#for space. to let the inhuman gather themselves in their own ways

[lanternlightss]

sighs. oh how the human and inhuman meet together in their understandings of one another, we’re really in it now …

[lantsovsupremacist]

tiberias (cal) calore vii: illicit affairs

i’m only on the 3rd book so a) pls don’t spoil you’ll break my heart and b) my perception of the characters has only been developed to this point so if you come for me do it with the correct context lmao!!!

you knew what it was.

leaning your forehead against the cool metal post of your bed frame, a shaky exhale escaped from your lips. you wished just like that lost breath, you too could leave behind your body and with it, mind. a few minutes was all you needed, really; some semblance of relief.

even with your door shut tight with a deadbolt, the danger contaminating the palace lingered outside of it. you were not foolish enough to deny the cracks it could slip through. you would give any adversary a worthy fight, though. you could not afford not to, especially now.

for the first time in your life, you had truly encountered a problem that you could not use your abilities to maneuver out of. as much as your lungs screamed and your legs ached to run, you could not. being a swift, your first instinct was always to run. your speed always gave you the advantage in pursuit.

a familiar knock at the door broke you from your trance of pity. you stood up, sniffling as you ran the back of your hand across your nose and mouth. the action of clearing your throat sounded more like a whimper, but you managed as you gathered your skirts and headed for the door. you pushed down the nausea and wrung your hands to settle yourself.

your fingers shook on the deadlock before you pried the door open. the amount of weight on the wood, the length of the echo, and the momentary pause before the second, lighter knock gave away the identity of the person on the other side. you were in his arms before you could take another breath.

despite offering you the comfort you had craved all morning, his touch triggered the sobs caged in your chest. perhaps, it was because your heart was only safe in his hands. but, without the key to let them out, they messily tore through and paved their own path.

a year ago, your greatest worry would be the shame brought to your family on account of conceiving a child out of wedlock, let alone to the crowned prince. now, it seemed the impending war took precedence. you could have laughed; a red threatened your livelihood. a girl, really.

you were always careful, and it did not even happen very often. both you and the prince were very busy people, after all. send offs and reunions.

“we can fix this,” cal murmured into your hair.

“no, you don’t get it,” you broke out with a defiant shake of your head, “there’s nothing to fix.”

he pulled back, stroking your hair and pushing it behind your ears. your golden strategist was at a loss. your heart fell further into the pit of your stomach. you chewed on the inside of your lip, desperate to look anywhere but his eyes. yet, in the space of the same moment, you never wanted your gaze to leave his.

“i won’t leave you,” his warm hands ran up your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, “and i won’t let my father have a say in any of it.”

“it’s not the king i am frightened of,” you admitted with a sour taste in your mouth.

cal nodded with a grimace, “then i’ll be sure she is controlled until the end of the month.”

but who could control the queen who could twist minds? you chewed on the thought to avoid choking on it, forcing it down in distaste. both cal and yourself needed time neither of you had the privilege to claim.

cal communicated the importance of waiting until the traditional queenstrial to propose publicly. while the larger part of you agreed with this position, a small piece of your heart reserved for crippling doubt and senseless paranoia wondered if he was stalling for a different reason. if you could at any time expect desertion, it would be now but true to his word, cal had done no such thing—a loyal soldier until the end.

“and if they don’t chose me?” the secret fear you had harbored far before you had even become aware of your current condition felt a traitor to expose to the boy who had given you everything, kept every promise he could.

he studied your face carefully to ensure he held your full attention (though he was foolish to ever think otherwise), “make them, my dear.”

despite the event’s purpose of selecting a bride for the princes themselves, all of the noble houses knew the eldest had little choice in the matter. while your relationship with cal was not overt due to the inherently illicit nature of the affair, servants were known to talk. even in your deepest frustrations, you could not necessarily blame them.

his confidence in you was endearing but what other choice did you truly have?

you pulled away from his arms and lingering stare, wrapping your arms around your middle. pacing the length of the room, you suppressed a bitter laugh, “and then what? when a baby is born after less than eight months? and that’s to say we can persuade your father to rush a royal marriage.”

“let them talk,” his fingers twitched at his sides and you caught the scent of smoke, “nobody will be able to do anything.”

he thought he could protect from anything. sure, there would be little opportunity for any political action after a marriage was solidified but rumors would swirl. born into the pressures of eyes always watching you, they did not cut deep, but a queen needed a reputation demanding of respect. you did not want to be cruel but you decided that if need be, you could.

you wanted so terribly not to cry but willing it away only drew your focus to it more. you did not think the act made you weak but you would rather avoid the complete exhaustion it often caused. you were already so tired. but, some things were inevitable.

cal caught on before you did, “baby,” his voice was croaky, maybe laced his emotion of his own, “please don’t cry.”

you giggled at the irony. it was watery and your voice was nearly gone but it was there. confusion spread across cal’s features. you studied his face as he began to understand. a slow, crooked smile spread across his freckles and indicated the transition.

“suppose i could have chosen better words.”

“mhm.”

you had not noticed he was slowly rocking you in his arms. calm rushed into your senses. cal radiated your favorite kind of warmth. he monitored his body temperature around you, never too hot but always comfortable. it reminded you of home. he was your home. he smelled of pine and dying embers.

now nearing nineteen, you met the prince at fourteen. your elder sister married sooner than your parents expected, hastening your introduction into political meetings as a representative of the swift house of nornus.

who could blame a young and inexperienced teenage girl for falling in with a powerful, older boy who dared throw her an extra glance. what began as a benefit to palace life at fifteen soon turned into a vice. it was easy to tell yourself that you could stop any time you desired but you were addicted to the way he touched you, the way he tasted, the way he spoke your name.

for a while, you were foolish enough to believe he maybe even loved you. when you turned sixteen, you understood you were a pastime for the prince. so when at seventeen he told you he loved you, you did not believe him. he was gone for service quite a bit and your training schedule stole away any time for secret meetings when he was home. you began to purposefully avoid him but the withdrawal from the high that was cal left you dizzy.

when he did not make a move to find you, you tried even harder to move on. you had both made a mess of your hearts, left bleeding and shattered on the floors of the palace. you watched him escape the palace more often, always finding another place to be. one night, however, you followed him. you told yourself it was curiosity that caused you to slip out of your covers and into a warm coat, a coat you would not have needed if you left with him.

you caught up easily with your inhuman perception and speed and yet, he still saw you coming. he always did. that night, you wandered through a village and blended in. that night, you could be normal. he helped you clean up the mess between the two of you and things were different but the same again. they were better. you still took the long way to his room and pulled him into hidden corridors but the longing stares across meetings reignited.

you cleared your throat, “when you returned from delphie.” you tone held the pace of a simple comment, not the answer to the unspoken question pressing down on both of your minds.

cal turned his lips into his mouth and nodded, taking a deep breath, “i remember.”

it was a good memory, a good time. slow and gentle and loving. rane had worn you ragged sparring evangeline from sun up to sun down. you enjoyed the younger classes attending for the exposition but your muscles felt like weights lodged into your body and your breath had not yet fully returned after running circles around evangeline.

usually when one of you returned from an excursion outside of the palace, you wasted little time in attaching to every piece of each other. but, you were both exhausted—exhausted but greedy for the attention of the other. it had been a month ago, nearly to the day.

you and cal never discussed the prospect of children. even if one of you did not favor the idea, there was no choice in the matter. cal, as a future king, needed heirs, and if you wanted to be queen, you would have to bear them. but, you did want them and secretly, you knew cal did, too. it was more than a superficial requirement.

cal always looked at you, found you in a crowd, so it was hard to study him in secret. when he was with children, however, all attention transferred to those at his feet. it was then you saw him fully relax, the weight of his crown falling off his back. he loved them. you loved him more for it.

“and i don’t regret it,” he continued, dipping his head to place it gently on your shoulder. he kissed you neck once, twice, and then dropped his head back down.

[daily-dose-of-imagines]

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ | ʟᴇᴠɪ ᴀᴄᴋᴇʀᴍᴀɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛ

After thinking about it and reading Admin T’s angsty fic, I too, have decided to post my own angsty fic, and why not a Levi one? SKSKSK He’s the one that comes to me the easiest when it comes to writing anything, so I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did with writing it~! 

Please note there will be canon divergence (mainly as I haven’t caught up in the manga or anime in a hot second) 

And yes, I listened to Love is Gone by Slander & Dylan Matthew to get in the mood LOLOL

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 

TW: Major Character Death ; Depressive episodes ; PTSD ; Mental Instability ; Body Mutilation

» » Admin Ko

“Levi! LEVI! GET OUT OF HERE! PLEASE! GET AWAY---”

A sharp inhale and the bright white light of the morning sun was all that welcomed the ex-corporal as he sat rigidly in his bed.  Slowly, frantic metallic blue eyes skimmed down to battered and scarred hands as he watched his body move in an odd state of delirium. Oddly fixated on the way his knuckles paled and how tightly he grasped his sheets, Levi hadn’t even realized the painful sting in his lungs as the cool slick of sweat dripped down the nape of his neck.

It was a barrage of movements from there, his eyes remaining unfocused as he watched the chaos that spilled in his bedroom from an out of body perspective. It was...odd to say the least. He watched familiar faces come to calm his body down, easing him back into a sense of reality as he watched the cogs in his own face work to ease up the grip he once had on the sheets and the trembling he had ceased.

Another flash and he found himself back in his own body, blankly staring down at his scarred hands once again. The room was left barren all over again as he found himself staring out the window and into the gorgeous scenery before him. 

It hadn’t been that long since they had discovered the truth behind the entire catastrophe they found themselves in, yet it felt as though it was ages ago since he’s stepped forth outside. Or had it? If Levi were being honest, he couldn’t remember shit, and that itself only added to his agitation as he glared at the empty walls he was trapped in.

“Fuck...”

Clenching his teeth, the ex-corporal forced himself to get out of bed. A strange tug in his heart drew him towards the desk hidden within the corner of the room. Strewn across the poorly put together desk were notes, plans, letters, photographs, and...a locket?

Perhaps it was his age that was getting to him, or maybe it was the heat, but what was so important about this shitty piece of jewelry? Slowly picking up the accessory, Levi gave a brief once over to it before feeling a scoff build in his throat.

“Tch, it’s probably Lt. (L/N)’s.....”

Slowly, the words faltered from falling out of his throat as he felt his heart skip a beat. Cool metallic blue hues suddenly vibrant with evident fear as flashes of red and torn limbs flashed in his eyes. The quickening of his breath went unheard as he suddenly leaned over the table. Those scarred hands that have seen days of combat suddenly felt numb as the telltale sign of pins and needles crawled their way down to his fingers.

“Levi? Levi~~ Levi! LEVI!”

Flashes of her face swam through his vision as the once clear image of his desk became fragmented as he dropped to the floor. He didn’t even feel his knees dig into the floor-- rather he couldn’t care less as he desperately clung onto the locket as the memories from a week ago resurfaced into his mind. The tears that he once thought had dried up began pouring down his cheeks as the ache in his chest multiplied.

»»————- ♪ ————-««

The rustling of leaves caught his attention. Despite the cool weather they’ve finally been given it still brought the ex-corporal a sense of unease as he watched the small party work around in gathering materials whilst discussing their next plan of action. 

It hadn’t been long since they’ve dealt with Kenny and his gang, but if Levi was certain of one thing it was that he didn’t want to cross paths with that man ever again. Already he barely managed to scrape by whilst making sure their original plan had worked.

“Oi, dipshit.”

“Tch.”

No matter how hard he sought to smack that cheeky smile off of her face, he never found the heart to do it. Not when she held his with such a pretty smile. 

“You’re spacing out again. Kenny’s bullshit still getting to you?”

“...”

“Oh come on, you can tell me~.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oooh~ Touchy touchy. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I thought you were pretty badass!”

A skip to his heart. Something that wasn’t uncommon when he found himself with her. Of course he’d never let her know, instead he gave her a roll of his eyes before kicking her away.

“Get back to work.”

“Fine fine~. Oh! But in all seriousness, whatever is looming in that brooding mind of yours, just remember we still got the plan done. Whatever happened in the past is whatever. We just gotta look toward the future, yeah?”

“...tch. Hurry up and get the fuck over there already. Those damn shit wads look like they’re going to break their backs.”

A mock salute, one that he found endearing in her own quirky way though when he least suspected it she was right back up in his face. A cocky little smirk graced her lips before those chapped yet soothingly familiar feel of her lips brushing his own registered in his brain, and before he could react she was merrily skipping towards the struggling ex-cadets.

“...you’re damn lucky I love you shitty (y/n)...”

➽───────────────❥

BANG

“Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck!”

BOOM BOOM CRASH

“HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET HERE?! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!”

SCREEEEEECCHHHHHHH

Hell on earth, better known as the mass migration of Titans. One minute he was seated with Armin. Easily discussing strategies and the next movement for their plans. The moment he blinked the makeshift tents they had were on fire. Smoke was rising to the skies and the screams of people filled his ears. Immediately, Levi reacted. Rushing to grab his swords he mentally checked off a list of what needed to be done. Yet before he could even reach his own gear the hissing telltale sign of someone whisking into action caught his ears.

The reaction was immediate as he looked up to see fierce (e/c) hues. Calloused hands he’s held plenty of times underneath tables were now clenched tightly around her swords as she went about luring as many titans away as she could. 

“...evi, Levi, CAPTAIN LEVI!”

Shocked out of his stupor he turned to face Connie who was frantically grabbing at his arm as he finally took the chance to take in the scene before him.

Whatever carts they had salvaged were packed away with what little they could save. The bodies of those who had already fallen were hanging from the trees and already in the distant background he saw the revolting sight of a wretched up human meatball. 

“Status?”

“We’ve lost at l-least a couple of hands. Captain (y/n) told us to gather as much as we could and to gain distance while she distracts them--”

“Is there back up with her?”

“..N-No sir...”

“Are you fucking STUPID? Tch, get moving Springer. (y/n) and I will catch up shortly.”

“B-But”

“Did. I. Stutter.”

“N-No sir...”

“Then get moving!”

Not even taking the chance to watch the male rush back to the small party of cadets, Levi hurriedly put his harness and gear on in record time before whisking himself towards the sound of gurgling and inhumane sounds. 

“Just stay alive....please, I can’t lose you too...”

➽───────────────❥

Horrific. That’s the best that he could describe the sight before him. The carcasses of fallen allies and titans alike littered the ground as the once distant storm clouds drew in close. The light sprinkling of rain undoubtedly triggered a wave of unnecessary deja vu as he trudged on until he saw a lone figure standing a top the last titan from the herd. 

Suddenly, the once tight hold around his heart loosened as a breath he didn’t know he was holding finally escaped his throat as he relaxed his stance.

“Oi shit for brains. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Oh! Levi! I thought you were with the others?”

“And leave a shitty captain like you to half ass the job?”

“Heh, you know it’s okay to admit you were worried about me stupid. It’s just us.”

Another roll of his eyes was given as he begrudgingly made his way towards her, a half assed smile gracing his features as he held his hand out towards her.

“Tch, you’re lucky I fucking love you shit for brains.”

The smile she gave was blinding. One that he surely could never find an immunity to as he savored the warmth of her calloused hand in his own scarred and tainted ones.

“Heh~ I love you too shitty corporal~.”

With that, the pair began their journey towards the base. A brief conversation in regards to how much compressed air was left in their tanks being their main worry as they walked. Though as that continued the rain that had once sprinkled began to heavily pour down. A sound of irritation left his lips as she lightly laughed, easily scooting herself closer to him as he begrudgingly wrapped an arm around her waist.

“This rain makes things just as bad, doesn’t it?”

“Yea---”

“....Levi?”

“Sh!”

Immediately a sense of dread filled his chest as he tugged her towards a tree, quickly hiding by the base as the loud crashes and thumps of footsteps prevailed throughout the lands. 

“...dammit....how much gas do you have left?”

“....Enough to swing by two of those big ass trees.”

A grimace. Again, that pool of dread seemed to fill faster as he subconsciously held onto her tightly. He had enough gas to swing back to at least the vicinity of the planned meet up spot, but with an additional body? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps if he were able to split it.

“We’re switching tanks--”

“No we’re not. You are going to keep your goddamn tanks and I’ll keep mine. Worse comes to worse you leave me here.”

“I’m not leaving you--”

A quick kiss to his lips as her fists bunched up his dress shirt. If he felt a tremble in her hands or the way her lips wobbled he didn’t mention it.

“Look. We both know that between the two of us you’re the one who has the best deduction and quick thinking. If it had to be one or the other....it has to be you.”

“Shut the fuck up. We’re going back together.”

“Levi...”

“No! shut the fuck up. I’m not leaving you behind. I’ve lost too many fucking people! I can’t lost you too! You’re....you’re all I have left in this shitty world...please (y/n)...”

Though before she could even reply a sharp scream came from her as he was roughly pushed to the side. On instinct her hands moved to hold the swords attached to her hips before jetting off for a nearby tree.

In response, the large titan moved for her. It’s large beady eyes leering at it’s new prey as she tightly grasped her blades.

“(y/n)!”

Levi didn’t even recognize his own voice as he went to grab his own swords. His fingers itching to press the triggers for the canisters, yet he was cut short at her voice and the shaky glare she gave him. One that only further plummeted his heart into his stomach as she gave him a trembilng grin.

“I got this! Just go and don’t turn back okay? I’ll be right behind you!”

“BULL SHIT. YOU BARELY HAVE ENOUGH GAS IN THOSE TANKS--”

“WELL I WAS LYING OKAY? NOW GO! I CAN HANDLE THIS ONE!”

“THEN LET’S---”

ROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR

As if the distress wasn’t enough, the quick rumbling of earth and stone had both captains pale as (y/n) tightly held onto her blades. Her gaze no longer on the titan before her, but rather the hoard that was nearing their now disclosed location.

“...Levi you have to go.”

“No. We’re doing this together.”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE PLEASE LEVI! JUST GO. YOU WON’T HAVE ENOUGH GAS BY THE END OF THIS JUST PLEASE GO!”

“WHAT IF I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK? I’M NOT LEAVING YOU SHIT FOR BRAINS!” 

Gritting her teeth, she mustered up as much strength as she could as she hurriedly reached for the smoke gun. Without a moment’s notice, she shot the pellet. A trail of black littering the skies as she gave the other a glare.

“THERE. THEY’LL COME HERE TO HELP SO PLEASE GO AND BRING THEM HERE. I CAN HANDLE THIS ONE MYSELF AND THEN I’LL SWING UP.”

Gritting his teeth, he could only give her a stern glare as he reluctantly did as he was told. Without a moment’s delay he shot forth, desperate in tracking the familiar wagon to bring back reinforcements as the sound of a titan hitting the floor brought him a sense of ease.

“Damn you (y/n) you better keep your fucking word!”

. . . 

“I’m sorry Levi...I lied...I don’t have enough to swing up...”

Teary eyed, she let her tanks drop to the grounds below as her racing heart seemed to be in beat with the thundering steps of the hoard of titans on their way towards the sound of the fallen one’s cry. Subconsciously, she pressed her fist to her chest. Why? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she just had to keep it safe for him.

➽───────────────❥

Upon spotting the rickety wagon, Levi jetted straight for the reins. His eyes frantic as the leftover cadets near him seemed shaken by his brutish actions. He didn’t necessarily care though. What mattered to him was reaching (y/n)’s side with her seated on one of the thick branches with that cheeky grin he adored while he and the rest of the moving cadets could annihilated the hoard of titans.

