#Good God I am rusty with him -wheeze- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hayanwulf · 1 month ago

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Let go of the guilt

Tony loomed tall in front of him, wearing the Iron Man armor.

“I just wanted to be like you,” Peter whispered, head hanging low, his tone meek.

“And I wanted you to be better.”

Suddenly a metallic hand clamped around Peter’s throat and lifted him up. Peter’s eyes widened as he sucked in a choked breath, and when he looked up, he was not looking at the face of his alive, healthy mentor, no. What he saw instead was a corpse, sick and rotten, insects crawling out of its eye socket. Even the armor was rusty and decayed, and in all the places the armor was missing, Peter only saw putrid bones.

“If you were good enough,” the corpse spoke, its jaw moving, the voice so distorted that it was not even recognizable, “maybe I would still be alive.”

Peter couldn’t breathe. Oh god, his throat was being squeezed and he couldn’t breathe. He desperately clawed at the metal arm, trying to get away from it, but it made no difference. Oh god he was going to die—

Peter gasped and woke up with a start, his hands immediately flying to his throat.

A dream— no. A nightmare. A goddamn nightmare. Of the worst kind.

He wheezed, trying to suck in a breath, but god, it was so difficult that he might as well have been choking. He couldn’t breathe. He tried and tried, until he was finally able to force ragged breath through his heavy throat.

He didn’t realize when exactly, but at some point the hyperventilations turned into wheezes of cry, thick tears pouring out of his eyes. His face was wet and disgusting, the pillow was damp, his throat felt rough. He didn’t care. He just continued to silently cry into his pillow.

He wanted this to stop. He wanted to go somewhere, to someone. Who could he even go to? Not Aunt May. She had her own problems to deal with. That left only MJ and Ned. Why bother them? They had their own problems too.

Everyone had their own things to deal with. Why couldn’t Peter deal with these stupid nightmares by himself? Why did he always feel like shit?

He lay there for a long while, thinking about everything and nothing as his sobs tapered off into hiccups. It didn’t make a huge difference when it came to feeling like shit.

He reached for his phone on the table next to his bed and opened it.

2:53 am, the time read. It was going to be a long while before the sun would rise.

He put the phone back and turned his body to the other side, trying to idly think about nonsensical things, but his thoughts kept circling back to the horrifying image he had just seen with closed eyes.

He wondered if he could go to any of the Avengers with his problems, if they would welcome him. Would they understand? They would, right?

But then it wasn’t like Peter was particularly close to any of them. The only Avenger he’d known at all had been..

He shook that thought away.

Which failed apparently, because his mind drifted back to the time he had last been with him. To the gruesome battlefield where they had fought for half of all life, and he had stood at the center of it all, half kneeling on the ground, wielding six lights of unimaginable power as he stared down The Inevitable and said, fuck you.

Peter’s lips quivered and he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting further and deeper, into all of the last memories with him, on Titan, and on that spaceship.

..Doctor Strange.

Peter did know another Avenger, he realized. But it wasn’t as though he could even show his sorry face to the doctor.

Not after what he’d done on the funeral day.

“You have no right to be here.”

The words had left Peter’s mouth before he could have really thought about it.

The sun was low on the horizon and the sky was rapidly turning orange. Everyone else had gone back into the house long ago. Everyone but Peter and Doctor Strange, who stood frozen in their places by the lakeside, had stood there ever since watching the arc reactor float away on the water.

Peter felt more than heard when Strange took a deliberate breath.

“I know,” the doctor said.

“Then why are you?” Peter asked, a vindictive edge to his voice.

Strange exhaled a quiet sigh, eyes firmly trained on the horizon.

Peter waited, and waited. But no answer followed.

He felt anger bubble inside of him with each silent moment that passed. It boiled and boiled, until his insides felt like they were burning up.

He turned to the sorcerer.

“You did this.”

The doctor closed his eyes, and raw pain flashed in his face.

“I did.”

Peter recoiled a little at such an easy admission, and his anger only flared, seething right beneath the surface.

“You took him from his family. From the world. From me.”

Did he even realize that? Did he have any idea how much it pained to lose a father figure? Did he even care about Tony’s life?

“I’m sorry,” Strange whispered, as though the apology would magically fix everything. As though it would bring Tony back.

Peter’s restraint on his anger broke.

“No you’re not!” He yelled at the sorcerer. “You didn’t care about him. He was just an expendable life to you. You used him. You killed him.”

Strange flinched. He opened his eyes, and finally, finally looked at Peter. “I swear to you on my sister, if there was any other way possible, I would have done it. I would have saved Tony wit—”

“You’re lying!” Peter spat. “You’re a coward. Why couldn’t it be you wielding the stones? Why him? If you already knew everything that was going to happen, why couldn’t you have done it yourself!?”

“I would have, Peter,” Strange said, no, begged. “If I could, I would have. There was no other w—”

“Stop saying that!” Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. A sob racked his throat as hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He ignored the tightness in his throat, ignored the way his eyes seemed to burn, and continued. “You lack imagination. You just wanted an easy way out, so you could become the hero. You didn’t care about him. And you have audacity to come here, to stand here among the people who actually loved him, to pretend like you care? And then you stand over here for hours as if losing him was your personal loss? Like he was anything to you?”

By the time Peter was done, he was panting heavily, emotions swirling in a powerful whirlwind inside of him. He realized, then, that Strange’s gaze was on the ground, his shoulders hunched in. Gone was the powerful, confident man whom Peter had watched pull impossible feats with magic. Now, he looked small. Vulnerable.

And he said nothing.

Light footsteps from behind caught Peter’s attention. He looked down just as Morgan caught a hand of his with her soft, tiny fingers.

“Petey, mum wants you to eat the snacks. Come with me?”

Peter looked at the house behind them.

Pepper and Happy were watching him, them, through the window. Peter had no doubts that they had heard most of the conversation. And they had sent Morgan for a clear message to him.

Leave the man be.

Oh, Peter would leave him, alright. He would leave and he would never go back to Stephen Strange, ever again.

He would never forgive the man.

He wrapped his hand around Morgan’s tiny one, and allowed her to drag him away, never looking back at the sorcerer.

Peter hadn’t meant that.

God, he hadn’t meant any of that. And now he’d never been able to work up the courage to apologize to the wizard, like the coward he was. How could he, after basically accusing the man of killing his mentor?

Hindsight, 20/20.

Strange probably really hated him now and didn’t want to see his face either.

Peter turned himself in his bed again, readjusting his position. He should stop mulling and try to catch some more sleep. He had school in a few hours.

He turned and twisted a few more times, trying to find a comfortable position.

He sighed in frustration, staring blankly at the ceiling.

A thought kept nagging at the back of his mind.

‘You did this.’

‘I did.’

He pursed his lips.

‘If you were good enough, maybe he would still be alive.’

He abruptly got up.

Does he still blame himself? Peter wondered.

Like he did, with himself.

He bit his lip.

He got out of his bed, put on a thick jacket, grabbed his Spidey mask from the closet, and put it on his face before pulling the hoodie over his head.

He opened the window of his room.

Before he could second-guess himself, he hopped out.

It was 3 past midnight, and the suburbs of Queens were deep in slumber. He swung across the sleeping city, towards Manhattan, where a lot more light shone across the never asleep skyline. On his way he webbed up a couple of muggers, but made it quick and didn’t linger.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at Greenwich Village. Bleecker Street.

The street was more asleep than the majority of Manhattan. Only street lamps lit the place and it was quiet & peaceful in the immediate neighborhood.

Even though this was Peter’s first time being here, he could somehow tell which building was it. Maybe it had to do with the fact that the said building had a large window with the same pattern Peter had seen on the wizard’s necklace.

But mostly, he suspected, it was just an instinctual pull.

As he stood at the ancient building’s porch though, Peter felt a little sheepish, scratching his upper arm as he looked around with an unsure stance.

It was 3 past midnight. What was he thinking, coming here dead in the middle of the night? That the doctor would be awake? That he would be all warm and welcoming to Peter and would listen to his oh-so-important problems? All of that, after everything Peter had said to the doctor that day?

Peter was an absolute fool.

He turned away to leave, but just as he did so, the door opened with a creak. Surprised, Peter turned to it again.

And found Doctor Strange standing at the door in pajamas, gaze on Peter.

“Uhm..” He sheepishly scratched the back of his masked head. “Sorry. You.. you can.. Wait. Were you awake at this hour?”

“No,” Strange said, his intense eyes that gave away no emotion still fixated on Peter. “I woke up when I felt your presence.”

“Oh.” Peter looked down and fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket. “I— Really sorry sir, I was just walking by. Sorry for waking you, I’ll just leave—”

“Peter.”

The word was spoken so softly, barely above a whisper, that it wouldn’t have been audible to a normal human. Peter did hear though, and he looked up.

“Come in,” The doctor said, and then moved inside, leaving the door open.

Peter once looked around the quiet street, and then sighed, walking in.

The doors closed by themself once he was in, and he briefly whirled around to stare at them before he took the liberty to take off his mask.

Doctor Strange was near the cozy looking hearth. He flicked one hand towards the fireplace and brilliant orange flames burst to life.

“Tea?” He casually asked as he sat down on one of the couches, gesturing Peter to take a seat as well. Ass if nothing was wrong. As if he wasn’t talking to someone who had practically spat on his face the last time they had seen each other.

Peter felt shame twist in his gut as he looked down, fiddling with his web shooters.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Juice? Hot chocolate?”

“I’m really sorry,” Peter blurted, looking up.

“For what?”

“I.. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean any of that.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “That you.. that you don’t care.” That you killed him. “That you did all of it. It was wrong of me to say those things to you, and I understand if you just want want me to leave..” He tapered off.

The last point was obviously not true, he wagered, seeing as he was standing inside the Sanctum at an ungodly hour, invited there by the man himself who had simply woken up when he’d felt Peter’s presence nearby. Apparently.

Nonetheless, the wizard had all the right to be upset with Peter.

Strange, however, kept staring at him for a long moment before he spoke, “Peter. You came here at 3 in the morning.. to apologize?”

Peter shrugged, biting his lip. “I just..” He looked down and took a moment to find his words, then looked up at the doctor. “I remembered that you blamed yourself too.”

An odd emotion flickered in the doctor’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly for Peter to grasp. The doctor got up and walked closer to Peter. “You have nothing to apologize for, Peter. There was very little you said that day that wasn’t the truth. Now, what do you mean, ‘too’?”

Peter shook his head. “But it wasn’t. I was just angry and hurting and.. I wanted to hurt you because it felt like I was the only one hurting..” Peter was vaguely aware that his voice was growing more shaky by the moment. But he found that he couldn’t stop, not now, even though he couldn’t find words. “But you were standing there like.. I don’t know. I know this all sounds so messed up because nothing gives me the right to accuse you like—”

Peter was engulfed in a warm embrace, the long hands wrapping across his back and his face half-buried on the older man’s collarbone.

“I know,” the doctor whispered, running a hand over Peter’s head. “I know. It’s alright, Peter.”

“I’m sorry..” Peter said, not quite able to hold back his sobs as he wrapped his own arms around the doctor.

“I know. I never held anything against you. Your anger with me is justified.”

Peter shook his head as he broke them apart, wiping at his tears. “It’s really not, Doctor Strange.”

“Stephen. Call me Stephen.”

“Okay.. Stephen. I know you cared about him too. I know that you blamed yourself then, and that you blame yourself now for choosing this outcome. But you said it yourself, it was the only way.”

“And I wish with all my heart and soul that it wasn’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that at the end of the day, I brought us where we are now.”

Peter shook his head, and he offhandedly wondered just how many times he needed to shake his head before the doctor would understand. “I don’t blame you. No one blames you. You shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

Stephen let out a tired sigh, like it was something he had heard a thousand times. “We can agree to disagree on that. Now,” He took Peter’s hand, guided them over to the couch and sat them down. “What did you mean, when you said you remembered that I blamed myself ‘too’?”

Peter pursed his lips and looked away.

“Peter, please tell me. Why do you believe it was somehow your fault that he died?”

Peter swallowed, staring down at his lap. He still remembered how the weight of that gauntlet had felt, held there. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I had it, y��know. The gauntlet.. I had it for a long time. If.. if I had just thought of using it first..” It could have saved him. It could have saved the world without sacrificing her most precious hero. He could have been with his wife and daughter right now, living a happy life.

What an idiot Peter had been, to not even have thought of the idea first. If only he had, if only—

Stephen’s hand on his chin made him look up, and in the doctor’s eyes, he found an intense whirlwind of emotion.

“That wasn’t meant to be you, Peter. That was always meant to be him. Even if, by some cosmic miscalculation you had been the one to wield the gauntlet, he would not have been able to live in a world without you.”

“And you think I can live in a world without him?” He asked bitterly.

Grief seeped through Stephen’s eyes. “Neither can I, Peter. But losing you, it would have torn him apart in the worst possible way.”

Peter looked away. He didn’t believe that. It would have been much better if Peter had been the one to die that day.

He had deserved a life of happiness, and had never gotten one.

“Come with me.” Stephen got up, and did that thing with his hands that Peter recognized as the gesture for making portals.

When the portal formed, the other side opened into the view of that lawn and the backdrop of forest that Peter knew all to well.

His grave.

Cold Upstate winds blew in through the portal as Stephen stepped through. Peter followed slowly. When the portal closed, he turned around and saw the lakeside house behind them, in the distance.

Stephen brought a hand close to his chest, and Peter watched in awe as golden magic was weaved into physical shape, until the doctor held a gorgeous blossom in his hand.

“Here,” Stephen passed him the beautiful branch of small, pinkish-white flowers.

“Mountain laurel?” Peter asked, not quite able to hide the curiosity in his voice as he accepted it. He would have expected something like roses or lilies.

“They were.. his mother’s favorite,” Stephen said. “Tony himself was never big on flowers.”

Peter glanced up at the doctor. “How do you know that?”

A pained look crossed his face for a moment. “I know a lot many things that I have no right to know, Peter.”

Peter looked down at the flowers in his hand as he bit his lower lip, and gave a slow nod.

“They.. also mean perseverance,” Stephen added.

Perseverance.

Because Iron Man never gave up.

Peter looked up at the gravestone that had his name etched on it.

Tony Stark, it read. A loving husband, devoted father, and loyal friend

There were no words written about his heroism. No phrases praising his sacrifice for this universe or putting him on a golden pedestal of impossible heights. Not even anything about his unparalleled genius.

No, Peter realized at that moment. It wasn’t Iron Man who persevered. It was Tony Stark who always kept fighting, who got punched down and always pulled himself back up, who looked death straight in the eyes and beckoned her forward. All of that, so that his family and friends could be safe.

“Peter. Do you know why he invented time travel?”

“To bring everyone back,” he replied without much thought. Because that was the obvious reason, wasn’t it?

“No.”

A hand landed on his shoulder and gently tugged at him. Peter turned to look Stephen straight in the eyes.

“He did it to bring you back.”

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line and looked down, shaking his head. “I’m not special. He did it for everyone.”

“Look at that,” Stephen said, turning his eyes towards the gravestone, and Peter’s eyes followed. “He had his wife and a daughter. He had all of his friends. He had everything he could’ve needed to move on with his life. Why would he want to risk it all to bring the snapped ones back?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Peter spoke, and it was then that he realized his voice was wet and quivering.

Stephen put a hand on his chin, coaxing him to look back at the sorcerer. “Because I need you to understand. It’s not your fault that he’s dead. He did it for you, Peter. So you could live a full life. That title of devoted father, it is for you as much as it is for Morgan.”

Peter was shaking his head before Stephen had even finished his last sentence, as thick, hot tears streamed down his face. Stephen silently wrapped his hands around him, and Peter hugged him back with all the force he could use without possibly hurting the doctor.

“You need to let go, Peter. It wasn’t your fault. It was his choice.”

Peter shifted his head in the embrace to glance sidelong at the doctor’s face. “Why does it sound like you don’t really believe your own words?”

Stephen exhaled a quiet sigh, closing his eyes. “It was my choice first.”

Peter broke them apart. “Now you’re just being hypocritical. You don’t get to tell me to not blame myself and then continue to blame yourself.”

Stephen shrugged, unperturbed. “Guess I’ve always been a hypocrite. Must be a Sorcerer Supreme thing.”

Peter wiped a hand over his fresh tears and glanced down at the flowers in his hand. He wasn’t going to stand for the doctor’s bullshit. Resolve had formed in his mind when he looked up again. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll stop blaming myself if you stop blaming yourself.”

Stephen gave a conflicted look. “I can’t. It’s my penance.”

“Penance for what? Saving the universe!?”

The doctor looked helpless, his eyes flickering to the grave and to the sparsely green ground. “For sacrificing the life of the man I..”

He didn’t complete his sentence. Peter couldn’t decipher what he was trying to say, but he could see in the older man’s eyes that whatever it was, it meant a lot to him.

“Bold of you to ask me to do something which you yourself can’t,” Peter muttered.

Stephen shook his head. “We’re not in the same position, Peter.”

“Look. I.. I get it, you can’t let go of it. ‘Cause I can’t either. But can you at least promise that you’ll.. try? If you can do that.. I’ll try with you, too.”

Stephen sighed. “We’re both terrible at that, aren’t we.” His eyes fell to the gravestone, and an incredibly raw emotion showed in his eyes. It.. it wasn’t quite the expression of letting go, but it felt like a first step of sorts. “Alright.. I’ll try.”

Peter gave a small nod. It wasn’t going to be easy, for either of them. He knew. But maybe, just maybe, they would be able to get through it. Together.

He turned to the grave, holding the flowers firmly against his chest.

A thought crossed his mind, though, and he stopped himself there.

The older man needed this more than him.

“Stephen?”

The doctor glanced at him.

He held out the flowers towards the doctor. “I think you should give him these.”

Stephen didn’t move from his place for a long moment, but when he did, he took the flowers wordlessly and walked up to the grave.

Peter watched as he gracefully lowered himself on his knees in front of the markings, brought the flowers up to his face to drop a gentle kiss on it, like it was a special gift he was giving to a lover, and then lowered the gorgeous cluster to the ground.

He slowly got up, and carefully walked backwards, his eyes never leaving the markings.

“Shall we go back, then?” He asked, and only then did he turn to face Peter.

Peter inclined his head in agreement. “Yeah.”

A bright orange portal was opened, leading back to the Sanctum. Stephen went through first, and Peter followed. He turned around to watch the portal close, taking one last glance at the scene.

Just before the portal fizzled into nothingness, he saw one tiny dash of blue near the grave.

A little butterfly perched on the flowers.

#irondad and spiderson #peter parker #tony stark #stephen strange #grief/mourning #implied ironstrange #fic #mcu fanfiction #hayans tumblr shorts

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bloodsigilsandpie · 4 years ago

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A Turn of Events

I’m not going to stand back and let my emotional support characters be treated like that.

Here’s something that I’m pretty sure cannot possibly be worse than what was aired.

wc: 556

Part 1 of Chapter 1

He could feel the rebar inside him. The blood had started to seep through his jacket. He managed to keep his voice steady, “Sam. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to move.”

“Dean? What-” Sam moved closer and realized what had happened.

“All that and a rusty nail takes me out, huh?” He let out a dry laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.

“Wait, Dean, hold on.” Sam stepped back and started looking around for something, anything that would help.

“Sammy, stop. It's okay. It’s gonna be okay. You-”

“No. It's not! It's not, Dean! We’ve been through too much for me to be okay with this! And stow that ‘let me go’ crap. This isn’t over.” Sam turned around, ignoring Dean’s strained breathing and called out, “Jack? Jack! Jack, can you hear me? Please, we need you!”

They heard a light flutter of wings and Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. With a small flash of white light Dean was healed and brought down from the wall.

“Jack!” Dean gasped as he looked at the boy standing next to him.

“Hi Dean, Sam. I was going to meet you in the bunker but I guess we’ll do this now.” He took a deep breath and walked over to one of the nearest crates, confusing the Winchesters who were surprised he even showed.

“Amara and I got to spend some time together and we came to an agreement. She decided it would be better if instead of the ‘Light and Darkness’ both existing in me, it would be better with her.”

“Wait, you mean she is now her own… ‘being’ and you're...” Dean waved his hand vaguely at Jack.

“Just me. Well, not yet. She’s still here. We have some things to get done first. But when she does leave I’ll be just, me, Jack. Still a Nephilim, though. I can't really go on without my grace. She said I deserved a life. And a childhood.” he finished with a smile.

Sam returned the smile but they still had a few questions, “Wait, what do you mean stuff? Do you need anything from us?”

“Yes, actually we do. First we need to stop over at Hell.”

Dean took a moment to appreciate how casually that sentence could be thrown into their conversations before asking, “Can you maybe give us more details kid?”

“We’re going to see Rowena. She found an ancient book that might have something about putting the Empty back to sleep.”

Dean’s face fell at the mention of the Empty. “You’re putting the Empty to sleep… forever?”

“Yes. That’s what I need you for. We made a deal that said we would put it to rest as long as we get some angels in return, you know with Heaven slowly dying and everything. And a few demons- Rowena’s request. But it won't give up Cas. So one of you will have to go in and pull Cas out while the other helps Rowena with the spell.”

Sam felt his heart lighten for the first time in maybe years when a light that had been gone a long time returned to Dean’s eyes as he asked, “We’re bringing Cas back?”

“Of course. I am god for now. What else would I do with all this power?”

“Well, let’s go to Hell then!”

(ᵖˡˢ ʳᵉᵃᵈ ᵘⁿᵈᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵘᵗ)

First of all, I didn’t get the ending I wanted, or even one I could tolerate, so I’m writing my own.

I see many people are doing whole rewrites and I can’t wait to read them. But I just want to see the boys have peace and not send the message that you have to die for it. You can have a good life no matter what you had to go through in the past. There is always hope.

So I’m going to fix this clusterfuck of a finale and write a season 16. It’s just going to be TFW 2.0 and their extended family (ᴮᴱᶜᴬᵁˢᴱ ᶠᴬᴹᴵᴸʸ ᴬᴵᴺ’ᵀ ᴱᴺᴰᴵᴺᴳ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᴮᴸᴼᴼᴰ. ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺ ᴹʸ ᵂᴼᴿᴸᴰ!) doing regular things with maybe an occasional decapitation.

Only fluff. Pure domestic fluff. No pining. No hurt without comfort. No angst. My babies are going to be happy. I promise. And I’m not leaving till I wrap this up with a fucking bow.

This is just part one of the first chapter because I am incapable of writing more than 500 words in one post. I’ll be posting at least twice a week and the whole fic will be on AO3 once finished.

If you want to be tagged in my season 16 fics please let me know.

#dean winchester #sam winchester #jack kline #god!jack #15x20 rewrite #fuck 15x20 #coda fic #they all deserved better #canonverse #ficlet #season 16 #supernatural #spn spoilers #mine #blue writes #userpris #rambleoncas

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killalluchihas · 4 years ago

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good vibes/bad juju - 04

Summary: While on a mission in overseas, Gojo gets K-O'd by an unknown person. Within a week, every sorcerer in Japan has heard about it. (a JJK OC story)

[Chapter One Here] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

—/—/—/—

chapter four: the slap-back special Gojo blinks in astonishment. Is she scolding him? “Are you saying it’s my fault you punched me in the face? I’m a victim!”

Zenin Naoya collapses onto the ground, unconscious.

“How the fuck—?” Gojo wheezes out, lurching away from the girl. Gojo’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of his chest—which should be impossible, because he’s been using Infinity this whole time. “God damn…”

Gojo glances back to the young woman, forcing himself to heal as he keeps an eye on her. She was still the unknown element in this mix, and it was about time that Gojo figured out who she was—and why the hell her curse energy was messing with his technique.

The girl walks calmly over to Zenin and picks up the baseball she just brained him with.

Gojo, perversely, doesn’t do a thing to stop her.

If she wants to kill Zenin Naoya, that’s fine by him. Naoya is a massive dick, after all. The Zenin family, though cooperative, was no friend to Gojo.

But she doesn’t kill Naoya. All she does is take the tanto blade out of his jacket. It’s almost like she’s taking a prize from him, or payment for her troubles, because he can see the amused look on her face as she does it. Then she turns her back on the Zenin. Naoya has no healing techniques, and unless Gojo takes pity on him, he’ll lay there on a chilly rooftop in New York for a good long while before someone comes looking for him.

Do I have any pity for Naoya? Satoru asks himself. What a silly question! Of course I don’t. He’ll wake up in his own time.

At last, the young woman turns her attention to Gojo.

Gojo almost reaches to pull down his blindfold again, just in case. She’s hit him twice now, and he’s at a (very slight) disadvantage on this roof—his techniques are destructive, and they’re in the middle of a densely-populated city. Gojo could manage just fine—and totally win this time—but he’d rather not turn this into a fight when all he wanted from her was information. She’s just one woman. He suspects she’s had plenty of chances to kill him or Naoya, but hasn’t tried it.

