded, and Fenris strode confidently toward Corypheus. “Your power is nothing compared to mine,” he taunted. He held up his verdant left hand. “You couldn’t take this from me at Haven, and you cannot take it now.”

Corypheus swelled with rage, and just as Fenris had hoped, he launched into a dogmatic speech. “You think that wretched mark will save you from my will? You think that you can save yourself or your people from the glory of a god? You are nothing, rattus,” he spat. “An insignificant mistake. A creature barely more than an ant on the ground...”

While Corypheus ranted, Fenris collected his energy and mentally pressed it toward the lyrium that lined his palms. Then, without any warning, he flung both his hands in Corypheus’s direction.

An enormous flare of magic – both from the lyrium marks and the Fade – surged from his hands toward Corypheus’s crystal-studded body. Corypheus let out an inhuman screech, and Fenris gritted his teeth as he shoved every ounce of his focus through his hands and into Corypheus’s wretched corpse.

An interminable, exhausting minute later, Corypheus fell to his knees, and Fenris fell as well. Then Blackwall, Bull, Cole, Dorian, and Solas were all attacking Corypheus in concert.

Fenris lifted his head and watched them blearily. He was exhausted already, not unlike how he’d felt at the Temple of Mythal, and he knew what Hawke would say if she were here: that he couldn’t use his marks anymore, not until he was feeling stronger.

Varric skidded into place beside him. “Fenris,” he said urgently. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes,” Fenris rasped. He pulled a bottle of elfroot from his belt with shaking hands. “Attack the magister. We need to finish him.”

“You got it,” Varric said. Without leaving Fenris’s side, he pulled Bianca out and began shooting volley after volley of bolts at the undead magister.

Fenris gulped the elfroot, then took a few slow breaths as he watched the fight. Corypheus was still screaming diatribe and flinging magic with his skeletal arms, but he was clearly taking real damage now: he was hunched over from his injuries and cowering from Blackwall and Bull’s forceful strikes.

“Not like this!” he squawked. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages…” He dragged the glowing red orb toward his body, then phased away from them to the top of another set of stairs.

Fenris wilted in exasperation. “Fasta vass. Will he never cease?” he complained. He rose to his feet with effort, and despite the warnings that he knew Hawke would hiss at him if she were here, he phased toward Corypheus.

He made a clumsy landing ten paces from the undead magister. The ground heaved and cracked once more, and Fenris toppled to his hands and knees. When he finally stood up, it was to find himself on yet another levitating chunk of land with only Solas, Cole, and Corypheus for company.

“Dumat!” Corypheus cried. “Ancient ones, I beseech you! If you exist – if you ever truly existed – aid me now!”

Fenris turned to face him. His red lyrium crystals were alight, and so were his eyes and the orb that he was clearly struggling to contain in his hands.

The orb. The blasted fucking orb. It was the source of Corypheus’s power, and the source of the Breach. If Fenris took it away from him…

He gritted his teeth. Then, ignoring his throbbing head and his watery-feeling limbs, he pushed past Solas and Cole and stumbled toward the magister, then reached for the orb and pulled.

The orb snapped out of Corypheus’s grip and into Fenris’s palm, and Fenris gasped. All of his exhaustion was suddenly gone, wiped away in an instant as the energy of the orb surged hummed through his skin and his blood. It felt almost as though the orb had been waiting to be reunited with the anchor on his hand.

Without another second’s hesitation, Fenris thrust the orb toward the Breach in the sky.

Light. Light and power and energy and heat surged through him, swelling in his muscles and his belly and his mouth, and he shuddered as it poured through the orb and up into the sky. Seconds later, seconds which felt like hours, the entire sky pulsed with another blinding surge of light.

The light was white this time. As the light softened from a blinding glare to a gentle glow, Fenris’s left arm dropped to his side as though a marionette string had been cut, and the orb fell from his fingers and hit the ground with a solid and resonant thunk.

All around them, the hovering pillars and rubble and boulders began crashing to the ground. The ground itself jolted, then began to sink back down as Corypheus’s vile magic faltered.

Fenris ignored it all and stepped toward Corypheus. The anchor was snapping and flickering on his palm, but for the first time, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. It felt like a warm and gentle buzz that rippled all the way through his skin from his toes up to his chin, and he focused on the vibration as he approached Corypheus’s hunched and misshapen form.