Yet when he returned the pit in his stomach formed into that of utter despair. Where he should’ve seen (y/n) he found nothing. Instead, he saw the tattered remains of her cloak pinned to the tree as the hoard of demons fought over something...some...thing...some...one.

He didn’t know what happened next. Rather he couldn’t. As if his lungs had suddenly malfunctioned and stopped working. He hadn’t even realized he had jetted out from the wagon. All he saw was a glimpse of her bloody face and suddenly he saw red. 

It was an utter rampage. Sounds of desperation, anger, and hurt filled the skies as the rain continued to pour down relentlessly. The titans that had once stood tall now laid in horrifying dismembered piles. (y/n)’s body-- rather what was left of it. 

Ripped from the torso down, her legs were practically disintegrated. Most likely stewing away in one of the fallen titans’ bodies. A brief flash of her spine had most turning away to vomit, yet Levi stared lifelessly. His body trudging slowly to her as his lower lip wobbled. The pain in his chest multiplied tenfold as those warm (e/c) were glassy and unfocused. 

I'm sorry, don't leave me I want you here with me

Dropping to his knees, he gently cupped her cheeks as he pressed his forehead to hers. A shaky breath finally escaping him as he struggled to take in another breath of air as the rain continued it’s assault on him.

I can't breathe, I'm so weak

“Fuck... come on shit for brains... open those beautiful eyes for me...come on...yeah? You said we were gonna go see those damn pink trees...right?”

No response. Not that anyone had expected one. Forcefully breathing in he forced a weak smile onto his trembling features as his sight began to blur.

“C’mon (y/n)...stop playing these fucking games and look at me...c’mon.... I know you can dumbass...”

The pain in his chest amplified as the lack of response continued to shake her. An attempt to wake her up as he blatantly ignored the lack of legs and the disgustingly slow plops of viscera staining the grassy floors.

“Fucking shit (y/n) wake the fuck up. I’m tired of these fucking games. If you keep doing this bullshit I wont take you to see those damn trees you’re obsessed with when we fix this shit...”

Flashes of bodies. Each familiar to him in their own sickening way as a wretched sob came out of his chest. Desperately, he held her close. The care he had for his clothes now out the window as he buried his face into the crook of her neck as he shook with rage and absolute pain.

Don't tell me that your love is gone That your love is gone

➽───────────────❥

The ride was silent. Just the clopping horseshoes whilst he tightly held onto the bundle that was, in his words, a sleeping (y/n).

“...Captain?”

“What is it Arlert?”

Despite the clear hoarseness in his voice, Levi still held a bite to his voice. The lack of emotion in his eyes was pitiful, especially knowing how many loved ones the man has lost.

“...As we were cleaning Captain (y/n) up...we...found this.”

A tilt of his head was given, and before he could ask any questions the glittering of metal caught his attention.

“It’s a locket...I apologize I peeked inside...but I feel as though she would want you to have this.”

»»————- ♪ ————-««

Red rimmed eyes stared at the photo. It was something she had suggested-- stupid if you had asked him in the moment, but at this moment he couldn’t help but tightly hold onto the only photo of her left. Bringing the locket to his chest, the strong captain curled up into a ball as a new wave of emotions overcame him.

Having cried all his tears out, all that came out of him left were weakened whimpers and desperate heavy breaths as he tightly curled around the locket. The demolished state of the room proved to be a perfect depiction of his mind as the letters she wrote for fun back then were sprawled all around him. The sheets from the bed now in a makeshift nest around him as bloodied hands cupped the locket. 

“Why was it you...why couldn’t it have been me?”

A flash of her smile. The sweet harmonies of her laughter. Adoring warm (e/c) hues.

“...why couldn’t it have been m e?”

[azurevi]

3 halloween tales (cater, jade & vil)

This is really random, but the ssr cards for the halloween show have given me many au ideas, so here are my self-indulgent stories inspired by them. The Cater one is especially long because I got a lot of ideas about it. For the Vil one.. it's pretty disappointing how it turned out, but I hope it's not too bad. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!

WARNINGS : death (all), mild mention of gore (cater), war + mild possessiveness + violence (jade) [let me know if there're more!]

the heart and its eternal weight

Cater is a cemetery caretaker. It isn't that he really loves it, but his father was one. He feels like it is only right to take after his steps.

He isn't into superstitions. Some people find distaste in his job, but it's something crucial for Cater. People, even after they're dead, should still be honored, and so deserve a hospitable place to rest. 

Everyday is a routine for him. Sometimes, though, the families of the passed talk to him about their stories and their emptiness once their loved ones are gone. Cater finds the beauty and softness in humans by hearing these stories, and it makes him even more dedicated to his job. 

It's natural to him, dying. His father was killed in an unintended accident, and sometimes it seems like his death could have been avoidable just as much as it was inevitable. He just wishes that he had had more time with him.

One of the lessons his father taught him about graveyard caretaking is to beware of ghosts. Those who recently died are more visible and intimate with the world of the living, and so they might appear before humans. Some are inhostile, of course, but there are malevolent ones.

Lore has it that some ghosts prey on hearts. It is said that the heart is the most important part of a human, as it is accountable for life, death and emotions. People believe that ghosts can be revived with a fresh, still-beating heart, and as a result the human giving up their heart will die in place of the ghost. Basically, the heart can also create ripples in the fabric of space-time.

Because of his job, he isn't all that popular among others, and he only has a few life-long close friends, his mother and sisters by him. So even if he has a crush on the most admirable person he's ever seen, he still won't make it known in fear of rejection. He figures that he still has time to figure it out.

And he's wrong. News about your tragic death spread around quickly like wildfire, and he's devastated. It feels wrong to even feel so, because he has never been acquainted with you in the first place.

Your body is buried in his cemetery, and a lot of people come to your funeral that day. Some of your family members are so heartbroken and pitiable, and so Cater offered to be their listener.

All he can hear is about the great work you've done, the care you put into everyone you met, the warmth that radiated off you while you were still alive. It breaks Cater how he's never had the privilege to know you, to experience all your graces with his own perspective.

One night, the moon is lit and hung up high in the sky, so close that it seems to be prying on Earth and the people roaming on it. Cater is patrolling with his lawnmower when he hears quiet and uncertain sobs.

He is creeped out, yes, but he's also curious. He's never seen a ghost before, and it could be a human for all he knows.

He's proved wrong once again, as he discovers your opaque body behind a giant tree. You are hugging their legs close to your chest, and a rotting hole's visible where your heart should be.

There's no way you can be hostile, and you certainly won't kill him for his heart, so Cater decides to approach you gently, tentatively, like you're smoke that will disperse the moment he intrudes.

To his surprise, you can hear him clearly, and even invite him to sit down with him. It's so bizarre -- a ghost asking for a conversation! But Cater doesn't mind as he pops down beside you. He notices how although you were no longer solid, it still feels like tense when his hand passes through you. Certainly it's because you've been dead not for long.

And so the two of you indulge in heartful conversations, and Cater finds himself regretting even more about how he never gathered the courage to go up to you. Mid-conversation you tell him about all the things that you wish you could've done and all the ideas you wished to spread.

Cater probably shouldn't have, but he is so absorbed in your ambitions and kindness that he offers to carry out all these great things for you. After numerous confirmations, you agree too to let him carry out your thoughts.

And so Cater works in his neighbourhood, sharing campaigns and donating, taking care of lost pets and cats and partaking in environment improvement. He's never felt so fulfilled before, and it's the first time he feels like he's genuinely making a difference in the world.

In times he's not representing you, he brings you up on the little hill behind the cemetery where the moon and stars are so close and vibrant, where they all dance in the dark ballroom and pulse in excitement of being seen. He wishes he could show you more hidden gems, but your spectral spirit cannot be too far away from your body. 

But it's enough.

A month passes and Cater notices subtle change in your behaviour as well as appearance, like how you're responding with less enthusiasm and how the hole in your chest is growing bigger. When he finally asks about it, he's told that ghosts generally only stay in the world of the living for 49 days, and their heart will rot away in this period. After that, they will have to go to the underworld, never be back again.

Cater is certainly shocked that the lore is more than a children's makeup story. He is well aware of the significance of the heart in relation to the soul and life. 

He asks if you'd like to have his heart instead, so bluntly and casually. You seem to return to their original intimate self when you refuse. 

"I'm already gone. It's you, the living, who should be making changes,"

So he pretends that you're not getting more and more unresponsive and less and less generous. He turns a blind eye against your wavering figure and how you can't be seen at all in the sun. He plays dumb when in reality, you're slipping away before his very own eyes, heart rotting away like nothing more than a fruit.

It hurts finally knowing and understanding someone and having to lose them. 

On the 48th day, you are already but a still, soulless shadow, leaning beside your gravestone and fresh, white flowers. Cater can still see you. Sometimes he thinks that you chose to be seen.

And he can't bear to see you go. To see your dreams go into flames, to watch such a pretty soul just - vanish.

So he gives you his heart. Alive and beating and sentimental. It doesn't even hurt a bit. 

You wake up immediately, your eyes glowing and body solidifying. 

"What have you done?" 

"What I can do to make a change,"

Time is starting to rewrite itself. Cater is going to die in your place. The space around you was warping and folding into itself, softly and rightly like a lullaby.

Just before you slip into darkness, you gather up a whole bunch of rose petals and desperately stuff them into the hole in Cater's chest, as if they can give him life in lieu of a heart, and you are sobbing and clinging onto his still warm arm, never wanting to let go.

It's all Cater wants, to save a wasted soul and to make a difference. 

And so he cradles your face, and leans in the moment everything goes black. When he wakes up again, he's weightless in the cemetery, where a bunch of well arranged roses lie on his buried body.

a melancholy specimen

To Jade, beauty needs to be preserved to be constant. It's just like flowers. They die away without proper care.

Just when he thinks he's seen all the beauties of the world and is getting bored of it, he meets you. A blooming flower sparkling in the bland, old boring world around it. He's immediately captivated - how a person can still manage to flourish in such a rotten world where everything is depressing and all man is for themselves!

You're the most elegant piece of art he's seen, and that's something considering that he owns a museum. Innocence lies in your eyes and bravery sings itself between your lips.

You find him just equally amusing -- gentlemanly, insightful and just a touch of flirtation. The two of you fall in love like Alice down the rabbit hole - amused and unstoppable, fascinated by the wonders evolving about.

But the world doesn't give a damn about love, nor do they understand your dreams of a bright future where everything is close to hearts. They call you both madness and nonsense.

"Their souls are tainted with war and sorrow. They are beyond the point of rescue. Victory and glory are all that can feed their ego,"

Jade is disappointed. War has gouged people's eyes out and filled them with wails and ash.

The two of you are the only stars in the night sky, still fighting for salvation, yearning for a better future where trees grow and flowers yearn for the sun. You promote and do your best to lift the veil of darkness off the world. 

But the sun doesn't understand either. War keeps going on and on, and people never have the time for aesthetic relaxations. It refuses to shed light on its pitiable humans.

"We should evacuate, Jade. They say a bomb is dropping tomorrow,"

Jade doesn't care and can't care. The most paramount thing is to open his eyes to the beauty of this world. He doesn't want to become one of those barbarous men, tasting dirt and blood on their tongue while they glorify violence and brutalness.

He stays behind while his neighbourhood dies away. You are the only ones yet to leave. 

"Please don't leave me, Y/N. You're the only light in my life,"

You can't bear to leave him, and so you stay. The bomb is dropped, and it's too close. Too hot. Too cruel, too inhumane. It ravages everything in its way, burning all the darkened things to the ash and bringing the only beauty left in this world with it.

Jade wails. Broken cries are engulfed by nearby explosions and the cackling of flames. Your soulless body lies amidst the destruction, just another wilted flower in the slit of a rock, deprived of water and sunlight.

He finally understands. Nothing can save the world anymore. It's gone way too far, and it will never recover from malevolence. All he can feel is pity for his world as his heart ache with spite.

Bandages around his hands, he wraps your corpse up completely, preserved underneath the layers. You will be his reminder that there was once a flower in this drought, an anchor keeping him from becoming one of those barbarians.

lifeless silhouette in the dark night

You can never recognize directions. You find yourself stumbling upon a seemingly inhabited mansion in the middle of the woods. Cold and bruised, you knock on its door.

Welcoming you is a tall man with blonde and lilac hair called Vil. His skin is unnaturally white, and his eyes seem to glow like orbs that eat your souls. But you are too tired to make notice of all these details, and he's kind enough to let you stay for the night.

He treats you with ravishing cuisine and a grand bedroom that was as grotesque as the rest of the house. Afterwards, he leaves you to rest, but not before warning you not to get out of the room post midnight.

You oblige- for the first half hour. Then you start to hear wails and footsteps that amplify and disappear. It's impossible to sleep.

The next morning, you confront Vil about it. He refuses to face the questions as he ushers you to get going, and so off you go.

You spend another day lost in the woods, then somehow come face to face with the mansion again. Vil is beyond shocked to see you, but then he breaks into a deep smile.

"It's almost as if you belong here,"

Weirdly enough, you could agree, There seemed to be an invisible force pulling you towards Vil. After dinner, he orders you not to leave the room again before making his leave.

Broken wails. Recurring footsteps. You can't bear it any longer, and you also wonder if Vil is aware of this. He properly is, and thus tells you to stay safe inside the room.

But dumb curiosity gets the best of you, and you open the door and step into the endless corridors.

The wails come from the host's room, where Vil is supposed to be. You're closing in when its door is suddenly flung open, and out runs a panting Vil.

"Vil? What are-"

His eyes are bloodshot and there's red stain in the corner of his mouth. Sweat dots his forehead. He looks disheveled and the complete opposite of how he was during dinner.

"You shouldn't be here. Get back - get back in!"

His voice booms in your skull, and you're running back to your room before you notice. 

It's another sleepless night.

To your luck, Vil doesn't wait for you to bring the incident up.

"Don't be creeped ou by it, please."

He seems very uneasy about it, but he's obstinate to give you an explanation.

Turns out that he is a vampire. One that has lived for 500 years and is waiting for his eventual death. He's seen everything in this world and lived through the best and worst of humanity. He understands people's fear about vampires, and so he resides in the remote part of the wood. He only ever drinks the blood of small animals that he hunt, and never has he once killed a man.

He knew nothing about what'd happen to him when he became a vampire. If he'd known about the repercussions, he'd never have become one in exchange of eternal beauty. Now he has to turn someone else into a vampire to end his immortality. It is only a cycle.

 Every night the moon rises and spills into his room, and he has to fight his urge to go out and taste the sweet blood of humans. 

There are times when he slips and loses control, but he always manages to get back to his senses. But it seems that your presence here in the mansion is awaking his desire to suck you dry.

You're bewildered to say the least, and frankly horrified. But at the same time you feel pity for him, for he is just a man who can't ever do anything as atrocious as hurting people.

And so you offer to end his suffering. Of course Vil disagrees. He just talked about how he never wanted to take a life, and now you're offering yourself to him? He'd never allow it.

But you're even more persistent. You keep staying in his mansion, and his sanity slips a little more every night. And you know that he's contemplating too, for he never tries to kick you out of his mansion.

"You deserve a rest, Vil. For your love and selflessness. For all the unspoken kindness you bestow on others. It is only fair that you get to rest,"

Vil has lived a life. He's but a mere walking corpse now, and a rest -- a sleep -- sounds just like what he needs.

And so he rests. Vil falls into a deep, serene sleep while you endure each and every dark night.

[flowercrown-bard]

Poems for the Poet (2/ 5)

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: ~2k

read on AO3

previous   /  next

Content warning: self-deprecation, people treating witchers badly, self-loathing, panic attack, insecurity

Mutant, witcher, monster!

No one dared to spit those insults at Eskel openly – not yet. For now, the people of the town contented themselves with shooting him dirty looks, whispering behind his back and turning away when they caught sight of his face.

It was only a matter of time before the whispers would turn into shouts when fear became cruelty.

He had seen it happen often enough to know it was inevitable.

And yet, he had hoped that just this once it could be different. It had been different, when he had met Jaskier. It could be different again.

But these people weren’t Jaskier. They would rather claw Eskel’s eyes out than let him see their smiles or bite off their tongues before they let themselves utter a single kind word to him.

So Eskel kept his head low as he walked through the cobblestone street towards the inn, hoping they would tolerate him, at least for one night, if he didn’t attract too much attention. He ignored the whispers, the stares, the stench of disdain.

He barely flinched when something it him on the shoulder. He had known that sooner or later, stones would fly. He just had hoped it wouldn’t happen that soon.

With a sigh, he hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, making himself seem smaller, like less of a threat as he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if any more stones would be hurled his way.

What he saw instead, made him falter. What had hit him wasn’t a stone. It was a ball wrapped in leather, not dissimilar to the one he used to play with as a child before he had been brought to a place where boys learned how to fight and kill instead of playing.

Eskel crouched down to pick up the ball and take a closer look, but before he could stand back up again, he saw, or rather heard, the one who had thrown it at him.

“You found my ball!” The excited voice of a little girl cut through the disapproving murmurs of the adults like the sun pushing his way through clouds during a thunder storm. “I’m sorry for hitting you, mister.”

“Don’t worry,” Eskel said as softly as he could. “No harm done.”

He held out the toy for the girl who took it with a toothy grin.

“Thank you!”

Something warm and soft spread through Eskel’s chest. It had been too long since anyone had smiled at him, longer yet since he had spoken to a child that wasn’t destined for the cruelty of the trials.

Eskel couldn’t stop himself. For just a moment he forgot himself, too distracted by that soft glimmer of happiness in his chest. One moment of carelessness was all it took.

His lips twitched into a smile.

A snarl. A grimace. A twisting of his face into something hideous and fearsome.

The reaction was almost immediate. The girl blanched and reeled back, before she could even touch the ball.

“You’re the bad man!” She cried. If there had been any passers-by that hadn’t stared at Eskel before, they were now all fixing him with suspicious glares.

Eskel swallowed against the rapidly forming lump in his throat and dropped his smile. Perhaps that had been a mistake too. It was unnatural for people to be able to lose their smiles that quickly. It was inhuman.

“I’m not,” Eskel said soothingly. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“My ma told me that you’re bad!” The girl accused and pointed a finger at him before taking it back quickly and holding her hand against her chest in the same way people protected their hands when they were afraid a feral dog would bite them. “She said to stay away from the man with the ugly scars. She said you will take me away and eat me.”

Eskel flinched.

“I’m not –“

“I think it would be better if you left,” a low voice interrupted him.

When Eskel looked up from where he was still crouched, he saw three men walking towards him with stormy expressions.

Slowly, so as not to startle them, he put the ball to the ground and gave it a small nudge to roll towards the girl. She jumped back as if her toy was suddenly dangerous.

The men’s frowns deepened. Eskel held up his now empty palms in surrender as he stood back up ever so slowly.

One of the man took a threatening step towards him, his fists already raised and Eskel all but fled.

He tried not to listen to the angry and boasting shouts that followed him. It was in vain.

No matter how much he pretended, he wasn’t like his brothers. Geralt might be able to go on after Blaviken, saying that he didn’t need anyone and Lambert might be able to counter every insult with an even more cutting one of his own, but Eskel wasn’t like them. He was desperate and foolish and still clinging to the hope that he could be someone who wouldn’t be scorned and detested.

Another could-have-been. One that gnawed at him like a stray dog gnawed on a bone, tearing off the small bits and pieces that could still be something wanted.