By the time the girl comes to a stop in front of him, Gojo’s decided that this sorcerer doesn’t pose a clear or present danger to anyone.

Even though she could, if she wanted to.

“Found you,” he greets her cheerfully, plastering on a radiant smile.

“Why are you here?” she asks him, surprising him again with her grasp on Japanese. He honestly did think she only spoke English. He even brushed up on his pronunciation before making the trip! Sure, she sort of looked Asian, but not entirely—her skin was tanner, her hair was lighter, and her features were sharper, probably the result of a mixed heritage. But it was a nice surprise nonetheless, because Satoru’s English skills were kind of rusty.

Gojo maintains his grin. “I wanted to know more about my mystery girl. You left so soon, I felt like Prince Charming looking for his Cinderella.” Her expression remains unchanged. Gojo pouts. “Seems like Naoya-kun got the chance to cozy up to you, but what about me? I still don’t even know your name.”

She’s gritting her teeth, but she looks more ticked off than murderous. It’s inexplicable, truly, but Gojo has a good feeling about this sorcerer.

“Yoshi,” she introduces herself tersely. “Zenin said your name was Gojo?”

“That’s me,” Gojo croons, holding his hands behind his back like a bashful schoolgirl.

“He also said you’re the strongest sorcerer,” Yoshi continues blithely, ignoring his tone.

“I sure am,” Gojo confirms, hiding the edge of tension in his voice behind a cheeky grin. “Which brings us to our current predicament, Yoshi-san, because I haven’t been outdone by another sorcerer—uh, ever.”

(That statement hinged on the technicality of Fushiguro Toji being a non-sorcerer, but Gojo figured it was best not to mention it.)

Yoshi presses her lips together, not quite frowning, but doesn’t answer him. She brushes past Gojo and picks up the baseball bat she’d left by the ledge.

He watches her carefully this time. On her hands, there are two little words tattooed in English. She touches her ring finger to the base of the bat, and it sinks into what can only be some sort of pocket dimension created from curse energy. The tattoo on the side of her finger is easy enough for him to read.

Curse energy stored in tattoo ink? Oh, she’s just a ball of mysteries, all tangled up together, isn’t she? Gojo loves it.

“Zenin told me about Limitless,” Yoshi says, trudging back towards him. Her hands are hidden again in the pockets of her windbreaker, and her frown looks like it’s carved right into her face. “I don’t care if you’re the strongest, if someone throws a punch at you, you should duck.”

Gojo blinks in astonishment. Is she scolding him?

“Yoshi-chan,” he protests at once, aghast. “Are you saying it’s my fault you punched me in the face? I’m a victim!”

She just stares at him, unbothered. “If you had dodged that first time in Germany, it wouldn’t have knocked you out,” she says. “And then none of this would be happening now because you got your ego bruised.”

He’s going to ignore the jab about his ego for now, because this woman just doesn’t make any sense. “Naoya-kun tried to dodge,” Gojo points out, gesturing lazily at the Zenin heir on the ground. “I saw that. You still beamed him in the jaw.”

“That was intentional,” Yoshi glares. “He literally asked for it. He wanted to kill me. I should push him off the roof, but I don’t need that kind of attention.”

I wish I’d gotten here sooner, Satoru muses. I wonder what Naoya said to get her so worked up?

“Ooh, you’re cold,” Gojo giggles. “But you’re a little off-base with that one. Naoya-kun hates being second-best, especially to me. He’d kill me in a heartbeat if he could do it without disrupting the power balance.” His grin widens. “But you, Ms. Mystery Technique, I think he’d rather bring you home to meet the parents.”

“Is that why he came at me with a knife and said ‘I’m going to kill you’?” Yoshi asks flatly, unimpressed. “You saw him attack.”

“Good point, good point,” Gojo nods, tapping his chin, “But did he say why he was attacking? It’s because he wants to know about Germany, right?” Her expression hardens. “Did you tell him what happened?”

She glances at Naoya again, disdainful. “He wanted a demonstration.”

“A demons—? Oh. Hah!” Gojo huffs. “So that’s what that was about. Wow, so Naoya really did ask for it, eh?” He pouts. “See, that makes some sense, but you really didn’t have to knock me out, did you?”

“No,” she agrees bluntly. The wind blows harshly, tugging at her jacket and making Yoshi squint in dismay. “In Germany it wasn’t intentional. You didn’t flinch like I expected you to—but that’s your problem, not mine.”

Gojo looks at her, pensive. “...I guess not.” She was quick, but she wasn’t faster than his eyes—he saw her wind up a pitch and aim it straight at Naoya. He saw Naoya recognize the attack and duck to the side. He saw the ball strike Naoya just to the right side of his chin anyway.

Gojo touches his own chin, where Yoshi punched him last week hard enough to daze him for about two minutes before he could get a handle on his curse energy and heal his own concussion. “I’ve never needed to dodge.”

Yoshi stares at him, apathetic. “Why did you come here, Gojo-san?” she asks again.

Isn’t it obvious? Satoru thinks. We’ve been talking for so long, and I still know nothing about her.

But instead of answering, he smiles widely and cocks his head to one side. “Why don’t we get out of this awful weather first? You must be freezing, you poor thing!”

Yoshi’s gaze drifts to Naoya before she faces him again. “Where in Japan are you and Zenin from?”

“I’m from Tokyo!” The smile on his face is slowly freezing in place, not that she’ll ever notice. “The Zenin family estate is in Osaka. You may have noticed, Naoya-kun has a bit of an accent. He’s a country boy at heart.”

“I noticed,” Yoshi nods calmly. Gojo must say, she’s quick to bounce back from stressful situations. It’s a good quality in a sorcerer. “I barely understand Kansai-ben.”

Gojo chuckles again, still watching her keenly as she rolls up one of her sleeves. She’s wearing a couple of thick-banded bracelets, all tie-dyed and covered in scribbles. When she unwraps one of them from her wrist, Gojo gasps. “Oh! I remember those things!”

“It’s a slap bracelet, one of those kid toys,” Yoshi confirms, straightening one out. It’s blue and purple, streaked with inky marker lines. “This one belongs to Zenin Naoya,” she states confidently.

“...Huh? It does? Doesn't really seem to be his style.” Gojo watches, dumbfounded, as she walks over to Naoya and lifts his arm. “Wait, what are you—?”

She slaps the bracelet onto his wrist, and Zenin Naoya disappears in a sudden surge of concentrated, burning cursed energy.

Gojo’s mouth hangs open in a small ‘o’ of surprise.

Yoshi takes off another bracelet as if nothing had happened.

“Hang on!” Gojo leaps toward her, holding out his hands. “Wait, wait, wait! What just happened? Did he just die? Where’d he go? How’d you do that, is it a magic trick?” He knows it’s not a magic trick, but he’s holding out hope anyway.

“He’s at Osaka Station,” she replies frankly, holding up another bracelet. He senses almost no cursed energy from the bracelet, but clearly it was already imbued with energy. “I don’t think you need one of these to get back to Tokyo,” she says assessingly.

I misjudged her, Satoru thinks. Finger tattoos, cursed kids’ toys and baseball bats? This girl is rad. Yaga’s gonna love her.

“Yeeaaah, buuuuut what if I want one anyway?” he asks impulsively.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Then this one will take a passenger. Put your hand on my shoulder.”

He probably shouldn’t trust this woman so much, but Gojo can’t help it. He’s too nosy to be careful. “You’ll escort me home? How chivalrous,” he grins, laying his hand gently on her shoulder.

He makes a point of retracting Infinity on his own when he touches her this time, unwilling to test it out just yet. Nothing feels off about his curse energy, or hers, but Satoru knows there’s something different about her.

“You’re welcome,” Yoshi replies, indifferent, and then she slaps the bracelet back onto her own wrist.

He expects a light show and a forceful burst of acrid cursed energy, but gets neither.

It’s actually quite underwhelming. Gojo inhales the air in New York, and exhales in Tokyo. The rumbling noises of the evening are replaced by the fresh, lethargic sounds of morning Japan. The cursed energy dissolves away in an instant, leaving nothing more than a memory of pungency on his tongue.

Gojo looks around, instantly recognizing the streets and signs of home. They’re outside the eastern entrance to Tokyo Station.

“Oh,” he murmurs, reluctantly impressed. “Wow.”

Yoshi takes a step back from him, drawing Gojo’s attention when his hand slips off her.

“My mystery girl,” Gojo addresses her in a low tone, “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

She ignores him. “I don’t want more sorcerers like you and Zenin knocking at my door,” Yoshi says without preamble, squinting into the bright light. “I don’t want a bounty on my head either.”

“Oh yeah,” Gojo agrees idly. “Naoya is a prideful boy. He’ll put his own bounty on you for that pot-shot.”

“Lucky me,” Yoshi says stonily.

“So did you use a technique to hit him?” Gojo muses. “Or does it have something to do with your magic bracelets? Or both?”

“Gojo-san,” she says testily, “I’m going to end up in a ditch somewhere if you keep spreading rumors about me.” She completely ignores his question.

“Ah, but Yoshi, I never told a soul!” Gojo proclaims, wagging his finger. “My report on the Germany mission was three sentences long. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Rumors can’t be stopped—you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube once it’s been squeezed out!”

She squints at him again, clearly unhappy with this answer. But instead of pressing the issue any further, or doubting Gojo’s words, Yoshi relents. “So I should expect more visitors like Zenin,” she concludes, calm to the point of eeriness. “Alright.”

But then she turns her back on Gojo, as if that’s the end of the conversation, and he can’t have that.

“Orrrr you can avoid a bounty hunt,” Gojo slides himself smoothly in front of her again, “By getting the support and protection of Tengen-sama and the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse—“

“I’m not a sorcerer,” Yoshi cuts him off prematurely, “And I don’t affiliate with them, so that’s not happening.”

Now it’s Gojo’s turn to squint at her like she’s a foreign object. Which she is, technically, since she’s now an American in Japan.

“How so?” he asks politely. “You have curse energy and you fight curses like the one in Germany.”

“I’m not a sorcerer,” she repeats patiently, but elaborates no further.

Gojo slumps, jutting out his lip in a big fat pout. “I don’t get it. Is this a riddle?”

“It’s the truth,” Yoshi says, which is just so unfairly mysterious and alluring, Gojo thinks he might die from curiosity at this point.“The jujutsu order won’t protect me.”

Her hand moves back to her wrist, to the slap bracelet, and Gojo yelps in protest, “No! You can’t leave now!”

She pauses, but steps further away from him in case he makes a grab for her hands. She sighs. “Why not?”

“Because!” Gojo waves his hands wildly. “Because—you’re still being hunted!” he points out quickly. “And fine, you say you’re not a sorcerer—but I, conveniently enough, happen to have a lot of pull in the jujutsu world,” he smirks, gaining momentum the longer he talks. “And I can think of a few ways to get you recognized as one.”

Yoshi’s face begins to pinch in annoyance again. “I don’t—“

“Have you seen the Tokyo campus yet?” Gojo asks before she can refuse him.

“Campus?” She frowns.

“The school! The high school for sorcerers! Oh my goodness, you’re an illiterate,” Gojo gasps. “Is that why you aren’t ranked? That’s academic elitism.”

She exhales loudly. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Come visit my school!” Gojo suggests. “You’re already in the city, might as well enjoy the sights! Let me give you a tour, let me talk to the principal and see what he can do for you before you blip back to New York to fight off assassins.”

“Before I blip?” She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Blip! Or whoosh back home! The slap-back special—ooh, hm, I like the sound of that,” Gojo laughs and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, though it’s lost beneath his blindfold.

“Gojo-san,” she begins to shake her head, again ignoring his last remarks. “Why do you want to help me?”

An easy grin slides over his face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits candidly. “I just like your vibe, Yoshi. You seem like a good person.”

The honesty seems to chip away at her mask, just a bit. It’s a heavy toll, though, because it’ll start to chip Satoru apart too if he’s not careful. Her shoulders lower, just a fraction, the severity of her gaze lessening for a moment.

“I sucker-punched you,” Yoshi murmurs. “You don’t want to get even for that?”

“Oh, Yoshi-chan, you already had to sit through a conversation with Naoya,” Gojo laughs, “There’s no greater punishment than that!” She even looks amused for a moment, but the expression is wiped away quickly. “Now. Yoshi. You gave me a lift to Tokyo, why don’t you let me bring you to my school?”

He extends a hand to Yoshi, palm up.

It’s a risk, yes. She’s deflected several questions so far, has hardly given up her name, much less her techniques or her motives. He doesn’t actually have a solid reason for letting a newcomer through Tengen’s barrier, and he’s sure Yaga will give him an earful for that once he finds out.

And still, Satoru offers. He hopes, even. It sounds cheesy and maybe even dangerously optimistic, but—much like he thought Itadori Yuuji was worth taking home, he thinks this woman has the potential to be great and good and better than the execs that dictate his world.

“Alright,” Yoshi says quietly, taking his hand.

—/—/—/—

[Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #gojo satoru #zenin naoya #good vibes/bad juju

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achtung-attitude · 3 years ago

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CHAPTER 46: Gangsta’s Paradise – Part 4

“Let it not be said,” Dust sighs, “I never gave you a chance.”

The preacher man walks backwards and morphs into the mirrors once more. Shizuka dashes in pursuit, but is suddenly overcome with a wave of lightheadedness. She stumbles and collides face first with a nearby wall, clinging to it for support, as her arms and legs tremor. When her vision blurs, she recalls her earlier, backfired attempt to turn invisible. “ACHTUNG BABY…?” she murmurs

But she doesn’t sense her ability circulating. Something more sinister is causing her affliction. From within the mirror in the alcove adjacent to her, and also from all of the phantom mirrors, Dust renews his sermon.

However, if you do not obey the LORD your God and do not carefully follow all his commands and decrees I am giving you today, all these curses will come on you and overtake you...

Shizuka gags and collapses on the floor. The Escherspace begins to collapse, flickering out of existence. She tries to breathe, but can only choke.

Truly, I didn’t want it to come to this. You were so proud of yourself for bending this dimension to your will, but you have always been in my grasp. This is what I meant by giving you a chance. You have been doomed since you entered this place...

The countless Brother Dusts look down upon the convulsing Joestar from the infinite mirrors, a look of disappointment on his face.

Humans inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide… GANGSTA’S PARADISE reverses this. Each breath you take starves your blood of vital oxygen and floods your body with deadly poison.

To think, how eager I was to finally meet you. You are strong, Shizuka Joestar. We could have achieved much together. But I am beyond strength.

The ground beneath Shizuka’s feet begins to fade into nothing. Grunting, she forces it back into solidity before she can slip through. She clutches at her throat as it seems to clog from the inside.

“You…” she chokes, “talk too much…!”

ACHTUNG BABY flutters in and out of sight. With a wave of its hands, two new staircases materialize from the Escher-space. They swing like giant baseball bats at the mirror where Dust had entered, crashing into it, crumbling stone and shattering glass. Her efforts are futile, as the preacher’s resounding laughter proves. He is beyond her, safe in the mirrors.

As Shizuka tries to lift herself off the ground, abruptly, she senses the preacher’s presence behind her.

“Brute force fails you. Like Job, you are helpless before divinity.”

Shizuka turns, grinding her teeth at the sound of his smug voice as he continues, raising his black book in the air. “Behold, the hope of him is in vain; shall not one be cast down even at the sight of him?”

Before Shizuka can move out of the way, Dust graces her neck with his Bible. Not a moment passes when, in her periphery, she sees something thick and blue splatter onto the ground. With horror, she dabs at her neck, feeling the slick blood running from the thick gash that has formed. “Agh…!!”

“That would be your carotid artery I’ve severed. To think, the Good Book is supposed to guide and heal. I’m not fond of warping its purpose this way. Perhaps you understand now, the desperate measures I’ve been forced to take?”

Shizuka pays no attention, as she’s lost in the pain of her cut neck. She kneels on the ground, her knees dipped in the dark puddle.

“My throat…!” her mind reels, “Can’t breathe at all now…! It’s taking all I have just to keep the Escherspace intact…! how do I get out of this... how can I defeat his Stand…?! Wait...” she stills, staring at her hands. “My hands have... Stopped shaking…! But why... no way, you gotta be kidding!”

Dust saunters towards her. “Could it be you’ve finally given up? It’s too late to change your mind, but perhaps you can make peace with-” The preacher’s pompous monologue is cut short by the rushing of air behind him. He shudders, sensing the oncoming threat, and ducks swiftly, barely dodging the staircase that swings past him. Looking back at the source of the staircase, he sees Shizuka on her feet again, stooping, blood still draining from her neck, but her eyes are as resolute as ever. From her jacket pocket, she draws the switchblade Kilo gave to her.

“I really hope this works,” she wheezes. “If not, then this’ll be a really stupid way to die.”

With that, she plunges the knife into her neck, right into the cut, and starts running the blade along the wound. Dust grimaces in displeasure at first, but then notices that rather than cutting deeper, the flesh closes along the path of the blade. An action intended to harm instead heals.

“You’ve adapted well to GANGSTA’S PARADISE…” Dust declares, raising the bible. “But it counts for nought, as long as I am in control of this world!” Dust’s book strikes her, but immediately, he senses something wrong. “You are not...!”

Shizuka smirks as the book hits her across the face. The strike blows a chunk off from the side of her head, revealing a glowing cavity. The body transforms into light, nothing more than a hard light clone. Dust turns just as the real Shizuka swings another Escher staircase at him. He guards, taking the strike, which sends him flying backward.

“How is she standing?! The carbon dioxide poisoning should still be affecting her!” As he flies, he notices Shizuka’s face, cheeks are puffed out, filled with air. “She’s holding her breath?! Of course! If breathing itself was killing her, then all she had to do was stop breathing!”

Dust lands feet first into a mirror, as he starts merging with it. “Just as I thought,” he thinks, staring at his opponent from his esoteric vantage. “She’s too strong. It’s not only her ability or her fighting prowess. It’s not even her intelligence! It’s everything! That persistent personality and her creativity; all of it makes her dangerous! Without a doubt, this girl... is the strongest opponent I’ve ever fought!” Before long, he slips completely out of view, planning his means of attack.

Shizuka glares into the mirrors. When he doesn’t reappear, she begins to sigh, then stops herself, careful not to exhale anymore precious oxygen. “Well, it worked,” she reflects. “But even so, my body’s running off the oxygen I’ve currently got left. Like a motorcycle running on gas fumes, I’ll break down sooner or later.”

She walks up a staircase and glances up. Above, GANGSTA’S PARADISE hangs in its usual position, never moving on its own accord. Shizuka glances into a nearby mirror, then another. In all of the mirrors, everything is reflected, except for the Stand itself. In the entire twisted dimension, there is only ever one GANGSTA’S PARADISE.

“I have one big advantage: While Dust in his mirrors, I can’t touch him. But the Stand is always in this space with me. If I can attack the Stand directly, then I can win! All I need to do is figure it out… What’s the source of its power?”

Shizuka rubs her stiff neck, unable to see the ominous discoloration around the scar left by the cut. She remembers the bright flash of light that beamed from GANGSTA’S PARADISE, right before the world was changed. The light that engulfed everything in sight. She pauses on the steps and stares, realization hitting her like a brick.

The light…

Before she can act on her realization, Shizuka staggers to the ground in front of the Stand, shivering like she’s freezing. A dark chill moves under her chest.

“What!?! What is this?... Why do I feel… like ice is forming under my skin!!” She inspects her chest. The veins over her breastbone bulge ghoulishly. “HOLY SHIT!! What did that bastard do now?!”

Dust’s voice answers promptly, desperation peeking out from beneath his smugness.

This is not my doing, but your own, Shizuka Joestar! Blood is red because of oxygen! The purpose of blood is to spread life-giving oxygen through the body! GANGSTA’S PARADISE reverses everything it touches, warping its intentions! Now I ask you, what happens if GANGSTA’S PARADISE touches your blood?!

At that moment, Shizuka remembers the blue blood from earlier.

Yes! The blood cells deprive themselves of oxygen and turn blue! And now, by your own hand, that toxic blood runs through your body! Once it reaches your heart, there will be no hope for you!!

Shizuka looks down and stares at the blade she reverse-cut herself with, stained with darkened blood.

Bleed out, and I win! Heal yourself, and I still win! Every action you take benefits me! I told you: The moment you entered this place, MY place, you were doomed!! So long as I have this power, I am fated for victory!!! This is the penalty for rejecting my offer, Shizuka Joestar!!!

The girl can do nothing else but fall to the floor, as the Escherspace begins to crumble away. Dust takes out his terrible black book, leering down at her. .

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways!

The voice echoes and throbs in Shizuka’s ears, stage whispers like rusty nails scratching her from inside her ears. She can feel the thin membranes of her eardrums, afflicted by the evil sounds. The cold blood pumps through her veins, drawing closer to her heart. She knows, in her mind, they cannot endure this attack for much longer.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known!

She screams for the voices to stop, but she cannot tell if she screams it with her own voice or in her mind. Her eyes roll wildly, her heart rate accelerates, seeing the man in white surround her on all sides, sneering at her through infinity. Overhead, the chandelier swings, mimicking the sick joy of its master, the unnatural light bathing the refracted world in sickly pale blue.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love!

Misshapen light. So unlike that of the sun, which was full, warm and life-giving. The same light Shizuka drew her power from. Compared to that, this was just a pale pretender.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #achtung attitude #shizuka joestar #dust #ch46

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havenoffandoms · 5 years ago

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Geralt x Female!Reader - Jealousy

This is my first attempt at a Witcher fic, more specifically the first attempt at writing Geralt. Hope you guys enjoy it! I haven’t written reader inserts in a while, so sorry if it seems a bit rusty.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: swearing, hunting (just in case someone doesn’t like that kind of topic), female!reader insert

Fandom: The Witcher (TV Series)

“… so in many ways, a bard also goes on hundreds of adventures. Only they’re less messy, and definitely safer!” Jaskier argued, causing you to huff in indignation as you tried to hide the amused smile that was tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Is that so? And on what marvellous adventures have you been, Sir Jaskier?”

“I am glad you asked, Lady Y/N,” Jaskier stood up and went to grab his lute, which he used to improvise a new song to impress you, “In a faraway land, many years ago, I was walking on beaches of sand, and dark caves below…”

You leaned back against a tall tree, watching the bard’s performance with a raised eyebrow and your arms crossed before your chest. You knew that Jaskier wanted more than just your friendship, but you never had the heart to tell him that your heart belonged to someone else. You knew it would break Jaskier’s heart to know that Geralt had claimed you as his, especially when the bard felt like he would never be a match for the witcher.

“Then one night as I ventured through the forest, in the dark and the cold, I prayed to the gods of old, and made my way on the path obscurest…”

“The path obscurest? Not your best work, Jaskier,” you told him, laughing slightly at his mock crestfallen expression. Despite your comment, the bard did not give up his spontaneous serenading.

“I’m a bit rusty, but you haven’t heard my chorus yet… ahem… Toss a coin to your Jaskier, o’ valley of plenty, o’ valley of plenty. Toss a coin to your Jaskier, and maybe add a kiss in there, too.”

“Not in your wildest dreams,” you told him, throwing a stick at him which he managed to dodge. If your words hurt Jaskier, he did a good job at hiding his emotions. “Not to mention that you completely fucked up your rhyme game…”

Just as Jaskier opened his mouth to defend himself, the two of you heard a sound coming from the woods. The snapping of twigs and the sound of crunching leaves had you both on high alert. You instinctively grabbed for your two daggers, ready to defend yourself against your attacker. The gods knew that Jaskier would not be very helpful in case of an attack. When Geralt came into view, you instantly relaxed while Jaskier let out a relieved sigh.

“Geralt, you could’ve announced yourself,” Jaskier chastised the witcher, but you instantly noticed that something about Geralt was off. He had an unreadable expression on his face and acted even more distant than usual.

“Sorry for interrupting your poor attempts at serenading Y/N, but don’t worry I was just about to go hunt our dinner,” Geralt announced, his voice cold and shut off. Your frown intensified when you realised that he was avoiding your gaze.

“I’ll come with you,” you announced more than asked, only earning yourself a dismissive grunt from the witcher, “Jaskier, how about you start a fire while we’re hunting?”

Jaskier looked ready to argue, however his protests died on his lips when he met your glare. Geralt seemed unaware of the exchange, and after feeding Roach an apple out of his bag, he disappeared into the woods again without waiting for you. You grabbed your bow and quiver and almost ran after him, leaving a disgruntled Jaskier behind.

“What was that all about?” you asked him when you had caught up with Geralt. He ignored you, which only confused you more. “Was it something I said?”

“Quiet, you’ll scare away the prey.”