Corypheus slowly lifted his head. “Incaensor,” he spat.

Fenris didn’t reply. He had nothing to say to the ancient magister. Without any preamble or ceremony, he sank his flickering left fist into Corypheus’s chest.

Corypheus’s face slackened with shock. With no small amount of satisfaction, Fenris twisted his wrist and opened a Fade rift inside of Corypheus’s ribcage.

The magister’s misshapen mouth yawned wide with agony, but no sound came out: Corypheus couldn’t scream, because his lungs were obliterated and his jaw was torn away. He couldn’t move, for the rift was twisting and tearing his limbs into countless shards of flesh. Fenris gritted his teeth and poured the orb’s magic into Corypheus’s swiftly-disintegrating body, and when the rift closed with a peaceful pop, the only remaining piece of flesh in Fenris’s hand was Corypheus’s bloodstained heart.

Fenris looked at the heart with distaste, then crushed it into pulp and dropped it on the ground.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Cole said.

Fenris turned. Cole was watching him with a tiny vacant smile, but Solas was crouching beside the orb.

It was broken; shattered, it seemed, by a falling piece of debris. As Fenris drew closer to Solas, the elven mage lifted one of the broken pieces and ran his thumb along the jagged edge.

“It is lost,” Solas said quietly.

Fenris folded his arms. “Good. Its power can never again be used for evil purposes.”

Solas looked up at him, and Fenris regarded him with some surprise; he had expected Solas to frown or to lecture him about his reluctance to preserve a valuable magical artifact. But Solas’s expression was utterly despondent.

Fenris unfolded his arms. “You know more about this orb, don’t you? You know where it came from.”

Solas replaced the orb on the ground and slowly rose to his feet, and Fenris took a step toward him. “It’s Mythal’s, isn’t it?” he demanded. “The orb belonged to Mythal, and you knew it. That’s why you were so strange about the Well of Sorrows.”

Solas‘s gaze was still on the broken orb. “It was not supposed to happen this way,” he said softly.

“What wasn’t?” Fenris snapped. “Tell me what you know of this!”

Solas bowed his head, then looked at Fenris once more. “No matter what comes, I want you to know: you and Hawke shall always have my respect.”

Fenris stared at him. “What does that mean?” he said in frustration. “Do you know something we don’t? Solas, if you–”

“Fenris?”

Hawke’s distant shout instantly snared his attention. He whipped around, then ran toward the sound of her voice.

“Fenris!” she yelled. “Fenris, if you’re hurt, so help me, I will fucking kill you.”

Her voice was pitched high with tension, and guilt kicked his heart into a rapid beat. He skidded through a crumbling archway and stopped at the top of a flight of stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hawke was standing with the rest of their party, including a pale but healthy-looking Morrigan.

“Fenris!” Hawke screamed. She bolted up the stairs.

He pelted toward her. When he was halfway down the stairs, Hawke launched herself at him and flung her arms around his neck.

He stumbled back at the impact, then tripped on the steps and fell onto his butt with an oomph, and Hawke crawled haphazardly onto his lap. “Are you hurt?” she demanded. She patted his face and squeezed his arms, and her wild-eyed gaze darted across his armoured chest. “Any wounds? Bruises? If he fucking touched you, I’ll… Fenris, I’ll–”

“I’m fine,” Fenris told her. He slid his hands around her waist. “It is done, Hawke. He’s dead. It’s over.”

She heaved a huge sigh and patted his face again. “Thank fuck,” she breathed. “Thank fuck. I was so…” She took a deep breath, then kissed him firmly before burying her face against his neck.

She was shaking. Fenris wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her hard, and her breath against his neck sent a ripple of warmth into his chest. Now that Hawke was safely in his arms, Fenris could allow himself to relax a little bit.

A moment later, she leaned back and smacked his chest. “You asshole,” she said, and she smacked his chest again. “You left me behind! You – you fucking left me behind?”

The anxiety in her face was twisting into disbelief, and Fenris gazed at her in resignation. “There wasn’t time,” he said. “The ground was breaking apart. I had to pursue him. There was no choice, Hawke.” His defense was true, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty, particularly when her cheeks started reddening with anger.