Eskel had no delusions about how the rest of the day would go. He would find no place to sleep here, no hot meal and no contract that would be paid for. The longer he stayed, the bigger got the chances of pitchforks and kitchen knives being directed at him.

But his legs were so tired. It had been too long since he had eaten a healthy amount and ever since he had to give Scorpion away, he wasn’t able to carry his tent with him anymore.

He just wanted to rest. He just wanted to lay down for a while, knowing that he wouldn’t wake to a mob.

But the chances were slim. The best he could do was hide away in a dark alley to rest, hoping that no one would stumble upon him there.

He let himself lean back against the wall of a house, sliding down until he sat on the dirty floor. What more was some dirt, when his shirt already had holes in it? No one would bother to notice anyway, not when they had his face to stare at in fear.

His insides clenched and not purely because of the memory of the child’s laughter turning into cries at his sight.

He was hungry. So painfully hungry.

His jaw twitched as he rummaged through his bag for something edible, knowing full well that there was nothing to find.

Instead, his fingers found something else. Something, he had bought on a whim and quickly shoved to the bottom of his bag. Something he hadn’t been able to get rid of, even as it meant losing precious space in his bags.

Carefully, so as not to tear it, he pulled out the cheap paper, quill and inkwell he had bought months ago. For a long moment he only stared at them, overcome with the painful urge to smash the inkwell against the wall.

He wasn’t a poet, never would be. He was ugly and frightening and no one could even look at him without seeing all the things he couldn’t be written plainly across his face.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The memory of blue eyes flashed before him. Memories, of a blissful couple of days when it had seemed that maybe he could have, could be, something more. Jaskier had listened to what he had to say about poetry, as if his opinion was no less important than that of any scholar. He had explained the intricacies of word choice to him as if Eskel was worth talking to. As if he wasn’t too oafish, too big and too far removed from everything he could have become.

What had Jaskier told him back then? That poetry was a means to give meaning. That by creating something out of your pain, you refused to let it have power over you.

It wouldn’t work. Eskel knew that. No amount of words could ever distract from the life he hadn’t chosen. But perhaps…perhaps Eskel could make something beautiful.

It was a foolish thought, a desperate dream, but one that lodged itself into his heart, refusing to budge.

Eskel didn’t know how to write beautiful words and craft them into something more. All his knowledge about poetry came from the little he had gathered from reading the old poems. It wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

Before he could stop himself, he dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and put it on the paper. He hesitated, watched as the ink flew onto the paper like blood dripping off a sword and created ugly splotches.

Immediately, Eskel pulled the quill off the paper again.

He stared at that spot, that blemish, that failure.

The walls seemed to close in on him, suffocating him, crushing him. Though the sun was still up in the sky, his vision became darker, splotchy. Like the ink on the paper. Like bloodstains on his clothes.

He wasn’t good enough. This wouldn’t work. He hadn’t even written a single word yet and already he had ruined this.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of voices, of doubts, of knowing he would fail.

It was no use. His heart sped up and he felt his breathing becoming shallow. He should be able to control this. A witcher shouldn’t let himself succumb to his own mind.

But Eskel couldn’t do it. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t let his mind drift off for mediation, couldn’t fucking breathe.

With the strength of a hundred men, Eskel managed to scrap together some semblance of calm, just long enough for his mind to stop spiralling for a second and to latch on to one thing only.

Poetry.

Eskel clung to it with all his might, forcing himself to think of lines and verses he had memorised until his mouth moved and formed the words. They were barely more than a whisper, but Eskel had spoken them before, time and time again. His body knew the correct intonation, the right way to inhale enough to have his breath last for the entirety of a line.

The words fell from his lips in a soothing rhythm, the familiarity of them battling against the fear and the strain to remember the lines left no room for any other, unkind, thoughts.

It was only when Eskel’s heart had slowed down enough that the sound of its beating didn’t drown out his whispers, that Eskel realised whose poetry he was reciting.

It was Jaskier’s.

Lines about eyes flashing bright like lightning, comparable to a force of nature that disappeared before one had time to marvel at it but leaving a mark in the life of whoever had gotten the chance to see it.

Lightning. That’s what Jaskier described Eskel as and it was the first word that Eskel put down on the paper once his hands had stopped shaking too badly.

He looked at the word for a long time. It felt strangely right. Like it belonged there. Like Eskel had been meant to put it – a part of himself – out there.

His throat bobbed and his brows twitched at the thought, but before he had time to doubt himself any more, he let the quill scratch over the paper once more, leaving words in its wake. A mixture of Jaskier’s words and the rhythm of the ancient elves.

Lightning across lips cuts bright.

A lowly flash, no more. Leaving flesh forever sore.

Scorching like flame. Scowling for fright.

Marring a mangled man, mutilating a mutant more.

Eskel stared at the words. The poem wasn’t long nor was it particularly good. But it was Eskel’s. Eskel had written something, gave meaning to the meaningless with his quill.

His eyes darted to the splotch at the bottom of the paper, right where the last line ended. Another imperfection.

His brows knitted together and his hand moved again.

It might have been childish - Lambert would have definitely made fun of him for it -  but as Eskel drew legs, a head and horns onto the blemish, he found himself almost smiling again.

The almost-smile stayed on his lips, even as he forced himself to stand up once more, carefully putting his writing tools back where they belonged. The paper with his poem he kept in his hand.

He should have just left right away, trying to go unnoticed. That had been his plan as he moved through the alleyways now, but when he passed the notice board at the corner of one street, he paused, staring. A thought formed in his mind, before he even understood why he had stopped.

He didn’t know what possessed him to do it. Perhaps a glimmer of bravery or folly. Perhaps a hint of the man he had wanted to became shone through for a split second.

A man who was loved. A man who made beautiful things and didn’t have to hide away in shame what he had created.

And Eskel had created. He had written a poem. He had become, even if only for one moment, what he had always dreamed he could be one day.

With one swift motion, Eskel pinned his poem to the notice board. Not somewhere half-hidden between notes about nosy neighbours or the price of eggs, but right in the middle where anyone who passed by would be able to see it. The words on the page were spidery and nowhere close to artful, but they screamed I am imperfect, but I am here. I exist despite your spite.

Eskel took a step back, just far enough that he wouldn’t be able to reach the board and tear the poem down again in a fit of doubt. Admiring his own work was vain, but for the first time since Eskel could remember, he had something to admire, something to be proud of.

He must have stood there for too long. Around him, people started gathering, noticing him. One man shoved him. Another yelled at him to get away, that there were no contracts here for the likes of him.

Eskel turned and fled, just as the first stone hit him, right where the girl’s ball had met his shoulder before.

With every shout, every insult, every truth, the mob tore down part of the meaning Eskel had been able to find for himself.

He could only hope that they didn’t realise that the new addition to the notice board came from him. He could only hope that no one would tear off the poem, as they tore at Eskel’s heart with their shouts.

He hoped that maybe, however slim the chance was, someone would find his poem and smile.

It was a foolish hope, born out of pain and despair not unlike the poem itself had been, but it was the only thing keeping him warm that night as he huddled beneath a tree, cold and lonely and dreaming of something he had come so close to having.

[the-deep-fog]

The moon and sun have lost themselves to obscurity, and Fog descends. The environment is as classic a superpowered showdown setting one can get while still playing hospitality to a meandering mist that prefers uncountably many corners to hide itself in. One villain, a radioactive rebel holding to life like a weed that takes in pesticides for dessert, scouts the area, freshly healed and eager for a bout of vengeance. Another, the spitefully surviving embodiment of Harlan Ellison’s worst fears, calmly scours the playing field with no end of possible ending gambits stored in its motherboard/mind. Fully beknownst to their individual selves, whispered wonders and warnings reach them from unseen mouths yawning in the mist, subtly and ever so maddeningly guiding them further within the misty maze. Until, they meet. “Oh, Haricot,” CD crows, “back so soon? Why couldn’t you have stayed in the ground to rot a little longer? Are you that eager for another easy loss?” “Far from it, Chess,” returns Haricot. “Surely you don’t think I’d simply waste my time while relieved of your presence for ever so short a while?” It scoffs. “I should hope so, or else this will be over far too quickly to even be fun.” Ey smirk and start to reply, but cut emself off as the air between the two collects, gathers, and confuses into the outline of a figure sitting cross-legged with its chin resting in its hands. “Why, hello you two, Fancy meeting you here.” Both let off annoyed sighs (the similarities stopping there). CD speaks up. “Ugh, can’t you ever take this seriously?” “Yeah, way to kill the vibe,” Haricot follows up. Their complaints are met with only a grin. Suddenly directly in their faces, Fog actually replies, “So. I bet you’re wondering why I’m here.” The villainous duo look bemused, in a conniving sort of way. Haricot speaks first. “Believe it or not, I do know why you’re here- and Chess, trust me when I say it’s not a pleasant reason for you.” Incredulous, Chess replies, “Excuse me, but it’s not like I don’t know their reason for being here, and though your reaction seems improper it’s not like it matters that you think you know the situation, when in fact you’re in for...” “I didn’t lie, you know. To either of you.” Fog’s everlasting grin shifts slightly to a smirk, and the two rivals come to a realization at the same time. “Oh, you slippery little- “I knew that promise was too good to be true!” Well aware that riling up two of the biggest supervillains round the block leaves them in dire straits, the formless figure untangles their stature, giving off the appearance of taking a fighting stance. “Now, now, I’m not going back on my word at all! I shall deal as much damage as I can, just as promised. It’s only up to you whether to take advantage of the situation as it concerns your adamant adversary, or, yknow. Direct your avenging attention elsewhere.” Haricot reaches for a thorny beanstalk as they rise from the earth in numbers. “If you get dealt with permanently through all this, that’s one less thing getting in the way of me taking down Chess for good.” CD, in tandem, tessellates a jagged aspect of the ground and nods. “The less you bug me, Fog, the easier I’ll have it claiming victory over Haricot as well.” Zer smile grows even further, accompanied by the emergence of eyes from countless nooks and crannies in The Fog one could not imagine. For just because nobody could possibly know how one misty menace might pose a tangible threat, inflict damage of a directly mortal kind, it could be true all the same.

...

“Why are you doing this?” shouts Haricot, steadily growing a host of shrubs to shield emself with. “You must have a motive, nobody ever does stuff like this without a motive.” The Fog laughs, gleeful as ever, a booming sound that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You think I have a motive? That I am driven by anything to do what I do? Such things are the creations of you individuals; I have never had use for them. I go, and I act, and if that’s too much for you to comprehend then...” Though irradiating to demolition an eye that can hardly be described as there at all is a daunting task, Haricot pulls it off with determined flair. “Yeah, but you’re clearly going after me and Chess with some specificity- why go through all that extra effort? I know we’re not easy targets.” Fog lunges from & through nothing, resting in midair directly in front of them and looking at them intensely- less in a means of observation and more as mere eye contact for the first time they can think of. “Oh, the questions I ask have you asking questions in turn, what a wonderful relationship we have!” Haricot takes a step back, trying to develop personal space in a place where space itself can hardly be relied on, much less personhood, while Fog holds almost violently still amid the malevolent maelstrom. “I ask you this because you ask me the very same. Never has my question been, ‘why do you do this?’ because never have you, the one in my domain, done something humans don’t, and never has your question of ‘why’ been something I-” The ground beneath Haricot’s feet, steady as carbon-14, dissolves into murky air. Fog is torn to shreds above em as ey hurtle an unfathomable distance downward, till a web of vines and sludgy wood dense enough to support em forms. Though unclimbable walls extend around them, and depths great enough to distort the definitions of up and down yawn in every other direction, Fog reemerges from around a corner that cannot be found with an unprecedented frenzy in xer eyes. “You fight for your life, to survive, and I know how-why that happens. I know it,” they speak, with enough force to shatter a barometer. “Survival and curiosity are what motivates a human, but you two aren’t human, you reject it entirely, and you’re driven by more than this basic, primal duality, the intrinsic and extrinsic.” Can it yet be called an invasion of personal space when one has lost any sense of their body’s own position in space, and the other never had one to begin with? “You’re like me, and everybody questions me, and I too question everyone, but, I never- Sticks and stones degrade at the rotting hand of nuclear fusion. Haricot Heretic fights on.

...

Chess offenses, enacting gambit after glitchy gambit. “Damn you,” it mutters, then speaks more loudly into the stormy still. “What’s your goal in all this? Where are you trying to take this?” A cackle, harsh and untraceable, answers it at first. “Now, why would you assume I care for the results of my actions? That I aspire to achieve anything at all, beyond what you bear witness and contribute to as we speak?” Every word from The Fog’s mouths slithers through the air without discretion, almost as though it cares more about being heard than having its words said. The sharpness is turned down, resolution diminished, and threat put aside in a display of defensive tactics (though, how a cloud could ever be sharp enough to threaten in the first place remains bewilderingly unclear). “Look, you say you’ll never be satisfied, that it doesn’t matter if results are insubstantial- I don’t buy that. But you must know how we fight well enough to tell this won’t end well for you, so why devise all this in the first place?” CD asks again. It’s greeted by a face, ferocious and fanged, thrusting from the warring pixelation and obscurity besieging them. “I am transparent, you devil. You’re right, this is all futile, and for you to be correct at all shows my failure beautifully. I know not where this capacity for failure and determination in spite of such came from, because if I did, if my years spent interrogating the human race turn out to now have a tangible point, a lesson for me to learn, then-” Something or nothing or another scrapes hard against Chess’ horns, toppling it backwards into freefall. The ground, or whatever is passing for it, meets it immediately; jagged, hungry, & inviting. Something, many of it, planar and sharp enough to cut, is propelled or flung from the floor at it as it tries to pick itself up again. “You ask me questions I cannot, rather than will & would not answer, and I give you information I would & will not rather than can not.” Hir words seep through the condensation, slithering forward from behind its back just as easily as toothy mouths stretch as far as it can see in front of it. “You’re asking me questions none other have asked me- it should be inevitable. So why do I ask you, is it because you are different from any I have met before, or because I am different than-” The hard line between ones and zeroes forces separation and relief from the unclarity oppressing itself unto it. Checkmate is sought for ever longer. Checkered Devil fights on.

...

The fog is in no way noticed shifting, and yet Haricot & Chess find themselves in a clearing all the same. The two stand poised, not yet tired nor in peak form after all that has passed. Fog hangs in the air in front of them, not in form either. Sharp eyes, inhuman teeth, fill up space surrounding as they always have; a face, almost an outline, is arranged on Fog as it never has. It’s hesitant. Acting on impulse. Cowed and afraid. With all the cards in its hands. Ready to give up. Surely unstoppable. The target of infinite inquiries. Uncertain. “What do we have in common? Nothing of your motivation unites you with humanity- I am filled with questions, and that unites me with... them.” To Haricot and Chess, the sensation of eyes sliding their attention off them and onto another had never before been so very tangible. Nor had anything to do with Fog ever been tangible, though, only this far. “I know humanity when I see it- I don’t think these roles were meant to be reversed, okay?” they cut themself off, with their form almost seeming to be headed in a similar direction. Towards our villainous pair, a hand stretches forward. The wind picks up, drowning out sound & blurring vision, forcing the two to brace themselves; the only thing left clear in the maelstrom is a pair of eyes & a simple mouth- a face -and that hand, reaching, grasping, searching as far as it possibly can. “I am faced with the incomprehensible, filled to my limit with questions thanks to you two,” they yell, and scream, and whisper into the wind, “and it’s maddening. Every time i look at you two, it’s so, so, familiar it hurts

...

The sun rests comfortably in the sky. The moon, desaturated, finds a place above our villains’ heads as well. The Checkered Devil and Haricot Heretic stand, alone, on a simple grassy field. The air has cleared, only in a literal sense, and on the flat, clean, ground, rests a notebook, plain as can be.

...Does it get opened to the very first, or the very last page?

[thexgrayxlady]

Notes: This is a purely self-indulgent and very lighthearted AU and if I’m the only one who is enjoying themselves with it, that’s all that really matters. TBCH I’m not sure where I’m going with it and I know this isn’t very good or perfectly in character, but I’m having a good time and it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, so I’m okay with it if I’m just writing a messy little crash into hello.

The Universe Won’t Wait for You

Outside the ruined temple, dark clouds gathered and howling winds carried the metallic tang of summer storms. Heady incense drifted from inside, where the flicker of braziers cast statues of forgotten gods in stark chiaroscuro. Yet, under the wind and crackle of flames, the air hung still and silent, charged with the promise of lightning.

The jungle crept up around the ancient stones. Gnarled vines threatened to drag the crumbling archway back into its depths. Fragments of cracked and chipping mosaics peered through the leaves, their tiles scattered across the floor with the trees’ detritus.

The roof had long since caved in and the once gilt friezes lining the main hall were now washed almost smooth. The faceless figures posed in the uncanny silence, leading the way to the sanctuary.

At the altar, a group of very annoyed people stood over the unconscious leader of a dragon cult and his scattered cards, having narrowly averted the end of the world for the third time in as many months. The timing was inconvenient for everybody involved and it was universally agreed upon that it would have been better if these assholes had waited until next weekend to try and destroy the world.

“So if we beat the megalomaniac of the week, why isn’t the portal going away?” Tea asked, vaguely gesturing to the swirling silvery distortion above the altar.

“I keep telling you nerds it’s not a portal.” Although against his will and his better judgement, the geek squad had grown on Seto Kaiba like E. coli on room temperature meat, he would still sooner saw off his own hands with a rusty spoon than admit it.

“We could always leave it alone,” Bakura said, disdainfully looking over one of the cultist’s discarded scrolls before rerolling it. “His Latin was terrible. It probably won’t do anything.”

“It won’t do anything because it’s a not a portal.” Their group would have it found it infinitely more worrying if he didn’t insist that the latest near apocalypse had a logical explanation. As of late, he’d settled on saying that anything he couldn’t immediately explain wasn’t magic, just science they didn’t understand yet. Everyone might have appreciated this a bit more if not for how often they had to deal with the fallout of his attempts to understand the science. “Watch.”

He picked up one of the scattered cards (rare, but only good for niche dragon decks and he would notadmit that he would have found this clown’s cards useful) and tossed it towards the floating mass. It passed through without incident and collided with the back wall.

“Wheeler could make something more convincing.” He rolled his eyes. This entire escapade had been a nuisance. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been talked into it. The others certainly hadn’t just mentioned that they needed a ride.

“Yeah, these guys tried to take our dragons cards and dragged us out here to show us some crappy holograms,” Joey replied.

“You would believe a bunch of delusional lunatics.”

Yugi paused checking on the cult leader and decided to head this off before it became serious.

“Guys, stop fighting!” he said, his voice quiet and gentle, yet brokering very little argument. When he realized that Kaiba was gearing up for an argument, he added, “You’re wasting time and the sooner we figure this thing out, the sooner we can leave.”

“Whatever,” he said, turning dramatically, letting his coat flare behind him. “I’m going to figure out what’s going on because some of us have jobs to get back to.”

“You’re self-employed!” the blond shot after him.

While he examined a pile of rubble on the far wall for a projector or an off switch, the others looked over the altar and scrolls. He was just about to shift some stones out of the way when lightning split the sky.

The portal flared and spun wildly. Roaring thunder followed close behind and a glowing thing shot from the portal before it collapsed upon itself as if it had never existed.