Geralt’s tone was sharp, which took you by surprise. You decided to remain silent as you scanned the area for prey. It did not take long for you both to stumble upon a lone deer who had stopped to drink out of a spring of fresh water. You stopped dead in your tracks and crouched behind a tree as you nocked your arrow as quietly as you could. You noticed how Geralt had taken cover behind a tree as well, and was now watching you. Even though you felt his gaze on you, you made a point to ignore him. The deer suddenly looked up, startled by the nearby rustling of leaves. You and Geralt both held your breaths as you tried not to scare your dinner away. When the deer finally let down his guard, you pulled the string of your bow all the way back and took three composing breaths before letting go. You and Geralt both watched as your arrow wheezed through the air and hit the deer right in line with its left leg, about halfway up its body.

Geralt still refused to speak to you as he got up and went to inspect the deer. He slit the dying animal’s throat with his sword to give it a quick death before lifting its dead body onto his shoulder and walking back towards the camp. You grew more and more suspicious of his behaviour, and you started to feel irritated by his silence. You had done nothing wrong, so why would he give you the silent treatment?

“Geralt, what the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked him as you jogged to catch up with him again.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me! If I’ve done something wrong, at least have the balls to tell me to my face!”

Geralt unexpectedly came to a halt and dropped the dead deer to the ground. His actions were so sudden that you collided with him hard, letting out a pained groan as you brought your hand to your nose. Despite his grumpiness, your lover still cupped your face and forced you to look at him to make sure that you were not hurt too badly. The thought warmed your heart, but you knew that Geralt still had not forgiven you for whatever it was he reproached you.

“I’m fine,” you snapped as you reluctantly pulled away from his grip, “you need to get your head out of your arse, witcher! I haven’t done anything wrong-“

“Haven’t done anything wrong?” his deep voice echoed you, disbelief lacing his tone, “why don’t you ask Jaskier, maybe he’ll enlighten you.”

“Come again?” It took you several seconds to understand what Geralt was getting at, “Is this what this is all about? You’re jealous of Jaskier?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, of course I’m the ridiculous one here…”

Geralt stared at you, his nostrils flaring as he tried to contain his anger. You easily held his glare, unwilling to back down and lose the argument. Geralt was the first one to look away, sighing heavily as he heaved a resigned ‘fuck’ under his breath. He raked his fingers through his greasy hair before turning around to face you again. His other hand came to cup the side of your face, pulling you closer so he could rest his forehead against yours. His voice was hoarse as he whispered his next words into your ear:

“I hate the way he looks at you. You’re mine.”

“If you want him to stop looking at me that way, maybe we could stop hiding our relationship like it’s a crime!”

Before Geralt could reply, you pulled yourself away from him and headed back to the camp, not heeding him as he called out your name.

OoO

“Hey Y/N, where’s dinner?” Jaskier asked as soon as he spotted you through the trees, but you were in no mood to entertain him.

“Fuck off, Jaskier!” you snapped before retreating inside your tent. You were glad that you had set up your shelter for the night early, for you did not feel like dealing with Jaskier’s shit. Or Geralt’s, for that matter. As soon as you were out of sight, you let the tears of frustration run down your cheeks. You angrily wiped them, hating how weak you felt when you let your emotions get the better of you.

“Geralt, what happened out there? Y/N seems pissed…”

“Y/N?” Geralt called your name, ignoring Jaskier’s question. You refused to acknowledge him, but Geralt was stubborn. “Y/N, please…”

“I don’t think she wants to talk to you…”

“Jaskier, do us all a favour and shut the fuck up” Geralt snapped at the bard, which was what made you come out of your tent.

“Leave him alone, he’s done nothing wrong!” You coming to Jaskier’s defence was what pushed Geralt over the edge. Without a word, he took several long strides towards you and grabbed your wrist in his large hand, pulling you close to his chest and crashing his lips onto yours in a hungry and possessive kiss. Your eyes widened comically at the public display of affection, but your arms instinctively wrapped your arms around Geralt’s neck for support. The proximity of his warm body, and the feeling of his taunt muscles under the layer of clothing he wore drove you crazy, and despite the anger you felt, you found yourself melting into his embrace. You were about to deepen the kiss when you both heard Jaskier clear his throat loudly. You felt slightly guilty when you broke away from Geralt, but the way the witcher held you close to his body as he acknowledged Jaskier made you feel giddy inside.

“So, how long have you guys been a thing?” the bard asked, not allowing his voice to betray how hurt he was, but you knew better. You gave him an apologetic look, and even Geralt looked slightly contrite.

“A while,” you finally admitted, sensing the way Geralt’s hold tightened around you possessively, “I’m sorry for keeping you out of the loop, Jaskier.”

“Just…” Jaskier took a deep breath and managed a forgiving smile, “Just don’t hurt her Geralt, okay? If you do, I’ll… I’ll hurt you back… somehow!”

You were surprised when you heard Geralt chuckle at the comment.

“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”

“And if you guys ever get married, I’ll be singing at your wedding,” Jaskier told them, and it was your time to laugh when you heard Geralt utter another ‘ ah, fuck’ under his breath.

END

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x female!reader #female reader #reader insert #geralt x you #dandelion #jaskier #ficlet #jealous!geralt #requests open

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

Text

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Five

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

It was supposed to be simple. Clear out Weston Water Treatment. Start a new settlement at Oberland Station. Backhand wrinkled her nose. Partially in irritation, and partially to ward off the foul smell of super mutant.

“If I'd known the place was infested I wouldn't have agreed to this shit.” She grumbled to the paladin in power armor beside her. “Rob could have been a little more generous with his count, I feel.”

Danse chuckled, “Don't try to act tough, Knight Vega. You're still here, right? It's only a couple of super mutants.”

“A couple, he says.”

A bullet whizzed over her head, interrupting the easy back and forth between the two of them. Danse gritted his teeth and readied his laser rifle. “For the Brotherhood!”

They easily picked off five mutants and two hounds, and Backhand pumped her fist in victory when a sixth mutant fell to Righteous Authority . However, then she heard something that sent her into a panic. Her whole upper body jutted heedlessly out from behind cover, stealth mods deactivated from her motion while she searched frantically for the source of the beeping. “Wait, Paladin wait! ” She yelled, grabbing hold of his arm as he thundered by and barely missing getting her fingers crushed in his elbow joint. His momentum dragged her along with him and she hurriedly dug her boots into the dirt. “There's a fucking-!”

Danse’s huge gauntlet clamped onto one of the many straps on her combat armor and without so much as a look out , he hurled her up over the road and into the deep pond beside the treatment plant. The super mutant suicider screamed in triumph, “ Die, metal man! ”

Backhand landed in the pond with an undignified splash, brown water pouring into her nose and mouth as she sank like a rock to the bottom. The following explosion sent shockwaves through the water and Backhand struggled to hold her breath.

Danse, oh God Danse, please be alright!

She finally broke the surface, eyes stinging from the acrid water. “Paladin Danse!” She coughed, hauling herself back up the banking. Smoking chunks of super mutant were scattered everywhere , green flesh burned brown and black. The suit of power armor was toppled over on its front. “ Danse! ” Backhand almost fell in her haste to get to the paladin, skidding to her knees beside the power armor.

Her Geiger counter started to click loudly.

“Shit, Paladin, c'mon! You've dealt with worse than this, you got cooked by a fucking rocket! Don't do this to me!” She pleaded, fighting with the manual release on the back of the suit. The fusion core was shattered, otherwise she could have just half-twisted the handle and popped him out easy. Backhand was stuck doing this the hard way. “Fucking answer me Paladin, please! ”

“That's not...soldier-appropriate language, Knight.” A choked cough came from the half-crushed helmet. “Can you get the back open? I can't really...it's very heavy in this thing.” He rose onto his knees with one hand propping him up, leaving Backhand more than a little impressed. “A Brotherhood soldier's conditioning requirements are somewhat rigorous, Knight. Now please. The back.” Despite his reassurances he sounded strained.

Backhand tore the plate metal over her knuckles on the rivets around the manual release wheel in her haste to get it undone, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally swung the back plate up out of the way. Danse pulled his head out of his helmet, got to his feet, and promptly collapsed.

Backhand swore again, rolling him over. It seemed like his armor had taken the brunt of the impact but he got rattled around inside it like an old world pinball. She'd griped about the lack of padding in their undersuits the very first time she’d seen them, ‘ stupid military branches, always cutting corners. ’

“Paladin, you still with me?” Backhand Vega, shittiest knight the Brotherhood has to offer. “Why the fuck are all your jumpsuits dark orange and brown , I can't tell whether you're bleeding or not!” She yelled in frustration, mostly to herself. At least that suicider had been the last of the mutants to deal with. “Alright, okay. You're out. Oberland it is.” She sighed when he didn't reply, slinging Righteous Authority across her chest and heaving Danse onto her back. Thank God for all that conditioning work so she'd been able to move her own armor frame back in the day. She may be in shape but Danse was by no means a small man.

Getting over the damn hill to Oberland left Backhand almost spent. Half-carrying, half-dragging him up the station stairs at the end was torment, her calves screaming bloody murder. She dropped him on the bed and left her supply satchel on the ground, rummaging through it for her Stims. Some Rad-X probably wouldn't hurt either, it had been a mini-nuke that exploded next to him.

“Knight Vega...” Danse mumbled blearily a few minutes after she inserted the Stim needle into one of the ports in his jumpsuit, the paladin obviously coming back around.

Backhand couldn’t stop the way she snapped at him. Now that the terror for her companion had faded somewhat, she was left feeling exhausted and irritated. “What the hell were you thinking? You could have been obliterated by that asshole!”

“Where are we?” Danse muttered instead, trying to sit up.

“Oberland. Lay the hell back down, stupid idiots don’t get to sit up.” She pushed his shoulder and Danse’s back hit the mattress with a wheeze of rusty springs. “Don’t move.” She growled, using one of her shoelaces to hang the bag of Rad-X from the rafters and then hitching the end of the tubing to the needle still in his arm. Danse grunted, the dazed look on his face making Backhand extremely nervous. “Paladin, stay conscious.” She waved her fingers in front of his eyes and Danse jerked to attention. “Stay with me.”

“I am, Knight Vega.” He retorted while his eyes drifted shut. “Right here.”

“Ah ah, no napping.” She tapped his cheek and his eyes rolled open again. “Stay with me, Danse.” Backhand repeated, a little softer this time.

“I am , Knight Vega.” Danse murmured. “Endured worse than this, remember?”

“Doesn't mean I'm not going to worry.”

Danse closed his eyes just enough to squint at her. “About me? You’re the one with no power armor. I’m supposed to be managing you , Vega.”

…

“Yeah, frickin’ bang-up job there ked.” Backhand retorted. “Coulda’ lost a hand in your elbow joint when you whipped past me like a bat outta’ hell.”

Danse noted with a faint flash of amusement that apparently her accent thickened when she was wound up. “My hearing is not in peak condition. Specifically, telling where the sound is coming from can be an issue in my helmet. Proctor Ingram can only tweak it so much.”

“That would have been good to know beforehand, Paladin.” Backhand said icily, her motions sharp and angry as she shed her combat armor breastplate. Her gauntlets followed suit, discarded in a pile on the floor. She was soaked to the skin, Danse noticed hazily.

His head was pounding again, vision slowly becoming more and more unfocused. “Tell me about what it was like, Knight. Before the…before the war.” Danse slurred, trying his hardest to change the subject and stay awake.

Backhand bit her lip, pulling the bedroll up a little higher until it was underneath Danse’s chin. He wasn’t sure whether she intended to simply ignore his question.

“It was green.” She said softly, putting his wondering to rest. “There was always someone in your business. People were on top of each other most of the time. I mean, I was in the military so cramped quarters were normal for me, but for civilians…it was pretty hellish. In the mornings once we’d had breakfast, I would take Shaun outside to the front lawn and he would roll around on his little blanket. The neighbors were walking their dogs or mowing the lawn or something, we would all make small talk about the weather.” Backhand stopped talking and sighed heavily, tapping at the bag of Rad-X to keep it flowing.

“What is it, Knight?” Danse hated the cold sweat that always broke out when he took Rad-X, but right now it was a necessary evil.

“I think a lot of folks were a little intimidated by me.” She theorized. “I mean I was a young veteran, and pretty quickly became a single mother. Unheard of. For a while after I moved in I still had the eyepatch from my discharge incident, then a pair of super dark sunglasses, which definitely didn’t defang my appearance.” Her smile was melancholy and she brought her fingers up to her eye, tapping the area beneath it.

The silence stretched on. Danse knew he needed to be patient. It’s not as if he could go anywhere, and it was fascinating to hear about pre-war from someone who had actually been there.

“I told the neighborhood kids that I was a pirate and showed them all how to make newspaper boats and hats so they could be pirates too.” Backhand smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I modified one of my old MLCE packs so I could carry Shaun around the cul-de-sac with me when I jogged. Didn’t have the money for one of those baby carriers or even for a stroller after the divorce, so the pack had to do. He would put his little head down on my chest and sleep. Wasn’t bothered by all the motion or anything, just like his mommy.”

Her pain was still clearly raw, even after however much time had passed. Danse didn’t know what to do, so he wiggled a heavy arm free of the sleeping bag and rested his hand on her own. She squeezed it back wordlessly, her jaw working.

When she spoke again, she sounded more steady. “I can’t say that it was bad . The environment was safe and quiet. Everyone in Sanctuary Hills looked out for one another. Even if it was more motivated by curiosity and nosiness than an actual desire to help.” Backhand mused dryly. “The milkman couldn’t leave an extra bottle on your doorstep without six other people knowing. So exactly like the military.”

“Sounds similar to the Prydwen.” Danse remarked, sick to his stomach a second after he said it. How many people must know about Maxson and I? He realized, swallowing hard to fight the sudden rush of nausea. He hadn’t thought about it at all, more than content with the illusion of privacy one usually maintained in the Brotherhood. The most obvious evidence of their dalliances was the busted mouth Danse always seemed to end up with, and those instances happened far too often for everyone to write it off as Danse just being clumsy or careless when he shaved.

I bumped it. He grimaced as he recalled his weak explanation back on the Prydwen, the way Backhand had narrowed her eyes at him.

Besides, he knew that he’d worn his excuses thin at this point. Trying to explain away the teeth marks Arthur left on his upper arm that one time was more than enough of a chore. He had looked like he’d been savaged by a feral, so at least he could understand the concern to an extent.

“Hey, you alright? All the color just dropped out of your face.” Backhand noticed, her brows drawn in worry.

Danse nodded, fixing his attention on the guttering lantern beside the bed instead of the wrinkles on her forehead. “Tell me more?” He asked eventually.

“I miss the convenience of food. Even with the shortages, there used to be a grocery store on practically every corner.” She sounded wistful. “Shaun hadn’t really started solid foods yet, he was only just beginning to leave the twenty-four-seven nursing program. Not a minute too soon, the little bugger would suck me dry.”

“You breastfed your child? Isn’t that-” Danse stopped himself, feeling uncomfortable. Normally breastfeeding was considered incredibly dangerous, for the baby and the parent. But before, when the radiation wasn’t so prevalent…things must have been different. “It’s none of my business, I suppose.”

“No no, I get it. I know that nowadays trying to raise a child is tough enough without the added dangers of the irradiated environment. It was simpler back then. Could just unbutton your shirt and go to town, instead of having to unbelt all your armor and find a safe spot so that Junior can get lunch in.” Backhand grinned.

Danse flushed a little at her frank speech, sternly telling himself not to dwell on the idea of her with an infant on her knee like some housewife from the pre-war mags. He had no recollection of his own parents, or siblings if he had them. Familial musing was not familiar territory, but it never failed to leave him with a sad ache in his throat. The same ache that assaulted him when he thought of Cutler-

Backhand hissed in pain and Danse snapped out of his slide into melancholy, watching with horror while she peeled off her other glove. “Shit, I didn’t even feel that.” She grimaced, spreading her fingers. The sheet metal on her gloves was ripped through in some areas, and it had apparently taken a few healthy chunks out of her knuckles and the backs of her hands. Blood dribbled over her palm and Danse felt… odd .

“Knight Vega, what happened?” Danse asked in confusion.

“I was in such a hellfire hurry to get you out of your gear and the fusion core in your suit was busted. I uh...I don’t really know.” Backhand admitted. “I went panic mode and muscled the manual release as fast as I could, basically.”

“The manual…” Danse trailed off as she wiped some dried blood away with the hem of her undershirt. “You need to bind that. Your knuckles-”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” She flapped a bloodied hand at him. “I’ve had worse.”

“It’s irrelevant whether you’ve had worse, the fact of the matter is that right now, you’re the one who needs to protect us.” Danse shot back, a little annoyed with her carelessness. “Who knows what could be lurking out there? Everything in the neighborhood must have heard the suicider explosion.”

“Ah, okay. Sorry, I’ll…you think a Stim would put this back together? Or should I save those for later?” She asked hesitantly.

“Did you take any Stims from the Prydwen?”

“No, I didn't want to take any resources from you guys.” Backhand shuffled through her pack, carefully counting out everything that she had. “I only have three Stims left. Wasn't expecting this detour.”

Danse cursed under his breath, pushing to sit up by propping his back against the wall. The Stim that she had given him was doing its job, of course, but it would be several hours before he was fit for duty again. Anything could happen in that time. “Come here.” He ordered, disliking the sideways look she gave him. “Let me see your hands.”

“H-Hey, I'll probably be fine. It's no biggie.” She protested, putting her left hand into his own all the same and then wincing. Danse, his brain jerkily reminding him that he was probably being a little too rough, nearly dropped her hand when he tried to casually loosen his grip. Alright, maybe he did spend more time than necessary in his armor. The truth of the matter is that Danse felt like a raw nerve without the comforting weight of plate metal on his body, exposed and too… soft .

“I'll wrap this.” He decided aloud after several moments of careful manipulation to make sure her fingers weren't broken. Danse flipped open the small pouch by his hip, tugging out a tiny roll of bandaging and a nonstick gauze to dress her knuckles. “What? A Brotherhood soldier is always prepared.” He huffed when he noticed Backhand staring at him.

“I gotta' get one of those.” She said, gesturing at the pouch. “Is that included in the suit? Or do they come separate from the requisitions officer?”

“I can put in a supply order for you, if you'd really like one. It has...look, there's loops here. You could hitch it to your combat armor.” Danse loosened the bag and showed her the plethora of MOLLE straps on the back, chuckling a little when she made a clumsy attempt to snatch it out of his hands. “Mm, nice try. I've been around Haylen and Rhys. You've got nothing on either of them when it comes to pilfering my supplies, Vega.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She grinned ruefully. “I really ought to be nice to you. After all, you saved me from pretty certain death.”

“I did?” Danse thought back momentarily and then remembered gauntlet slamming shut on the strap, whichever strap, doesn’t matter, shoulder-ribs, just be enough to hold her weight --He felt his face go hot recalling the unwarranted contact between them. “It was a…reaction. Sometimes I think I move too quickly for my mind to keep up.”

“Lucky for me, I guess! Maybe the Sarge's bandanna is rubbing off on you.” Backhand got to her feet, stretching her arms over her head. She had peeled her Vault suit down and tied the sleeves around her hips again, the fabric pulled tight from her motions.

Danse forced his eyes elsewhere, the sweat on his forehead having nothing to do with the Rad-X. What the hell is the matter with you? He scolded himself. Since when do you ogle women like this?

“Do you think we should stay here tonight, and try to get to your armor tomorrow?” Backhand asked.

“We have to. I’m not leaving it there indefinitely.” Danse cringed as he thought of the state his armor would be in. “I would like to go after it tonight, but I am…not in peak condition.” God , that stung to say. Whether he liked it or not, it was the truth.

“ Hell no, not tonight. I’d rather let you sleep off the Stim and Rad-X, have you in fighting shape bright and early tomorrow morning.” Backhand gave him a look that was actually fond and the ache mounted up in his throat once more. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Put your armor on!” Danse barked as she moved to the door, his voice harsher than he had intended. “You--I-I mean, you need to be prepared, Knight.” He tried to play it off, tried to relax his posture a little. He had nearly stood, shaky fingers crushing the rotted windowsill to try and support his weight.

She waved her bandaged hand at him, as if to say hush , but still buckled her chest plating back on. Danse knew her moments of insubordination should have been worrisome. Had he gotten too complacent, too used to the less stringent requirements of fieldwork?

He did let Rhys and Haylen slide. He just couldn’t stand the two of them dancing around each other anymore, it was maddening. Rhys talked a great game, he always had, but Danse would have to be blind not to notice the knight’s care for their scribe. It wasn't technically against regs, of course, but Danse knew if anything he ought to put his foot down. As their senior ranking officer, if the relationship went south between them he would be dragged into it. It was hard to justify it though, when he saw the two of them all curled up with one another.

Better that they enjoy themselves now. Life could be so incredibly short.

…

“Hey, what’s your deal with the muties?” Backhand asked curiously. He had gotten a boatload of pre-war nonsense out of her, she figured she had earned at least one question. “You lose one of your own to them or something?”

Danse made eye contact and Backhand’s breath caught in her throat. He looked positively worn, fragile , like all the life had gone out of his body. With an expression like that , she expected a great (if sad) story. All she got was a soft “ Yes ,” spoken in a voice thick with emotion.

When it became apparent that that was the end of it, Backhand cleared her throat and readjusted the dingy pipe pistol in her hands. She proceeded to methodically count her bullets, trying not to make him feel like she was waiting for the rest. The experience left her shaken. She had thought Danse to be the typical soldier, but it was obvious now that there was much more to him than that. He clearly cared deeply for the wellbeing and safety of each member of his team, possibly too much for him to escape unscathed. He was one of those , she realized, practically a kindred spirit to her dearly departed senior officer Sergeant Cathan. Courageous, firm, the shelter in the storm. A true embodiment of everything a soldier should strive to be.

“ I could not feasibly promise anything…it was not within my power to promise. ”

She noticed Danse pull the bedroll up around his shoulders as if he was cold. There was a sharp wind that blew through the old station on top of the hill, but Backhand, New Englander to the end, barely felt it. She leaned on the worn bannister of the stairs, her eyes squinted against the darkness as the stars brightened overhead.

There was more rustling from behind her and she assumed that Danse was doing his best to make himself comfortable on the old mattress, his frame a bit… large for the task. Backhand snuck a peek and was relieved to see him curled up in her bedroll, his back to the wall and eyes closed.

She hoped that Paladin Brandis made it to the Prydwen safe and sound (and that her armor was still in one piece). She may have hoped a little harder that Brandis was already giving Maxson a run for his money. The idea of Maxson being thrown off his game made her snicker quietly to herself.

Her good humor faded all too quickly when she recalled that there was nothing keeping them out here and away from the Prydwen once they finished cleaning up Weston. If something shifty was going on between Danse and Maxson, it wouldn’t be long before they were back in the thick of it. She cast another glance at the large man after she heard him mumble something, watching him shift around in the sleeping bag. There was an odd vulnerability to him when he slept, which she remembered all too well from their time in the police station.

The wan sunlight hadn’t woken him as she scribbled her note, but he stirred when she placed the paper down on the floor beside his head. His bedroll was bunched uncomfortably at his elbows and she took a selfish moment to kiss his forehead and then tug the fabric up around his shoulders. It couldn’t hurt, she reasoned with herself. He had hummed in his sleep and snuggled down into the warm embrace of the bedroll. It made it incredibly difficult to leave, even with the two Mister Handy units cheerily patrolling the courtyard. If something happened…

Well, it didn’t really bear thinking about. Backhand had the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time she and Danse would meet.

…

Backhand woke him for his watch shift at almost exactly two hundred hours. She looked fatigued and Danse ignored the protest of bruises on his body in favor of more quickly freeing up the mattress. “Got it warmed up for you.” He yawned, chuckling when she poked him in the ribs.

“I bet you did, you big furnace.” She teased, her eyelids already drooping. “Nothing to report, sir. All’s been quiet.”

“Carry on, Knight.” Danse saluted out of habit, scooping her combat armor up off the floor and beginning to adjust it to fit his own body. Once he was in some semblance of protective equipment, he snuffed the lantern on the bedside table and took his place at the window. He borrowed Righteous Authority from her, seeing as his rifle was back with his power armor. Probably lying on the ground, covered in super mutant gore. Danse frowned unhappily.

His night vision had always been impeccable, with or without his helmet. Danse scanned the landscape for threats, glad that they at least had the high ground. If anything tried to attack, he would know well before they arrived.

The Commonwealth was almost peaceful at night. Once all the raiders had bedded down with one another and the ferals had retreated to their holes, a tenuous calm reigned that was usually only broken by clans of ambitious super mutants or radscorpions.

Danse rested his weight gingerly on the wall, afraid that it may not be able to support him in its decrepit state. Thankfully it held fast and he relaxed after a moment. His pulse was still quick enough for him to be slightly anxious. It was a normal leftover from using a Stim, but he disliked the feeling; epinephrine and adrenal-sour in his mouth while his heart slammed a tattoo on his ribs.