“You went without telling me,” she accused. “You fucking left without telling me, and y-you didn’t even kiss me for luck…”

A tear tracked down her face. Fenris swallowed the lump in his throat and he reached up to wipe it away, but she gently pushed his hand aside and wiped her own cheeks.

She arranged her face into a smile and slid off of his lap. “You know what, it’s fine. What matters is that Corytits is dead. He’s dead! He’s…” She trailed off as Fenris stood up and stared at him with widening eyes. “It’s over,” she breathed. “Holy shit. It’s… it’s over.”

He gazed at her with some trepidation. An incredulous smile was lifting her cheeks, but he didn’t believe she would let him off the hook that easily for leaving her behind.

She let out a bright little laugh and kissed his cheek. Then Morrigan’s dry voice drifted up the stairs. “Victorious, I see. What a novel result.” She folded her arms and looked up at the sky. “And it seems the Breach is finally closed.”

Fenris looked up as well. The late evening sky was laced with a shimmering aurora of white light, like a rippling scar left by the magic that had attempted to tear it apart.

He let out a heavy sigh. Victory, he thought. Yes, this was a victory: their mortal foe was dead, and the sky was no longer at risk of being torn apart. But somehow, it didn’t feel real. This goal that they’d been pushing toward for a year had finally been achieved, and with more success and fewer casualties than Fenris could have hoped. But it just didn’t feel… real.

He and Hawke descended the stairs to join the others. They were all smiling at him, and as he and Hawke drew level with them, Varric folded his arms and grinned. “So? You gonna give us the official Inquisition verdict?”

Fenris nodded. “Corypheus is dead. I, er… I opened a rift inside of his chest and tore out his heart.”

Sera let out a mad cackle of glee, and the others oohed with varying degrees of disgust and appreciation. Varric turned to face them all and gestured grandly at Fenris. “Ladies and gentlemen, your Inquisitor doing what he does best: tearing corrupt magisters apart one organ at a time.”

There was a ripple of laughter and applause from the group, and Fenris awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Thank you, Varric. I think.”

Then Cassandra spoke up. “What do we do now?”

Fenris looked at her. Her smile was broad and her eyes were wide with wonder and pride, and as Fenris gazed at his companions, he realized that they were all watching him with the same degree of excitement and… and expectation. Bull, Blackwall, Sera, Dorian… even Varric was looking at him like he was waiting for Fenris to tell them what to do next.

A heavy sort of resignation settled in his belly. He ignored it and mustered a smile, then borrowed a page from Hawke’s book. “Drinks at Skyhold, on the Inquisitor,” he announced.

“You mean on Lady Montilyet,” Blackwall called out.

Fenris smirked. “Of course that is what I mean. Did you think they were paying me for this job?”

They all laughed and murmured their approval, and to Fenris’s relief, they turned away from him and started making their leisurely way back to Skyhold. Dorian and Varric began a spirited retelling to Morrigan and Cassandra about their part in the fight, and Sera started loudly telling Blackwall and Bull exactly how many pies she was going to eat when they returned to Skyhold.

Fenris listened to their cheerful talk with a dull sort of wistfulness. Then Hawke took his hand.

He looked down at her and admired her lovely smile – a smile that he knew was hiding her tamped-down anger. And for a brief moment, Fenris allowed himself to pretend that this was the end of it: this was the end of this war, and the end of the struggles and the unwanted decisions that he would be forced to make.

For a brief moment, Fenris allowed himself to pretend that things could be simple.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes

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lumiolivier · 5 years

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Fan Fiction Master Post (and Where to Find Them):

Hello, Internet. It’s been about a year and a half since I last updated my master post and it’d be nice for you to pass this one around instead of the others. And so much has happened since the last list! I finally jumped on the Ao3 train! This list has got everybody here. If you got nothing better to do and need a little fic to put on the wounds life has dealt you (or if you’re a little bit of a masochist and want something that’ll tear your soul to shreds), then pick a link and indulge yourself, K? Like last time, this list is organized alphabetically by fandom and chronologically, if there’s a series. You’ll see what I mean. Enjoy!

** indicates a story in progress as of the time of posting this list.

Attack on Titan:

Classified Files: Ackerman, Levi

AU Crack! Hanji needs a favor from Levi, but there's no way Levi would be so willing. That's what she has Eren for! But...Well...Why can't Hanji's experiments ever go right?