“Kaiba look out!” Yugi shouted. “That thing’s headed straight for…”

“It’s a hologram,” he shouted back, gesturing dismissively at the thing barreling towards him without actually looking at it. “It’s not like it can hurt…”

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, his ears ringing, and struggling for a full breath.

When he regained enough sense to figure out what was going on around him, he realized that his arms were wrapped around something warm and solid. The thing thrummed under his hands, like working on an ungrounded circuit. He came around to a curtain of white and a pair of horribly familiar blue eyes.

The woman shot back, her fingers splayed across his chest, her face contorting in stunned confusion. She started to speak, her voice raspy and quiet, stumbling over words in a language he didn’t understand. Yet even without knowing the words, he got the sentiment.

“What. The. Fuck.”

This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be real. He must have cracked his head when he hit the ground. She had to be a hallucination or a hologram or…he didn’t know, he couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out what specific kind of nonsense was going on.

Somewhere off in the distance, the nerds said something, but it was like listening under water. And as much as he wanted to shout at them to shut up so he could focus, the words stuck in his throat.

He knew her. From that trip to Egypt. Her name was…

No. No.

This wasn’t happening. The world didn’t work this way. People did not just fall out of holes in the sky. He’d been dragged kicking and screaming into accepting that maybe the supernatural bullshit that followed him around possibly had some merit, but thiswas a step too far.

None of this made any sense. Kis…She was impossible. You couldn’t just fling someone through space and time with badly mangled Latin. It took energy. It took machinery. Complex math, things that went beep, big red buttons that gave the nerds heart attacks when he pushed them.

(But these idiots were trying to summon a dragon, weren’t they?)

This violated so many different laws of physics. There must be another explanation. He just had to keep calm and think of it. His heart hammered against his chest. Every time he almost had a grasp on this, he caught her eyes, and any theory beyond rote denial slipped away.

She couldn’t be real. He’d barely thought of her since that trip. Whatever, whoever, she was, it was the past. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. He had to focus on figuring out how the hell some loser cultists managed time travel with some incense and dead lizards, no if they managed time travel some incense and dead lizards, when, despite his disregard for the laws of men and gods, even he was still mostly beholden to thermodynamics.

They probably hadn’t. There had to be something in the incense.

Still, the logical part of his brain told him that even his best holograms didn’t feel this real and there was no logical way they knew what she looked like. Her heartbeat fluttered under his hands. She smelled like prison grime and ozone and petrichor.

So a hallucination then. But everyone else kept talking. He still couldn’t really hear them, but maybe they could see her too. Or that was just another facet of his concussed delusion. But if this was a hallucination, then why couldn’t he understand her? He’d never hallucinated in a language he didn’t understand before.

Not a hologram. Not a hallucination. Where did that leave him? Flat on his back on a cold stone floor with a dead woman straddling his waist and the growing certainty that he would never live this down.

Again, she leaned in, her head tilted to the side. Time slowed as she brought a hand to his face and his heart beat too steady to be truly calm as she studied him. She was so small. He could easily throw her off and get away, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even look away as the world shrank down to just the two of them.

She didn’t look quite the same as in the memory. She didn’t seem half so fragile. Her long, pale hair was tangled and her face prematurely lined. Her dress was more a collection of mismatched patches than an actual garment. Bruises and scars bloomed along her arms and collarbone amid patches of thick, almost scaly looking skin.

He wondered if the memory, vision, whatever it was, was accurate. How much of what he knew about her was true? How much had been made up by someone who’d never met her to fit her role in the game? Did it even matter? He was his own person, why should he care about her just because of a supposed connection to the Blue Eyes White Dragon?

Yet despite everything going on, she seemed alert and curious, determined to figure out what exactly just happened, whereas he had to remind himself to keep breathing.

Just before her rough, calloused fingers brushed his jaw, a jolt of static leapt between them. She reeled back, her pupils snapping into narrow slits. Thin, cracking lips curled back over sharp teeth in an inhuman hiss. Her shoulders flexed and he half expected wings to unfurl from her back.

Then she must have caught sight of the others because she shrank back, trembling. A horrible charge built under his hands. He willed himself move just enough to let go.

She scrambled away, breathing in sharp, hissing gasps. Upon reaching the far wall, she shot up a crumbling pillar and crouched as far back on the bottom ledge of a frieze as she could manage and stared down in horror as the first few drops of rain fell through the broken ceiling.

He stared back, the concussed or drugged or shocked daze lifting just enough to drag himself to a sitting position.

She was impossible. But her eyes were electric bright and she’d felt like a damn live wire in his hands. He hadn’t figured out the physics behind this yet, but he understood one thing.

Kisara was very real.

[elizabethemerald]

The Nein, The Sapphire and The Ruby

The tower of the Xhorhaus echoed with the sounds of laughing and splashing. At the base of the tower the Mighty Nein relaxed in their hot tub, after their long stint in the frozen north, they relished the warmth. 

Beau, Caleb, Jester, Fjord and Yasha all soaked in heat, the water up to their chests. Veth sat on the steps into the hot tub, the water only up to her hips. Caduceus walked around the others, his pants rolled up to his knees while he served them sandwiches and tea. Beau was laughing loudly, as Fjord regaled them all with a story when Caleb suddenly sat bolt upright. 

"Everyone shut up!" He said, then stared off into space. The rest of the Nein recognized the look of someone receiving a magical message. The voice of Yussa, their Archmage friend from Nicodranas filled Caleb's head. 

"Mister Widogast, your party's presence is urgently required. Madame Lavoure requires your assistance at the Chateau. Awaiting your arrival at Tide Peak Tower. Arrive ready."

Caleb's eyes widened, he snapped his fingers at the others, and rose from the water as he responded to the sending. 

"We will teleport directly to the Chateau." He didn't bother to count his words or to add more than that. 

The rest of the Nein were already rising to their feet and exiting the hot tub, though at Caleb’s words they froze and multiple eyes flicked to Jester. 

"Your mother is in danger." Caleb said to her, then to the rest, "Grab your things and meet me in the entrance way." 

Fjord and Veth immediately dashed up the stairs to their rooms to grab their things. Caduceus set down the tea things and followed at a slower but still brisk pace. Yasha’s sword was never far from her, even when she was relaxing, but she still hurried to her room to grab her armor. Beau watched the frozen Jester for a moment before putting on a burst of speed with a shout that she would grab Jester’s armor and weapons from their room. 

The shout startled Jester into motion. She threw her clothes on as she wove her hands in the air, pink sigils following her fingers as she wove the spell for her own sending. 

"Momma? Are you ok? Are you in danger?" For once she didn't try to fill the word count. She waited desperately for a few seconds before looking in a panic to Caleb who was throwing on his own clothes, fortunately he carried his spell books with him always. "She's not responding!"

Jester grabbed her symbol to the Traveler and began weaving another spell. Caleb finished putting on his jacket in time to watch her finish the spell. For a second he thought she was trying to send another message, but this spell was longer, more intense than a simple sending spell. He gasped in horror as she blinked out of existence right before his eyes. 

“Nein! Jester!” He shouted, far too late, then dashed into the entrance hall and shouted into the rest of the house. “Jester cast Sanctuary! We need to go! Now!”

He watched as Beau jumped on one foot trying to put her other boot on, her other hand full of Jester’s weapons and armor. Fjord and Yasha were working to buckle their armor in place. They were taking too long. Jester was there now! By herself, facing who only knew what. Caleb squeezed the clay turtle in his hands for a moment, before making a snap decision. 

Caleb gave the turtle another squeeze, then felt the jerk in his stomach as the Xhorhaus disappeared from view, a second later to be replaced with the dining room of the Lavish Chateau, and utter chaos. The tables were flipped and chairs strewn around the room. The servants were screaming and running there was a small fire burning in one corner. He took all of this in with a glance as he looked for any foes, when a scream dragged his attention up the stairs. 

“Bluud!!” Jester screamed. Her Sanctuary was her bedroom upstairs, right next to where the Ruby lived. 

Caleb didn’t hesitate, casting Fly on himself and immediately soaring up to upper floor where the scream had come from. If the lower floor had been chaotic, then he wasn’t sure he had an appropriate word to describe what was happening here. The landing was packed to the rails with armed and masked men, each carried short swords or bows. Some were already laying wounded or dying on the ground. 

Bluud, Marian’s minotaur body guard roared in pain, more than a dozen slash marks covered his hide, while as many arrows stuck out from his body. He had a small stack of bodies around him, but was quickly being overwhelmed. 

Floating in the air above him was Jester’s spectral lollipop. This one was jagged and serrated and already coated in gore. Caleb took only a moment to spot Jester. She grabbed one of the men’s face and screamed at him, inflicting wounds. The man’s blood vessels in his neck and chest burst open then blackened and shriveled from the necrotic energy. 

Her scream sharpened in pain and rage as one of the sellswords slashed her. She tried to block the attack, but without her shield or armor, it carved across her arm. Frost and ice coalesced across her body before rocketing off and burying themselves in her assailant. He fell with a gurgle, but immediately another man was in his place. 

Caleb quickly ran through his spell repertoire. Most of his go-to offensive spells, polymorph, fireball, or wall of fire were too dangerous in the close quarters. Especially with Jester and Bluud in the fray. Instead he waved one hand over the other and multiple scorching rays flew from his hand blasting into the armed men. He specifically targeted those closest to Jester and Bluud to try and give them some breathing room. 

Before the smoke had even cleared the air was filled with hamster unicorns, as Jester cast Spiritual Guardians. The unicorns had sharp teeth and massive claws as they began tearing into the surrounding men. Her lollipop bashed into another sending him flying over the rail to the lobby below. 

Caleb barely noticed an arrow fired in his direction and cast shield on reflex. The arrow bounced off the armor and he unleashed another wave of scorching rays. As the cinders of men fell to the ground, he struggled to overcome the memories that tried to flood his mind. He knew he was falling, when suddenly the screaming in his head was drowned out by a scream from the door behind Bluud. 

"Momma!" Jester screamed. 

Jester’s scream tore through Caleb's mind, bringing the world back to a laser focus. Jester dashed past Bluud, tapping him on the shoulder, green energy closing some of his wounds. Caleb landed right behind her and flung some iron filings into the air and the minotaur suddenly towered over the few remaining men even more. Caleb pushed into Marion's room as Bluud roared, then froze bumping into Jester. 

"Take another step and the Ruby dies!"

Marion Lavorre stood in the center of the room,  her eyes wide with fear. Behind her stood a man, better dressed than any of the others, with a knife held to her throat. He was clearly the leader, if anyone knew who had hired them to attack the Chateau it would be him. 

Caleb mentally ran through his spell list again. Magic missile would be able to avoid hitting Jester’s mother, but disintegrate would ensure this scum died and never threatened Marion again. 

"We're just here for the blue tiefling." The man snarled. "Surrender and no one else needs to get hurt." 

Jester stiffened. Caleb stepped up behind her, trying to reassure her with his presence.  This wasn't her fault he wanted to say, but this wasn't the time. He didn't let his eyes leave the man using her mother as a shield. 

A single drop of blood, dripped down Marion’s scarlet skin from the knife at her throat. Jester bared her fangs in rage, but before she could do anything Marion growled in what Caleb recognized as Infernal. The man was suddenly engulfed in crimson flames, he fell back shouting and patting at the flames. 

Jester raised her hand immediately and a bell sounded, a deep resonate clang, and blood poured out of his ears and eyes. Before he could recover Caleb pulled a cricket from his pocket and waved it in the air and the man collapsed to the ground snoring. 

Marion slumped to the ground away from the man, a sob rocking her form. Jester flew to her side, wrapping her in her arms.

"Its ok momma. Its ok. Your Jester is here." Jester whispered softly into her mother's red hair. 

Caleb pulled some string from his pocket and tied the sleeping man's wrists, then quickly cleared the rest of the Ruby's apartment. When he was sure there were no more threats within her quarters he jerked the front door open fire whirling at his fingertips. However it appeared the giant sized Bluud had taken care of the rest of the assailants. 

Before too long the rest of the Nein arrived. Caduceus had used his sanctuary spell to bring the rest of them to the lighthouse. Beau got there first, putting on a quite frankly inhuman display of speed as she raced to the Chateau. The rest weren't far behind her. 

With the Nein around them and Jester’s mother in her arms Caleb breathed out for what felt like the first time since he had received Yussa's message. 

* * *

With the full power of the Mighty Nein gathered together, the first priority was ensuring Marion’s safety. She was escorted by the Nein to Tide Peak Tower. All of them had their weapons drawn and ready, spells sparking at their finger tips. When she and Bluud were safe in the tower a few things immediately became apparent. 

First off, it was obvious that the local Zhelezo had been paid off or distracted so that no one would respond to the attack at the Chateau. They encountered no guards as they walked her to Yussa’s tower, and the wizard himself had to message the local division into investigating the attack and protecting the staff of the Chateau. 

Secondly they found that Yeza and Luc had been visiting with Marion when the attack had started. Marion had snuck the two of them down a servant’s stair and told them to run to the Open Quay, after all of Jester’s stories she knew Yussa was an ally. He was able to protect the two halflings and message Caleb. He then sealed his tower and prepared for further assault just in case. 

Finally, who ever had orchestrated this was filthy rich. The amount of money it would cost to pay off that many guards, to start fires around the city to draw even more of their attention, and to pay for the sellswords to attack a well known establishment in the middle of the day, was more than the Nein had seen in all their days of adventuring. 

Eventually they had Marion safe in the tower. Bluud, after a significant healing from Caduceus, insisted on staying by her side while she rested from her ordeal. Caleb had, at Jester’s insistence cast his own magical mansion, so she was double protected by magical barriers and could rest comfortably in Jester’s bedroom. Yeza and Luc stayed in Caleb’s tower as well. Partially to be near Marion if she needed any assistance. Partially to keep Luc out of the way for what would come after. 

* * *

The mercenary captain woke up, bound to a chair, and surrounded by grim faces. Yasha gently rested Skin Gorger against his shoulder. Fjord had the Star Razer against his other side. Small flesh eating beetles crawled all over him from Caduceus’ staff and Veth kept her cross bow aimed at him the whole time. Beau cracked her knuckles and Caleb allowed fire to dance across his fingers. As the mercenary awoke, the room quickly filled with the stench of fear and urine. 

“Let me make our position very clear.” Caleb said stepping forward now that he was awake. “You have attacked someone who is very dear to us. In doing so you have committed an unspeakable mistake.”

Beau stepped up next. “We have a lot of different ways to make you talk. Truth spells, my Cobalt knuckles. Pain. We’ve got a lot of pain we can bring against  you. So how about you spare us all of that, and just tell us. Who paid you?”

The man was sweating, his eyes wide. Yet still he clamped his jaw shut. Beau shrugged. 

“Have it your way.” She cocked her fist back, but froze as a blue hand hand fell onto her shoulder. She stepped back as Jester stepped forward. 

Unlike the stern looks on the face of the rest of them, Jester wore a bright smile. If Caleb didn’t know her, he would say she was completely at ease. However he could see the cold fury, raging in her eyes underneath her mask. The man pulled back as she stepped up to him, unnerved by his quarry smiling at him like that. 

“You hurt my momma.” Jester said. Her voice was soft as she dragged a finger along his chin. Green magic healed his wounds, and he took a deep breath, even more surprised. “I don’t like it when people hurt my momma.”

Jester dug her nails into the man’s chest and the veins around her fingers blackened and burst, and the skin withered and died. He screamed in pain, Jester’s smile never left her face, now looking more demented then truly joyful. 

“Lord Sharpe!” The man gasped out, agony heavy on his words. “We were paid by Lord Sharpe.”

Please reblog!!

[officialleehadan]

Acrux Resonance

Andra had never expected to be a teacher. Well, not really. Sure, she had taught people things before, how to fix a ship. How to plot a nav-path. She even taught two of the girls who lived under her dirty little flat on Asteroid Base 42 how to throw a punch when she found out they were having trouble with some of the local flavor form the shipyards.

But teaching a whole class of the galaxy’s most powerful psionics how to fight an alien race? Well, she supposed that wasn’t exactly anybody’s first guess.

“Reach for each other,” she told her class of almost thirty psionics, all telepaths with strong telekinesis for the moment, and all of them powerful enough to reach between solar systems when they needed to. They were in groups of two and three, all syzygy-linked, and used to working together. It made things easier. Andra might know how to fight the alien queens, but she didn’t know much about basic telepathy except what Cygnus taught her on the fly. “You’re all comfortable with your bonds, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble finding your bond and getting a good, firm grasp on it from both ends.”

She was glad that she and Cygnus spent hours on the ship to Blood Star base working out how to explain what they did, and how to do it. She wasn’t used to the language needed, and he, by virtue of being the Blood Star’s leader, was needed elsewhere.

Which left Andra in the odd, uncomfortable position of teaching everyone how to do the trick she had discovered to defend her own mind. To think that she had started this whole adventure as a nobody Edge mechanic with a dirty, broken old ship and a laughing telepath making jokes about space dust in the manifold.

Things had changed, just a little, since then.

“You’re used to thinking of your bond as a single road between you,” she continued, pacing through the crowd. There was a podium, but she couldn’t bring herself to use it. It felt too much like playing at being someone she wasn’t. “But it’s not. You aren’t the same person, so your bond is actually made of more than one thread. Yours, and those of your partner.”

She could feel her own bond with Cygnus now, the sharp-edged silver of his mind, woven with the deep bronze of her own. He was working with another group, trying to find more syzygy bonds. They had some, but they would need more, a lot more, for the coming fight. The call had already gone out through the galaxy, and everyone with even a pinch of psi-sensitivity was gathering to try and help.

Andra didn’t want to distract him, and so she set her mind on her current task.

“Feel for the way your minds work together,” she continued as she caught the eye of Indus Crux, who circled the room, a box of crystals in hand. He set one out between each group. When he passed her, Andra claimed one of the clear lumps of crystal, one that came to a fine, terminated point and shone in the sterile light of the base. “The aliens work by themselves. They’re all lone minds, and that makes them vulnerable. We can use that against them.”

With a care for her own control, which wasn’t perfect, Andra opened her mind to them, and showed them how to take a mental ‘tone’ and echo it between their minds until it became a resonance that could shatter apart the very matrix that made up their inhuman enemy.

“You have to work together,” she said as she felt across the room and gave a nudge here and there as the groups felt their way through the exercise for the first time. “An echo needs a hard surface to bounce off, so once you’ve started, you need to be able to control it so that it builds to the right frequency.

Cygnus was at a stopping point, and just in time. She sent a little spark of thought down their bond, and he responded easily when she followed it with the same tone they used to defeat the last queen they fought. This time was different, of course. Now she had thirty students watching as they tossed the tone back and forth between them, flavored with his power and her steady determination.

When the frequency was just right, she took it from telepathy and shot it through their shared telekinesis.

The crystal in her hand shattered apart and pooled off her fingers as glittering sand.

“This is how we beat them,” Andra said as she dusted crystal dust off her hands, and Cygnus left her with a ‘kiss’ on the cheek before turning back to his own work. The students tittered a little amongst themselves, but it was an understanding sort of laugh. No few of them were together in one romantic configuration or another. Her relationship with Cygnus was no secret, especially on a base full of telepaths and empaths. “Now that you’ve seen how it works, let’s see you put theory into practice. Time to break some crystal.”

+++

Guiding Stars:

Andra was a mechanic and a pilot with nothing but an old, battered ship to call her own. Cygnus Volans is the most powerful psion to ever live. They were on opposite sides of a messy revolution, until a shared vision of the future brings their two warring sides together against a much greater threat.