Danse fought the desire to shake himself, certain that Backhand wouldn’t appreciate being woken up by the percussion of poor-fitting combat armor. Though she had mentioned that her son could sleep through anything, “ just like his mommy .” He imagined being on the front lines, getting your meager rest wherever you could and going for weeks without seeing a real bed would probably do that to a person. Lord knew he had a hard time readjusting to the quiet safety of the Prydwen after clocking lengthy stints of fieldwork or skirmishes with the Enclave.

He had dreamed of Cutler again. Danse exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the tremble of his hands. Mercifully the dream had faded well before Backhand woke him. He wasn’t sure how he would have reacted to being shaken awake while still in the grasp of his memories. He shook his head, propping the barrel of Righteous Authority up on the windowsill. He couldn’t go on like this, haunted by the echoes of a man who had ceased to be. True, they had a bond. A bond which Danse had naively believed was unbreakable. But when Cutler had gone missing…

Danse was no stranger to horrifying experiences. Centaurs, super mutants and ferals plagued his nightmares, nightmares which inevitably led to an enormous super mutant hive in the Capital Wasteland...

Part Six

#fallout 4 #fallout four #paladin danse #paladin danse x sole survivor #paladin danse/sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #fallout #bethesda #video games #BOS #brotherhood of steel #canon-typical violence

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a-solitary-marshmallow · 4 years ago

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Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 13 (out of 14)

Not – not right. Something was wrong, familiar but not familiar and his head was hurting now, his teeth ached and everything ached. His body felt weird, why was it shaking? Why did he hurt? Where was he again?

He ached all over, like something was gnawing at him. The bone-deep aching seemed to touch every fibre of his being. It swelled in his jaw, where it seemed to throb alongside his heartbeat. He could hear the crunching as bones shifted and reshaped. He let out a pitiful whine.

“…with me? Can you…?”

He hadn’t been expecting an answer to his whimpering. Who was – why? Why was he? No, wait, wrong words. Where was he? He felt like he was struggling to wake from a year-long sleep. Wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up, with the pain radiating through him, intensifying for a moment in his back as cracks and pops shuddered through him. But slowly, slowly, that pain was starting to recede, clearing space for other sensations to filter through.

There was hard floor under his hands. Well, kind-of-hands, with long claws that bit into the wood grain. He could feel air rasping in his throat with every breath that shuddered through him. Something pressed a steady weight against his shoulders, large and warm and grounding. A pair of hands steadying him. Something to focus on. He counted the fingers in his head. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six? He counted again, just to be sure.

“It’s okay, I’m right here.”

He knew that voice – lower and a little more prim than he remembered from their childhood, but still familiar. The sense of pack-home-warmth-food-safety-protect. Brother. Brother was there. Brother had given him something awful-tasting, and-

“Stan? Can you understand me?”

He tried to respond but his mouth was dry and only another gasp of air escaped him. How did you speak again? He swallowed hard, testing the muscles that felt like they hadn’t been used in ages. Maybe they hadn’t. When he finally did manage to make a sound it was rough and strained, more of a whine than anything. Maybe it was just the wheeze of his Shift finishing, depositing him firmly as a confused human kneeling on the floor. His claws had shrunk into uneven, dirty nails.

“Just – just nod if you can understand me, okay? Can you nod?”

He swallowed again, forcing out sounds through alien human vocal chords. It came out as a croak. “Ford?”

“Yes!” Someone – Brother – Stanford shouted. Too loud, it hurt his sensitive ears and made him wince. He groaned and brought a clumsy hand up to rub at his throbbing temple. Ugh, either he was hungover or partly in wolf mode or both. Probably both, seeing as he couldn’t quite remember where he was or how he’d gotten there.

“Didja… get the number plate of the car that hit me?”

The words felt odd and disjointed – rusty in his mouth – but they were familiar and made his brother laugh, so he counted that as a win. His memory was pretty blurry, but he was pretty sure that his brother hadn’t laughed in a while. No, Ford had been so frustrated and upset, trying to find some…

…cure.

Huh.

“How do you feel?” Ford was asking him. “Besides hit-by-a-car, of course.”

“Well, I can count up to six and remember yer name, so I’m gonna go with ‘better than before’.” He rasped. With each word his sentences were coming easier, falling into a well-worn pattern of practice. He hadn’t spoken in… how long? Why hadn’t he been speaking?

There was movement, and he was blinking over a shoulder – there were arms wrapped tight around him. A hug? Why was Ford hugging him?

Wait, no, Ford often hugged him. Hugged Rebus. Who was him, who was also-kinda-not-quite Stan?

The final puzzle piece clicked into place, and Stan groaned.

“I turned into a goddamned lapdog.”

The last few weeks were a blur – he wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t all a dream, but he remembered glimpses of it. Of having the mental capacity of a spoon. Napping while Brother worked. A sense of protect-danger-keep-guard-fight. God, he hoped he hadn’t attacked anyone Ford liked.

“Yes. You were Warped.” Ford pulled away to dive into techno-babble, one hand still on Stan’s shoulder. Stan looked around blearily at their surroundings – Ford’s lab, it looked like. The last thing he remembered was being in the forest, but…

He pulled his shredded jacket closer around himself and shivered.

“Do you remember the bear that attacked us?” Ford continued. “You must have ingested some of its blood, because you were affected by the same substance that mutated it. One of the symptoms I’ve isolated is cognitive deterioration, which explains why you were stuck in a simpler mindset. That was the main challenge to reverse. Luckily I was able to figure it out in the end.”

“’Course ya did.” Stan mumbled out. Ford was the smart one, of course he would be able to fix him. Ford let out a little, relieved-sounding laugh, eyes fixed on Stan’s arm as he ran his six fingers over an old scar. At least, it looked old, seeing as it wasn’t a fresh wound anymore. Stan didn’t remember getting it. It looked like some huge bear had taken a chunk out of his arm or something.

…oh yeah, the bear.

“It did take me quite some time to develop a cure. You aren’t the most cooperative subject, Stanley – at one point you climbed onto the roof and then were unable to get down for several hours. I thought your fear of heights had faded since childhood?”

Being dangled over the edge of a five-story building helps with bringing back old phobias. Stan very carefully did not say that out loud. Oh, look at that, his brain was working well enough to recall memories of his escapades with Rico’s gang. Whoopee.

Another shiver ran through him. It was cold down here – or at least it felt that way, given Stan’s sudden lack of fur. The only warmth came from Ford. The nerd was constantly in motion as he babbled, putting a warm hand on Stan’s arm or touching his shoulder or grabbing his face to tilt it from side to side and study his eyes in the light. If Stan didn’t know any better he would have thought his brother was fretting.

Fretting over his latest lab rat, maybe. Was that why Ford had – had fixed him? Because Stan was more useful with his brain intact?

No, Ford was probably just feeling guilty about kicking him out while he was in that state. (And of course Ford would get rid of him, Stan was nothing but trouble, always had been, the only thing he was good at was fucking things up.) So, he found a cure. Undo the damage, fix Stan up before kicking him to the curb, so the scientist could walk away with a clean conscience.

Well, screw that. Ford might as well have just booted him out then and there, when Stan’s head was full of bees and he couldn’t remember his own name. At least then he wouldn’t have had to know that he was being rejected yet again.

As if rejection was something new. Heh, story of his life.

“Stanley, pay attention.” Stan felt a hand lightly tapping his cheek, drawing him back to the present. He finally focused on Ford’s face. The nerd looked almost as bad as Stan felt, with wild hair and tired, bloodshot eyes and ink stains on one cheek where he must have fallen asleep at his desk. He didn’t smell too great, either. Like old coffee, unwashed human and rusted metal. The nerd must have been feeling really guilty to put himself so out-of-sorts. “Now, are you noticing anything unusual for either your wolf or human form? Your eyes are still somewhat reflective but that could just be a werewolf trait rather than a Warped trait. You feel hot, you may be developing a fever. Stay here, I’ll get a thermometer – or, do you think you can stand?”

“Why did you fix me?

Ford looked as if Stan had slapped him. Shit. Stan hadn’t even meant to speak, but the words had slipped out.

Well, gotta commit now. He shuffled back and folded his arms over his chest, trying and failing to meet Stanford’s eyes.

Ford made a disbelieving sound. “You’re my brother. I couldn’t just leave you like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you felt responsible or whatever.” Stan waved his hand dismissively (and clumsily, because coordination with hands was hard. Too many moving parts.) “But did you ever stop to consider that maybe I didn’t want to be fixed?”

“Why on earth would you want to stay like that?”

“Ya didn’t even have to put up with me!” Stan shouted, flinging up his arms, and Ford’s mouth snapped shut. His chest bubbled with anger. “You could have just – I dunno, sent me off into the woods or something.” And it would have hurt just as much, sure, but Stan wouldn’t have been around to feel that pain. “I woulda been fine.”

“You were an animal-”

“But at least I was happy.” Stan snapped. “When – when yer mind is mush at least you don’t know what you’re missing out on, you don’t know that people don’t want you around, you don’t have to be sad all the time. Maybe I like not bein’ me. Maybe I like not knowing how much of a screw-up I am. Maybe I don’t want to know that I’m JUST ANOTHER EXPERIMENT TO YOU!”

Ah, shit. Way to go, motormouth.

Stan huffed and finally met Ford’s eyes, expecting his brother to look angry at his outburst – and maybe, just maybe, a little bit guilty. He hadn’t expected the aghast look he received.

“Stanley.”

Stan flinched back, suddenly very unsure of what was going on and what Ford’s horrified reaction meant. “What, what did I do?”

“Stan, of course you’re more than an experiment. If – why do you think I worked so hard to bring you back?” Ford leaned forward and grabbed Stan’s shoulders again. “If I wanted a lab rat I would have left you in that form, which now that I say it seems quite heartless and this is really besides the point because the point is that I didn’t. You’re my brother, Stanley, whatever grievances we’ve had in the past. And… and if I’ve made you feel that I would think otherwise I apparently haven’t been a very good brother.”

Stan scanned his twin’s eyes, trying to find some hint of dishonestly – any indication that he was lying. He found nothing. And damn it, now he was even more confused!

“…what was all that talk, then?” Stan’s voice was rough. Lack of practice probably. He sounded like a chain smoker. “The ‘it’s my life’s work to study anomalies’ and stuff?”

“It is my life’s work to study anomalies. What does that have to do with this?” Ford frowned, as if confused. Stan spluttered.

“The – the whole ‘only-not-kicking-me-out-because-of-it’ deal!”

“I didn’t say that!” Ford protested.

“Yes you did! You said it right to my face!”

“All I said was that I wouldn’t be-”

Ford stopped. Blinked hard. Swallowed. Stan could almost see the cogs whirring in that big old brain of his.

“…oh. I can see how that would give… the wrong impression.”

Stan groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to grind out the headache he could feel growing there. “Look, Ford. I just – I’m tired, okay? So you can just say your piece and send me off or study me or whatever. But don’t make me –” He let out a frustrated growl. “Just stop givin’ me false hope, okay? I don’t wanna hear it. I’m just… tired.”

The last word was low and pathetic. God, what was wrong with him? C’mon Stan, get your act together! He was a fucking werewolf for crying out loud, and he was sitting here acting like a kicked puppy. No wonder Ford was…

Hugging him again?

“Hey, hey hey hey, what’s goin’ on here?” Stan flailed a little in the rib-squeezing grip. His eyes prickled – because he was stupid and Ford was hugging him, Stanley, and Stan hadn’t been deliberately hugged in almost a decade. Tears spilled over without his consent. Thank god Stanford couldn’t see his face.

“I’m hugging you.” Ford mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I – I get that.”

“It has been brought to my attention that I’m not very good at communicating sentiment through words.” Ford continued. “So, I – I’m hugging you instead.”

“…okay.”

______________________________________________________________________

Ford was beginning to realize that he had – eloquently speaking – fucked up.

When he and Stan were younger they had been thick as thieves. Ford could read his brother’s face as easily as an open book. He’d known when Stan was hurting, or feeling guilty or lovesick or whatever else the knucklehead had seen fit to try and hide. Stan had always been better at reading people but if there was one person Ford understood, it was his brother.

He didn’t know how to read his brother’s face now. Maybe Stan had learned to hide his feelings better, or Ford had simply forgotten how. Either way, Ford hadn’t been able to tell what Stan had been thinking since the man had barged back into his life. His brother had been hurting and Ford hadn’t even had a clue. And now everything he said seemed to make it worse.

So Ford didn’t speak. He hugged his brother tight and didn’t let go.

After another moment Stan hesitantly hugged him back, scarred arms closing loosely around Ford’s back. A shudder ran through him and he sniffed. Then hiccupped. Then sniffed again, as if he were desperately trying to hold back tears and failing.

Ford weighed his words carefully before speaking. “…I don’t want you to leave.”

Stan’s fingers dug into his back as the man stiffened.

“Not because of my research, I mean.” Ford continued. “Honestly, Stan I – I missed you. Through the last nine years. You were such a huge part of my life and suddenly you were gone. I wanted to have my freedom – to go to college and move away from home – but never at the expense of my brother.”

Ford’s mouth was dry. He swallowed and forged on.

“Having you back – even in disguise – has been wonderful. I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I got you back. How much I missed my brother. I was so afraid that I’d lost you forever.”

He forced his voice to not wobble; emotions were well and good but falling apart over that particular scenario could wait. Right now Ford was trying to make a point, he didn’t have time to be distracted.

“I’ll understand if you never want to see my face again but please trust me, I want to keep in touch. I don’t want you to just disappear again. And I most certainly will not force you to do so. Do you understand?”

Stan was shaking. Ford rubbed slow circles on his back, desperately hoping that he was helping instead of making things worse. Stan made a soft affirmative sound.

“…mm hmm.”

“And I worked so hard on curing you because I care about you. Even though I may not be good at showing it.”

“Mm.”

Ford gave a low chuckle. “Plus, I… may have gotten in over my head, just a little bit, with some of my experiments. I’m glad I’ve had you to watch my back.”

Stan snorted. His voice was barely a mumble through Ford’s coat. “A little? On day two I was saving your ass from a bunch of angry cat-birds.”

“Griffins are not cat-birds! They are eagle-lion hybrids. And for your information they are generally non-aggressive unless provoked! I just… got a little close, is all.”

Stan pulled away, chuckling wetly as he scrubbed at his face with a torn-up sleeve. “Yeah, whatever.” He cleared his throat. “Jeez Poindexter, you need to sweep down here. You, uh, got a lot of dust.”

“…sure. Dust.”

Stan’s clothes were unsalvageable at this point – torn to ribbons and stained with blood and dirt and other substances Ford couldn’t identify. Even if they ceased to exist when Stan took his wolf form (which would be an incredible thing, Ford had to investigate its limits and the logic behind it) he had been wearing them for far too long.

Which begged the question…

“Stan?” Ford ventured. Stan looked across at him warily.

“…I don’t like that tone.”

“Why did you stay for so long?” Ford crossed his legs to settle next to his brother, since Stan didn’t seem like he was ready to move. “Not that I haven’t appreciated your company, but…?”

Stan buried his face in his knees and mumbled something.

“Stanley, you know I can’t understand you when you mumble.”

“That’s the point of mumbling.” Stan said a little louder.

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Deliberately.”

“Just answer it!”

Were shoulder punches still safe? Ford risked it, and was rewarded with another snort of amusement.

“Ugh, whatever, nerd. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go so I figured – why not stay for a while? Ya know, in case you needed me to bail you out again.”

“Nowhere else to go?” Ford echoed, mystified. Of course Stan had somewhere to go – he must have had a home somewhere! He even had a car… which, now that Ford came to think about it, seemed rather lived-in. And wasn’t even registered. And there was the fact that his brother was dressed like a hobo. And had a mullet. “…oh.”

“Just shut it, I don’t need yer pity.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah. By the time I got outta that stupid cage I figured ‘hey, might as well stay for a bit’ and you know the rest. Now you got your answer, I’m a homeless bum. Go ahead, yuk it up.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Stan squinted at him suspiciously. And… he looked pretty terrible. Ford was pretty sure that he looked like a mess but Stan was twice as bad. His skin was sallow and waxy and his eyes were sunken in, the skin around them dark like a raccoon’s.

Alright. Priorities. Ford pulled in a deep breath, and let it out.

He climbed to his feet and offered a hand. “Do you think you can stand up? You should take a shower and make sure there’s no Warped blood on you. I have some clothes that should fit you, and then you’re going to eat a vegetable. Human bodies need vegetables, Stanley.”

Stan peered at him. “I’m not actually a human, Sixer.”

“Human or not, vitamins are important. Come on.”

Stan reached up, and then hesitated. “Are, um – you sure you want me in your house? After all the, uh…”

“Deceit?” Stan flushed and looked away. “We’ve both made mistakes. And you can more than make it up to me by telling me about werewolves like yourself.”

“I – I won’t touch anything. Or break anything.” Stan mumbled.

“Except for my door.”

Stan flinched. “That wasn’t – I mean–”

Of, curse it. Ford hurried to reassure him. “No, no, I’m sorry, that was a joke. A poor one.

“…your jokes are terrible.”

“My timing could use work.” Ford conceded.

“We’re such a mess.”

“That’s an… accurate way to put it, actually. But you’ll just have to get used to it, because you’ll be staying with me for the near future.”

“I – what?” Stan jerked.

“You said yourself, you have nowhere else to go. And you’ve certainly been pulling your weight, what with making sure I don’t die. So you’re staying here, for as long as you need. Unless you have any other plans?”

Stan spluttered.

“Just take my hand already.”

With shiny eyes and a rather red face, Stan did. Ford pulled his brother to his feet.

And then promptly went down again as Stan’s legs gave out beneath him, sending him into Ford and both of them to the floor.

“…you do remember how to walk, right-?”

“Stupid fuckin’ legs-”

“That’s alright, take your time.”

“Shut up!”

#werewolf stan au #werewolf!stan #gravity falls #my writing #my fic

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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years ago

Text

Musical Tryouts (1/31/2021)

Please pretend I posted this chat log a month and a half ago when it actually happened, sob.

Valera @autokrates is leaving an audition for Hell’s first production of Hamilton, and runs into Alastor, waiting for his turn to audition. They hang out and chat until it’s his turn—which marks the first time in forever they’ve had a full conversation that wasn’t Incredibly Awkward the whole way through. Hooray for progress.

Chronologically, this chat log happened between this (note: art of extremely hilarious outfit) and this (note: art of another hilarious outfit)

Alastor

Alastor hasn’t auditioned for a show since the seventies, and hasn’t auditioned and *cared* about it in almost a century. He’d like to think he doesn’t look nervous, but he knows he’s reread his typewritten lyrics about a hundred times and every couple of minutes he catches his leg bouncing again. That’s fine, he’s in disguise, he isn’t supposed to look like himself anyway. He can look a little nervous.

When he realizes he’s more staring a hole through his pages than actually reading them, he forces himself to lift his head, slouches back in his cheap metal chair, and looks around the makeshift backstage waiting room. Maybe he can figure out if anyone else is trying for his parts, drag them into the back alley, and mangle them. It would defeat the purpose of showing up in disguise, but it would burn some nervous energy, and anyway he’s already seen one would-be Angelica pin another down and slit her throat. His gaze scans over the other hopeful actors.

Valera

From the stage comes the muffled sound of someone singing, as expected. But the singing gets louder as the voice approaches the door, and it certainly sounds like Not A Musical Number. It sounds a lot more like someone who needed to be accompanied by someone torturing a piano with a series of small hammers. Was that a Will Wood number? Why yes, yes it was!

Through the curtains and round the corner comes the fish supreme, bedecked in enough frills and frippery to lose an orphan in with their 18th century french fashion, belting out lines from I/Me/Myself as they saunter towards the exit with barely a glance for the other hopefuls waiting for their call. Barely a glance at all, until their eyes land on Alastor. Then their jaunty tune is cut off with an uncanny impression of a record scratch crossed with a chicken being strangled, head whipping around for a double take as they freeze mid stride. Holy fuck what was he WEARING???

Alastor

Alastor’s ears threatened to perk up beneath his temporarily shapeshifted hair at the sound of a very familiar and very beloved song from another performer—he’d almost considered performing that one himself, God was he lucky he’d decided to go with “Modern Major General”—and he turned to see who it was with the spectacular taste in music—

“Valera?!” What the hell was Valera doing at a musical audition in Hell?

Valera

It WAS Alastor! They KNEW it! They gasp, pointing at him as their eyes boggle. "Al--" And just as quickly, a hand is clapped over their own mouth, teeth clicking as they clamp their mouth shut. Okay, try that again, *without* ruining his disguise.

They stride over to where he's sitting, leaning in slightly before hissing. "What are you WEARING?"

Alastor

Alastor plays the sound of something crashing over when Valera starts to say his name—the other waiting performers look around to see which props just toppled over—and hops out of his seat to meet Valera in the middle when they approach him. “Do *not* expose me,” he hisses, flinging an arm around Valera’s shoulders. “Nobody here knows I’m the Radio Demon and if this is going to work, nobody *can* know.”

Then he looks down at his own outfit. “A disguise.” Obviously. “I asked my listeners, ‘What’s the last thing you’d ever expect me to wear?’”

Valera

Oh, great, he's touching them AND he's already mad at them for something they'd already avoided. This seemed like par for the course, might as well get through this as painlessly as possible. Valera's face tightens into a stiff little smile, stomach already twisting into knots. "I've got no plans of exposing you, it would be a shame to ruin the work you put into your... outfit."

A slow exhale from the nose, and they force their shoulders to relax. Can't have the other actors see the two of them at odds, they're clearly just a couple of friends running into each other! A funny coincidence! Their voice raises back to a normal speaking tone, all sunshine and cheer as they give Alastor a pat on the back that falls short of actually touching him. "I take it you're here to audition for a part, then?"

Alastor

Alastor wheezes a near-silent laugh. “Isn’t it hideous?” he whispers. “You should see what the full leggings look like, they’re horrible.”

He lets go and steps back. “I am! I was seized by a wild burst of inspiration, and auditions happened before that inspiration ran out. I take it you... *already* auditioned.” Which raises a whole slew of questions, but Alastor starts with the most important one: “Which part?”

Valera

Valera sends up a silent prayer of thanks to any God listening, hands folding behind their back as they admire Alastor's grotesque attire. "Unfortunately, I kind of love it. It's vile, but with a few tweaks it could be a genuinely good outfit."

They clear their throat at his latter question, rolling back on the heels of their new shoes. "Washington. I didn't come to Hell today expecting to audition for anything, I was just here buying shoes. But I heard music, saw the theater, decided to pop in and see what was going on. And hey, why not try out? Didn't expect to run into you of all people."

Alastor

A little tension drains out of his shoulders at the answer. He glances down to idly check out Valera’s new shoes. “Oh, good! I don’t have to duel you for a part.” He almost instinctively starts playing a snip from “Ten Duel Commandments” to underline the comment, but catches himself. He is, after all, trying not to blow his cover—he’s even consciously suppressing the radio distortion to his voice, he nearly sounds like a normal person. “The feeling’s *entirely* mutual. You’re about the last person I’d expect to try out for a show around here, so far from home!”

And he’s not sure how he feels about it yet. He’s been trying to avoid talking to Valera—can’t get in trouble after interacting with them if they *don’t* interact, can he?—and now here he is doing the opposite of that... but they haven’t started another stupid argument. Yet. “What are you doing if you actually get the part? You’re committing to being in Pentagram City on a near daily basis for—goodness, months at least!”

Valera

They don't know how they feel about seeing him here either. It went from being a fun little spur of the moment tryout before icecream into an UNEXPECTED INTERACTION with A PERSON THEY DON'T KNOW WELL. But no, they have to tamp down on the urge to make their excuses and leave, things would never improve between them if Valera did nothing but avoid him after all.

"IF I get the part! I haven't been in a production in years, I'm rusty compared to plenty of the actors here today, I'm sure." A hand waves, lazy and dismissive. "But if I do pull it off, I've been planning on spending more time in Hell anyway. This is just a convenient excuse."

Alastor

“Hah, I haven’t tried out for a show since—well, since before you were born.” And then, he’d just been doing it as a lark, too—something to attempt to keep his mind occupied. He hadn’t actually *wanted* to be in a production this badly since he lived in New York, before he gave up on making it on Broadway and went into radio. “But how many of *them* can launch into a full musical number at the drop of a hat!”

Valera

Right, it was easy to forget that Alastor was old enough to be their dad. Or Grandpa. Probably? They'd done the math at some point..

"Hatched." They correct on reflex, reaching up to fuss with the feather on their hat. "Who are you trying for? Lafayette? I could see you as a Lafayette." They're saying it because of the French, but they will NOT say that out loud.

Alastor

Great-grandpa, easily. Maybe even great-great grandpa if a few generations got early starts.

His face brightens. “Let’s hope the casting director thinks so, too! Yes, Lafayette and Jefferson—the same actor played them both in the mortal realm, why shouldn’t one person play both down here, too?”