Black Butler:

Just a Simple Interview, Right?

1 of 4. What starts out as just an interview with 19 year old earl Ciel Phantomhive for the paper turns into a little more than that a young reporter bargains for when she meets his enigmatic, yet beautiful butler. (Mostly T rated with some lemon chapters)

His Strange Little Girl and Her Butler, the Enigma

2 of 4. She had her interview, but gained a few new friends and one very, very special butler. Now, she has her beautiful demon husband for the rest of eternity. But when the honeymoon’s over…is it really over? Of course not. We can’t have anything simple, can we? (Also T rated with a few lemon chapters.)

You, Me, and Cambion Makes Three

3 of 4. The Michaelis family has grown by one. The young lord has finally married Lady Elizabeth. So, what comes next? A little catastrophe, perhaps? (Yet again, T rated with a few lemon chapters.)

Her Butler, One Last Time

4 of 4. So blissfully living as a magazine contributor in modern day New York City. Until she meets her new landlord…or her demon husband from a past life?

Peace, Love, Unity, Respect

(Mini-series) She’s graduated college. Her boyfriend dumps her. Her roommates find a way to cheer her up. But for whatever reason, she’s feeling a little desperate. Especially when the DJ keeps giving her looks. He feels like he’s seen her somewhere before…

Crossovers:

Trouble Comes in Threes

(Hetalia x Fruits Basket) Francis, Gilbert, and Antonio could get anyone they want. They're beautiful, they're young, and the whole school knows it. But...They've had it all and grow bored. Even traveling outside city limits wouldn't prove to be any sort of challenge. But after a mess of a party, it appears Yao and Kiku's family tree is extending its roots when their cousins relocate. They couldn't stay at the Sohma house forever.

A New Hacker Has Entered the Chat**

(DRAMAtical Murder x Mystic Messenger) The RFA is usually pretty airtight when it comes to their information. Although, when their systems end up getting hacked, Seven and MC put their heads together to figure out who did it and why their source is coming from two different places.

DRAMAtical Murder:

His Angel Bunny

When Angel goes into work on her day off, she just wants to throw her head against the wall. Until she sees a cute boy with a face full of metal and a heart full of sadness. She had to do something about it. Little did she know, that would lead to the greatest domino effect adventure of her life.

About Time

Just a quick one-shot of Koujaku doing a HUGE favor to humanity. Thank you, Koujaku, for your bravery and your services.

Death Note:

Lawliet

Ever wonder how L happened? The name? The person? The little boy behind it all…? (child!Lx parental!Reader going into the Kira investigation)

Fairy Tail:

The Princess and the Dragon

(AU) She wants to be where the wizards are. However, her father has other plans for her. Stay out of the books, Lucy! You don’t need to practice magic! How do you expect to further the bloodline if you don’t meet anyone?

The Siren’s Song

(AU) Beware a frozen heart desperate for warmth...What a load of garbage...Right?

The Knight in Shining Armor (At the time of me posting this, the last chapter is going out this week)

(AU) Erza's flashbacks to the days before she joined the guild kept getting worse and worse. Master Makarov couldn't stand to see one of the strongest members of the guild falling apart like that, so a special job for a special S-Class wizard should be enough to snap her out of it. Especially when that job is for the Fiore royal family.

Fullmetal Alchemist:

Halfmetal Heart

Edward and Winry’s precocious daughter Tricia has picked up the family trade, but when she goes to apply for her state certification, something wonderful catches her eye…

Don’t Forget

Their house used to be a pile of ash, but now, it’s a home as Edward and Alphonse reflect on the day it burned. One-shot

Happy Birthday, Sir

Today marks a very special day in Amestris. It’s the Fuhrer’s birthday! And his wife has a little something, something planned for him, but can Mustang let it be a surprise? One-shot. Partially goes off the Halfmetal Heart canon

The Spark and the Sparrow

Just some young Royai fluff about a thunderstorm that happened at Master Hawkeye’s house. One-shot

Hetalia:

Candy From Strangers**

Amelia's boyfriend is a jerk. No matter how anyone looks at it, he's a straight up jerk. One night, things got a bit out of hand and...Well...He's her ex-boyfriend now. A broken plate to the cheek does that. But a kind hearted stranger in the park was more than ok with fixing up more than the deep cut on her cheek.