Procyon Moon

Altair Chariot

Vega Dignity

Cappella Besieged

Canopus Emergent

Nihal Collision

Spica Interlude

Polaris Eclipsed

Sirius Empowered

Mizar Orbit (Free on Patreon)

Dabih Risen

Ankaa Igniting (Free on Patreon!)

Leporis Crush (Subscriber Only!)

Porrima Chain

Menkent Ripple

Atrea Rest (Free on Patreon!)

Arcturus Rally (Free on Patreon!)

+++

More Stories!

+++

[spilledreality]

Sporting vs Herding

i.

I wanna talk about two blogposts, Seph's "War Over Being Nice” and Alastair's "Of Triggering & the Triggered." Each lays out the same erisological idea: that there are two distinct modes or cultures of running discourse these days, and understanding the difference is crucial to understanding the content of conversation as much as its form. Let's go.

One style, Alastair writes, is indebted to the Greco-Roman rhetorical and 19th C British sporting traditions. A debate takes place in a "heterotopic" arena which is governed by an ethos of adversarial collaboration and sportsmanship. It is waged in a detached and impersonal manner, e.g. in American debate club, which inherits from these older traditions, you are assigned a side to argue; your position is not some "authentic" expression of self. Alastair:

This form of discourse typically involves a degree of ‘heterotopy’, occurring in a ‘space’ distinct from that of personal interactions.

This heterotopic space is characterized by a sort of playfulness, ritual combativeness, and histrionics. This ‘space’ is akin to that of the playing field, upon which opposing teams give their rivals no quarter, but which is held distinct to some degree from relations between the parties that exist off the field. The handshake between competitors as they leave the field is a typical sign of this demarcation.

All in all, it is a mark against one in these debates to take an argument personally, to allow arguments that happen "in the arena" to leave the arena. This mode of discourse I see exemplified in LessWrong culture, and is, I think, one of the primary attractors to the site.In the second mode of discourse, inoffensiveness, agreement, and inclusivity are emphasized, and positions are seen as closely associated with their proponents.  Alastair speculates it originates in an educational setting which values cooperation, empathy, equality, non-competitiveness, affirmation, and subordination; this may be true, but I feel less confident in it than I am the larger claim about discursive modes. Provocatively, the two modes are dubbed "sporting" and "herding," with all the implications of, on the one hand, individual agents engaged in ritualized, healthy simulations of combat, and on the other, of quasi-non-agents shepherded in a coordinated, bounded, highly constrained and circumscribed epistemic landscape. Recall, if you are tempted to blame this all on the postmodernists, that this is exactly the opposite of their emphasis toward the "adult" realities of relativism, nebulosity, flux. Queer Theory has long advocated for the dissolution of gendered and racial identity, not the reification of identitarian handles we see now, which is QT's bastardization. We might believe these positions were taken too far, but they are ultimately about complicating the world and removing the structuralist comforts of certainty and dichotomy. (Structureless worlds are inherently hostile to rear children in, and also for most human life; see also the Kegan stages for a similar idea.)  

In the erisological vein, Alastair provides a portrait of the collision between the sporting and herding modes. Arguments that fly in one discursive style (taking offence, emotional injury, legitimation-by-feeling) absolutely do not fly in the other:

When these two forms of discourse collide they are frequently unable to understand each other and tend to bring out the worst in each other. The first [new, sensitive] form of discourse seems lacking in rationality and ideological challenge to the second; the second [old, sporting] can appear cruel and devoid of sensitivity to the first. To those accustomed to the second mode of discourse, the cries of protest at supposedly offensive statements may appear to be little more than a dirty and underhand ploy intentionally adopted to derail the discussion by those whose ideological position can’t sustain critical challenge.

ii.

Seph stumbles upon a similar division, though it is less about discursive and argumentative modes, and more about social norms for emotional regulation and responsibility. He calls them Culture A and Culture B, mirroring sporting and herding styles, respectively.

In culture A, everyone is responsible for their own feelings. People say mean stuff all the time—teasing and jostling each other for fun and to get a rise. Occasionally someone gets upset. When that happens, there's usually no repercussions for the perpetrator. If someone gets consistently upset when the same topic is brought up, they will either eventually stop getting upset or the people around them will learn to avoid that topic. Verbally expressing anger at someone is tolerated. It is better to be honest than polite.

In such a culture, respect and status typically comes from performance; Seph quotes the maxim "If you can't sell shit, you are shit." We can see a commonality with sporting in that there is some shared goal which is attained specifically through adversarial play, such that some degree of interpersonal hostility is tolerated or even sought. Conflict is settled openly and explicitly.

In culture B, everyone is responsible for the feelings of others. At social gatherings everyone should feel safe and comfortable. After all, part of the point of having a community is to collectively care for the emotional wellbeing of the community's members. For this reason its seen as an act of violence against the community for your actions or speech to result in someone becoming upset, or if you make people feel uncomfortable or anxious. This comes with strong repercussions—the perpetrator is expected to make things right. An apology isn't necessarily good enough here—to heal the wound, the perpetrator needs to make group participants once again feel nurtured and safe in the group. If they don't do that, they are a toxic element to the group's cohesion and may no longer be welcome in the group. It is better to be polite than honest. As the saying goes, if you can't say something nice, it is better to say nothing at all.

In such a culture, status and respect come from your contribution to group cohesion and safety; Seph cites the maxim "Be someone your coworkers enjoy working with." But Seph's argument pushes back, fruitfully, on descriptions of Culture B as collaborative (which involve high self-assertion); rather, he writes, they are accommodating in the Thomas-Kilmann modes of conflict sense:

iii.

Seph and Alastair both gesture toward the way these modes feel gendered, with Culture A more "masculinized" and Culture B more "feminized."[1] While this seems important to note, given that a massive, historically unprecedented labor shift toward coed co-working has recently occured in the Western world, I don't see much point in hashing out a nature vs. nurture, gender essentialism debate here, so you can pick your side and project it. This is also perhaps interesting from the frame of American feminist history: early waves of feminism were very much about escaping the domestic sphere and entering the public sphere; there is an argument to be made that contemporary feminisms, now that they have successfully entered it, are dedicated to domesticating the public sphere into a more comfortable zone. Culture B, for instance, might well be wholly appropriate to the social setting of a living room, among acquaintances who don't know each other well; indeed, it feels much like the kind of aristocratic parlor culture of the same 19th C Britain that the sporting mode also thrived in, side-by-side. And to some extent, Culture A is often what gets called toxic masculinity; see Mad Men for a depiction.

(On the topic of domestication of the workplace: We've seen an increased blurring of the work-life separation; the mantra "lean-in" has been outcompeted by "decrease office hostility"; business attire has slid into informality, etiquette has been subsumed into ethics, dogs are allowed in the workplace. Obviously these changes are not driven by women's entrance into the workplace alone; the tech sector has had an enormous role in killing both business attire and the home-office divide, despite being almost entirely male in composition. And equally obvious, there is an enormous amount of inter- and intra-business competition in tech, which is both consistently cited by exiting employees as a hostile work environment, and has also managed to drive an outsized portion of global innovation the past few decades—thus cultural domestication is not at all perfectly correlated with a switch from Culture A to B. Draw from these speculations what you will.)

There are other origins for the kind of distinctions Seph and Alastair draw; one worthwhile comparison might be Nietzsche's master and slave moralities. The former mode emphasizes power and achievement, the other empathy, cooperation, and compassion. (Capitalism and communitarianism fall under some of the same, higher-level ideological patterns.) There are differences of course: the master moralist is "beyond" good and evil, or suffering and flourishing, whereas Culture A and B might both see themselves as dealing with questions of suffering but in very different ways. But the "slave revolt in morality" overwrote an aristocratic detachment or "aboveness" that we today might see as deeply immoral or inhuman; it is neither surprising nor damning that a revolting proletariat—the class which suffered most of the evils of the world—would speak from a place of one-to-one, attached self-advocacy. One can switch "sides" or "baskets" of the arena each half or quarter because they are impersonal targets in a public commons; one cannot so easily hold the same attitude toward defending one's home. This alone may indicate we should be more sympathetic to the communitarian mode than we might be inclined to be; certainly, those who advocate and embody this mode make plausible claims to being a similar, embattled and embittered class. A friend who I discussed these texts with argued that one failure mode of the rationalist community is an "unmooring" from the real concerns of human beings, slipping into an idealized, logical world modeled on self-similarity (i.e. highly Culture A, thinking over feeling in the Big 5 vocabulary), in a way that is blind to the realities of the larger population.

But there are also grave problems for such a discursive mode, especially when it becomes dominant. Because while on the surface, discursive battles in the sporting mode can appear to be battles between people, they are in reality battles between ideas.

iv.

As Mill argued in On Liberty, free discourse is crucial because it acts as a social steering mechanism: should we make a mistake in our course, freedom of discourse is the instrument for correcting it. But the mistake of losing free discourse is very hard to come back from; it must be fought for again, before other ideals can be pursued. 

Moreover, freedom of discourse is the means of rigorizing ideas before they are implemented, such as to avoid catastrophe. Anyone familiar with James Scott's Seeing Like A State, or Hayek's arguments for decentralized market intelligence, or a million other arguments against overhaulism, knows how difficult it is to engineer a social intervention that works as intended: the unforeseen, second-order effects; our inability to model complex systems and human psychology. Good intent is not remotely enough, and the herding approach cannot help but lower the standard of thinking and discourse emerging from such communities, which become more demographically powerful even as their ideas become worse (the two are tied up inextricably).

The fear of conflict and the inability to deal with disagreement lies at the heart of sensitivity-driven discourses. However, ideological conflict is the crucible of the sharpest thought. Ideological conflict forces our arguments to undergo a rigorous and ruthless process through which bad arguments are broken down, good arguments are honed and developed, and the relative strengths and weaknesses of different positions emerge. The best thinking emerges from contexts where interlocutors mercilessly probe and attack our arguments’ weaknesses and our own weaknesses as their defenders. They expose the blindspots in our vision, the cracks in our theories, the inconsistencies in our logic, the inaptness of our framing, the problems in our rhetoric. We are constantly forced to return to the drawing board, to produce better arguments.

And on the strength of sporting approaches in rigorizing discourse:

The truth is not located in the single voice, but emerges from the conversation as a whole. Within this form of heterotopic discourse, one can play devil’s advocate, have one’s tongue in one’s cheek, purposefully overstate one’s case, or attack positions that one agrees with. The point of the discourse is to expose the strengths and weaknesses of various positions through rigorous challenge, not to provide a balanced position in a single monologue

Thus those who wish us to accept their conceptual carvings or political advocacies without question or challenge are avoiding short-term emotional discomfort at the price of their own long-term flourishing, at the cost of finding working and stable social solutions to problems. Standpoint epistemology correctly holds that individuals possess privileged knowledge as to what it's like (in the Nagel sense) to hold their social identities. But it is often wrongly extended, in the popular game of informational corruption called "Telephone" or "Chinese Whispers," as arguing that such individuals also possess unassailable and unchallengeable insight into the proper societal solutions to their grievances. We can imagine a patient walking into the doctor's office; the doctor cannot plausibly tell him there is no pain in his leg, if he claims there is, but the same doctor can recommend treatment, or provide evidence as to whether the pain is physical or psychosomatic.A lack of discursive rigour would not be a problem, Alastair writes, "were it not for the fact that these groups frequently expect us to fly in a society formed according to their ideas, ideas that never received any rigorous stress testing."

v.

As for myself, it was not too long ago I graduated from a university in which a conflict between these modes is ongoing. We had a required course called

Contemporary Civilization

, founded in the wake of World War I, which focused on the last 2,000 years of philosophy, seminar-style: a little bit of introductory lecture, but most of the 2 x 2-hour sessions each week were filled by students arguing with one other. In other words, its founding ethos was of sporting and adversarial collaboration.We also had a number of breakdowns where several students simply could not handle this mode: they would begin crying, or say they couldn't deal with the [insert atmosphere adjective] in the room, and would either transfer out or speak to the professor. While they were not largely representative, they required catering to, and no one wished to upset these students. I have heard we were a fortunate class insofar as we had a small handful of students willing to engage sporting-style, or skeptical a priori of the dominant political ideology at the school. When, in one session, a socialist son of a Saudi billionaire, wearing a $10,000 watch and a camel-hair cashmere sweater, pontificated about "burning the money, reverting to a barter system, and killing the bosses," folks in class would mention that true barter systems were virtually unprecedented in post-agricultural societies, and basically unworkable at scale. In other classes, though, when arguments like these were made—which, taken literally, are logically irrational, but instead justify themselves through sentiment, a legitimation of driving emotion rather than explicit content, in the Culture B sense—other students apparently nodded sagely from the back of the room, "yes, and-ing" one another til their noses ran. Well, I wanted to lay out the styles with some neutrality, but I suppose it's clear now where my sympathies stand.

[1] It should go without saying, but to cover my bases, these modes feeling "feminized" or "masculinized" does not imply that all women, or women inherently, engage in one mode while all men inherently engage in another. Seph cites Camille Paglia as an archetypal example of a Culture A woman, and while she may fall to the extreme side of the Culture A mode, I'd argue most female intellectuals of the 20th C (at least those operated outside the sphere of feminist discourse) were strongly sporting-types: Sontag, for instance, was vociferous and unrelenting. 

[rosesvioletshardy]

can we do it? - billy/four - chapter 1

chapter 1 here! it took me a while to figure out what i wanted to write because since i sort of am following the movie, i wanted to put scenes of what they do when they are by themselves

i really hope you guys like this story because i know it’s not as good as lawki but i’m really trying here

also good news, i finish my summer classes on the 31st and bad news is that i’m starting a new job which i might not be able to write as much but i’ll try to keep a schedule of when i am going to post.

summary: one team. seven people. two lovers. things are about to get crazy and zero and four don’t know if they can do it with everything that’s going on

masterlist

# of words: 2,201

warnings: none, just a little swearing

inbox me or message me if you want to be added to the taglist for this series

--

It’s been a few days since six died and they had decided to go to the ocean to dump his body. one kept eyeing zero and noticed that she hadn't said anything in those few days. he knew exactly why she was acting the way and wanted to talk to her about her but knew she wasn’t going to listen.

now they were getting ready to go on a boat ready to toss his body over. zero thought it was inhumane but she knew what had to be done.

“i don’t like this” she said as they entered the boat

“well, neither do i but it has to be done mami” three told her as he and four brought six’s body that was in a bag onto the boat.

while they sailed out to the middle of the ocean, no one had said a word. Every now and then they would all take a look at zero who was furthest from six’s body and kept staring at it. The rest of the team, except one, wondered why she reacted most to his death and why she was the way she is. at one point, five had wanted to talk to her but figured it was best to leave her alone for a while. four would glance at her every few seconds and she would be stuck in the same position, sat down on the floor, knees to her chest, staring at his lifeless body.

“okay, we’re here” one said stopping the boat

Three had pulled out shot glasses as well as a bottle rum to give and send off a toast to him.

“Here’s a toast to a kid I liked.”

“Are you crying?” two asked as she noticed tears fall causing zero to look up

“We didn’t even know his name” he finished 

“We don’t know any names.” two told him. This caused zero to roll her eyes seeing that she and one were the only ones who knew their names since he had her look them all up when finding them

“What was his name?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a good man” one said sitting down next to four

Zero had wanted to speak but she knew if she did, she would end up revealing everything and she didn’t want one to get mad

“Thought i managed the risk. i’m sorry” he finished

“Did he have a family?” five asked him. One looked over at zero and spoke before she could say anything

“I think you’re looking at it, all of us.” two said.

“Well she got something right” zero had thought before one had interrupted her thoughts

“We’re not a family. Not the cleavers”

“What?”

“The Cleavers. Ward, june? Leave it to Beaver? Jerry Matthews? Tony Dow, Barbra Billingsley, Hugh Beaumont? No? Nob-” one had said before zero spoke up for the first time since they’ve set sail

“No one watches your fucking show one!” she yelled before getting up and going to the front.

Everyone had watched her leave before four set his glass down and tried to walk over before one stopped him

“Don’t bother. She just needs to let it all out of her system. I’m sure she’ll come around to it” he told him “When? She's been at it for days now and I'm tired of it. I’m sorry but she needs to know that she’s isn’t the only one who has been affected by this ”

“Just stop. Now it’s time. Just grab the head” 

Four gave up and did what he was told as the rest of them gathered around the body and each grabbed a part

“What does this mean?”

“It means we find a seven and i talk to zero” one answered fours question as they threw the body into the blue ocean

as soon as zero heard the splash, she knew it was over with and that six was gone forever. the team continued to stay on the boat a little longer and finished eating their food and drinking. well all of them except four. he couldn’t help but wonder as to why zero took it harder than him when he and six were almost like brothers. the night began to get darker before one decided it was time to head back out to their trailers. no one said a single word that night as they headed back to their trailers. zero went into her trailer before getting bored and decided she needed to ride around the site to clear her mind a bit. Four was in his trailer watching movies on his phone before he heard ruckus coming out from the window above him. he was confused as to what it was before grabbing his skateboard to go see what it was that was distracting him from relaxing. 

when he got out, he saw zero riding her bike around with her music in what it seemed like to relax herself before he skated closer to her

“bit late to be riding a bike, especially with no lights in’nt” he yelled over to her causing her to almost fall over. He noticed what happened and went closer to her to help her

“What the fuck four?!” she yelled at him as he helped her get up but she just decided to sit down on the ground

“i’m sorry, didn’t mean for that to happen. why are you out here anyways? it’s late and dark out.” he asked sitting down next to her. She didn’t know what to do besides cross her legs and put her head on his shoulder

“don’t know. I guess it’s because of what’s happened the past few days and earlier today. didn’t feel that well mentally about everything.” she told him. Four kept quiet but understood what she was talking about and could see it. He let out a deep sigh and looked back out to their location before talking

“i understand. i don’t know if you heard me yell at one earlier about you, but i’m sorry about it. i haven’t been the best either and i try not to show but i guess there are times where i just burst out. if we’re being honest, i actually cried the night it happened.” 

when he told her that, her head shot up. she didn’t think that he would be the type to cry, seeing that he always had this tough guy exterior like one and three. he turned to her and gave a small nod and sad smile. They both looked into each other's eyes before they slowly leaned in. as soon as their lips were about to touch, zero moved her head away. They both knew it was wrong. One of the first things one had told the group was no relationships or hookups. They were strictly off limits.

“um i’m sorry, we shouldn’t be doing this.” she told him getting up and grabbing her bike before getting on and heading back to her trailer

“No, i’m sorry. i-it’s my fault. Um goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

as they both turned around to head back, four stopped and turned back around and calling out her name

“Zero!”

“What!?”

“Come over to mine, we can watch a movie together”

Zero stood there for a bit debating on whether or not she should go. one hand, she gets to probably get to know more about him than she already knew but on the other hand if she had ended up falling asleep and one found them together, god knows what would happen. She understood why he didn't want them fraternizing with each other or other people while on missions, but she also did understand in case it’ll make them uncomfortable. if they had anymore after the shit show in italy. they walked back to four’s trailer and for her shocking it was surprisingly neat.

“Thinking about how clean it is huh?” he asked as he let her in

zero was speechless and could only nod. Of all the guys she has either dated or hooked up with, they have had messy rooms and had most of her hookups at her place but four wasn’t like them. she went over and sat on his bed as he began to set his phone up and connect it to what seemed like a projector

“you don’t have a dvd player or a tv?” she asked him

“Nah, been pirating movies for a few years now. Saves money”

“Huh, wondered why i never thought of doing that, sure as hell would’ve saved me a lot of money.”