Valera

Great-grandpa Alastor, the spryest old man in the nursing home. Eating the interns when he gets bored... That sounds like a typical older Veci actually.

They hum, looking Alastor up and down in his getup. "You'll get the part, or I'll eat this silly chapeu. I've seen the competition you're up against. They're good, don't get me wrong, but..." A vague gesture at him. "Nobody could compete!"

Alastor

"You flatter me!" All the same, he's beaming widely. "But I was hoping that would be the case, what with when they scheduled auditions. January's a bad time for, well, *most* people's schedules. I'm afraid I missed all but the tail end of your performance—spectacular choice of song, though!"

Valera

"Why thank you! Will Wood doesn't fit the show's theme in the slightest, but it certainly shows my singing chops! Though if I'd planned for this audition I might have gone with an outfit a bit less.. *French*." They grin, shimmying their enormous sleeves. Unrepentant in the slightest. "Might. I could see Washington's doughy self in this getup."

Alastor

Alastor examines Valera’s getup. Was that French? It just looked old-fashioned to him. “Well, hopefully they’re not going to judge based on fashion!” He glances pointedly down at his own outfit.

Valera

Another glance at his outfit, and they give a thumbs up. "You've got a bowtie on, you'll be fine."

Oh. Would it be a supportive friend thing to do to sit and wait for his call with him? Or would that be somehow rude? They couldn't just ask, if it *was* rude he'd probably be offended by the notion, but if it wasn't... Something bad. Probably? Maybe they're being unfair. A quick clearing of the throat, and they gesture towards the door. "Do you want to sit down? I've got time to kill before. Uh... *Mon Cerf Rouge* arrives with my ice cream."

Alastor

*Oh right*, he’s wearing *Valera’s husband’s* bow tie. His hand flies up to cover it as if that will prevent it from being identified, and he quickly forces his hand back down. “Well! I wasn’t going to show up to an audition underdressed, was I?” He laughs thinly. Don’t act suspicious it’s fine.

Is Valera hanging out with another Alastor? He wonders which one. How is it that every version of himself manages to get along with them but him? It wouldn’t be so galling if *none* of them could get along with Valera, but if it’s something he uniquely is doing wrong—no, don’t worry about that right now.

His first inclination is to turn down the offer, they’ve had a cordial conversation so far and he can’t mess it up if it ends right here; but there’s a chance they’re about to both end up in the same show, isn’t there? Polite avoidance might not be an option for long. Better get to work on getting along. “Sure! It’s a bit yet until my turn.”

Valera

What a reaction! They will politely pretend they didn't see him have a miniature panic over being seen wearing Pentious' bowtie. Far too busy inspecting their gloves, for some reason. How convenient.

Well, now they've done it, they're stuck here. Though it's surprising he accepted the offer, maybe it'll be okay? If he really wanted to avoid them he could have turned the offer down. They're probably overthinking it. A quick nod, and then they perch on the edge of a seat so their fuckoff huge tail can actually fit amidst the mounds of ruffles. On the plus side, nobody but Alastor was going to be taking the seats next to them anytime soon, unless they wanted to fight the tide of frills.

Time to.. Get along? Polite chit chat? "Is this the first production of Hamilton in Hell? It's a fairly new musical, and I know there's a bit of a delay getting things down here."

Alastor

“The very first! In fact, this production company is the one that got the first recording smuggled down from the living realm! Online there’s a few amateur recordings of recent arrivals singing the songs they remember, but so far that’s the only presence Hamilton has had in Hell. Anyone who gets in this show has an opportunity to *define* their roles in the eyes of the public.” Oh, he’s getting a little starry-eyed just thinking of it. “I suppose you’ve probably seen the original production in the mortal realm?”

Valera

"I did, though that was long before I met you or I'd have invited you along!" They're going to take the hat off, it's very silly and the feather keeps floating around in the corner of their vision. Plus, now they have something to hold in their hands so they can't start doing anything weird with them. Win win!

Alastor seems genuinely excited about this production, he'd gone through all the effort to get an outfit, come for tryouts.. And they just sauntered in on a whim. Thank the gods they weren't trying out for the same part, Valera would have had to bow out immediately. "I wonder if any of the actual founding fathers have survived long enough down here to see the show. Wouldn't *that* be something?"

Alastor

“Wouldn’t it just! I can’t think of *anything* I’d enjoy more than prancing around on stage making Jefferson look like an absolute damn fool while the real deal seethes in a front row seat!” He laughs. It’s not a terribly friendly laugh. “But I don’t know if any are down here. I don’t pay close attention to that sort of thing—and anyway, most *important* people who end up damned either find themselves on the receiving end of a deluge of assassination attempts or else change their identities fairly fast. A founding father could show up and audition to play as himself and we might not know.” A thoughtful pause. “Although I doubt any of them would get the part.”

Valera

"I'd assume they wound up here, considering the whole owning slaves and starting wars thing. Good PR post mortem doesn't absolve you of shitty behaviors in life, unfortunately." Yes. Very unfortunate. That's why they're grinning so toothily. "Imagine if we got the actual King George on the roster? Though I'd rather see Pentious try for the part, personally." There's no way George was still around, he'd gone batty enough in life that he'd probably wandered onto the nearest angelic spear first thing. But they could dream!

Alastor

“One would hope! But no one’s ever sent me the rule book on what does and doesn’t get you access upstairs, who knows for sure? I can tell you what I think *should* get you down here, but I can’t tell you with complete certainty whether or not it does.”

Oh, his eyes light up at that. “Just imagine him in the full raiment of a king! But no. Getting up on stage to have hundreds of people laugh at him for dressing and acting like royalty? He’d hate it.”

Valera

"He'd look glorious in a crown! But you're right, he'd never want a comic relief role, even if he WOULD get to sing about sending battalions after people." Alas and alack, King George ala Pentious would have to live in their dreams. But they smirk, leaning a fraction closer to Alastor to whisper. "But we might be able to get him to sing it privately, at least, and wouldn't that be lovely?"

Quickly pulling back, they cross one leg over the other and put on that cheerful grin again. "What do you think *should* qualify to send people to Hell, my fine fellow? It's a broad question, so we can skip it if you'd rather not open that can of worms."

Alastor

Wouldn’t it be lovely, indeed. He smiles uncomfortably and glances away.

“Oh, skip it.” He waves a hand vaguely. “I find the topic as sanctimonious as it is futile. It may not be for *you*, perhaps—for you, it’s little more than an interesting thought experiment on alien morality—but for us? What’s the good of debating why people should be damned when we’re *already* damned? It’s not going to help us get out of Hell. God isn’t going to take our suggestions into consideration. All the topic does is make one bitter that the powers that be don’t appear to be judging people to one’s personal moral standards—or else it inspires one to assume that God *is* operating in line with one’s personal understanding of justice, and try to pigeonhole everyone one meets into the crimes one believes are worthy of damnation. I’ve run into countless people down here who *don’t know why* they’re damned—and yet they *are* damned, which means they’ve done something that *is* damnable even if they themselves don’t believe it. If people can’t understand their own sins, how can they be trusted to judge anyone else’s?”

Valera

They lean back as Alastor skips one can of worms for another, watching him as he broke down his reasoning. It was interesting, insightful, even if they didn't have much to say to him in response. He was right, after all. For them it was an alien concept, a novelty to roll around and discard when they were bored, just like so many other human notions. But not everyone was so lucky. A nod of agreement, and they flick their tail.

"You're right. My apologies, Alastor, it's easy to forget how... fortunate I am, to be in the position I'm in." A side eye at the other actors, who PROBABLY couldn't hear the conversation, but even so. "Something lighter, then. Have you had a chance to work on restoring your deathday gift yet? You did a fine job with Alexander, he's as glossy as the day you *finished* him."

Alastor

“Oh, that’s just to be expected. How many people have a chance to measure their lives up against the dead and damned, anyway? We’re not given opportunities to interact with anyone but our fellow prisoners and our jailers, and that’s by design.” He’s occasionally side-eyeing the other actors himself, but none seem to be paying attention.

“Oh—yes! Cleaned out the guts and got off the worst of the grime of age. I need to get a few cleaning supplies to finish the job, but soon the both of them will be spick and span!” Look at him beaming, the proud father. “How *is* Alexander? I wanted to talk to him while visiting your place, but his time seemed to be monopolized by someone else the whole trip!” He really did feel bad about that. He feels like he’s got something a duty to Alexander, but so far he hasn’t been able to meet it.

Valera

This was a MUCH better topic. Radios and mutual friends, much safer. They let their shoulders relax under the jacket, chirping as their fins waggle. "I'm sure they'll be as good as new by the time you're done with them, mon collègue. You'll have to show me how they come out. A beautiful antique is always twice as radiant when restored with care, and those radios were gorgeous."

Ah.. Alexander. Their face twists, a frown tugging at the corners of their mouth. "Alexander is.. alright, I suppose. Nothing terrible has happened, and I've been trying to work with him on his manifestations with generally mixed to positive results." They shrug, sighing through their nose. "I think he misses other humans. Or former humans, I suppose. We get along well, but he'll see something and start talking about.. Ponzi? Or his mother writing to him from the" Airquotes here as they squint "Dust Bowl?" What the fuck is a dust bowl? They don't know, it sounds like something a chinchilla would roll in. "And he loses me completely."

Alastor

“I’ll have Vaggie take pictures some time.”

Alastor’s eyebrows shoot up. “That poor man got tangled up with Ponzi *and* the dust bowl? Goodness, what an unfortunate life he lived! But you’re right, he really needs more humans to talk to, doesn’t he? I’ll—“ A pause, and then he says thoughtfully, “I’ll see whether I can contact him myself. If not, I’ll let you know and we’ll arrange a play date. If it works, though—you’ll probably hear about it from him.”

Valera

Contact Alexander himself? Valera opens their mouth to ask how, then it clicks. Right, radio to radio transmissions. Could Alastor reach radios outside of Hell? Maybe it would be easier if the radio was haunted, a bit closer to the fuzzy boundaries between Heaven, Hell, and Earth. Or, Okkylk in this case. Hm.

"I'll take your word for it, I haven't got the foggiest about what either of those are. What the *devil* is a Ponzi?" They've heard "Ponzi Scheme" said in movies, but maybe it wasn't even the same Ponzi! Maybe Ponzi was a normal human thing. Like a brand, they do love their brands... "But thank you. I think he'd benefit from having more than one very alien being to talk to."

Alastor

“Charles Ponzi! A con artist! He convinced a whole slew of people to give him a mountain of money to invest in what he claimed was some post office money-making scheme and that he’d double their money in a month or two. Instead, he pocketed the money, convinced *another* slew of people to give him money for the same scheme, used that money to pay off the first wave of suckers—and rinse and repeated until he’d scammed thousands and stolen millions! Spent a few years in prison, got out and tried another scheme, got arrested in dear old New Orleans trying to flee the country! You knew you weren’t going to be bored any time he showed up in the papers!” Alastor loves a good con artist story. “The Dust Bowl, I missed myself—just a little bit after my time—but from my understanding it was a big drought in the middle of the States that dried out a bunch of farmland. Lot of farming families starved those years.” Alastor loves a good con artist, but starving people are just sad.

Valera

This Ponzi guy should have gone into politics, hot damn. Valera makes a low whistle, nodding their approval. "That DOES explain why he thought about Ponzi, we were talking about the weird political scams my predecessor left me on the hook for when I snuffed him out. Though I think that Charles there pulled it off with more flair than that bird brain ever could have. What a character! I've got to respect that kind of daring."

Probably best not to comment too much on the dust bowl, that sounds like a downer. But, they did bring it up, and if they're talking about Alexander.. "That does explain it. I believe his family was based in that middle area." A nod, and they immediately jump to something less negative. "Let him prattle on at you about his electronics store, he'd love it. The man talked my fins off for twenty minutes about something called a Perikon Detector a regular asked him to order and I STILL don't understand why he was so exasperated about it."

Alastor

“Oh, did he ever have flair! There’s a story I heard about when news of his scams started hitting the papers—all his investors swarmed his offices to demand their money back, he went around to them one by one offering coffee and donuts and smiles, and charmed them so well they *left* their money with him!” Alastor laughs.

Perikon Detector? Alastor stares off into space a moment, trying to dig the term out of nearly-century-old memories. “... Probably because Perikon Detectors were replaced by vacuum tubes before ninety percent of the nation ever even *heard* of radios. What the hell did someone want a Perikon Detector?”

Valera

They laugh, clapping their hands together. Charles Ponzi, was it? They'd have to look the fellow up later just to see the details of his escapades, maybe forward the information to a certain lawyer they knew. But for now, their potential costar has been oddly silent..

Alastor in a state of blank befuddlement was a rare treat, and one that Valera enjoyed while they could before he seemed to snap back into focus with his scrabbled knowledge in hand. "You'll have to ask him for specifics, but judging by the choice of insults, this person had a habit of asking for obscure, outdated parts rather frequently. Maybe a collector? Upcycler?" They shrug. "I still have no idea what a Perikon Detector IS. It sounds like a little bauble they'd use in a bad sci-fi show."

Alastor

“Well, it detects perikons, obviously!” He pauses. Dead silence. “Right, forgot I gave the laugh track the afternoon off. You at least know what vacuum tubes are, right? They, uh...” Has Alastor ever actually learned what it is, *exactly,* that vacuum tubes do. He knows how to use them. He knows how to tell which one he needs. He’s put them in radios. He’s *made* radios. But his eyes glaze over whenever he tries to learn what exactly it is the electricity *does* in there.

“Well,” he says confidently, “they control electrons, you see. You’re not getting very far in electronics if you can’t control electrons.” There’s a smattering of laughter. “Shut up, you’re all on break. Anyway, you’ve got vacuum tube radios and crystal radios—there’s a crystal in a Perikon Detector, see—and vacuum tube radios actually need some electricity to power them—which means you’ve got enough electricity to also power a speaker. Crystal radios are powered only by the very radio waves they pick up, but you’ve got to squeeze headphones against your face to hear it—so not very useful if you want to use a radio while doing anything but sitting in one spot very quietly with your hands over your ears. A Perikon Detector is just one brand name of crystal detectors that pick up radio waves.”

Valera

Alastor's initial joke is delivered, and Valera rather wished it hadn't been. In fact, they'd like to file a formal complaint with the verbal post office, they seem to have delivered an auditory assault instead of pleasantries. Silence reigns between them, oppressive and all consuming like an unjust monarch, three eyes staring silent judgement at the Radio Demon for his awful, terrible, no good dad joke levels of comedy. Jingle the bells on your little jester hat, old man-- Oh wait, he's talking again.

Valera stops squinting, rolling their eyes with a groan. He's still telling bad jokes. Those are only funny when YOU'RE the one telling them, the bastard. But they're going to completely gloss over his evil sense of humor and focus on the technical talk, and if there's a little upward twitch of their lips it's his imagination. Shut up. Dad jokes aren't funny. "Interesting! I'd never even heard of a crystal radio before, humans upgrade their technology so quickly that it makes the mind reel. One of their.. Your? Finer features."

Alastor

Alastor is goddamn hilarious and a gift to the microphone and the world is better for him and his humor having been in it, if we’re not counting those murders he did. “It *is* one of our more impressive parlor tricks! Although, truth be told, only one we picked up in the last century or so!” A pause. “Last *two* centuries. I keep forgetting the 1820s aren’t a hundred years ago. Anyway, we’ve really picked up the pace lately, relatively speaking! I once heard someone say—I don’t know how he knows, but I’m sure someone looked it up—that for several thousand years, the human *pelvis* evolved faster than the plowshare! And then all of the sudden, boom! Factories! Steel! Trains! Airships! Radio! How did people before the nineteenth century not bore themselves to death, I’ll never know.”

Valera

Valera cocks their head to the side, mind casting back. "From what I recall about sixteen hundreds France from my earliest visits, there was a lot of interpersonal drama and dying from preventable diseases to keep people busy. Much less interesting than the industrial revolution. Though the water was also a lot *cleaner* back then." A dissatisfied scoff. "Late eighteen hundreds London was a foul, foul place. Only went once and I had a cough for a week."

Alastor

"Oh, *that's* right! *Human drama!* Entertainment at its purest! I would have been an insufferable gossip, I'm sure." His smile broadens with satisfaction at figuring out what he would have done before radio.

Valera

"Oh don't sell yourself short, Alastor. I'm sure given the chance, you could be an insufferable gossip now, too!" They flutter their lashes dramatically, fanning themselves with their hat as they titter like a fine court damsel. Okay, enough of that. "They should be calling you soon, no?"

Alastor

“You flatter me! If more people shared gossip with me, I *would* be!”

Oh, right. He’s here for the first audition he’s cared about since dying. He sits up a little straighter, ears almost lifting out of his absurd disguise hair as he strains to listen to the current audition on stage. Sounds like it’s wrapping up. “Probably.” He looks down at his printed lyrics again and, predictably, forgets how to read.

Valera

Valera glances at Alastor's paper, humming as their hands rest on their hat. Was he *nervous*?

"Are you nervous?" Wait they said that out loud didn't they. Well, shit. Better commit. "What did you say you were doing again? The Major General's Song?"

Alastor

He's gonna ignore the hell out of that first question. "Yes, Modern Major General—and I learned a couple of songs from the show, more or less. I don't know what they're going to ask for. I figured at a minimum Modern Major General would show I can sing fast enough for the parts, if they don't want anyone to sing from the show."

Valera

If he'd actually answered the question, Valera would have probably accused him of being an imposter. Alastor wasn't known for admitting to his emotions unless you happened to be a Victorian steampunk snake, and even then. A sigh, and they lean back in their seat as much as their tail allows. "They let me sing Will Wood, so I think your selection should be perfectly sufficient. You even went with another musical theater song!"

Valera

Even then, he only just sort of failed to deny straightforward accusations. Kind of like what he just did. "I'm glad I didn't go with Will Wood," he mutters.

Yep, there's no more singing or talking from the stage, they're definitely wrapping up. Any second now.

Valera

It sounds like Alastor's turn is coming up, and good timing on that. They had no idea how to respond to his mutterings beyond pointing out that no casting director in Hell was likely to have heard of a semi obscure avant-garde jazz musician. Which might not even be accurate, maybe he was popular down here.

Out comes the phone, the ultimate distraction to ignore a potentially awkward silence. Better to end the talk on a positive-ish note, considering they're going to be seeing this garishly dressed man on the daily for possibly months. Sit next to one Alastor, text another, barely suppress snorts when the second gets confused about "phish food" being an ice cream flavor. As a fish does.

Alastor

The most recent actor comes backstage again, and another demon calls, “Next, uh... Lass?”

Alastor hops to his feet. “That’s me! That’s my name.” He turns to Valera. “Stage name. Drag name, usually, but as long as I’ve got the hair and the dress today—Anyway!” He claps a hand on Valera’s shoulder. “Tell me to break a leg!”

Valera

They glance up from their phone at the name call, sliding their eyes back down as Alastor hops up. Off he goes then? Maybe not, he's talking now, they should respond--

They make a very undignified BWAGH at the unexpected touch, hat flying off their lap as their whole body jumps. Then immediately pretends it didn't happen, clearing their throat noisily. What? No, they didn't just jump out of their scales. "Break a leg, Alastor."

Alastor

*Wheeze.* He doesn’t apologize but he *does* quickly take his hand back, which is probably as close as they’re gonna get from him. “Thanks!” He startled the hell out of someone and got a quick laugh out of it, that does something to steady his nerves. He folds up his lyrics, tucks them away god-only-knows-where, and strides out. Showtime!

Valera

Valera watches him go, shaking their head as they stand. Well, that's one radio demon out of their hair. Time to go willingly throw themselves at another one! The hat is plucked off the floor, and off they go. Not too shabby a day, not too shabby at all.

#chat log #autokrates

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thefatedthoughtofyou · 5 years ago

Text

Bright Smiles and Tired Eyes ~ Part 2

(oh my god i finally did it. this chapter is.... a doozy. and i should start with an apology. there’s... quite a bit of angst in this chapter... like a lot... i mean like a lot A LOT. and i... am so sorry. but i hurt the things i love in fics and i can’t be stopped.... but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!!)

Ao3 - whole fic

Summary: Modern Au, Punk!Jaskier, Creature!Jaskier. Geralt needs a new roommate to help him pay rent. Jaskier answers his ad. Through a handful of circumstances and series of events… there’s bed sharing. And some angst.

Word Count: 6653

Jaskier had crawled into his bed again, and was firmly pressed against his side. His face had been wet, tears still falling as Geralt reached out to him and pulled him under the covers. He’d fallen asleep quickly, and then had rolled over several times in his sleep, murmuring meaningless words. He now had his face pressed into Geralt’s bicep, slender fingers curled around his arm gently. Geralt watched him, he looked peaceful, the way he had once he’d finally fallen into deep sleep the last time. His breathing was slow, and steady, small snores escaping his lips. Geralt felt himself begin to smile, again, it was happening more often now. He was finding it harder and harder to resist smiling back at Jaskier. He sighed into the dark and then he froze. He heard familiar footsteps coming down the hall, he reached for Jaskier, his hand inches away when the bedroom door slammed open.

Jaskier flailed next to him, his elbow slamming into Geralt’s face. And then he was gone. Dragged out of the bed by a seething Yennefer. She threw him against the wall and then held him there, her fingers locked around his throat.

“Yen-“

“Shut up Geralt.” Her voice was calm, too calm, her violet eyes shinning in the dark as she stared at Jaskier. His hands where scrambling at the wall behind him, legs twitching as they fought to support him. His eyes were wide and shinning with fear, Geralt could smell the terror coming off him in waves. He tried to untangle himself from his sheets, fighting to get to him. Yennefer’s free hand shot back toward him and he found himself stuck, his body being held by an unseen force.

“Stay.” Yennefer said over her shoulder, glaring daggers at Geralt. She looked back to Jaskier and Geralt heard him whimper.

“Let him go.” Her voice was a growl. Geralt watched as confusion painted Jaskier’s features.

“I- I don’t- hck!” Jaskier stuttered and then cut off, his voice muffled by Yennefer squeezing his throat once, hard.

“You know exactly what I mean siren. Let. Him. Go.” Her teeth were bared and Jaskier whimpered again, his mouth opening as he tried to speak, a strangled silent scream. Geralt tried to fight her magic, tried to pull himself free to help him, but he felt himself slammed backwards. He vaguely heard the front door slam open, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the people in front him, and the fact that his ex and now best friend had his… roommate, pressed into the wall by his throat.

“Yen stop! He’s not doing anything to me. I’m me. There’s no influence. Let him go.” Geralt’s voice was quiet, he was trying to stay calm. His body still pressing forward into her magic, still having no effect. Her head snapped in his direction. Hurried footsteps through the living room.

“Oh please. Look at you. He moved in here what? Two weeks ago? And he’s already sleeping in your bed? I don’t think so.” She shook her head, and looked back to Jaskier, his hand was now wrapped around her wrist, his nails clawing at her as he struggled to breath. Her fingers squeezed harder, once, making him whine and flinched in her grasp. She loosened her grip and leaned close to him. Footsteps coming down the hall.

“I know what you are. I know what you do.” She whispered, her mouth a vicious line.

“He’s not like that Yen. He’s different!” Geralt’s voice cracked, he felt her magic faulter and pressed harder into it, it still didn’t let up. Jaskier’s eyes jumped to him, full of fear, tears threating to fall, and Geralt pressed harder, growling as he faut her.

“Yen-“

“Yennefer!”

Renfri’s voice rang through the room, Geralt watched Yennefer spin around, her hand still on Jaskier, holding him.

“Renfri-“

“Drop him.” Renfri’s voice was harsh, her eyes dark.

“Ren-“

“I said. Let. Him. Go.” She gave Yennefer a pointed look, echoing Yennefer’s own words. Yennefer sighed, but dropped her hand, Jaskier slid to the floor with a gasp, his hands jumping to his throat.

“And him.” Renfri nodded toward Geralt, he was straining against her magic, still, his eyes on Jaskier. She clenched her fist at her side and Geralt tossed himself forward, landing face first on the bed, hard, before throwing himself onto the floor, sliding on the wood beneath his knees until he was next to Jaskier. Jaskier flinched, and then settled his head on Geralt’s knee. Geralt moved Jaskier’s hands away from his throat, trying to get a good look at the damage. Jaskier’s neck was already bruising.

“You could have fucking killed him.” Geralt spat, looking up at Yennefer. She sneered at him as Renfri pulled her away from them.

“I’m so sorry Geralt. I didn’t mean to tell her. It slipped and then she was gone.” She glared sideways at Yennefer.

“Fuckin portals.” She muttered. Yennefer smiled at her and Geralt saw Renfri’s grip tighten on her arm.