Draw a Circle

France stumbles on a mysterious naked woman and can't keep her to himself, so he consults his good friend Britain. Who is she? And where did she come from?

The Legend of Zelda:

Courageous Duality

Five years after the Kokiri Village has been burned by the Gerudo King’s newest apprentice, Link gathers the intestinal fortitude to go back and pay his respects to his old home. Until he finds his true destiny deep within the Lost Woods. Takes place after Ocarina of Time

MCU:

Kilgrave’s Good Little Girl

Who better to bring in a murderous psychopath than a murderous psychopath? (Reader)

Mystic Messenger:

Mistake Messenger

A one-shot collection of alternate routes for Mystic Messenger ranging from sweet and fluffy to naughty and depraved. MC x EVERYONE.

Man’s Best Intern

(AU) Poor Jaehee. Overworked. Underpaid. Under appreciated. Luckily, with the newest C&R intern, anything is possible. Although, when Mr. Han takes a particular shine to her, Jaehee’s workload may be doubled even more.

The Number Next Door**

(AU) MC has finally gotten the opportunity to move into the apartment building of her dreams. After years of clawing her way up with her design blog, things have finally fallen into place for her. That is, until she learns her next door neighbor likes to blast meme music at 1AM.

Regularly Scheduled Programming

(One-shot) Saeran and MC indulge themselves with one night a week for garbage TV. Although, sometimes, we can't always get what we want.

Ouran High School Host Club:

Kiss, Kiss

1 of 3. You’re starting at a new school and for any normal person, that’s difficult. For someone with your list of diagnoses, it’s even worse. Especially when all you want is to keep your head down and find a quiet place to study.

Back to Normal, I Guess

2 of 3. After her summer in New York, Lana goes back to her school in London with her heavy heart full of the memories she made at Ouran Academy. But little does she know, the Ouran Host Club will always be there to welcome her back, no matter what time zone she’s in.

Our New Normal

3 of 3. Lana misses Japan. Can we blame her? Unfortunately, she had to graduate from Ouran Academy sometime. But her new life in New York with Kyoya is only just beginning. College is an entirely different ballgame.

Switch**

Daddy's only looking out for his little girl and he wants what's best for her. She's not ready to take over the...uh..."family business" quite yet. She doesn't understand why she has to go so far just to go to school. But Daddy's word is law. Hey...Why does the angry guy in her homeroom seem familiar? And what's a host club?

Supernatural:

A Family Forged in Fire

1 of 2. Lena was living in an orphanage. Constant rejection day in and day out. They were looking for a baby, not her. Little did she know that a case would bring a pair of brothers that would turn her life upside down.

When the Fire Goes Out

2 of 2. After taking down the devil himself, a girl needs to get away, doesn’t she? Even though it puts her brothers in a worry and opens up a golden opportunity for someone new to slip into her life.

Yuri!!! On Ice:

Adopted

1 of 2. AU: Victor and Violet adopted two precious little boys that they can’t help but love and became an unorthodox family. Even though the youngest can’t stand the oldest, but that’s the way siblings work. And things get even more troublesome when they both want to take up the very thing that brought Mommy and Daddy together.

Off the Rails

2 of 2. After Junior Grand Prix, the Nikiforov family has moved to New York and began their training for next season, including Violet’s comeback. However, her comeback may be a bit more than she…or Victor…bargained for.

Not a Perfect Fairytale (But It’s Ours)

Fairytale AU. Whoever decided the prince needed a princess has terrible foresight…

Surprise

Yurio is always a little paranoid, but for some strange reason, today, his radar was up even more than usual. Especially when Yakov doesn’t yell at him for missing a simple jump. One-shot

Dr. Nikiforov Has a Ring To It

Getting sick sucks something awful on its own. Getting sick with no one else home but your overbearing roommate to take care of you? That’s a mess in itself. One-shot

Pierced Through the Heart

(One-shot) Yurio and Otabek had been together a while now. Why couldn't they have something match like Victor and Yuri?

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zdbztumble · 5 years

Text

“Jewel of the Seven Pokemon!” Chapter VI

Complete with poster, just in time for there to be only one chapter left!