“I take it you’re a big movie fan then?”

“Mmhm, before i “died”, every other weekend my brother and I would go to our parents house and we would go the the theaters and spend the rest of the day with each other” “do you miss them? Your family?” he asked 

“Everyday. I felt like it was a selfish choice to leave them behind. You know? Like i didn’t think about it that much and not even hours later after one asked me i just said yes. Watching my own family having to bury an empty coffin hurt in more ways imaginable.” she told him not even paying attention to what was playing, just staring off into space before finishing

“What about you? Have you always been interested in the parkour thing?” 

“Yeah. feels like i’m free when i do it. Before all of this, I had a group and we used to steal pretty much anything that cost something only millionaires could afford. We were looking for a necklace once, the kalahari, in ukraine. Well I found it and as soon as we fled the police. We jumped from one building to another by using ropes and cables but as soon as i grabbed on and swung, it snapped.” four tells her before letting out a deep breath. Zero could see where the story was going 

“You don’t have to finish if you don’t feel comfortable. I don’t want you to relive something that you didn’t mean to happen.” zero told him grabbing his hand

Four felt a sense of relief. He felt fine but sometimes opening up to people was hard for him, and telling someone how he “died”, even if she was like family to him, made him feel uneasy at the moment. All he could do was nod and turned his head and look into her eyes, as she went back to focusing on the movie. They both did feel something for each other but they had to remember the rules that were set for them once they joined the team. If they got caught they wouldn’t know what to do because it would make everything more awkward than it already were. They continued to watch the movie until zero fell asleep in four’s arms. When he looked down to see asleep, he carefully moved her so she was on his bed and put the blanket over her so she would be comfortable before going over to the couch until he heard her voice

“Four?”

“Yeah? I’m still here” he told her 

“Can you stay with me? I don’t feel-”

“Yeah, yeah, of course” he told her as he got up from the couch and walked back over to his bed and went in. as he laid on his bed, zero wrapped her arms around him and snuggled closer to him while her ear sat where his heart would be. he tried to stay calm and keep a steady heartbeat but he couldn’t until she grabbed his hand and held it. 

“goodnight four.”

“g’night zero”

though four couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t help but look at her and notice the features of her face. he truly wanted to kiss when they were outside together an hour earlier but she didn’t and he understood why she didn’t want to. he then spent the next hour staring at the ceiling before falling asleep holding the girl he loved. she was there when they met and thought she was the most beautiful person in the room. 

Although he almost “died”, he at least was willing to die after meeting her even if they didn’t know each other’s name. He also remembers her yelling at one for the way he was deciding to recruit him and how he actually could’ve died. The first time they actually did talk was a little after they went back to the base. Zero was meant to take care of his injuries that he had gotten from falling about 5 stories down. Turning so he wasn’t on his back anymore, he pulled her closer into his chest and let out a deep sigh before closing his eyes and letting sleep take over his body. I

n his trailer, one saw everything go down between them and began to worry as to what is going to happen and if he was going to talk to them about what’s happening. He knew they liked each other, since the start and always saw the side glances they gave to each other and the way they had conversations. One just didn’t want them being in a relationship ruin everything for the team and what they have become.

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober Day 29

Reluctant Bedrest

Ao3

Summary: After a run in with a psychic alien, Dick notices that Bruce is acting strangely. He's protective... perhaps too protective.

Note: Dick is Robin, about 16 years old in this fic.

Please be aware of warnings in tags.

-o-o-o-o-

The reason Bruce doesn't like meta heroes in Gotham isn't because he's afraid of what they can inspire. Gotham already has its thing, and Joker seeing some kid fly through the air or some man run super fast isn't going to change his shtick. 

Bruce doesn't like meta heroes in Gotham because he's weary of what they can bring. 

And they can bring trouble. Magic trouble. Magic trouble that stems from a single Green Lantern appearance in Gotham just so Hal can return a pen he borrowed from Bruce and forgot to return at the end of their last League meeting. 

In Dick's defense, it's a nice pen. He gave it to Bruce himself. So really, it's not Hal's fault some alien magician from space decided to come down to earth and stir trouble, it's Bruce's because he, for some reason, thought it would be a good idea to let Hal borrow the nice pen Dick might have accidentally stolen from Bullock.

Long story short, there's a space lady currently floating in the middle of some warehouse, using her neat magic powers to not only telepathically lift up the crates around her, but also manipulate them open and aim the illegal weapons from inside. 

It's Gotham, so of course the random warehouse they've found themselves in has illegal weapons. 

And the thing is? Bruce and Dick are completely alone in this even though Hal was the one who attracted her here. He left the city before she arrived. He's probably halfway across the solar system by now on the way to his next super cool Lantern Corps mission. 

But this is fine. There's nothing Gotham can't handle, even if it's powerful guns controlled by space magic. 

"Robin!" Bruce shouts, "down!"

And Dick goes up, flipping over the stream of poorly aimed bullets and laughing until he lands on one of the warehouses support beams. He watches Batman charge forward, launching himself into the alien lady and stabbing a powerful taser into her thigh. The screech she makes is inhuman, and Dick grins, jumping from the beam and hitting her across the face with his heel. 

She goes flying to the ground, collapsing in a crumpled heap as Dick rolls to his feet on the ground, careful of the pressure on his ankles. The moment Bruce takes one confident step towards here, his hand hovering where the enhanced cuffs are, he knows they've won. Guns are clattering to the ground, the magazines popping out from the force and the synthetic black stocks cracking. Thankfully, no bullets launch themselves. 

"Can I come with you to drop her off?" Dick asks, bouncing on his heels and approaching as Bruce does so. The alien groans and curls her clawed hands, but remains relatively marionette-like on the ground. 

"No," Bruce grunts because he's boring like that. So Dick wants to go to the Watchtower in space. What's bad about that?

Dick opens his mouth to argue, but his voice catches in his throat as the alien's spine tightens like a panther the second Bruce is within range. "B! Watch out!"

Dick runs forward, but it's already too late. The alien contorts her body in a way a human would never be able to do and wraps her long fingers around Bruce's skull, her eyes flashing a sickening teal. Bruce goes dangerously still for the entire time it takes Dick to run up there and knee her in the gut. She makes a weird gurgling noise then stumbles back, throwing out her arms frantically. Dick hisses as one of her claws tear through the skin above his left eye, but he ignores it in favor of grabbing his own pair of cuffs and tackling her, forcing her strange, almost double jointed limbs behind her back and snapping them together. The cuffs hum, and she goes boneless.

Dick steps back, panting, then spins on his heel to find Bruce still... just standing there. Blankly. Like he’s trying to reconnect his eyes to his brain and his brain to the rest of his body. Unease pools in his gut, allowing a stone of worry to sink to the bottom. He swallows and steps forward. “B...?”

Bruce blinks under his cowl, then slowly his head turns towards Dick at a creaking pace. 

“You...” Bruce begins... his voice is scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “You’re hurt.”

A spike of confusion settles near Dick’s skull. Dick brings his fingers to his forehead and realizes that no, it’s not a physical spike of confusion, but a stinging cut that leaves drops of red glistening on his green gloves. It’s not that bad though. Probably doesn’t even need stitches. Dick wipes the blood off on his red tunic and shakes his head. 

“I’m fine.” 

Bruce doesn’t seem to believe it. Or at least let the issue go. He stares at Dick in a way that’s so unlike himself and Dick swallows nervously, then turns towards the crumpled alien lady to both gather his thoughts and hide the unease that must be showing on his face.

However, he doesn’t have long before Bruce walks up besides him and wraps a hand around Dick’s arm, firm but gentle. The shock of physical contact alone has Dick gasping and almost bonelessly allowing Bruce to manhandle Dick into facing him. Bruce’s free hand touches the sliver of broken skin above Dick’s eyebrow and frowns. 

“We need to get this looked at.”

Dick swallows. “Really, B, I’m fine. We should figure out what to do about-“

“The police are fully capable to take it from here.” Bruce’s hand tightens on Dick’s arm, not bruising but enough to get a message across that he’s not going to let go willingly. “Let’s go. You’re hurt.”

“I’m not ten anymore,” Dick mumbles, but walks along anyway as Bruce begins to drag him out of the warehouse and towards the Batmobile. Bruce opens the passenger seat and coaxes Dick inside the car. Apprehension settles in Dick’s throat as the door closes, and as Bruce walks around the front of the car Dick quickly tries the door handle. 

It moves, but it doesn’t open. Bruce has locked Dick inside.

Immediately, Dick knows that not only is something off with Bruce, but something is wrong. However, he doesn’t get a chance to think much more about it before Bruce is settling into the driver's seat.

“Bruce...?” Dick asks.

Bruce doesn’t answer, just holds out a rag towards Dick and mumbles. “Buckle your belt.” 

Dick does so, then reluctantly grabs the rag to hold it against the cut on his forehead. It’ll probably be scabbing by the time they get back to the cave. Maybe Bruce is just worried about infection? He got cut by the fingernail of an alien, after all.

Yeah. That’s it.

And then his thoughts go crashing down when Bruce frowns and reaches across the dashboard to hook his finger under the straps over Dick’s chest. Dick squawks and attempts to bat his hand away. But Bruce is persistent and tugs on the strap, frowning at the amount of space he creates between Dick’s chest and the strap.

It’s barely half an inch, but Bruce still ignores Dick’s complaints and tugs the buckle of the belt to make it tighter, practically tying Dick to the seat of the car.

Once Bruce is done and turns on the car, Dick sits there in stunned and embarrassed silence. He’s sixteen. He doesn’t need Bruce to check every cut and his seatbelt buckles. 

Bruce begins his drive towards the cave in grim silence, his mouth slowly becoming deeper and deeper into a stiff frown that Dick’s now too afraid to ask about.

Something is wrong with Bruce, and Dick has no idea what. The alien lady must have done something to him, and Dick’s going to find out.

For now though, he forces himself to relax against the chair and keep the rag on his head, and stays there silently until they arrive in the cave. 

By now, however, every single one of Dick’s nerves feel shot. He reaches to the door handle to pry it open, and then remembers that Bruce had turned on some sort of child lock that Dick didn’t even know existed until now. Once Bruce finally leaves Dick alone, Dick’s definitely going to sneak to the car and pry around the mobile for other childish restrictions Bruce still has installed to embarrass Dick. For now though, he curls his fingers into the rag and waits in tense silence as Bruce walks around the car once again to open Dick’s door. 

Dick tries to duck under his arms to escape towards the changing area, but Bruce catches his arm. Not for the first time does Dick loath his short stature and his persistently thin body type. Bruce practically has his entire upper arm trapped entirely in his large hand, and it makes it difficult to get free. Dick unwillingly stumbles along as Bruce begins to drag him towards the med bay. 

Dick looks desperately to the bat-computer just to be reminded harshly that Alfred isn’t even in Gotham at the moment. He’s on paid vacation for the next two weeks. 

Dicks alone. 

Alone and being dragged to the med bay by an iron grip. “Bruce,” he gasps, “really, I’m fine-“

Dick’s tugged to the cot and given a stern look. Bruce hasn’t taken his cowl off yet. He normally always takes his cowl off in the cave. 

Dick hates how badly he wants to do as he’s told. He’s never had that big of a rebellious phase, at least not as big as any of his friends. Dick doesn’t know why, but no matter what Bruce does to piss Dick off, Dick still feels obligated to do as he’s told. Doing his own thing in battle is one thing, but disobeying a direct order like the look Bruce is giving him right now sends shivers of discomfort through his entire being. 

Dick swallows and hops slowly onto the edge of the medical cot, grabbing the fabric of his tunic with his free hand as his other presses the useless rag against his forehead. 

Bruce nods, then turns to go through various tools that Dick doesn’t really know the names or uses of. There’s never really been a point to memorize medical terms before, not when either Alfred or Leslie are normally easily able to get a hold of. 

Now though, as Bruce pulls out an empty syringe and a clean needle, then pulls out a small brown bottle to dip the syringe in, he really wishes he'd at least asked more questions whenever someone took care of him in this room. 

“Bruce...”

Bruce grunts then lifts the syringe, flicking the base to get rid of the bubbles in the clear liquid. 

“Bruce, what is that?”

Dick really tries to not sound too scared or worried, but it’s hard to keep the shiver out of his voice when Bruce turns towards him with his cowl still up, his frown sill present, the needle still held ready in his hands.

Batman has scared Dick before. Many times. Sometimes, Batman loses himself in anger and Dick has to step back and breathe. 

But Bruce has never scared him. Not like this.

And somewhere at the back of his mind, he screams at himself that he shouldn’t be scared. He’s a teenager now. Teenagers like him don’t get scared.

But then Bruce takes a step forward and every cell in Dick’s body erupts into red.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. And Dick’s terrified to figure out what.

So, instead of sitting there and letting it happen, Dick throws the red dotted rag at Bruce's face and then ducks under his grabbing arms. Dick’s heart pounds in his throat as his cape is briefly tugged, but Dick thankfully manages to slip away and make a mad dash towards the manor.

“Robin!” Bruce—Batman?—shouts. But Dick doesn’t listen to the angry tone or the beginnings of heavy boots chasing him up the stairs. He keeps running until he’s through the grandfather clock and sprinting towards- towards where?

He doesn’t know where he should go.

Bruce’s feet pound on the metal stairs, and Dick decides to just run and think about specifics later. 

Eventually, Dick ends up running into his room and slamming the door closed behind him with his chest heaving for air. He’s just about to lock the door closed and hide in the small entrance to the ceiling in his closet, but then the handle of his door turns itself with a shocking force and then slams open. The wood of the door slams into Dick’s skull, not only reopening the just barely clotting cut, but making a dent of its own. Dick’s head spins as he goes down, red obscuring the vision of one of his eyes. He vaguely hears a sharp gasp, but he’s too focused on the black shadow descending upon him, too fixated on trying to scramble out from the metal fingers once again closing over his arms.

“-m sorry...” Bruce is saying. Apologizing. “I’m trying to help. Trying to keep you safe. This is why you have to do as I say...”

There’s the flash of a needle right in front of his blurry eyes, and Dick doubles his struggling, his heart practically hitting the backs of his teeth. However, it’s all useless when the needle breaks the skin of Dick’s neck and the cold, tingling liquid enters his system. Immediately, Dick feels twenty times more nauseous than when he was hit in the face with his bedroom door.

His struggles grow weaker against his will, and soon he’s being lifted so he’s cradled in Bruce’s arms; his nose pressed into the crook of his neck. Dick can smell Gotham on him. 

For a terrible second, he thinks Bruce will carry him through the rest of the house and back to the med bay, but then the world spins as he’s maneuvered into one arm, and then lowered onto his own bed. Bruce carefully pulls up Dick’s rumpled navy blue comforter and puts it over Dick’s body up to his chest. Dick’s still just aware enough to try and fight him, try and shove his too gentle hands away with whatever strength he has left after that mystery dosage of drugs. 

But then Dick’s wrists are grabbed, then lifted, then cuffed through the bars of his headboard. 

Dick’s so stunned that he hardly processes that Bruce is tucking him in until Bruce is leaning over him and pressing the comforter under Dick’s back.

Dick wants to kick him, yell at him, but he can hardly keep his eyes that focused anymore. Before he knows it, the blurry face of Bruce leans forward and runs his Kevlar clad hand through Dick’s hair, lifts his bangs, then presses a kiss just to the side of the double whammy of head wounds.

“You’ll be safe here,” Bruce says, running his thumb gently over the smarting cut, “I’ll be back, and I’ll make you feel better, okay?”

Dick’s stomach twists at those words and the plethora of meanings it could have. But his eyes are closing against his will and his toes are tingling. There’s the taste of iron on his tongue.

Before he knows it, he falls unconscious while Bruce turns and walks out of his bedroom.

-o-o-o-o-

When Dick wakes up, he... doesn’t hurt. He feels really good, actually. Considering. He blinks blurriness from his eyes and tests out the level of control he has over his body, and it’s surprisingly a lot more than what he expected. Whatever Bruce gave him, it must not have been too strong.

He bends his knees and wiggles his toes, then curls his numb fists besides his hips to feel the handcuffs have been replaced with soft, padded straps. Familiar straps. Looped over his wrists and ankles... another around his chest. Bruce must have taken off the restraints from the medical cot in the basement and brought them up here.

Which doesn’t surprise him as much as it probably should. In fact, what really catches his attention is that he’s no longer in his Robin uniform, but in his softest pair of pajamas. 

The observation sends shivers down his spine. It’s not like Bruce hasn’t assisted Dick in changing before... in their line of night-work, you sometimes get hit bad enough to not be able to move much, and it’s not a good idea to treat wounds or sleep in an outfit that’s been through the worst Gotham has to offer. But this? This feels awful. Vile... almost. His underwear has been changed, he can feel the hems around his thighs.

“Robin?” 

Dick tenses and turns his head. The motion causes his brain to spike with pain near his eye sockets, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it could. Besides him, Bruce sits, still in full Batman regalia with his cowl stubbornly over his head. Dick can see red markings near the bridge of his nose, proof that the cowl has been on longer than what it’s intended for.

Has Bruce been here the entire time? Just watching him?

“B‘rs..” Dick mumbles, then tugs on the straps on his wrists hidden beneath the comforter. “L’me go...”

Bruce frowns. “You’re still hurt... you’ll hurt yourself.”

Dick groans in frustration. His fingers don’t have that much control as he would like, but just from a little tugging Dick knows he’s not getting out of these unless someone lets him out. They’re bat-grade.

“But...” Dick tries, forcing his puffy feeling tongue to cooperate. “I have school...”

“I called you out...” Bruce replies. “Until you’re no longer hurt... until the city is safe...”

“It’s j’sta scratch, B. It’s-“

“You’re not leaving until you’re healed.”

Dick snaps his jaw shut with the biting tone of Bruce’s voice and stares at him with wide eyes. Bruce must notice his shock because his shoulders loosen and his lips twitch into... an apologetic smile.

“I’m not angry,” Bruce says, “I just want to protect you. Keep you safe. Do you understand?”

Dick has the feeling that he’s not leaving the bed whether he says he understands or not. So, instead, he just glares.

It doesn’t seem to phase Bruce too much. In fact, it does nothing to stop Bruce from bringing his hands up to Dick’s head and checking on the bandages there that Dick hadn’t even really processed until now. Dick tries to turn his neck away, but Bruce’s free hand latches onto his chin. Once Bruce makes a satisfied noise, he leans back and then grabs a bowl of something that was sitting unnoticed until now on Dick’s bedside table.

“I’m glad I predicted the time you would awake accurately,” Bruce says, stirring a metal spoon in the bowl. “It’s still hot.”

He takes the spoon out and sure enough there's a... spoonful of oatmeal. Dick can smell cinnamon. And it smells... good. Shockingly good. Dick the alien lady gives Bruce cooking skills?

Bruce brings the spoon closer to Dick’s mouth and immediately Dick turns his head. 

“Robin...” Bruce chides, and Dick curls his fists tighter. So tight he can feel his nails making crescent marks in his palms. He makes sure he doesn’t pierce skin though... because if Bruce is already being overwhelmingly concerned with his health because of a scratch...

Dick bites his lip. “I can feed myself.”

“It’s hot. You might burn yourself.”

“I can feed mys- mph-!”