Geralt looked back to Jaskier when he felt him move. He was trying to push himself up, Geralt helped him sit, his hands resting on his shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak and coughed, his face scrunched up as pain shot through him.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ Jaskier batted at his chest gently with his hand, then turned to look up at Yennefer, his eyes determined. His hands moved in a flourish in front of his chest as he looked at her, his lips moving as he spoke with his hands. Yennefer looked down at him, Geralt watched her eyes move from Jaskier to himself.

“What was that?” she asked, sounding suspicious. Geralt smirked when Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“It’s sign language.” Geralt said, Jaskier hands jumped on his thighs, a clear sarcastic ‘thank you’.

“Sign language.” Yennefer echoed. Jaskier nodded.

“So what, he’s deaf? Mute?” She asked, crossing her arms, Renfri was rolling her eyes now, giving Geralt an ‘I’m sorry she’s so pig-headed look’.

“No. He just doesn’t need his voice to talk… apparently.” Geralt said, giving Jaskier a look, Jaskier smiled at him sheepishly. Geralt shook his head but felt himself smiling, again.

“So what did he say?” Yennefer’s voice broke in, impatient.

“Well my ASL is a little rusty, but it looked like he said he’d never hurt me.”

Jaskier moved his hands, his movements curt and final, spelling it out letter by letter while he stared Yennefer down. He looked to Geralt when he didn’t speak and pointed between them.

“Ever.” Geralt translated.

“He would never hurt me. Ever.” Geralt repeated the whole of what he’d signed, for emphasis. The look in Jaskier’s eyes left no room for argument. He cleared his throat gently, grimacing as his throat moved, and kept his eyes locked on Yennefer. They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer and then Yennefer dropped her eyes to the floor. Jaskier sighed and slumped back against the wall, liked he’d been using all of his energy to stare the mage down.

There was a long silence, the only small sound was the wheezing of Jaskier’s breathing. Everyone stared at the floor, Geralt watched Jaskier’s fingers fiddle with the seam on his pajama pants. He wanted to reach out, to hold onto that hand, to help calm the fast beating heart sitting next to him. But he knew Yennefer would see, and Yennefer knew how Geralt was. He wasn’t touchy feely, he didn’t reach out and comfort people he’d only known for two weeks. That wasn’t him. Except it was. At least where Jaskier was concerned. And he understood why she was worried. He knew he should probably be concerned as well, but he wasn’t. He’d felt what Jaskier’s voice could do, he knew what it was like being under that control, and this wasn’t it. This was all him. He looked at Jaskier, everyday since he’d moved in, he’d watched him, and watched him. And everything he’d done, between the time he’d met him in Renfri’s coffee shop, to now, had been because he’d wanted to. Jaskier had had nothing to do with it, at least, not in the way Yennefer assumed he had.

“Fine.” Yennefer sighed, defeated, looking up from the floor at Geralt. He could see in her eyes she knew what he was feeling. He’d never been good at talking, but she had always had a talent for knowing what he was thinking. Renfri soothed her hand over Yennefer’s arm. Yennefer moved forward, just two steps, and crouched in front of them, her eyes locking on Jaskier again.

“But if you do, ever hurt him. I will kill you. We clear?” She asked, her voice sickly sweet, her lips curved in a sinister smile to match. Jaskier nodded, once.

“Good.” She reached out and patted his leg, Jaskier flinched, and she stood up and walked back to Renfri, both of them walking toward Geralt’s, now slightly crooked, bedroom door. Jaskier moved, pressed forward, trying to push himself to his feet, Geralt helped him up, his hands under Jaskier’s arm to steady him. Yennefer looked back at them at the sound of their movements.

“See you around siren. Have a nice night.” She said, her voice sweet, her eyes decidedly not. Jaskier moved his hand toward his chin and then back out again. Yennefer’s eyes narrowed.

“That had better mean thank you.” She said, her eyes moving to Geralt. He glanced at Jaskier, the smirk on his lips telling him that it most certainly hadn’t meant thank you.

“I missed it.” Geralt said with a shrug, and he had missed it, so it wasn’t technically a lie.

“Of course you did.” Yennefer said, her eyes knowing.

“Okay. I think it’s time for us to go.” Renfri said, her voice full of forced cheer.

“You two have a lovely evening. Sorry for the intrusion. We’re leaving now.” Renfri shoved Yennefer out the bedroom, turned to mouth another ‘sorry’ at Geralt, and then continued shoving her down the hall and out the front door. Geralt followed them, leaving Jaskier sitting on the edge of his bed. He waved the ladies out and shut the door roughly behind them, sliding the chain lock back in place. He sighed, pressing his head to the door.

“Well she seems nice.” Geralt jumps at the sound of Jaskier’s raspy voice. He turns around and sees his silhouette standing by the island in the kitchen, Geralt reaches for the light switch and flips it on, Jaskier has one arm wrapped around himself, the other resting on his chest, his fingers resting on his neck, fingertips settled against the bruises darkening on his skin.

“She can be.” Geralt grunts, walking over to him. Jaskier nods.

“Your ex?” Geralt does his best not to grimace at the sound of his voice, it sounds like he’s been swallowing glass.

“Hmm.” He hums, moving to open the freezer, he grabs an ice pack and turns back to Jaskier, he catches the grimace on his face before Jaskier can hide it.

“Here.” He breathes, pressing the soft pack to Jaskier’s throat, he flinches and then settles, his hand coming up, fingers pressing against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Thanks.” he rasps, a smile still curling his lips after the night he’s had. He looks at Geralt for a long time, color tinting his cheeks as he looks away, his hand falling away from Geralt’s too. Geralt forces himself to stay still, to not chase after his touch.

“I think,” he grimaces, swallows hard, tries again.

“I think maybe. I should sleep in my own room. Just-,“ coughs shake his body, Geralt steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and does his best to ignore the way Jaskier leans into the touch.

“Just for a while.” He rubs at the back of neck, Geralt watched that lovely pink tint on his skin crawl down Jaskier’s neck, his stomach sinking when it reaches the darkening skin there.

“Okay.” Geralt says, afraid to say more. Jaskier’s eyes finally move back to him, he swallows again, doesn’t cough this time, the smile that curls his lips is sad. Geralt looks at it, his mouth feeling dry. He pulls one of Jaskier’s hands up, pressing it against the ice pack, Jaskier holds it there as Geralt walks back to the fridge. He grabs Jaskier a water bottle and then walks him back to his room. Geralt stays by the door as Jaskier gets settled, he’s lingering, he knows, but he can’t help it. Jaskier falls back, his head sinking into his pillow, his now bright red hair splayed across his sheets. He looks up Geralt and gives him a small wave.

“My door will be open.” Geralt’s voice is quiet, he crosses his arms and takes a step back, away from Jaskier, out into the hallway.

“If you need… anything.” He’d wanted to say ‘me’. If you need me. But he’d thought better of it. Knew he shouldn’t say that. Shouldn’t offer it. Shouldn’t have even thought it. But he had thought it. And he’d meant it. Wanted it. Wanted Jaskier to need him. He watched Jaskier smile at him and shut his light off. Geralt waved, and turned back to his own room, walking into the dark with a smile on his lips.

~*~

It had been three months. Three months and no Jaskier. Jaskier was there of course. In the house, everything else was normal. He was friendly, and sweet, and annoyingly adorable during the days when Geralt was home. He’d even been trying to cook for Geralt, it hadn’t been going… well. More than once Geralt had come home to the apartment smelling like smoke. But only once had he come home to Jaskier in a panic while the smoke was still there. Geralt had frozen, his skin tingling as he watched him flailing and running around the kitchen. Jaskier’s cheeks had been flushed, his flannel had been thrown onto the back of a chair, the tank top he was wearing showing his arms, tattoos scribbled up and down them but not covering the muscles moving under his skin. He’d looked up at Geralt with pleading eyes, yelling something, Geralt had snapped out of it, and helped him put the fire out. Geralt had swallowed the feelings bubbling in his chest, and tried to keep his eyes away from Jaskier’s exposed skin.

He’d been staying away at night. Geralt hadn’t been sleeping. He’d never really slept well anyway, so him not sleeping wasn’t new, but now he wasn’t sleeping because he was focused on the sounds across the hall. Jaskier fell asleep alright most nights. That never seemed to be his problem. Falling asleep the first time was easy. He’d sleep for maybe an hour, never much longer than that, and that’s when the screaming would start, like clock-work, every single night. He’d wake himself up screaming. Sometimes thrashing around so much that he threw himself out of bed, usually waking with a shout or a grunt. Geralt would flinch every time, his hands itching at his side. He wanted so badly to go to him. But he couldn’t. He had to let Jaskier come to him.

He listened to Jaskier shower, sometimes he cried, sometimes he didn’t, but no matter if he cried or didn’t cry, he always had a smile waiting to greet Geralt in the morning. But the dark circles under his eyes were getting darker and darker and Geralt was going to have to say something soon. His chest had begun to ache every time he watched him nod off and jerk awake during the day. Geralt watched him, day after day, he read book after book on Geralt’s shelf, never looking to see what it was before he started it. Geralt hadn’t even read half of them, but Jaskier was reading through them like he was trying to set a record. Geralt knew in his heart he was reading them to stay awake, and to keep whatever horrors lurked in his head at bay. He sat, and he watched him, and he wished he could do more.

Renfri invites them out a week later. She’d grabbed Geralt when he was getting his morning coffee, told him to bring Jaskier. Geralt had argued that that wasn’t the best idea. Yennefer would be there after all. Renfri assured him it would be fine. The she could handle Yen if it came down to that. And so here they sat, all four of them, a table in the corner of the loudest, most crowded bar, Geralt had been in in a long time. The noise was grating on his nerves, his hackles clearly raised. His hands were clenched so hard around his glass it was probably going to shatter. And then Jaskier was touching him.

His fingers gently pressing against his wrist. Geralt looked down at his hand, black nails standing out sharply against his own pail skin, then moved is eyes up to look at Jaskier’s face. He was talking to Renfri, both of their faces animated, Jaskier laughed at something she said. He wasn’t even looking at Geralt, but he gave his wrist a small squeeze, Geralt’s grip on the glass loosened. He watched as Jaskier’s eyes flicked to him, the corner of his mouth twitching, and away again. Geralt swallowed, the tension leaving his shoulders. He can feel eyes on him and looks up to find Yennefer staring at him.

Her eyes wander to Jaskier’s hand on Geralt, they wander to Renfri and Jaskier, still talking and laughing together, they wander back to Geralt, taking in the set of his shoulders, the way his grip was no longer strangling the glass in his hand, and then she smiles. It’s a small thing, the smallest tilt of her lips. She looked at Geralt, then to Jaskier, and then back, and gave Geralt a nod. Geralt nodded back, knowing that Yennefer would say nothing more about Jaskier. He knew also, that she would still make good on her threat to him, if ever did anything to deserve it.

Yennefer pulled him onto the dance floor not ten minutes later, dragging him into the center, leaving Jaskier and Renfri to chat at the table. Geralt and Yennefer both keeping their eyes on the pair as they danced. Geralt had never been fond of dancing, but Yennefer liked it, and she enjoyed the challenge of making Geralt untense. Doing her best to make him laugh and loosen up. She threw him into a spin and when they ended up back together, both their eyes darted to their table and find Renfri gone. Yennefer frowned, Jaskier pointed toward the bar, catching them both looking and smiling. Sure enough there she was, standing near the bar ordering drinks.

She was on her way back to the table when the man grabbed her arm. The glasses in her hands fell to the ground and shattered as she was pulled backwards. He says something into her ear and her fist slams into his face seconds later. The crowd around them heaves, bodies shoving in the direction of the commotion. Three more men come at her, obviously pissed that she’s dropped their asshole friend to the floor with one hit. She takes them out easily too, swift kicks and hits landing easily before they can even touch her. And then there are five of them, surrounding her, and two more coming up behind her. Geralt and Yennefer try their best to shove through the crowd, Geralt’s heart sinks when he realizes that they’re too far way. There are too many bodies between them.

And then Jaskier is there, shoving through the group of men surrounding Renfri, his hands held in front of him, trying to quell their anger. A fist slams into his stomach, a knee hits his face, and he’s on the floor. Renfri yells. Lashing out. Jaskier is on his feet again in moments, holding her back, and being held up by her at the same time. Geralt sees it, a glint in his eyes. He searches the crowd, his eyes finally finding Geralt and Yennefer, there’s a question there in those blue eyes. A question he can’t ask. A question he shouldn’t have to ask. But he’s asking. His eyes desperate, waiting for permission. Geralt feels himself nod, and sees Yennefer nod next him. Jaskier nods back, once, and straightens his shoulders.

“Hey! Assholes!” Jaskier yells, but his voice is… different. There’s a lilt to it, a purpose. The men around them faulter. Their brows furrowing. The bar goes silent and still, save for the music playing from the juke box in the corner.

“Yeah, you.” He nods as they stare at him. And Geralt feels it, that pull in his head. He feels Yennefer look at him and does not look back. The crowd around them breaths a heavy sigh in unison. Geralt feels himself shiver, the power that Jaskier wields with his voice is mesmerizing.

“Is that how you were taught to treat a fucking lady?” he asks, his hand tightening on Renfri’s waist, Geralt sees her fingers tighten on Jaskier as well and is sure it’s because he’s trying very hard to stay on his feet, his nose is bleeding from the knee to the face.

“Not so talkative now huh? Well that’s just fine. You all, should leave.” He’s glaring at them, the look in his eyes as deadly as his voice could be, if he wished it. The men around them, glossy eyed now, turn to the door, their feet beginning to shuffle slowly. Geralt watches as every head of every patron in the bar turns to follow them.

“But first,” Jaskier hold up his finger, his smooth voice filling the air, sending chills through the room,

“You, kick him, in the balls.” He pointed to the men that hit him, one of them the man that had first grabbed Renfri, Geralt sees her smile, still holding Jaskier on his feet. The men comply, he roughly kicks his friend, and the other man lets him. The man doubles over, but stays eerily quiet. Jaskier pulls himself free of Renfri, her hands hovering near him as he walks over to the man, he sways on his feet and then leans down, his lips pressing close to the man’s ear. Geralt strains his own hearing, knowing he shouldn’t be trying to hear Jaskier right now, not when his voice is doing…that. But he can’t help it. He feels the room move with him, every body in the small space leaning forward, just a little, needing more.

“Now. Fuck off. And never fucking come back here.” He growls, it’s a strangely musical sound, like chimes in a thunderstorm. Geralt feels his head go fuzzy and shakes it to clear it. The men circling them disperse. The crowd around them moves away as well, most of them looking dazed, shaking their heads and returning to what they’d been doing, like breaking from a trance, the bar fills with noise again. Geralt and Yennefer push forward, reaching them just in time to catch Jaskier as his knees buckle beneath him. Yennefer grabs onto Renfri, her hands clutching at the sides of her face, kissing her chastely before turning to Geralt, now knelt on the floor, his hand resting on Jaskier’s shoulder. She kneels too, looking at Jaskier. Geralt’s heart pounds in chest and then drops to his stomach when he sees the shame in Jaskier’s eyes.

Yennefer reaches out carefully, noting the way he flinches away from her, slowing even more. She gently covers his nose with her palm, a warm glow spreading under her fingers, Jaskier gasps. She pulls her hand away and Jaskier touches his face, pressing his fingers against his nose. His eyes move to the mage. The mage who he’d last seen when she was choking the life out of him.

“Thank you.” He smiles at her. And Geralt can see the affect it has on her, can see the way she softens, he knows that feeling well. She furrows her eyebrows, looking at him for a moment longer, she rests her hand on his shoulder, and leans closer to him, her other hand resting on his cheek.

“And thank you.” She presses her forehead to Jaskier’s and then she’s gone, up and standing next to Renfri in seconds. Geralt moves his hand to Jaskier’s cheek, doing his best to ignore the way he leans into the touch again. Renfri walks over to stand behind Jaskier, bends down and presses a kiss to the top of his head, into his hair. Jaskier tilts his head up and looks at her.

“Thanks for defending my honor siren boy.” She smiles down at him, laughing with him when he laughs.

“Hey sure. Maybe next time you can defend mine.” He winks up at her. She snorts and pats his cheek.

“I’ll be there.” She pokes him in the nose, hard, making him squawk and flail, Geralt ducks his hand as he lashes out and grabs the front of his hoodie to keep him from falling over. Yennefer walks closer, pressing herself against Renfri, wrapping her arms around her.

“We’re gonna head home. You guys okay to get back to yours on your own?” she asks, watching Geralt pull Jaskier to his feet and steady him.

“We’re good. Thanks Yen.” Geralt nods, she nods back, the air behind her shimmers and parts, she and Renfri walk through the portal and are gone. Jaskier stares after them, sighing loudly and looking at Geralt.

“She’s got portals? Why did you tell her we were good? We could have used the portal. We could have portal-ed!” his hands jump and fall at his sides, Geralt looks at him, and says nothing.

“What?” Jaskier asks, his hands rising to settle on his hips. Geralt tilts his head.

“Too complain-y?” Jaskier’s face scrunches up. Geralt widens his eyes.

“Yeah fair enough. Alright let’s go.” His hands fall from his hips and he heads toward the door. His hand grabbing the hem of Geralt’s shirt, dragging him along with him.

~*~

Geralt is lying in bed, listening to Jaskier take his nightly shower, he can hear him crying again. He listens to the water stop. Listens to Jaskier play soft melodies on his keyboard for an hour. Listens to him sigh as he falls back into bed to try again. He listens to him drift off and jerk awake four times before he shoves his own blankets off. The strangled sob after the last one pushing him past his limit. He pulls his door open and pads across the hall. He knocks once and then pushes Jaskier’s door open, the light from the hall falls onto Jaskier, he’s wearing spiderman boxer briefs and a cut off shirt with some band Geralt’s never heard of on the front, Geralt blinks dumbly at him. He pushes himself up, sitting and squinting at Geralt.

“Hey.” Geralt says, ever the wordsmith.

“Hi.” Jaskier says, his voice is small. The make up around his eyes is gone now, and Geralt can see how tired he is. He doesn’t know how he’s been staying awake the past few weeks. Geralt swallows, pressing down any reservations he has. This isn’t for him. This is for Jaskier. He needs him. Needs this. He turns, shutting the door behind himself, and walks to Jaskier’s bed. He watches the long line of Jaskier’s neck as he looks up at him, his eyes wide and curious in the dark.

“May I?” Geralt asks, pointing at the bed. Jaskier bites his lip and then scrambles backward, nodding and pushing the sheets around, scuttling under them as Geralt crawls in next to him. He can feel the tension in Jaskier as they lie there in the dark, side by side, arms barely brushing one another.

“So… what uh… what’s this?” Jaskier asks, staring at the ceiling. Geralt rolls to his side, looking at Jaskier.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” He says, matter of fact. Jaskier coughs, his arms pulling closer to himself, the way he does when he gets nervous, or scared, or upset.

“I’ve slept. Some.” He says, and there’s no confidence in his voice. Geralt reaches out, brave in the darkness, and presses his hand flat against Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I don’t think it counts when you wake yourself screaming.” His words aren’t unkind, but he feels Jaskier flinch underneath his hand.

“I guess not.” He mumbles. Geralt knows he doesn’t want to talk about it. He never does. But Geralt lays in the dark, and he can feel and smell the fear in the room, left over from whatever it was that was terrorizing him in his sleep, and he thinks maybe he needs to.

“What do you dream about?” he feels Jaskier bristle.

“I don’t- you said you wouldn’t ask me that.” There’s a hint of betrayal in his voice, and Geralt hates himself for putting it there. Hates himself more for what he’s about to do.

“I lied.” Jaskier takes a deep shaky breath.

“Tell me what you dream about. I fight monsters for a living Jaskier. Maybe I can give you tips for fighting the ones haunting your dreams.” He pressed his hand into the skin of Jaskier’s shoulder, trying to anchor him. Jaskier turns to him, the light in his eyes dim, even in the dark they usually shine so brightly, but not now.

“And what if it’s not monsters.” He whispers, his teeth dig into his lip for a moment, so hard Geralt is worried he’ll draw blood. Geralt furrows his brow.

“What if it’s not monsters haunting my dreams. What if it’s- what if it’s something else?” his lip trembles, and he lets it this time, his arms wrapping around himself now, holding himself tightly, his eyes moving back to stare at the ceiling. Geralt sighs, moves his hand across Jaskier’s chest slowly, then up along his jaw, finally settling on his cheek, moving Jaskier’s head gently to look at him.

“Anything that makes you scream like that, is a monster.” He’s whispering now, trying his best not to scare Jaskier off.

“I can’t help you fight it, if you don’t tell me what it is.” He moves his thumb against Jaskier’s cheek, feeling wetness as Jaskier begins to cry. He presses his hand over Geralt’s own, his fingers clinging to him, his breathing is shallow, his heart pounding in his chest. Geralt watches him squeeze his eyes shut and take a deep breath, he takes a deep breath of his own and presses closer in the dark.

“Tell me what you dream about.” he whispers. Jaskier opens his eyes, looks at Geralt, and smiles, small and sad.

It takes him a long time for him to start talking. Geralt waits, his hand moving away from Jaskier, giving him space to collect himself. He seems to wrestle with himself, his mouth opening and closing several times before he furrows his brow and looks back to Geralt with a pained expression.

“I don’t know where to start.” He breathes, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s skin, making him shiver. He looks at Jaskier, looking at him, moves his hand down to Jaskier’s on top of the sheet and laces their fingers together. Jaskier’s eyes drop to look at their hands, he stares for a long time, and then he speaks.

“When I was little. Some men came to our house.” He starts, taking a deep breath, his eyes still locked on their hands.

“They slammed their fists into the door over and over and I didn’t understand why my parents weren’t opening the door. And then my mom grabbed me. She grabbed me and took me to the basement. There was a closet down there, that had a little… I don’t know what it was, really. A crawl space maybe?” His voice devoid of emotion, his eyes blinking slowly as he moved his eyes to the ceiling.

“She put me in there and told me not to come out. No matter what I heard. She said ‘stay in here. And don’t come out. Not for anyone.’ And she started to leave but I grabbed her hand, and she turned to me, and there was this look in her eyes. She- she looked sad. I’d never seen her look so sad.” A tear fell down Jaskier’s face. Geralt’s heart ached, he’d heard stories like this before. None of them ended well. He knew Jaskier’s story wouldn’t end well, it couldn’t, this story ended with something that haunts dreams. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand tight and kept listening.

“She knelt in front of me, took my face in her hands, and told me she loved me. She said ‘My dearest Julian. I love you so much. And your father loves you too, you know that don’t you? That we love you?’ I think I nodded, I don’t remember, but she smiled at me. And she said ‘my darling boy we love you so much. You have to stay in here alright? You stay in here until you don’t hear anything for a long long time. And then you stay longer.’ And she pulled me into a hug, squeezed me so tight it hurt.” Jaskier’s voice was shaking, he used his free hand to wipe at his face in vain, tears falling where he’d wiped some away just seconds before.

“She walked away. But then she came back, her face was so serious and she held onto my shoulders so tight I thought she’d break something. And she said ‘you are every inch my son. You know that? What we are. What you are. There’s nothing to be ashamed of my darling. People will call you things. They’ll be afraid of you. But you don’t have to give them something to be afraid of. You stay just the way you are my happy boy. My sweet, kind, boy. People will call you a monster. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one.’ She kissed my forehead and then she was gone again. And I tried to hide.” His voice wobbled, he looked at Geralt finally, his lip trembling and face wet with tears.

“I tried so hard to be good.” He swallowed hard, his eyes full of sickening shame.

“But I heard them screaming. My parents. I could hear the men yelling, they’d broken the door down. I ran to the top of the stairs, the door was still cracked, like it had just been pushed to and then had opened a bit on its own. The basement door always did that if you didn’t pull it shut just right.” He looked at Geralt with pleading eyes, Geralt nodded, like he knew all about the door, Jaskier’s hand was shaking in his.

“And I looked out, and I shouldn’t have, I – she told me not too. But I- I couldn’t help it. The screaming had been so loud. And there was-“ his voice caught in his throat, drowned out by a sob.

“It’s alright. I’m here it’s okay.” Geralt whispered, moving his free hand to wiped at Jaskier’s face. Jaskier nodded, his face pressing against Geralt’s hand.

“There was blood everywhere. My mum she- she was lying there, on the kitchen floor. And there was- it was everywhere.” He was openly sobbing now, his breath rattling inside his chest as he tried to speak.

“I ran to her but she wouldn’t wake up. And my- my dad he- he was in the living room. I could see him lying on the floor. But he looked… wrong. He looked wrong somehow. I shouted for him but he wouldn’t answer. And I tried to get to him but I couldn’t just leave her there. She would have been all alone.” His voice was small, he sounded every inch the child he had been when his parents had been taken from him so cruelly.