If you’re only here for pokeshipping, this is the chapter for you.

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V

FF.Net

AO3

---

“Ash? Ash? Do you got it? Ash, we need to go! Ash!”

Misty looked around for a stray bit of plaster to chuck at his head. She really couldn’t understand that boy sometimes. While everyone else fighting for their lives against an ancient curse and seven Ghost Pokémon, he was just sitting there, staring at the jewel causing all the trouble! Why couldn’t he just pay attention?

“MISTY!” She jumped at Sir Bela’s voice. “Fetch the mummies! The mummies!”

Shoot! Look what you made me do now, Ash! Misty turned back towards the shrine set. The Cofagrigus were engaged in battle with Purrloin, Crustle, Krookodile, and Pikachu, the two conscious Hoothoot fluttered around overhead, and the mummies were still in a heap at the far end of the set. Psyduck’s Psychic was still up, but the blue orb around him was shrinking.

“Keep it up, Psyduck!” Misty urged. “Get the mummies! They’re our friends, Psyduck – get the mummies and bring them over here! No, don’t get back on the ground! Headache again, Psyduck – Headache!”

It was no good. Once Psyduck had spent himself on Psychic, Misty knew she couldn’t hope for any more out of him for a few hours, at least. The dopey duck’s glow vanished altogether, his eyes went spacey again, and he slipped down onto his rear, with his head tilted to one side. When a Hoothoot dived at him, Pikachu knocked it away with Tackle and stayed at Psyduck’s side, primed for attack.

“Thanks, Pikachu!” said Misty. But what do we do about the mummies now? We can’t just leave them here and run off with the jewel.

The jewel…

“Ash, bring that ring up here!” Misty called over her shoulder, never taking her eyes off the battle. “We’ve got to break the curse!”

“No – target the Hoothoot!” Cilan yelled, ordering Crustle to use Feint Attack on one of them.

“The Hoothoot!?” Misty glared at Cilan. What on earth was he thinking?

Cilan looked ready to explain, but Sir Bela cut him off. “Do both, if you must, but hurry!” he snapped. “Purrloin, another Night Slash!”

“As you say, sir,” Cilan said, somehow managing to bow while lying on his stomach on the ledge. “Keep after them, Crustle!”

Misty saw no point in arguing. She urged Pikachu to use Thunderbolt while still covering Psyduck, then motioned impatiently behind her. “You heard him, Ash! Hurry up and get that thing up heeeeAAAUGH!”

She was yanked back hard by the leg. Oshawott slipped from her fingers, and she was pulled up into a pair of thin but strong arms that clutched her tight. Misty kicked and twisted, until she realized that they were well above the floor of the set, just hovering in mid-air. By instinct, she gripped onto her captor’s shoulders, and looked up at his face.

“…Ash?”

There were no bandages wrapped around him, but his eyes were small, beady, and gazed straight ahead without any expression at all. She tried to push herself free, but Ash curled his arms to tighten his hold around her waist and legs and roll her into his chest. His head dropped so that his eyes, still set high, looked into hers. A sudden focus came to those eyes, as if Misty was the only thing in the world that they saw. Ash pulled Misty in even closer and started to slowly drift backwards, never breaking their connecting gaze.

This is the part where my sisters start giving me lip. Misty could even hear Daisy’s voice. “You love to act so tough, but whenever the chicks in these stupid horror flicks swoon over the monsters, you go totally mushy.” Misty always fought her on that, even more so because Daisy was right. And Misty indulged in more than her fair share of romantic fantasies over the years, though she rarely put Ash into them – she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t the type, not without a lot of coaxing.

Well, he’s been coaxed. And, as she might have guessed, Misty felt completely off her guard in Ash’s arms. But why does it have to be now!?

Ash leaned in, so close that they were almost nose-to-nose, and started chanting softly in a language Misty didn’t know, and Ash certainly didn’t. Misty had heard it, though – in all sorts of mummy movies, she’d heard it. The sound drowned out everything else, from the battle behind them to that constant whirring noise. All Misty’s nerves and tension melted away. And as Ash kept gazing into her eyes, a blue glow started to fill her vision…

“OSHA!”