Suddenly, there’s a spoon in his mouth, resting on top of his bottom teeth as the oatmeal just barely touches the roof of his mouth. He can feel the steam... but it’s not even that hot.

“Eat, Robin,” Bruce says.

Robin. That’s all Bruce has called him since this all began. He hasn’t gotten dressed out of his suit. He doesn’t look like he’s slept. It’s like he has a single purpose, and that’s to keep... Robin safe. 

Overwhelmingly safe.

This isn’t Bruce. This... this is brainwashing or possession or- or... but this isn’t Bruce. 

Dick slowly closes his mouth, heat and oats spreading across his taste buds as Bruce slides the spoon out of his mouth slowly to not drop any food or drool onto Dick’s chin. 

It tastes good. That doesn’t stop the blush of embarrassment that paints his cheeks and ears.

“Was it okay?” Bruce asks, and Dick swallows, then glares.

“Can we just get this over with?”

Bruce, once again, doesn’t seem offended by Dick’s snapping. He just smiles, grabs another spoonful, and blows on top of it. Dick feels like he’s going to be sick.

Instead, he opens his mouth again and allows this fake—definitely fake?—version of Bruce to spoon feed him until the bowl has been scrapped clean. 

Bruce sets the empty bowl down then smiles at Dick. Smiles. Dick firmly keeps his mouth shut. 

“I’m going to put the bowl away and make some lunch. After that, we can watch a movie?” Bruce stands up. Smiles wider. “How about that?”

Dick tugs on the straps around his wrists ever so slightly, frustration building up in his gut. He takes a deep breath. He needs to find a way out of this. He... can't let this continue. 

“Actually... I need to use the restroom.”

Bruce’s smile softens into sympathy. “Will you fight me? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Will you hurt me?” Dick snaps back without really meaning to. Fortunately, it seems to be the right thing to say because a strong emotion passes over Bruce’s face. 

“No,” Bruce says, “never. I’ll never hurt you. But... Robin... you have to promise to not... disobey and get yourself hurt. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to get the catheter.”

Dick’s gut twists violently at that. 

Catheter. They have one of those?!

But he can’t just lay here and wait for this suffocatingly protective version of Bruce do this to him for much longer. He’s itching to move. Not just because this whole situation has his nerves fried to high heavens, but also because he’s been strapped down and rendered immobile even though he, by all means, is completely able to move.

Being forced to be still has always been something that gets him quickly uncomfortable. Even if it’s just very reluctant bedrest.

Dick resists a gulp. He’ll have to risk it. 

“I won’t disobey or hurt myself,” Dick promises.

Bruce regards him for a second, and after a moment it seems he finds whatever he was looking for and leans forward to grab on to the hem of his comforter. Bruce carefully pushes the comforter down to reveal the straps tightly wrapping around his body. Dick remains still as one by one the straps are loosened. 

Dick forces himself to not attempt to escape right then and there. Instead, he allows Bruce to take his hand and carefully help sit him up, his gloved thumbs rubbing gentle circles over his sore wrists.

Bruce talks him through standing up again, guiding him on how slow to go to not cause the blood to rush from his head and make himself dizzy. Once he’s standing, Bruce’s grips on the small of his back and on his elbow, his head pounds for just a second. Probably from being hit in the head with a door... he probably just has a small goose bump. Bruce would never panic about something like that.

Bruce begins to walk him across the room, mumbling comforts and encouragements that aren’t needed during the walk into Dick’s bathroom. For a horrifying second, Dick thinks Bruce is going to attempt to help him, but with a barely contained relieved sigh Bruce simply sits him down on the toilet and explains that he’ll be waiting outside the door, and to call when Dick’s done.

The second the door clicks shut, Dick scrambles to his feet, careful of how his knees and fingers still feel slightly lethargic thanks to the drugs. But it’s nothing, Dick’s felt worse and has done a lot cooler flips and tricks with harsher head injuries. Way cooler tricks than climbing over the toilet to open the small, foggy glass window.

He opens the window and pokes his head outside, frowning at the height between himself and the ground. It’s a long drop. He’ll have to carefully scale the brick walls and window sills to make it down. He looks over towards where his bedroom windows are and then settles his gaze on the tree placed right next to his bedroom. He used to use that tree all the time to sneak out. If he’s slow and cautious, he should be able to just scale the wall to his bedroom, avoiding the windows Bruce can see out of, and then safely make his way down the branches of the tree.

With his mind made up, Dick stretches his fingers then steps onto the toilet tank to heft his upper body out the window. It’s a tight squeeze, but manageable if he turns to just the right angle-

“Robin!”

Shit.

Dick does his best to scramble out of the window as quickly as he can, but a heavy hand wraps around his ankle just as he’s about to fully exit. Before Dick knows it, he’s being dragged back inside, his struggling and kicking going ignored. 

Dick doesn’t allow himself to give up there, the second he’s back inside the bathroom, he throws the hardest punch he can against Bruce’s jaw. His bare knuckles hurt almost immediately, but he ignores it in favor of squirming out of Bruce’s shocked grasp and bolting out the bathroom door.

He doesn’t make it far before two arms wrap around his middle and he’s dragged down to the floor from the weight slamming into his back. Dick’s chin slams against the floor and he bites the corner of his tongue with a help. Bruce is over 250 pounds at least with the Batman armor, and all of it is laying on top of him. Practically suffocating him.

He wheezes and claws at the carpet below his body. “Buh- Bruce- You’re hurting me!”

He can feel Bruce tense above him at those words, and for a hopeful second Dick thinks he’s gotten through to him...

But then Bruce tightens his grip, forcing Dick up and against his chest. “It’s for your own good,” Bruce says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Dick.

Soon, Dick’s lifted in Bruce’s hold, his feet swinging on the ground thanks to his cursed shortness when Bruce stands fully up. Bruce turns towards the damn bed and Dick snaps. He kicks and struggles and punches, but Bruce seems to not be affected, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Before Dick knows it, he’s thrown onto the bed and Dick’s heart jumps to his throat.

He tries to roll off, but his wrist is grabbed and he’s forced to his back. With expert movements, the first cuff is back on, and Dick screams in frustration.

He uses his free hand to grab at Bruce's face, then uses his legs to kick and knee Bruce’s body as hard as he can, but it’s all useless. Soon enough, Dick’s pinned back to the mattress of his bed, each strap exactly back to where they were before. Dick takes a deep breath and glares at Bruce. 

“Let me go.”

Bruce shakes his head and double checks the restraints. “I told you to follow instructions, Robin, I told you what would happen if you didn’t listen.”

And not for the first time, real fear curdles in his stomach. Only, this time it’s so much worse. “Bruce, no-“

Bruce has the audacity to give him a sympathetic look. “Stay here, I’ll be back with the catheter.”

Bruce stands up and pulls the bedsheet over Dick’s body. Dick tugs on his restraints desperately as Bruce begins to walk away. “Bruce! Batman! Stop! I-I’m sorry I-“

The door closes and Dick groans, tugging harder against the straps. He isn’t going anywhere. He’s completely powerless. 

He’s so frustrated that tears begin to swell in his eyes. He strains against the straps just to bring his shoulder up to his cheek and attempts to wipe away the moisture before any tears can fall, but even that is difficult to do. 

He wants this to stop. He wants Bruce back. The normal Bruce. And isn’t that pathetic? He’s a teenager. Sixteen years old and crying because his dad- his guardian isn’t acting right. It has to have been something the alien lady did, Bruce wouldn’t act like this normally. He wouldn’t strap Dick down just because of a cut, he wouldn’t escort him to the bathroom, he wouldn’t grab a fucking catheter just because Dick was misbehaving. 

He wouldn’t care this much about Dick’s safety.

He forces himself to relax and to quit struggling in the padded straps. All he’s doing is irritating his wrists and ankles. There’s nothing he can do. Bruce will come back and- and Dick will just have to wait this out until someone notices something is wrong. Until Alfred comes home... 

Will Dick really be stuck like this for a week? How long does it take for minor cuts to heal? Is Bruce going to make Dick wait until his skin is smooth and there’s no scabbing? No trace of it left?

He doesn’t want to wait that long. 

He really doesn’t want to.

All too soon, the door opens back up and Bruce is holding a bag full of equipment. Urinary Catheters aren’t ever bulky and are normally able to be hidden in someone’s clothes, so maybe Bruce has brought even more equipment just in case Dick misbehaves in other ways. 

“I’m going to sedate you,” Bruce explains, opening the bag to reveal exactly what Dick expected. Tubes. Dick’s gut twists. “So you won’t be uncomfortable during the procedure.”

“Don’t do it. Please.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, just digs out the supplies he needs. Once the tubing and bags are laid out, Bruce grabs a needle and that same brown bottle as before.

Dick clenches his teeth and glares at the ceiling. Man up, Grayson. It’s just a catheter. People get them all the time. From the looks of it, it’s not even one that will go through the skin of his stomach. It’s just going to be inserted through his...

Man up, Grayson.

It’ll be fine.

Bruce approaches and rubs a cool cloth at the base of Dick’s neck. Dick brings his hands into fists and closes his eyes. 

Right as the point of a needle touches the base of his neck, something shocking happens.

His bedroom door bursts open, and there stands none other than Hal Jordan in full Green Lantern regalia, eyes wild behind his mask and his ring practically flaming on his finger. Before Bruce can even do anything, a bright bolt of green launches across the room and hits Bruce straight on, sending the man flying.

“Bruce!” Dick shouts as he crumples to the floor. Somewhere at the back of his brain, he knows that Bruce isn’t hurt, not with the visibly lowered power of the blast combined with Batman’s armor, and he also knows that Hal is here to help, but he can’t help but worry as Bruce groans on the floor, steam rising from his suit. Hal doesn’t give Bruce a chance to recover, he creates a small bubble around Bruce and traps him there, and then rushes over to Dick to undo the straps.

“I’m sorry,” Hal practically blubbers, hands shaking over the straps to unlock them. Dick shakes his head and sits up the moment he’s free enough to do so.

He looks at Bruce on the floor and clutches his stomach. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He was... persuaded to hyper-fixate on something he cares about,” Hal explains, not really looking like he understood it fully himself. “The Tralleine thought it was amusing... I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back, she wouldn’t talk until I was there.”

So the alien lady did cause this. Tralleine. Dick’s never heard of that species before. Not for the first time, Dick thinks about how cool of a job Hal has that allows him to fly through space and meet so many aliens all the time. 

“Can we fix him?” Dick asks.

Hal smiles. “Yeah, kiddo, yeah we can fix him. You want to come to the Watchtower with us?”

Dick nods, then allows Hal to take his hand. Before Dick knows it, he’s sitting at the Watchtower, eating some pie Clark brought over, and waiting for someone to come get him and tell him Bruce is Bruce again.

It takes hours, but soon enough, Dick’s bursting into the medical ward of the space station and immediately locking his gaze on Bruce. Bruce finally has his cowl pulled down, and his bare chest is wrapped thanks to the bruising and burns he has because of Hal’s energy blast.

But he’s there. He’s there and looking at Dick with such guilt and relief, that Dick doesn’t think. He just runs forward and wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck and squeezes. 

“I’m sorry, chum,” Bruce whispers. Strong arms curl around his back.

“It’s okay,” Dick replies into the corner of his neck.

“He needs plenty of rest,” another voice chimes in, and Dick turns to find Clark walking into the room with Hal standing behind. “Don’t over do it, Bruce.”

“I won't,” Bruce replies, still holding Dick as tightly as he dares. 

“We’d prefer it if you stayed in bed until the bruising fades, but I understand-“

Bruce cuts Clark off with a shake of his head. “It’s okay. I can stay in bed for a while.”

Clark smiles in understanding, and Hal shifts nervously behind him.

“Sorry,” Hal bursts, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, and I should have known something like this could happen and-“ 

And Dick laughs and Bruce chuckles. “Just don’t come to Gotham uninvited again, Jordan,” Bruce replies.

“Yeah, nothing bad happened,” Dick adds, “don’t sweat it. You’ll just have to make it up to me.”

Bruce goes silent like he thinks something bad happened and Dick makes a mental note to convince him that he’s seriously fine. Instead, he begins to list the things Hal can do to make it up to Dick and Bruce, like a space trip or a cool rock from a cool planet or maybe even an alien pet, and he can feel the tension in the room beginning to fall.

Today was scary, that’s for sure, but Dick bounces back easily. He’ll just have to make sure Bruce bounces back with him.

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 79

A mysterious threat is making it's way towards Earth, and the Battalion have to work fast to destroy it.

*Links to previous and next chapter in reblog*

--

Trouble through the Milky Way

           Pluto. An adorable, little planet beloved by many on its far off neighbor, Earth. It floats quietly in its cold, dark orbit around the sun, minding its own business.

           Then it’s blown to bits.

           A small ship flies by. It would be nondescript, if it weren’t for the giant plasma cannon grafted to its underside.

           A few lightyears away, Lard Kio watches the vessel through her distance viewfinder on the Resisty ship. She immediately calls Zim.

           On Earth, the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon. Zim is sleeping lightly in his bed when a beeping sounds through his base.

           “Master,” the Computer says while Zim’s eye cracks open. “You are receiving a call from Kio.”

           “Transfer it to my phone,” Zim orders as he sits up and grabs his cell phone. He answers the call and Kio’s face appears on screen.

           “Zim, we got a big problem,” she says sternly.

           He listens intently as she quickly explains the situation.

           An hour later, Dib, Gaz, Tak, and Pepito gather sleepily in Zim’s lab- except for Tak, who is wide awake.

           “There better be a good reason for waking me up before 6,” Gaz growls.

           “There is,” Zim replies from his chair at the main computer. “Pluto has been destroyed.”

           “No! Not Pluto!” Pepito cries in distress.

           “What could destroy Pluto?” Dib asks.

           “Not ‘what’. ‘Who’,” Zim explains as he pushes a button on the keyboard. A blurry image of a small grey ship with a disproportionately large cannon appears on the screen. “We’re not sure who they are, but they appear to be heading straight for the Earth. And with firepower like that, they can cause a lot of damage to the planet. At their current rate of speed, they will arrive by tomorrow morning. But because we do not know the range of their cannon, we have to assume we have less time than that. We have to stop them before they can get close.”

           “How do we do that?” Pepito asks.

           “Can we use the Epic?” Gaz suggests.

           “It doesn’t have any weapons yet,” Zim replies, “and going up against a ship in space without our own vehicle is just plain stupid.”            “So we gotta stop it from the surface,” Dib muses, “do we have any weapons that’ll work?”

           “I have an Irken Surface Cannon at my base,” Tak replies, “I just don’t have any mortar shells for it.”

           Dib rubs his chin with consideration. “Can you load it with other things?”

           “If they fit properly, sure.”

           “Then what about…the Blissful?”

           “The Blissful?” Gaz scoffs, “you mean that giant bomb you, Tak, Squee, and Maddie made for that science fair a couple years ago?”

           “Yeah,” Dib replies, “presumably it should be incredibly powerful.”

           “Presumably,” Tak repeats emphatically, “we were never able to test it.”

           “But it is highly unstable,” he points out.

           “You say that like it’s a good thing,” Pepito grimaces.

           “Shouldn’t we tell Squee first before we try to use it?” Gaz suggests.

           “That would be the polite thing to do,” he agrees, “I wonder what he’s doing right now.”

--

           Squee is fast asleep in his bed, his face pressed into the pillow. Beside him, Nugget is also asleep, her claws restlessly kneading Squishy Pete.

--

           “There’s no time to call Squee,” Zim points out, “what if he doesn’t answer? We can’t wait for a response. We have to act now.”

           “Fine,” Tak groans, “where is it?”            “I helped put it in Squee’s basement,” he replies, “it should still be there. We will have to remove it and transport it to Tak’s base.”

           “So we have to get into Squee’s house,” Pepito’s states, “I think Devi has a key so she can clean while they’re away.”

           “We need to work fast,” Zim declares, “let’s go.”

           They leave quickly and fly the Epic across the city to Devi’s building. After setting down in the parking lot, they hurry up to her apartment and knock until she answers, looking none too pleased.

           “Ugh, it’s you guys,” she groans, rubbing her tired eyes.

           “Hi, Devi,” Pepito waves, “sorry but this is an emergency.”

           “What is it?” she asks impatiently.

           “We need into Squee’s house,” Dib replies, “you have a key, right?”

           “Yeah, hang on,” she says and ducks back into her apartment. She comes back after a few seconds with a single, bronze key. “Here. Just give it back to me later.”

           “Thank you,” Pepito chimes and they hurry away as Devi closes the door.

           Wasting no time, they fly over to Squee’s house and park at the curb. They rush up to the front walk and use the key.

           The kids stand uneasily on the front step as the door loudly creaks open. It seems to echo ominously throughout the dark house, the early morning sun barely filtering through the boarded-up windows.

           “Wow,” Dib comments, “this place is uh…kinda creepy without Squee here.”

           “Let’s just get into the basement and get the bomb,” Zim orders and steps into the house. He freezes, a chill shooting up his spine. He suddenly has the feeling that he shouldn’t be here. But he quickly shakes it off and glares at the others. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

           Zim marches through the living room and Tak, Dib, Gaz, and Pepito quickly but cautiously follow. As they head to the hallway, they’re all constantly glancing around warily. They’ve been to a lot of haunted locations before but somehow this feels worse. Not haunted exactly, just…forbidden.

           They finally reach the basement door and Zim pushes it open. It creaks open even slower than the front door did, revealing a much darker room.

           “Where’s the light?” Gaz asks.

           “There isn’t one,” Zim replies as an electric torch pops out of his PAK, illuminating the area. It’s a completely empty room with a sudden drop near the opposite wall. Zim points to it. “The bomb is down there. I remember Johnny and Squee bringing me down there.”

           They quickly cross the empty room and peer over the gap. There’s just a ladder leading down into more darkness.

           “Right,” Tak grunts and nods at Zim. “After you.”

           Zim glares at her for a second before descending the ladder. One by one, the others follow.

           It’s only a couple feet to the bottom floor and they all look around as they hop off the ladder. They’re in another mostly empty room that leads to a large hallway, lit by flickering, fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. Somewhere down the ladder, the normal drywall of the house changed to cement blocks that make up the entirety of the hallway. There are stains on the walls and floor that the kids try to ignore as Zim points to the only object in the room.

           “There it is,” he says.

           The Blissful: a giant, round, silver bomb with a purple smiley face with closed eyes painted on it. Five feet in diameter and over 150 pounds, it is practically just a container sloshing with volatile, explosive liquid.

           “It should fit in my cannon,” Tak says, “now, how do we get it out?”

           “The same way I got it in,” Zim replies as he extends his spider legs. Using lasers, they cut out a large section of the ceiling and set it aside, creating a hole to the surface. The kids are all slightly relieved to see sunlight.

           “Tak, you stay down here while I-,” Zim starts to explain before he’s cut off.

           “Why do I have to stay in the creepy basement?” Tak snaps.

           “What, are you scared?” he jeers.

           “Of course not.”

           “Then stay down here while I lift everyone out,” Zim orders, “once I’m out, you’ll help me lift the bomb up to the surface and Dib can bring the Epic around.”

           “Fine,” she huffs and eyes the spooky hallway. “Just…be quick.”

           Dib, Gaz, and Pepito hold onto Zim’s spider legs as he lifts them all up to the surface. Then he crouches next to the hole and lowers his spider legs down.

           “Okay, Tak, gently lift the bomb and pass it to me,” he demands.