“I couldn’t leave her alone. Not there- not with all that-“ his voice shattered with grief, his face twisted in the dark as silent sobs clawed their way out of his throat. Geralt pulled him close, wrapping him in both arms. He held him until his body stopped shaking, his hand pressing into his hair. And Jaskier clung to him, his fingers digging into his back as he tried to pull him closer, sobbing into his chest until he had no more left in him. Geralt pulled back after a while, letting Jaskier fall back onto his own pillow, he kept his arm under him, letting Jaskier rest his head on him.

“They come for me in my dreams. Those men. They come to kill me. Like they killed my parents. Like killed her.” His voice was emotionless again, a numb look on his face. Geralt nodded.

“Because you’re a siren.” Geralt said. Statement, not a question.

“Because I’m a siren.” Jaskier agreed, sighing and pressing his head harder against Geralt’s arm beneath it. Geralt’s heart broke in his chest, the way Jaskier said the word siren, the way it stuck in throat and fell from his tongue, dripping like acid. He knew that tone. He’d heard it in people’s voices for years. It was the same way people spit the word ‘witcher’ at him. Their voices full of hate and ridicule. Geralt looked at Jaskier in the dark, watched him lying there, looking at Geralt, hating himself. Geralt pressed his hand to his cheek once more, the tears had stopped, Jaskier’s face was warm though, warm from crying into Geralt’s chest.

“You are a siren. But that doesn’t make you a monster. And I will never,” he paused, looking at Jaskier with meaning,

“I will never, let anyone like that, get anywhere near you.” He moved his hand down Jaskier’s jaw, letting it come to rest against his neck, inwardly preening at the way Jaskier literally hummed under his touch. Jaskier smiled at him, small and unsure.

“I mean it. I’ll kill them all before they can touch you. I promise you that.” Geralt had never meant anything more in his life, his chest ached with it. Jaskier looked at him, for a long time, his eyes moving to take in Geralt’s face. He shifted, turning on his side to face him more, his hand moving up slowly. He moved his finger tips over Geralt’s face, tracing every line, every detail, moving his thumb over Geralt’s lips as he settled his hand against his cheek, a smile curving his own lips just so.

“So valiant.” He hummed, his teeth pulling at his lip, lip rings clicking against his teeth.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed back, his lips moving into a smile beneath Jaskier’s thumb. Jaskier chuckled, a happy sound after so much darkness, and pressed close, resting his head on Geralt’s chest, tangling their legs together. Geralt moved his hand through Jaskier’s hair and held him close.

“I’ve never told anyone that.” Jaskier whispered into his chest, his fingers curling in Geralt’s shirt. Geralt moved his fingers under Jaskier’s chin, tilting his head up to look at him.

“Thank you for telling me.” He moved his thumb over Jaskier’s jaw and let his head fall back down.

“Thank you for making me tell you.” Geralt felt him smile into his chest, his fingers moving against him, pressing out the wrinkles he’d created in his shirt. He felt Jaskier sink into him, relaxing against his side and onto his chest. His fingers tapping out a slow rhythm above Geralt’s heart.

“My brave witcher.” Jaskier breathed, his voice thick with sleep, as he pressed his face closer still. Geralt moved his fingers against Jaskier’s scalp in slow circles, watching the sun begin to paint the horizon as they drifted off to sleep.

#bright smiles and tired eyes #bsate part 2 #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #yennefer x renfri #punk!jaskier #siren!jaskier #modern au #my writing #the witcher fic #the witcher netflix #the witcher netflix fic #the witcher #my fic #fic

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aethelar · 5 years ago

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All the world’s a game

And Izuku’s the main player. A My Hero Academia AU where Izuku has a gamer quirk.

Izuku Midoriya’s abilities started developing when he was three years old, marking him as one of the eighty percent majority that had a quirk. They didn’t give any sign that they’d started, of course; no small objects flying towards him, no fire hiccoughing out when he sneezed. Nothing obvious at all in fact, but quietly behind the scenes, his quirk developed.

“An invisible quirk,” the doctors called it, a year later, when Izuku’s x-rays came back free of extra toe joints. “It’s possible it has an obscure activation criteria, or an effect which hasn’t been noticed yet.” This particular doctor pulled a rusty but at least somewhat sincerely sympathetic face at Izuku and cautioned him, “You may never find out what your quirk is, I’m afraid.” He laughed, then added as though he couldn’t resist the pun, “Invisible quirks can be very hard to see.”

“Shows what he knows,” Kacchan scoffed when Izuku faithfully relayed the explanation. “If you were invisible you’d be impossible to see. Stupid old man.”

“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Izuku said, pushing himself into a jog to keep up with the taller boy. He ran, as he always did, for precisely seven seconds, then walked for four, then ran for seven, then walked, and so on.

“Keep up,” Kacchan yelled from several paces ahead.

Izuku ran for another seven seconds at top speed before his feet slowed stubbornly to a four second walk.

“Maybe,” he theorised to Kacchan several months later, “maybe it’s a brain quirk.”

Kacchan wrinkled his nose. “What, like a super nerd? That’s lame.”

“Izuku’s super smart thought,” Tsubasa said thoughtfully from his other side. “He’s really good at homework.”

“That’s even lamer. How is homework going to help him be a hero?”

“I don’t think it’s homework.” Izuku frowned, trying to find the words to explain something he wasn’t even sure existed. “It’s like… I always know where I am if I’ve been somewhere, but I have to actually think about it first. And I don’t know how I know but I do, you know?”

“Oh, that’s a quirk?” Tsubasa asked, wings shifting in excitement. “I do that too! I thought I just recognised places. You think I have two quirks?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but - as in, I think I have a map? In my head? Of where I am now and where I’ve been before. But a moving map, not a paper one. And I fill it in when I go places.”

“A map?” Tsubasa’s wings drooped. “Oh. I can’t read maps. They don’t make sense.”

“Maps aren’t quirks and you’re both idiots,” Kacchan said. He pushed himself off from the wall and landed with a harsh thud on the ground, palms sparking with just enough force to slow his descent, and Tsubasa and Izuku scrambled to follow. Tsubasa opened his wings into a controlled fall with a graceless but effective flap, while Izuku turned around and began the lengthy process of climbing down hand over hand.

“Slow,” Kacchan complained. The fact that he couldn’t scale the same wall didn’t seem to occur to him, nor the fact that it was a smooth stone, entirely lacking in footholds or anything to grip.

“Sorry,” Izuku said, dropping the last step and waiting the required four seconds before he was ready to run. He was up to eleven seconds now before he needed a rest, but climbing was harder - he could manage six, and never on glass, under an overhang, or in the rain. Six seconds of going vertically up pretty much any non-smooth surface, but then his arms and legs would seize up and he’d go tumbling to the floor until his required four seconds of rest were up.

(He’d learnt the hard way.)

“I’m hungry,” Izuku explained again.

“You want to be hungry and in trouble? Move, Deku!”

“Kacchan,” Izuku said, voice wobbling dangerously close to tears, “I’m hungry. I can’t run. It doesn’t work.” And, because Kacchan still looked mutinous, he sniffed and added: “It’s part of my quirk.”

Kacchan threw his hands up with far too much exasperation for any six year old to reasonably feel, then settled the issue by dragging Izuku into an uncomfortable piggy back. “Anything else I should know about you being hungry?” he asked, jabbing an elbow into Izuku’s side to make him stop squirming.

“Um. If I’m hungry for too long I get sick?”

“Your quirk is the most useless thing ever, I swear.”

“Here,” Katsuki said, roughly shoving a packet of crisps, a juice box and an apple into Izuku’s bag. He knew better than to give them to Izuku to hold directly; he had two hands, and therefore could hold two things, and if given any more to hold had a bad habit of dropping them on the floor like an idiot.

Because he was. An idiot. One who couldn’t be trusted to take care of himself, which is why Katsuki was feeding him, so he wouldn’t go hungry and stop running again.

“Ah, Kacchan - wait -” And the second Katsuki let go of the last item, Izuku staggered to a halt and sat down hard.

“Deku,” he growled. “What.”

“It can only hold ten things! You put too many in there and now it’s full.” Izuku shrugged himself out of the straps and tugged forlornly on the top handle, but the backpack stayed resolutely on the floor as though Katsuki had tipped lead bricks into it instead of food.

Tsubasa took the opportunity to lean over and peer inside the bag. “There’s still space,” he said helpfully. “It’s only half full.”

“And anyway! I’ve seen you carrying things for Auntie, there’s no way you can’t lift that!” Katsuki had seen Izuku casually lift a table to move it around the living room. For a scrawny mess of big eyes and freckles, Izuku was sometimes freakishly strong.

The scrawny mess in question heaved at the drooping school bag, twig-muscles standing out on twig-arms as he failed to make it budge. “They weren’t eleven things, Kacchan! Quirk says ten max!”

“Your quirk is a pain. Tsubasa, carry Deku’s bag.”

“‘Kay,” the other boy said, lifting the backpack up with the tip of an outstretched wing. “Have you got any more juice boxes? I finished mine.”

“You can have mine,” Izuku offered. “Then I’ll be able to carry it again.”

Katsuki knocked Tsubasa’s hand away. “No,” he said. “It’s for Deku when he’s hungry. I’ll get you one after class.”

“‘Kay.”

“Ten things,” Kacchan said later. Izuku turned towards him warily; he recognised the tone of voice. Kacchan was planning.

Kacchan’s plans only sometimes went right for others involved, but it was never a good idea to try and back out. Wariness was about the best Izuku could manage.

“Any ten things?”

“Um,” Izuku said. “I think so? I tested some of it, and it’s definitely ten. But if they’re in something they only count as one.” He got a somewhat blank look, so pulled his bag towards him to explain. “Like, here. My pencil case. It’s got ten pencils in it, right? But it’s only one thing because it’s a pencil case, so it counts as one. Even though it’s actually ten. Or, well, ten pencils plus one case so eleven. It’s eleven, but it goes in my bag as one thing.”

Kacchan turned the case over in his hands. “Huh,” he said, squinting at Izuku. “Could you put a hundred pencils in ten cases and put those ten in one big case and put that in your bag?”

“Yeah, I think so! So long as they fit. I did some testing when I discovered it, I think I have the notebook somewhere -”

“Nerd,” Kacchan interrupted with a roll of his eyes. “I believe you, I don’t need your diary.” He snapped the pencil case shut and handed it back - then doubled over laughing when it slammed Izuku’s hands to the floor as soon as he took it.

“Ow - Kacchan! What did you - you added something to it!”

“A sticker,” Kacchan wheezed. “I put a sticker in it and you actually can’t - oh my god Deku your quirk - a freakin’ sticker -”

“Ten of anything, Kacchan! Only ten!”

Anything, it turned out, really meant anything. The backpack wasn’t big enough for Kacchan’s liking so they retrieved Izuku’s mum’s suitcase from under her bed and filled it with the heaviest things in the house, including, at one point, Kacchan himself. Ten items or less, Izuku lifted it no problem. Add the sticker as an eleventh, and it crashed to the ground.

That part wasn’t so bad, but Izuku had two hands as well, and each hand could hold one of any item. Including Kacchan. And the sofa. But add the sticker, and, well, that’s how Izuku’s arm broke.

“Shit,” Kacchan swore, staring at it white-faced. In any other circumstances Izuku would’ve protested at the language, but he could be forgiven for being distracted.

“It’s going backwards,” he said with a morbid fascination that was probably the only thing keeping the pain at bay.

“Don’t touch it!” Kacchan slapped his good hand away. “And don’t tell Aunty! It’s not hurt that bad. I’ll get you a chocolate bar tomorrow if you stay upstairs and I’ll tell Aunty you’re sick and don’t say anything.”

“But it needs a plaster - ow!”

Izuku’s eyes filled with tears and Kacchan dropped his arm as though burned, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, don’t cry,” he flapped. “I’ll get a plaster, you’re fine, right? Plaster, bed, chocolate, don’t tell Aunty, stop crying. Right?”

“Two chocolate bars,” Izuku argued between sniffs. “And I want the All Might plasters, the normal ones aren’t as good.”

“Done,” Kacchan agreed, and hustled the shorter boy down to the bathroom. The All Might plaster was dutifully stuck on Izuku’s shoulder (they weren’t sure if it would work there, but seeing as his arm hurt when it was touched the shoulder seemed the safest place), Izuku himself was practically barricaded in his room, and Kacchan prepared his best innocent smile for lying through his teeth to every parent in the vicinity.

It was foolproof.

The fact that Izuku woke up in the morning with his arm completely healed only proved how flawless their planning really was. (That and the unmistakable power of All Might plasters).

“Where’s Deku?”

“Here!”

“Shit, don’t do that! Make some noise or something, seriously.”

“Sorry, I forgot I was crouching.”

“Your damn quirk Deku, I swear to god.”

“Sorry, Kacchan.”

“Again, Midoriya,” the gym teacher said. “And this time actually try to run the course without stopping.”

“But sensei, I can only manage thirty eight seconds of sprint and it takes two minutes and four seconds for each lap -”

“Midoriya!”

Izuku growled wordlessly and stomped back to the starting line. “Middle school is the worst.”

“You want me to hit him for you?” Tsubasa offered, standing ready with a stopwatch. He eyed the teacher, carefully comparing his wing strength to the man’s arm muscles in the way Katsuki had taught him. “I can hit him for you.”

“No hitting teachers, Tsubasa. No hitting anyone. We’ll get detention.”

“You and Katsuki will rescue me,” he said with easy conviction. “You’re heroes, it’s what you do.” It made Izuku smile at him, briefly lifting his mood. His old teachers had got used to the oddities and restrictions his quirk put on him, but even a month into middle school and his new teachers didn’t seem to have caught up. In a class full of visible quirks and Kacchan, Izuku was easy to overlook; it was an annoyance, but not one worth getting into trouble for.

At least, Izuku didn’t think so. Kacchan had practically exploded with protective fury when a teacher had tried to stop Izuku eating between classes, but Kacchan liked exploding so it probably wasn’t a good test.

“Heroes don’t hit people,” he told Tsubasa. “Unless they’re villains.”

“Yeah, but villains are people who disagree with heroes, and you ‘n Katsuki are heroes, so you can hit anyone who disagrees with you. It’s how it works.”

“It’s really not -”

“Midoriya! Less talking, more running!”

Izuku fought the urge to glare back at the teacher. Tsubasa, far too honest with his feelings and unused to fighting his urges, glared double.

“Let’s get this over with,” Izuku muttered, settling himself into ready position. “Count me down?”

When he was done, the time on Tsubasa’s stopwatch showed a clean six minutes, twelve seconds, with a precise time of two minutes four seconds per lap. Exactly the same as the previous two times Izuku had run the course.

He might not be the fastest of runners in a straight out sprint, but at least Izuku was consistent. If it wasn’t such a pain to stop and eat when sprinting made his hunger ran out he’d make a good long distance runner, but it was a pain, so he didn’t.

Also quirk use was forbidden in gym class.

“You need to push your boundaries,” the teacher said with a disappointed head shake. “I won’t tolerate slacking. Here, collect these and take them back to the equipment cupboard.” He pressed three stopwatches into Izuku’s hands, and Izuku could only watch in resignation as one of them tumbled to the ground.

“I’ll get it in a sec, sensei,” he said dully and trudged off to deposit the two in his hands before he could be accused of being disrespectful of school property.

Tsubasa jogged up, the fallen stopwatch carefully retrieved. “I can still hit him. You’re sure you don’t want me to hit him? Kacchan won’t mind.”

“No hitting people, Tsubasa.”

“Even villains?”

“Sensei’s not a villain.”

“Oh. Do you want me to hit him anyway?”

“Tsubasa.”

By the time he was fourteen, Izuku thought he had most of his quirk nailed down. He wasn’t sure what the common theme was - he had suspicions and ideas, but seriously, a gamer quirk? Ridiculous - but he was pretty certain he’d got the features in place.

The map he’d started filling in as a four year old covered most of the city by now, with long spider legs arching out along the train lines. It didn’t include a compass, but he could usually tell which way was which just by tracking his position along the map as he moved. It was on the one hand less useful than the map his phone gave him as it didn’t show places he hadn’t been, but also more useful in that he could zoom it into buildings and bring up floor plans if he concentrated hard enough.

His phone didn’t give him as many headaches though.

The issue with only being able to hold one thing in each hand, or ten things in a bag, required some creative thinking. Packing for a trip anywhere was the worst, everything had to be grouped in stacks of ten and placed in other bags just to allow him to pick up a suitcase. His school bag was usually ok, but carrying shopping was a logistical nightmare. Thank god for multipacks, that’s all Izuku was saying.

On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be a weight limit on what those items were, as Kacchan had so spectacularly discovered when he dropped a sofa on Izuku’s head and broke his arm. Izuku hadn’t found much use in his life so far for being able to deadlift a bus (plus up to ten passengers, but the bus was the impressive thing), but he was pretty sure it would come in handy as a hero.

And the other discovery from that day with the sofa, although neither of them had realised it at the time - sleep was good for Izuku. None of this waiting around, lying awake in bed unable to drift off; if it was night, and Izuku was in a bed, then he slept the healing sleep of the dead right through to sunrise and woke up in perfect health. On the plus side, he never had a nightmare, and never had an illness or injury follow him through to the next morning.

On the downside, Izuku didn’t budge from bed until the sun was up. In summer, he woke early. In winter, he still woke kind of early because sunrise in Japan only ever got as late as around seven-ish. But if he needed to be up before then, well… No. Not physically possible. A villain could burn the house down and tango on the ashes, and Izuku wouldn’t stir until sunrise came.

He got surprisingly used to skipping sleep all together when he needed to be up early. That and apologising for being late, he got the apologies down to an art form.

(He hadn’t yet unlocked the feature that wouldn’t let him sleep when enemies were nearby for the simple fact that, at fourteen, Izuku didn’t have enemies. Nor had he discovered yet that he couldn’t sleep without a bed because why on earth would he try to sleep without a bed? He’d once mortally offended Kacchan by offering to take the floor when they were having a sleepover, and Kacchan had responded by drowning Izuku in blankets and smothering him with pillows until he apologised and promised never to do it again.)

And, of course, his stamina. By fourteen, Izuku could sprint for forty six seconds before his forced rest of four seconds. Climbing gave him twenty three seconds, which was usually enough to reach some kind of ledge or windowsill to recharge his energy. The rain was still deadly, as was the bucket of water he and Kacchan had experimented with that other one time Izuku broke his arm. He could hang stationary on to the side of a building practically endlessly, but if he reached his twenty three second limit of actively climbing, he just dropped.

Incidentally, Tsubasa had got surprisingly good at catching him.

So, that’s Izuku’s quirk: he navigates weird, he sleeps weird, he runs and climbs weird, he carries things weird, and if he ever gets too hungry then he just goes weird. He’s only once pushed his hunger long enough to make himself sick, which was more to find out his limits than anything else. They’ve probably changed in the past few years, but when he was twelve he had two hours, twenty six minutes between being unable to run and being so hungry that he threw up in a trash can. Thirty four minutes after that and he’d been shivering and sweating and unable to stand, and eight minutes after that he’d been found by Kacchan and yelled at and force fed corn soup from the closest vending machine.

Ah, fond memories.

All of which led, approximately seven months ago, to Izuku deciding: “Yuuei. I’m going to apply to Yuuei.”

“Well, duh,” Kacchan said, making a face at him over his spicy chilli noodles. “We’re going to be heroes. Where else would we go?”

“Doesn’t Shiketsu train heroes as well?” Tsubasa asked. Kacchan rolled his eyes and kicked him in the shin.

“We’re going to be number one hereos,” he amended. “All Might went to Yuuei. If I’m going to be number one and Deku’s going to be number two then we need to go to Yuuei too. It’s logic.”

And when Kacchan put his unique stamp of approval on one of Izuku’s plans, that was it. The plan was happening. He, of the green hair and the twiggy, bus-benching arms, would go to Yuuei and be the number two hero.

Off the edge of his mental map of Tokyo, in a part of the city that he hadn’t yet unlocked the map for, a small marker started flashing in his mind.

Main quest: Yuuei Entrance Exam. Achieve a passing grade in both the written and practical portions of the famous hero class entrance exam and begin your journey to becoming a pro hero...

#bnha #boku no hero academia #izuku midoriya #katsuki bakugo #au: izuku has a quirk #length: 3.3k #my writing #i had breath of the wild in mind as the gaming rules while i was writing this but hopefully it also works a general gamer!au #i just wanted him not to be too op you know?#he gets gamer benefits #he gets gamer drawbacks #life's a box of chocolates and sometimes they include fruit creams #you just gotta make do

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funeral-clown · 4 years ago

Text

for @matttheratking

happy birthday king

you ever take a look at your hands and wonder, how did i get here?

i don’t

pepe the prawn/rizzo the rat 4 times someone thought they were dating and the 1 time they realized they were

1. Kermit

Kermit knocked on the door rapidly, trying to quell his rising frustration.

“Rizzo, c’mon, open up! The cast meeting is in ten minutes, and you still need to present your ideas for the Pizza Rat sketch! It’s cultural relevance is dwindling by the second!”

When no reply came, he grumbled loudly before lifting his tiny green hand to bang on the door again. Before he could connect, it swung ajar in a sudden jarring motion. Light filtered from the dressing room into the dim backstage hall, illuminating the shadowed wooden floor. Kermit wished vaguely for eyelids, so he could blink. Instead he looked down.

“Oh. Er. Hi there, Pepe, I was expecting Rizzo.”

“I know,” the prawn snapped, “I am thinking the whole county knows! Your frog lungs are very loud, and I,” he gestured grandiosely to himself, “am trying to take a nap!”

Kermit coughed, feeling awkward.

“Right. Well. There’s a staff meeting in ten minutes. What are you doing hanging around in Rizzo’s room anyways?”

The prawn shrugged.

“We are the same size. It makes his clothes the perfect size to steal, okay?”

Kermit frowned.

“You have more arms than he does!”

“I also have scissors, okay? Now leave! This king of prawns, he needs his beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, well,” Kermit fumbled for the reigns of the conversation, “Well. If you see Rizzo, tell him-”

“I will be telling him you want to see him. Okay? Okay! Now leave! You are late for your cast meeting.”

With that the door slammed shut. Kermit turned to leave, only to hear a rusty wheezing laugh.

“D’ya think he bought it?”

“Of course he bought it! I am an ACTOR, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now help me back into this pizza costume.”

Inexplicably flustered, Kermit dashed towards the stage for the meeting.

2.Bunsen and Beaker

Rizzo and Pepe were playing their usual game of “Who Can We Scam Into Buying Lunch” when Bunsen and Beaker slid across from them at the table. The friendly banter halted immediately as they blankly stared.

“Hello!” Bunsen offered cheerfully.

“Meemeep!” Beaker echoed.

“Uh. Hi,” Rizzo responded. “What, uh. Whatcha up to?”

“Well! I’m glad you asked, my rodentious friend! Beaker and I were hoping to share our luncheon with our two similarly minded friends today!”

Pepe’s antennae twitched.

“So you will be begging off food too?”

Bunsen and Beaker looked at each other and laughed.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, but we won’t be trying to steal anyone’s lunch. WE have worked tirelessly through the night, and have constructed a perfect alternative for the worker on the go!”

“Please don’t blow to table up,” Rizzo muttered, “Please, God, don’t let them blow the table up.”

“Don’t be silly! Of course we won’t be blowing anything up outside of the lab!”

Beaker nodded, meeping in agreement.

“However, as a pair of hard workers yourselves-” Pepe laughed- “We think this might interest you.”

“Is it food?” Rizzo asked bluntly.

“In a way!”

“Is it sentient?”

“Not so far!”

Pepe looked at him and shrugged. He shrugged in return.

“Alright.”

Bunsen jostled excitedly.

“Very well! Prepare to feast your eyes, and your bodies, on THIS!”

He rolled up the arm of his lab coat dramatically to reveal several stickers with various food shapes.

“Uh, Doc, I don’t wanna harsh your vibe here, but are you saying you’re edible, or are you trying the feed us stamps.”

“Not stamps, my dear friend! Oh no, these are no mere stamps at all! These are nutrition patches! A whole serving of food, compiled on a simple slab of sticky paper! We have cut out the need to eat entirely! We’re sure they will be all the rage.”

Beaker meeped excitedly, showing his own arms covered in piles of the things. Bunsen paused, alarmed.

“Beaker, I thought I told you to stick to just a few! These are still in beta testing, there’s no telling what wearing so many at once will do!”

Rizzo chuckled nervously.

“Hey, you guys haven’t seen Willy Wonka by any chance, have you?”

“No, why, does he work here?”

Rizzo and Pepe slowly started making their way from the table.

“Great visit. I would rethink the nutrient patch thing, though. Taste and smell and texture are all parts of what make food so great!!

“Plus, the unions, they will be all over you, okay? Workers will be told to wear patches instead of eat, it will be a whole mess, okay?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Prawn! Beaker and I have been in our own union for quite some time! Another thing we have in common!”

“....Yeah, sure, okay! Just be ready to juice him.”

“Juice him?”