A cold blast of water struck them from behind. Ash didn’t let go of Misty, but he flew up and back. The blue glow vanished. Misty shook her head and turned toward the shrine set.

Sir Bela’s Purrloin was hemmed in against a stalagmite by two of the Cofagrigus, who used Infestation whenever he tried to dodge around them. Krookodile was on the back of another Cofagrigus, who flew all around trying to shake him off. Crustle was surrounded by the mummies, and refused to attack any of them. Pikachu, Psyduck, and Oshawott were back-to-back-to-back, facing out and fighting off three of the Cofagrigus as best they could (at least, Pikachu and Oshawott were; Psyduck just stared.) Overhead, the Hoothoot circled. And Sir Bela and Cilan were down in the set, with Sir Bela struggling to pull Cilan out of a half-open Cofagrigus.

“Cilan!” Misty tried to swing her legs free, but Ash held her tight. “Ash, do something! Snap out of it!” But he just started chanting again. Misty couldn’t get out of his arms, but she turned away from his eyes.

“Misty, you need to take out the Hoothoot!” Cilan shouted. Sir Bela’s grip was slipping; only Cilan’s head and arm were still outside the casket. “Their Hypnosis is behind all of this! It must be! Take them out and –”

SLAM! The Cofagrigus flew up as it closed, with Sir Bela falling back. It rattled for a few minutes, then sprang back open. Cilan, in clean and precisely-wrapped bandages, took one step out, then fell flat on his face from the drop. Crustle tried to reach his Trainer, but Iris and Mr. Hampton shooed him back.

“No! Ash, please – shake it off!” Misty slapped him across the face; she didn’t know what else to try. But he kept glaring at her, with that same chant coming out of his mouth. And Cilan wants me to fight the Hoothoot? Maybe they were being driven to use Hypnosis, but why would they do it without a curse or a possession? And why was only Ash affected, and only since he touched the jewel?

Misty slipped her hand along her thigh until she found Ash’s hand. She could feel something cool on one of his fingers. She grabbed it and tugged as hard as she could. Ash twisted back, his other arm slipping from Misty’s waist. She pushed off his chest with her other hand and got her legs free, keeping a firm grip on the ring. She started to fall, but didn’t try to stop it. If she could make it down to the ground and pull the jewel off…

Ash’s hand with the ring closed around hers and yanked her back up. He took her in a Bewear hug this time, so that her arms were pinned against his chest. Misty felt her face heat up; she was sure she was blushing and hated it. What was worse, she couldn’t turn away now. Ash’s eyes were locked back on hers, his chanting went low and breathy as he leaned in, and the blue glow began to creep back into her vision…

“OSHAWOTT!”

“PIKACHU!”

The Razor Shell wedged between them and split them apart, Ash floating up while Misty fell. She twisted and rolled as she hit the ground and came up unhurt by the steps Crustle had made up into the opening. She looked up just in time to see the Thunderbolt strike Ash. He cried out, but when the Attack finished, his eyes still looked straight ahead, and he stayed in the air.

“Thanks, guys!” Misty called as she crawled through the opening into the shrine set. “That was just in time!” Maybe a little too early, really…he might have been leaning in to – oh, snap out of it, Misty! She ran over to where Psyduck, Pikachu and Oshawott had made their stand. Purrloin used a well-timed Night Slash to knock one of his Cofagrigus back and scampered over to join them. Krookodile was finally thrown off by his Cofagrigus and landed nearby. Crustle remained hemmed in by the mummies, with Cilan now among them. In spite of herself, Misty wished she could get him free and over to their side.

I wish a lot of things right now, she thought. That her friends were free, that the jewel was smashed, that they weren’t in this creepy film set anymore, and that she hadn’t left all her safeguards against curses back in the other soundstage. Even with all the Pokémon around her, Misty felt exposed and vulnerable without them. The seven Cofagrigus came together in an arching line and began to slowly advance upon them, cackling in a high laugh that made Misty shudder. The two conscious Hoothoot latched onto the stalactites above the mummies, who were closing in on a whimpering Crustle. Purrloin’s hair stood on end, Krookodile tensed up, Pikachu grabbed onto Misty’s leg, Oshawott jumped into her arms, and even Psyduck seemed to know something was wrong.

“HALT!” Misty had forgotten about Sir Bela, but he sprang up onto his feet pretty quickly for such an old man. He gripped the handle of his cane with one hand so tight that his knuckles went white, but his other hand held up a talisman – the same kind that Misty had dropped earlier. The Cofagrigus and the mummies all turned to look at him, and froze at the sight of the talisman.

“Sir Bela!” she cried. “How…?”

“A prop for today’s scenes before shooting was called off,” he said impatiently. “Now get those Hoothoot, and the jewel off of your boyfriend!”

“But he’s not –” Misty began, but Sir Bela cut her off with a sharp wave. He held the talisman higher and began chanting in the same language Ash was using, in a booming voice that filled the soundstage. The Cofagrigus dropped down until the base of each of their coffins hit the ground, and they stretched their hands out in the direction of the talisman. The mummies got to their knees, and Crustle took the chance to scurry over to Misty’s side. She flinched a little when he touched her leg, but she shook her head and slapped her cheek lightly. This was no time to get squeamish about bugs.

“OK, everyone – you heard him!” she said. “Pikachu, ground those Hoothoot with Thunderbolt! Oshawott, you help with – do you know any Ice Attacks?”

“Osha,” he said sadly.

“Well… help him anyway! The rest of you, go over to Sir Bela and be ready to help in in case those Cofagrigus get loose! And Psyduck…you just stay with me until you’re ready to try Headache again. Ready – GO!”

Krookodile scooped Crustle up as he and Purrloin went around either side of the Cofagrigus line to join Sir Bela. Pikachu leapt up towards the Hoothoot, Oshawott following. The Hoothoot took wing in opposite directions, so Pikachu twisted to the left and Oshawott to the right. Pikachu’s Thunderbolt missed, but Oshawott’s Hydro Pump hit his Hoothoot right between the wings. When it started to turn around to counter, Oshawott tossed out Razor Shell, caught the Hoothoot in the head, and brought it unconscious to the ground.

“Way to go, Oshawott!” Misty cheered. He fell down into her arms, his eyes lit up like stars. “The last one’s all yours, Pikachu! Finish it off and we’ll –”

A blur of blue and white swept in from the opening in the set and snatched the talisman from Sir Bela’s hands. It was Ash, the jewel still glowing on his finger, the chant still coming from his lips. He tossed the talisman out of the set.

The Cofagrigus shot back into the air like they were fired from a cannon. They swooped down on Sir Bela, Krookodile and Purrloin just barely managing to force the tide back with Night Slash and Dragon Claw. The mummies rushed to gather up the two unconscious Hoothoot, while the third latched on to Ash’s shoulder. He put a hand up to steady it and drifted down right in front of Misty. There was no way to get to the Hoothoot without risking hurting Ash.

Just like the end of Jewel of the Seven Pokémon. Ash’s point about the ending suddenly made a lot more sense.

It’s not that bad yet, Misty told herself. All she had to do was knock that Hoothoot loose. And get that ring away from Ash, somehow. Then they just needed to break the jewel inside it. Which we can’t do – not with anything here. After that, the curse would be gone! I think – I don’t know.

The mummies had joined the Cofagrigus, which stopped Purrloin and Krookodile’s attacks. Sir Bela was pushing them all back with his cane, but he wasn’t going to last much longer. The Cofagrigus were chanting again, in the same tempo as Ash. The jewel on his finger, and the lamps around the set, all began to pulse their red light. Oshawott and Pikachu looked up at Misty, their faces scared and uncertain. I’m with you two, she wanted to say.

“Well…we don’t have a choice,” she said softly. “Pikachu, he’s held up to your shocks before – try Thunder!” Pikachu’s tail bristled, but he nodded gravely and moved into position.

“SHARP!”

The work lights to the soundstage flicked on while the lamps cut out. Hoothoot’s eyes stopped glowing, and Ash’s shut as he swayed on his feet. The mummies started to sway too, and held their heads as their bandages fell away. Sir Bela was about to fall over; one of the Cofagrigus pushed him back onto his feet and patted his head. The whirring sound stopped with a sharp cut. And a section of the cave wall to Misty’s right swung open to reveal a camera on a dolly driven by a Bisharp in a beret.

#z's fics #pokeshipping #halloween #pokemon black and white #ash ketchum #misty waterflower #cilan #iris #fan fiction

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