Beaker slowly began to swell, turning purple.

“Juice him.”

In the frantic mayhem left behind them, one could almost miss the small exchange.

“How do you think he knew about the actors guild for small animals?”

“I dunno, okay? My question is how long until Kermit decides our next parody movie is gonna be Willy Wonka!”

“Honestly,” Rizzo added, “I’m shocked we haven’t done it already.”

3. Gonzo

“Wait, you’re moving out?”

Rizzo stopped to look up at him from throwing things in a suitcase.

“Of the room? Yeah.”

“But where will you go?”

Rizzo dropped the jacket he was holding and jumped up to sit on the bed.

“Well. It’s a bit pricier, rent-wise, but I was thinking down the hall.”

“You pay rent?”

Rizzo wished his eyes could roll.

“No you lamebrain, and neither do you! We all live in the same house, I just thought, you know, it might be time for me to move up in the world. Literally. I’m bunking with Pepe now, things are a little more my size with him.”

Gonzo frowned.

“Is this because I keep stepping on your stuff on accident?”

“It is, in fact! It is in part because of that!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“And I forgive you but you can’t help being a big.....whatever you are any more than I can help being a rat! And when a rat’s stuff gets crushed for the twenty thousandth time, a rat starts looking for other lodging.”

Gonzo sat on the floor so they were eye level.

“You’re not mad at me?”

Rizzo laughed.

“Nah, besides. I think your girlfriend wants to eat me.”

“Camilla would never!”

“A chicken can’t help being a chicken anymore than a rat can help being a rat!”

“Why not live with some of the other rats then?”

Rizzo scoffed.

“I’m related to most of em, and the ones I’m not want their own space too. If y’know what I mean.”

“I don’t!”

“Yeah that’s for the best. Anyway, aside from not getting stepped on anymore-”

“That was only once!”

“Ahem! Aside from not getting stepped on anymore, I think me bunking with Pepe would be good for us from now on too. Give us a chance to grow the act without being around each other all the time.”

Gonzo shrugged, setting a blue hand on Rizzo’s shoulder.

“Well. I like being around you all the time, Rizzo. We’re best friends. But if this is what you wanna do, go live with the prawn, I understand. Besides, I can finally fit that chicken coop in here!”

Rizzo laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah you go wild buddy. I’m gonna finish packing.”

Pepe poked his head in.

“Hey, Ritzo, you ready to go?”

Rizzo pulled Gonzo’s hand off his shoulder before hopping down.

“Yeah almost.”

Pepe squinted.

“There is a weird energy in this room right now, eh?”

“That’s just Gonzo. He can’t help it.”

“It’s a medical condition!”

“I pity your doctor,” Pepe stated.

Rizzo grabbed his suitcase and dragged it to the door.

“Hey buddy, any chance I can get some help with these?”

“Oh, sure!” Gonzo leaned over to pick them up, only to heave and huff dramatically trying to lift the tiny luggage with his fingers. “Oh wow, what do you have in these, rocks?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rizzo scoffed, “It’s the set of encyclopedias my mom sent me for Christmas. Now let’s go, it’s just upstairs!”

He and Pepe ran ahead before Gonzo could object.

“Well,” he muttered, “At least the suit each other well.” He jiggled the suitcases in silent reiteration of the pun.

4. Miss Piggy

She saw them practicing ballroom dance with Pepe in a tutu and just assumed.

Rizzo frowned at the mail.

Pepe looked up from the blueprints of the vending machine he was studying.

“What’s wrong? You look upset. We’re finally pulling off the snack heist of our dreams, okay! We’re never paying for chips again! This is a time of joy, okay?”

Rizzo hesitated.

“I just got a letter from my ma.”

Pepe got up and walked over, concerned.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yeah, it’s alright, it’s just. Well, look.”

Pepe scanned it over.

“Congratulations on your- Oh. She thinks we’re?”

“Yeah. And I mentioned it and turns out she’s not the only one.”

Pepe frowned.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Like what, just because we live together, we’re in a relationship?”

“And eat together every day?”

“And are listed as each others emergency contacts?”

“And know each other’s bank account information?”

“Wait, what?“

“Nothing! We were listing things!”

“I’m changing my pin number.”

“Eh, I can guess it again.”

“Pepe!”

“Back to the list, okay! And we, uh, we share clothes!”

“Sure, if laundry’s backed up! And we, um, we hatch schemes together!”

“Snack heist!”

“And sometimes at night if I am lonely I steal your blankets to simulate the warmth of another person!”

“That’s- I have nothing to say to that.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to do that if I could just crawl in with you, okay?”

“You- Wait. Pepe do you WANT to be in a relationship?”

“I don’t know! If we get married we can’t testify against each other in court.”

“True. And it would be a pretty big tax break, if either of us paid taxes.”

“Kermit and Piggy would finally have competition, okay? We can overthrow there cutest couple powerstreak and usher in a new age! It’s the time of rat and prawn, okay!”

“Year of the rat, baby!”

“And prawn!”

They both stared at each other for a moment.

“So I guess she was right. We are in a relationship.”

Pepe shrugged.

“Eh. I could do worse. And you could not do better.”

Rizzo wished again, and not for the last time, that he could roll his eyes.

“Whatever you say, babe.”

#happy birthday matt #more muppets fanfiction #i realize miss piggy was a cop out i was running out of ideas #i hope you enjoy this bc it was easily the most difficulty i've ever had writing something

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pilot-boi · 5 years ago

Text

Missing In Action: Chapter Four

Maelstrom

For the moments when you’re in so deep, it feels easier to just swim down.

AO3 LINK

Jaune wished he could say that he woke up gently, smoothly transitioning from the land of sleep to the waking world. That wasn’t even close to what happened, but in dark twisted sort of luck, he couldn’t really remember the waking up process. One minute he was unconscious, and the next he was awake.

There was a searing pain on one side of his face as well, but he was sure that was unrelated.

He couldn’t move his arms, or really his anything. That wasn’t really the best first thought to have, but Jaune supposed it could’ve been worse.

How it could be worse...well he’d get back to you on that.

How much time had passed? Was it the next day or-?

Another sharp stinging pain, and Jaune nearly fell out of his chair from the force of it. Jaune winced back from the slap and squinted up into the blindingly bright light hanging over him. Right. Kidnapped. Unknown motives and all that. Focus Jaune.

“Good morning, sunshine,” growled a man’s voice from just out of sight. More than ever Jaune longed for the ability to move, to turn and see who was talking. The man sounded less than pleased to see Jaune awake.

“What did I say about talking to the kid?” A silky smooth voice with the hint of a threat said from the darkness in front of him. Jaune stopped trying to crane his neck around to see the first voice, and snapped it back to focus on where the voice had come from.

The man’s silhouette was big, all broad shoulders and barrel chest, but he was smiling. A wolf’s smile. Or at least, he looked that way from the limited amount of the man’s Jaune could see through the light over head.

“Right, sir. Sorry sir,” the first voice grumbled from behind him. So the big guy was in charge then. That...didn’t help him much admittedly, but it was a mite better than the no information he’d had before. Now if only he could figure out what they wanted.

“Who-Who are-” Jaune got cut off by a rough cough, and changed direction half way through his sentence. “What do you want with me?” He wheezed, squinting through the gloom at the indistinct shape of the guy in charge. Sometimes the best course of action was just to be direct.

“Ah ah ah,” the man chuckled softly, “You don’t ask the questions, kid, I do. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to talk. So let me teach you the rules, kid.” The man’s silhouette nodded to the guy behind Jaune, and suddenly his right arm was caught in a vice grip.

“The rules are simple, easy enough for even you to understand,” the man said, stepping forward into Jaune’s little circle of light. He was big, with features chiseled from stone, and hair buzzed down to the scalp. Like a military officer from an action movie. “Rule one: I ask the questions, not you,” Commando said, and the grip on Jaune’s arm tightened, “Rule two: if you don’t answer, there will be consequences.”

Consequences?! What the hell did that mean?! And gods if that guy could let go of his arm, he’d really appreciate it, because that was starting to really hurt.

“And finally, rule three: I’m like king around here, kind of the head honcho,” Commando continued, the reasonable tone set at odds to the table of “tools” that were revealed when he moved, and the tub of water that Jaune could only hope was for cleaning said tools. “And as a king, I expect respect from my subjects, and that includes you, boy. So talking out of turn…” He waved one hand, searching for the right words. “Such things can’t go unpunished.” Commando settled on, giving the man holding Jaune’s arm the go ahead.

And then he yanked, and Jaune’s shoulder whited out into a pinpoint of agony.

There was pain, and then there was pain. This definitely fell into the second category. Someone was screaming, it might’ve even been him.

“Now let’s try this again,” Commando’s voice swam back into his range of hearing, just as Jaune’s screams petered off. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes, but for now he was back. “I am going to ask you a question, and if I don’t like the answer I get...well, you can guess what’ll happen.” Jaune just nodded, not trusting that he’d be able to get away with a verbal response.

“We’ll start easy. What’s your name, kid.” Jaune opened his mouth to respond, any name but his own jumping to his mind, but Commando held up one finger to stop him. “And word of advice, no lies, because I’ll know if you’re lying. And you don’t want to lie to me, kid.”

Jaune’s arm gave a particularly painful throb, and his mouth shut with a snap. He’d know if he was lying? But how? Was it his Semblance, or did this guy already know his name? Or maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell, and it was all a trick. Or maybe it was a double trick to see if Jaune would actually answer with his real name. Or maybe-

Commando’s henchman gave a yank to Jaune’s arm that had him yelping out in pain and bursting out with, “Jaune! Jaune Arc! My name’s Jaune Arc!” Well there went any hope of them maybe not knowing who he was. Nice going, idiot. If the questions got more sensitive, he’d have to try harder than that measly effort to keep the answers from them.

“Now, was that so hard, Jauney?” Commando asked, sounding extremely pleased with himself. Jaune glared up at him, but if anything the man looked even more pleased to see him acting defiant. Acting being the operative word, because Jaune was feeling anything except brave at the moment.

“Let’s try a harder one now, shall we?” the man asked, as if he actually expected a response from Jaune. “Where is Ruby Rose?”

Jaune felt like he’d been slapped again. Whatever question he’d been expecting, that hadn’t been anywhere close to it. Not even in the ballpark of what he’d been expecting. The man who’d dislocated or maybe broken Jaune’s arm was bustling around behind Commando now, pouring more water into the tub and dragging it closer.

“I don’t know,” Jaune said, as firmly as he could with his voice shaking. His eyes flicked down to the tub of water in spite of himself.

“Hm, interesting,” Commando said, sounding disappointed. “Dunk him.”

This wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, but Commando’s taller henchman took it as an order. Jaune was hauled out of his chair and forced onto his knees in front of the tub of ebony black water. “No, no no, no, please-” he was sputtering in sudden panic, but Rando had him by the hair, and then his head was underwater.

It was icy cold. The kind of cold that would steal his breath away if the water weren’t already doing that. Because he’d gone into the water screaming, and inhaled at least one mouthful of water before he could stop himself. Jaune fights to retain what little air he can, but already the freezing water is starting to fill his lungs.

Rando pulled him back out, and Jaune was gulping in breaths of air before he even left the water fully. Coughing desperately to rid his lungs of the hated water and replace it with the air he so desperately needed, Jaune only barely heard Commando say, “I’ll ask again: Where is Ruby Rose?”

“I- I don’t know,” Jaune spluttered, somewhat less confidently than before with his teeth chattering from the cold.

“Dunk him again.”

And he was back underwater. Longer this time. His lungs are screaming with pain from the effort of holding the air in, and before too long he gave in again to the instinctual need to breath. His mouth opened and gulped in the needed air, but water poured into his lungs instead.

There wasn’t any air. He needed air. Why couldn’t they understand? He’s going to die. This was how he died, drowned in a bathtub a million miles away from anyone he cared about.

Rando pulled him out again. Jaune couldn’t hear anything with how the water was clogging his ears. Rando dropped him to the floor and his injured arm was shaking with effort as he retched up as much water as he could. He needed air, he needed air.

Commando was mouthing words, but he sounded muffled and far away. Jaune couldn’t even see him properly, but his mouth stumbled out what he hoped was a crushing reply.

“Again.”

It must have worked, but Jaune had only gotten a single lungful of air before he was hefted up and dunked.

Pulled out.

“Where is Ruby Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Again.”

Dunked.

How long this continued, Jaune never found out. Commando started switching to other people occasionally. The rest of team RWBY, Jaune’s own teammates, Qrow, Oscar, and others that Jaune didn’t even know. Or maybe he did know them. After a couple dunks in the Tub, Jaune was starting to black out. He couldn’t even remember half of the answers he gave, but he at least had reassurances that he had never answered, because it never stopped.

They tossed him unceremoniously back into his cell.

At least he knew when he landed, if the pain of landing hard on his dislocated and potentially broken arm was anything to go by.

Not bothering to stifle the ragged scream that clawed its way up his throat, Jaune didn’t even notice that his hands were being rechained to the wall he’d woken up by just a few hours ago. Had it only been hours? It felt like a lifetime ago. The only thing keeping him upright now was the insistent tug at his wrists that the chain was providing. His arm was on fire.

The cell door slammed, but not soon enough to hide the casual, almost pleased, laughter from the two men who’d put him in here. The rusty bang of the door plunged his cell back into pitch darkness, and at least helped to snap Jaune out of his pain-filled daze. Cautiously lifting his head from the wall where it had been resting, and deeming it safe enough to move, Jaune’s shoulder decided to remind him that it was still there and hadn’t gone anywhere in the last ten minutes.

You’d have thought that he would’ve gotten used to sudden harsh stabs of blinding pain.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Jaune decided to get it over with and see if he couldn’t alleviate at least a little of the acute pain in his general shoulder area.

He gathered his legs underneath him so he was sitting on his heels. His muscles creaked in protest as they shifted for the first time in hours, stiff from disuse and from cold. Remembering how this went the last time he tried to stand up, he went more cautiously this time. It wasn’t easy going with no hands to help push him up, but after some maneuvering he managed to get to his feet.

His hands were still held behind him at an awkward angle, he had to keep them in the small of his back, but he was on his feet. The shaking in his knees made it questionable how long that would last, but whatever. After a minute of working at it, he managed to get the frozen cuffs loose from the hook and lowered his hands down behind him.

The tension started to leave his shoulders as he gingerly lowered himself back to the ground. That was so much better than before. Even now Jaune could feel the tell-tale tingling in his fingertips as feeling returned to them. Painful, excruciating feeling, but feeling nonetheless. Craning his head around to look, he saw the cuffs had cut into his wrists and now he was bleeding. Great, more injuries, and these were his fault.

Gingerly rotating his injured shoulder, probing it as well as he could without being able to see the damn thing, Jaune was beyond relieved to realise that it was not broken. Dislocated? Yes. Bruised? Almost definitely.

Could he fix this? He had to at least try. His ribs felt trampled, his lungs were still screaming from the Tub, and his eyes were burning with tears. Jaune had to try to do something useful today.

Fumbling for a moment, he leant back against the wall to give himself any sort of balance. He’d once fallen down the stairs and dislocated all the toes on one of his feet, and if this hurt even half as much, then he was going to need the extra support.

His depleted Aura would do nothing to help with healing this until he popped it back into place. Oooohh, this was going to hurt. Very much. He just had to grit his teeth and do it, there was literally no other way. He was prepared. He was okay.

Before he could back out of it or tense back up, Jaune yanked his shoulder and popped it back into place.

He wasn’t prepared.

It popped back in with a sickening noise that vibrated right down to his very core, and he crumpled to the ground with a gasping scream. Knives had to be going into his shoulder socket, that was the only solution. Nothing else could hurt this badly.

He blinked away his pain-induced tears and took a moment to shakily suck in sharp gasps of breath. There. He did it. All was well in the Jaune Arc world. He’d have to get back to that later, when his shoulder wasn’t still throbbing with pain. And when he wasn’t still trapped in a cell who knows where with no hope of escape.

Shifting as gently and slowly as he could, the knight curled into a ball on the cold stone floor. Jaune had to lock his jaw to keep from screaming profanities as he felt his broken ribs agonizingly rub against each other.

Today had been the worst day of his life, without question. Nothing else even came close. And as he drifted off to sleep, Jaune knew in the depths of his heart that the worst was still to come. They would keep asking questions, and he would gladly die rather than answer them, so there was no way the pain would ever abate.

And with that pleasant thought, Jaune’s exhausted mind and body forced him to fall asleep.

#rwby #mine #my writing #jaune arc #missing in action #chapter 4

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awkwardbluefish · 5 years ago

Text

Cake to the Hood

A/n - Happy Birthday Jason Todd!

Warning: Swearing

—

“Okay, what the hell was that for?” Jason demands, voice going from electronic to his familiar Gothamnite drawl as fingers catch on the latch and pull the hood off. He had just cleaned it yesterday damnit, a whole damn hour getting rid of boot marks and muck off the surface and then dickface throws a fuckin’ cake at it! He was so dead once Jason wiped the white frosting off it.

Dick merely cackles, falling through Jason’s window like a bloody pretzel and crashing into Jason’s ankles. He’s tempted to stomp on his head but then he’d have to clean his boots too and he isn’t about to force more labour onto himself even if it was technically Dick’s fault.

Only when he manages to stop laughing like a hyena and slapping cream carpeted floor like a seal, does Dick finally answer. The bastard. “Guess!” He chirps, rolling onto his back so he can successfully pull off the domino still attached to his cheek bones.

Jason sends him a scowl, dropping the cake ridden hood at his brothers face and lips twitching down further when the bastard merely catches it. Dick sends him a grin, hugging the helmet to his chest like some form of a teddy bear, smearing frothy icing on biceps. The fucker was way too cheerful for a black eye and a bruising cheek. Vaguely he wonders if he could get away with giving the bastard matching panda eyes. Now that would be good payback.

He’s done many things to deserve revenge, but a cake being thrown at him? That was just plain weird. He’s broken bones, teased the younger brats mercilessly. He’s also ate all of Dick’s cereal out of pure spite yesterday. Even the lucky charms. Jason hates lucky charms. He doesn’t think Dick knows that just yet though. “Payback for eating your freakishly large cereal collection.”

Dick goes eerily still and Jason is most probably going to die, again, but it was worth it for his reaction. Slowly Dick stretches to a stand, no longer hugging the hood and appearing to hold it as a potentially flying projectile instead. Ocean blue eyes glare into forest green and Jason genuinely feels a stab of fear flow through his veins.

“Your lucky today is special. Really lucky.” If this is how Nightwing becomes a villain Jason wants credit.

He blinks as Dick does a 180 with a shake of his head and is suddenly grinning, tossing him back his hood. He’ll need to vacuum later; the sprinkles have gotten everywhere. He huffs, snatches the oiled rag hanging by the window. It was a handy place to keep it, surprisingly.

“So ya throw a perfectly edible cake at my helmet that I could’ve eaten? Ya fuckin’ serious right now? Could’ve just told me to take it off, at least I’d actually get ta fuckin’ eat it then.” Jason grumbles, scrubbing at the frosting stuck in the little nooks of the scratches and the camouflaged kinks on the side. “What’s so special that you had to throw a fuckin’ cake at me in three in the morning’ anyway? Jesus bigwing.”

With as much of the cake scraped off as possible, he decides chucking the oil ridden rag at the idiot in front of him is the next best action. Again, infuriatingly, Dick catches it with a small grin that was slightly bemused. What wasn’t Jason getting now?

“Really?” Dick asks, looking fondly exasperated. Gross. Jason gives him a look and Dickface looks absolutely delighted. Jason’s too late to abort the mission. “Oh my god, you’re just like Babybird!” He exclaims, squealing and flapping his arms up and down. Jason blinks.

“And how am I like that caffeine addict exactly?” Jason demands, gently laying his hood on the coffee table beside his couch. It’s the top floor. No one would see.

“Timmy always forgets his birthdays.” Dick teases and Jason blinks. That’s not what he was expecting.

“It is not my birthday.” Jason states simply.

Dick shakes his head, biting his bottom lip with his teeth to supress the obnoxious grin. “It’s definitely your birthday.”

“Give me a calendar.” Jason demands, he’s tired and he smells like cake and smoke. He needs a shower. He just needs to prove the fucker wrong and he can finally go get some well needed asleep.

Dick happily complies, messing with his gauntlet. A second later and a blue holographic screen lights up the tiny apartment. Hadn’t they switched the lights on? Considering they were still two centimetres from the open window pumping chemical fumes into his tiny safehouse, Jason would take that as a no.

“It’s not and I will prove it to you,” Jason mumbles, eyeing the screen. He blinks. “Oh. Never mind. Happy Birthday to me.”

A wheeze of air escapes his older brothers’ lips, stomach tensing with strain before bubbles of laughter tears through the air. Jason’s stomach coils with warmth before ice carves its way through his veins. With a flick, the lights are on. Dick and Jason hadn’t moved though, someone was in his house. Fuck he was getting rusty. A warm palm cups the back of his neck, puffs of air brushing against a brown jacket as warm laughter and chatter arises from behind them. He resists rolling his eyes, instead hip bumping the laughing form away to turn and greet his guests. A head is quickly dug its way between his shoulder blades as Dick absolutely fails to get himself together.

Damian is sitting on the back of the lime green couch, a frown on his lips but the furrowed brow crinkled in amusement gives him away. Stephanie is cackling, her shoulders shaking in mirth, white pearly teeth stained orange with the cheezles between her lips. Barbara’s emerald eyes catch on his forest green ones, a smile pulling at glossed lips while pulling a striped plastic bag onto her lap. Cass makes the first move though, gracefully leveling herself to her feet from the crisscrossed form on the carpet, a warm arm wrapping around his waist as another pushes their older brother away. Soft lips press against his cheek, completely ignoring the stubble lingering there from yesterdays’ shave. Jason rakes his hand through the charcoal hair, belly rumbling with a chuckle or two as she leans into the touch.

“Did the stakeout mess with your head that much?” Tim asks and Jason scowls at the boy nestled on his beanbag, Alfred’s cotton stitched blanket woven over bony shoulders. How hadn’t he heard the babybird? Beanbags are far from quiet after all. If anyone asks, he blames the non-existent cake crammed in his ears.

“Don’t be mean to the birthday boy!” Dick butts in, expertly dodging around Cass’ frame to snap on a party hat on Jason’s head. At least it isn’t black, he decides as the neon green seems to glow in the dim lighting. Tim rolls his eyes, lips pulling up with that rare small smile of his. Jason doesn’t smile back, but it’s a close thing.

“Yeah,” Jason puffs out his chest with a smirk, “don’t mess with the birthday boy.”

Cassandra squeezes his waist as Damian groans and rolls his eyes. The boy lets gravity take him, falling forward onto the cushions below, limbs bouncing with the impact. Robins, dramatic little birds. Jason would know. Stephanie snickers, stuffing one more sugar coated junk into her mouth before full on prancing the one metre to poke and prod at the boy.

“I hate you.” Tim decides, no heat behind his words. Jason detangles himself from Cass hug, placing a chaste kiss to her forehead before striding over to plonk himself onto the boy, grinning with his teeth at the distressed noise the boy manages to squeak out in a gasping breath. Jason merely smirks as fingers dig into his jacket, palms pushing against back muscles. They both now if Tim really didn’t want to be sat on, he wouldn’t be.

Ding.

Dick pauses messing about with placing plastic cups and parcels on the coffee table, straitening up with a grin. Jason watches bemused, wiggling to get comfortable on Tim’s stomach as Dick yanks the door open, basically throwing Duke inside. Alfred and Bruce stride in much more gracefully, a small smile on both of their lips.

“Happy birthday, Master Jason.” Alfred says, two bulging plastic bags placed gently by Barbara’s feet near the coffee table. Jason ducks, smiling to himself at the mans fond expression. Alfred simply smiles at the top of his head and Jason feels no guilt wiggling forcefully down onto the laughing boy underneath him. It was his birthday and yet these shits were taking the micky out of him. The bastards, Jason thinks fondly. A cool hand pats his cheek and Jason stops his withering, pausing to grin at his grandfather and to accept the kiss to his hairline.

Bruce pats Alfred’s shoulder in passing, raising a brow at Tim’s undignified squawk as Jason digs an elbow to his side. He doesn’t say anything though, a smile teasing at his lips. Jason hears Bruce’s knees crack before seeing the older man kneeling. A hand brushes through his locks, blunt nails scratching at his scalp.

“Happy birthday, chum.” Bruce murmurs and his voice is so soft, so fond that Jason doesn’t really know what to do. When all else fails diversion is the next best step. He is not dealing with mushy feelings right now.

“Look, all of this is nice and all but if anyone throws a perfectly edible cake at me again, I will become a cannibal so I can eat something.”

#tim drake #dick grayson #dc #jason todd #damian wayne #batfamily #bruce wayne #cassandra cain #duke thomas #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #alfred pennyworth #my writing #mine

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