           She seems to ignore him as she stares suspiciously down the hall.

           “Tak,” he says louder.

           “What?” she questions, looking at him. “Oh. Right.”

           Using her spider legs, Tak gently lifts the Blissful and passes it to Zim. He carefully lifts it through the hole and rests it on the ground.

           “Alright, Dib get the car,” Zim orders. Dib nods and quickly hurries around the houses back to the street. “Tak, let’s go.”      

           Again, she doesn’t reply. She just stares down the hallway, her eyes narrowing.

           “Tak!” Zim snaps but she doesn’t hear him.

           Far down the hall, a bloodied hand slaps down on the floor just barely in view, clawing at the stone. An inhuman groan echoes off the walls.

           Tak’s eyes widen and her spider legs shoot up, hoisting her out of the hole.

           “Seal it, hurry,” she orders frantically.

           Not knowing what she saw, Zim is slightly taken aback, but nevertheless he obliges. He quickly picks up the section of the ground and slips it back into its hole.

           With the basement sealed off, everyone suddenly feels more at ease, and they heave a heavy sigh.

           “Okay. Let’s agree to never go down there again,” Gaz says and everyone nods.

           After Dib comes around with the Epic, Tak looks at Zim and asks, “now what?”

           “Now is the really tricky part,” Zim replies, “you and I are gonna have to ride on the roof and hold the Blissful steady while Dib flies to your place.”

           “Good luck with that,” Pepito comments as he and Gaz get into the car. Then Zim and Tak climb onto the roof. With their bottom two spider legs, they hold onto the vehicle while the top two hold the Blissful in between themselves.

           “Okay, Dib, take it slow and steady,” Zim orders.

           Dib carefully raises the Epic into the sky and flies slowly over the buildings. Everyone is tense during the ride. If they drop the bomb, it could very well decimate the city. Dib just tries to focus on keeping the car steady and hopes a bird doesn’t fly into them.

           Thankfully, they reach Tak’s base with incident and Dib parks on the curb. Everyone gets out while Zim and Tak carefully lower the Blissful to the ground.

           “Alright, ready up your cannon,” Zim orders.

           “Already on it,” Tak replies as she grabs a remote from her PAK and pushes a button.

           The roof of her house folds up as a giant, silver gun rises up on a tall pedestal. In front of the gun is seat with a monitor and control panel. Tak pushes another button on the remote and a space opens up at the bottom of the pedestal, just big enough for the Blissful.

           “Let’s load it up,” Tak says and they shove the big bomb inside and seal the door. As it rises up the pedestal and loads into the cannon, she climbs up to the monitor and sits in the chair. Zim quickly follows her and hangs off the side to watch, leaving Dib, Gaz, and Pepito to stare up at them.

           “Okay, just have to find the ship,” Tak muses. As she searches through coordinates on the control panel, the monitor displays different parts of space until finally landing on the familiar, grey ship.

           “They’ve blasted a hole into Jupiter!” Zim cries, “we have to hurry.”

           “Locking on,” Tak says and a crosshairs appears over the ship on the monitor. “Let’s hope this works.”

           She hits the big, red ‘FIRE’ button and a loud *boom* echoes over the city as the Blissful is shot out. The kids watch it fly into the sky until it disappears.

           It breaks through the atmosphere, the friction causing its volatile fluids to heat up, and flies through space at an extremely high velocity. The passengers on the ship just barely see it coming.

           The explosion can be seen from Earth as a star that lights up then quickly dies out. The Battalion immediately erupt into cheers, jumping up and punching the air.

           “I can’t believe that actually worked,” Gaz remarks.

           “I knew it would!” Dib grins.

           “I cannot wait to tell Squee about this,” Pepito exclaims.

           While they celebrate, Zim and Tak watch the explosion on the monitor, satisfied with the smoke that fills the screen. But as they start to hop off, Tak notices something.

           “Wait,” she says, “something’s happening.”

           Zim looks back at the screen just in time to see five objects exit the smoke.

           “The passengers survived,” he snarls.

           “They must’ve used escape pods,” Tak exclaims as they look up at the sky.

           Dib, Gaz, and Pepito don’t realize right away that something’s wrong until Gaz notices the Irkens. “Something’s wrong,” she says.

           They all look up and watch for something. For a second, nothing happens. And then they see five things appear in the sky.

           “They’ve broken through the atmosphere!” Zim exclaims.

           They watch the objects plummet like tiny particles in the distance, each landing in a different spot. Then Zim and Tak jump to the ground.

           “We got an alien invasion,” Zim declares, “one of them seemed to have landed not far from the city. If we leave now, we might catch them.”

           The others nods and they quickly clamber into the Epic and take off. Zim flies them quickly towards the site of the closest crash. As they near it, they spot a plume of smoke.

           A small, round pod has crashed into field just outside the city, causing a small crater. The Epic lands and the Battalion hops out, weapons at the ready, just as the hatch opens.

           Out tumbles a short, black alien with a pair of large, compound eyes and four spider-like legs. She hasn’t noticed the Battalion yet as she coughs and picks herself up.

           “Hey, I know you!” Pepito exclaims, “it’s Uu!”

           The alien looks up at them in surprise before crying out in an alien language. She attempts to scramble back into the pod, but Zim’s and Tak’s spider legs lash out and grab her. They hold her overhead, and she glares at them.

           “You’re one of Carcas’ soldiers,” Zim says.

           Gaz groans exhaustedly as she rests a hand on her hip. “I hope Squee’s at least having a good day.”

--

           Most mornings start early in Cammie’s house; especially when the smell of waffles is wafting down the hall. Everyone quickly gathers in the kitchen as Squee readies their breakfast.

           “I hope they’re good,” he says as they dig in.

           “So good,” Johnny chimes with a mouthful.

           “Crispy outside, fluffy inside,” Cammie remarks.

           “You should do the cooking more often,” Thomas comments.

           The Night Terrors are too busy quickly stuffing their faces to say anything, which is complimentary enough.

           Squee beams happily before sitting down to enjoy his own breakfast.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​​ || Day Seventeen: Craving ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ] 

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Lying on her bedroom floor, Hinata stares up at the ceiling, occasionally giving an owlish blink. The little glow-in-the-dark stars and planets she stuck up there when she went through her space phase are still there, their oddly pale yellow-green dim and listless in the daylight hours of morning. About how she’s feeling right now, as a matter of fact.

It’s quiet today. Like it is every day. And has been everyday for...gosh, how long has it been, now? She’s lost count.

Lost count of the days since everyone disappeared.

Not just her father and her sister, either. Everyone. One day Hinata simply woke up...and found she was the absolute last person on earth. Or at least...she’s yet to encounter a single other person. And it’s been months, at the very least. The phone never rings. No cars drive by. Turning on the television shows the same programs as per usual, but they’re all reruns. And the news stations are just endless cycles of advertisements.

Online is much the same. Nothing updates. But nothing completely stops, either. Somehow she still has power, internet, phone connection...it’s odd.

She goes to the store a few blocks away. Everything is still there. And nothing is going bad. The produce still looks the same as the first day she went.

At first...it was extremely hard to wrap her brain around, as one would likely expect. Theories clogged her brain for days. Was she actually in a coma, dreaming all of this? Was she dead, stuck in some weird limbo? Had she simply...lost her mind?

And then the thoughts of absolute loneliness. Never seeing her family again. True, she didn’t have the best relationships with either of them, but...to have any chance at that changing ripped away made her realize how much she’d truly wasted a very final opportunity.

In the end, however...there was simply acceptance. Deciding to, at least until she reached some unspoken limit, to just...try living. See how far she could get.

And so far, it’s been...okay. While she can’t explain (and maybe doesn’t want to explain) the seeming lack of passing time beyond a day and night cycle (how else could nothing be rotting?), other things change. The weather still varies. It just rained yesterday, and it’s a balmy seventy-two degrees today according to her phone, and sunny. And thought it’s not been quite long enough to confirm seasons, Summer does seem to be conceding to Fall.

Which makes her wonder how that’s going to go. There’s been no shut-off in the power, but what if something happens? She’d never know how to fix it! Maybe just...find someplace where the power was still on. Or steal a generator. Eventually though she’ll run out of gas, right…?

Many of the rules of this new (?) world escape her.

But for now, those life-changing questions aren’t what’s on her mind.

...she has a craving.

For a few moments longer, she maintains her position on her floor. But then enough will musters up, and she sits upright with a grunt before hauling herself to her feet. Putting on some shoes, she then leaves the house and heads down the road.

The door she leaves unlocked. How’s she going to get robbed, being the last person left? And that way, no ever worrying about locking herself out, either.

...it happened once last year when Hanabi was out of town with a friend and her father on a business trip. Most embarrassing reason to talk to her neighbor ever.

Plugging in earbuds to her phone, she keeps one ear open, just in case. Otherwise, her favorite pop songs play in the background of her walk, humming absently. A few times she’s mustered up the courage to sing out loud, given no one is around to hear. But even being completely alone...she’s still shy.

Twenty minutes sees her at the supermarket. Not bothering to take a cart, she instead tries to remember what aisle she needs, wandering down the front and reading the signs above each. What category does it fall under, again…?

Lost in her musing, she actually squeals out loud in surprise at a sudden crashing sound.

W...what…?

Frozen in place and barely daring to breathe, only her eyes flicker in search of...something. Anything. It sounded like it came from the back of the store...maybe some animals got in? Those, at least, she’s seen plenty of. Squirrels in her backyard, cats sunning themselves on porches. She tries not to think of all the abandoned pets with no one coming home for them anymore.

But in the subsequent silence, she doesn’t hear the scurrying of surprised feet like she would expect of anything inhuman. Instead...an impressive string of oaths and swears reaches her ears.

...no, it...it can’t be…

Throat suddenly dry, Hinata weighs her odds. On one hand...it could be someone friendly! Maybe she’s not as alone as she feared! But...on the other...they might see her as a threat, and kill her. Or do...other horrible things to her.

Loneliness can leave one wanting, after all. Or just drive a person to a sick, brain-rotted edge.

Eventually, she overcomes the absolute tension in her legs and shuffles forward a few inches, doing her best to remain absolutely quiet. There’s now just vague rustling sounds as...whoever it is rummages through...whatever they’re doing. Part of her still wants to run screaming, but her curiosity about another person existing in this unreal reality is just a bit more convincing.

She peers down each aisle as gingerly as possible, finding each empty as she gets closer and closer to the noises. And with every step, the nerves in her gut wind tighter and tighter in apprehension. Could this be any more suspenseful?!

Finally, reaching the last aisle, she lets one eye look past a display of chips before withdrawing with a hint of a gasp.

They’re there! Whoever they are!

Calming her racing heart just enough, she then glances back around. An entire display of boxes - of what she can’t tell from here - has been completely obliterated, creating a huge spill of cardboard across the back corner of the store. And right in the middle of it is a person.

Clearly scavenging for certain types of...whatever those are, they stuff the occasional box into an oversized duffle bag slung over their shoulder. Seems someone else is making a supply run. Looking at another box, they weigh the option before tossing it nonchalantly.

...for some reason, that makes her frown.

Once the bag is full, however, the person in question starts heading back her way.

Panic.

Withdrawing and not knowing where to go, Hinata dances in place for a long moment before ducking behind a “pixelated” display of cases of soda depicting the local football team logo. From there, she watches as the stranger walks right past her.

He looks to be about her age. Messy dark hair, fair complexion, typical clothes of boys she’s seen at her highschool. But she doesn’t recognize him...not that she’d know everyone anyway, her school and city are pretty big. Or maybe he’s from out of town, passing through and gathering more supplies.

The possibilities are endless, and she’s only getting more curious.

Once he reaches the doors, he slings the bag to the floor and...picks up another one? Where’d he get all these things, anyway? Then back he comes, clearly on a second round as he ducks into another aisle.

Realizing she’s safe, Hinata makes to follow, creeping up to the same aisle.

Only to scream when he comes back out.

Seems he took a wrong turn.

To his credit, he doesn’t shout back. Rather, he stumbles back with a wheeze, going ghostly pale as Hinata manages to trip over her own feet and fall on her backside.

“P-please! Don’t kill me!” she cries, arms lifting to shield her face.

“W...what?”

Hearing his own panic, Hinata risks a glance. He just...stares at her in obvious confusion.

“...I...I thought, um…” Well now she’s embarrassed. Heat floods her face. “...it’s just been so...so long since I…?”

“Christ lady, you scared the shit out of me,” he then cuts in with a heavy sigh.

“S-sorry!”

“The hell were you doing?”

“Well, I...I came to get -?” Oh hell, that’s not important. “...I heard a noise, and...saw you. I haven’t seen another person in...in months. I wasn’t sure what to expect, I guess.”

“...you too, huh?”

She blinks.

“Everyone else just up and disappeared on you?”

“Y...yeah. I thought -?”

“You were the last person on earth?”

“...mhm.”

“Me too. But it seems there’s at least two of us. Which makes me wonder if there’s any more.”

“I honestly thought this was all some strange dream...maybe I just h-hit my head and fell into a coma.”

“Yeah, same here. But then I started getting hungry and no one but me was gonna feed me.” He gestures to his bag. “Hence a supply run.”

“Yeah, I...I know how those go.” After a pause, Hinata sheepishly gets back to her feet, posture withdrawn. “...I’m Hinata, by the way.”

“Sasuke. I’d say nice to meet you, but uh...kinda biased given your the first face I’ve seen in months.”

At that, she can’t help a giggle. “True. Still...I’m g-glad to know I’m not alone. Where do you live, if...you don’t mind me asking?”

“Like eight blocks west of here.”

“I’m three to the north.”

“Makes you wonder how we haven’t crossed paths until now, huh?”

“Yeah...weird.”

They fall into an awkward silence.

“...W-well, I...I better let you get back to…” Hinata gestures to his bag.

“Hey, you wanna share numbers?”

At that, she jolts. “... I -?”

“Just in case we want to talk or something. Not like we have anyone else to chat with, right? And we might need help at some point.”

“Oh...g-good point. Um…” Fiddling with her pockets, she pulls out her phone and trades her digits. “Sasuke, right?”

“Yeah. And Hinata?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool.” He tucks his mobile back into his sweatshirt. “Guess I’ll, er...talk to you later.”

“Guess so. Um...b-bye.” Giving a very awkward little wave, Hinata steps past him and just..scurries for the door, heart once again pounding in her chest as she hurries back up the road.

If...if this Sasuke guy is still here...who else could still be around? Suddenly everything she’s assumed for the past few months is thrown into doubt. A few blocks apart, and it took them this long to cross paths. How many more could there be…?

Or is it just them?

So shook up is she, Hinata doesn’t realize - until she’s back in her house, leaning wearily against her front door - that she didn’t actually get what she went out for.

...well...maybe next time.

She’s had enough excitement for one day.

     I have...no idea what this is kjdfdjhg just a cliche “last two people on Earth” idea that hit me completely out of nowhere xD The actual prompt has very little to do with it beyond never being revealed because...reasons.      (I dunno what she wanted, she wouldn’t tell me lol)      Anywho, I guess not...much else to say? Random piece is random, but hopefully still enjoyable! I need to start doing these at better times but I always write better at night...and today was busier than I expected. Take all my excuses :’D But on that note, I’ll see you guys later - thanks for reading!

[des8pudels8kern]

The Witcher, early after Posada, Geralt POV on how strange and impractical human limitations are.

------------

Humans baffled Geralt.

They, as a species, were tenacious, tough, ruthlessly enduring. They’d decimated the elves, when all but the youngest of elves were so much wiser and stronger than any human could ever hope to grow before they reached the peak of their short lives and waned again. They pushed into the most wild and hostile spaces and bend them to their will, drained swamps, redirected rivers, and created reservoirs, cleared entire forests and turned them into fields, built their own homes where they pleased with no regard to what had held claim to the land before them, and yet they were so helpless to stand against the creatures whose habitats they’d invaded that they turned to sorcery and experimentation and gave up some of their own children to twist into something altogether different and inhuman to fight the beasts for them.

Humanity had conquered the Continent, it owned it, and with each decade it fingers reached into more and more of the faraway corners where where the wild and the other had been holding out. They all lived under human rule, whether they already knew it or not.

And somehow, it had managed this while its members where all blatantly inadequate and unsuited for an existence under anything but a very specific set of circumstances.

They needed clothes to protect themselves from even moderate temperatures, and many of them simply froze to death each winter when the shelter of their stolen furs and artificial caves failed them. Snow blinded them, if they stared at it for too long. As did the sun, which also burned their skin until it blistered and peeled off their bodies. Neither were they suited for a nocturnal life, forever bumbling about and falling over their own feet under the light of the stars. They were slower than the prey they hunted, saw less, heard less, smelled less. Their stomach were weak, and most of the leaves, roots, and fruits around them poisoned them or needed to be dried and boiled and aged in a very specific manner to become palatable.

Geralt had known this, abstractly. He had been human and become a witcher, and he had known that made him stronger, his senses better, let him endure and persevere and recover, or even remain entirely unbothered, by that which slow, cripple or kill a human. He’d seen them slaughtered by monsters he himself could have fought with one hand behind his back, succumb to wounds he would heal from within days, had found campsites with the bodies of people who had died simply from being cold or picking the wrong kind of berries.

Humans brashly pushed themselves into places they didn’t belong, and then died when the wind blew the wrong way.

Nothing drove home the reality of this as traveling with Jaskier did.

Any sane being would have taken stock after their encounter with the elves in Posada, considered their bruised ribs and the bump on their head, their sore and blistered feet, and realized that they were not suited to life beside a witcher. Jaskier, with all the reckless bravado that was typical of his species and led so many of them to an early grave, merely saw that no one had been insane enough to try and claim Geralt for their own, and decided that meant he was free for the taking.

On the first day, he had declared himself Geralt’s barker.

By the first week, he named himself his trusted companion.

Within a month, he’d come to consider the space beside Geralt his home, the way all humans looked for the most hostile spot they could find to settle in it, willfully blind to that fact that it would be their grave.

Before the second month, Geralt had, without meaning to, started to compromise his Path for the sake of Jaskier’s limits, had begun to make allowances for him and look out for him, the way those higher up on the food chain sometimes did when some soft, big-eyed creature they could have snapped in two stubbornly followed them long enough and wailed at them, something about the creature’s demanding conviction that they would be taken care of slipping through reason and self-preservation until they did start to slow their step for the creature to keep up, did share the spoils of their hunt, did allow it to sleep next to them at night and burrow into their space, until it became as natural to look after the creature as it did to look after themselves, only more cumbersome, for the creature was so much softer than them.

With that acceptance came the worry.

Jaskier’s feet could bleed simply from walking all day, so Geralt’s days became shorter.

Half of what Geralt ate, out on the Path and both unwanted in human homes and unwilling to pay for overpriced dry bread and old stew when he could easily hunt and collect better fare for himself, Jaskier declined as unpalatable or downright poisonous, and of another quarter neither of them knew whether or not it would be safe for him to eat. Jaskier needed to buy farmed food, or time and light to forage and gather, so Geralt’s Path led through by farms and through villages he knew had no job for him, and they stopped well before last light.

He needed to spend almost a third of his hours asleep, in stark contrast to Geralt’s three or four hours a night that he could also easily skip twice in a row before exhaustion began to slow him down, so their long rests weren’t even spent productively looking for food or tending to their gear.

Jaskier trembled with cold, so easily. Even most summer nights required a blanket, and the colder ones a fire, to rest by, or he would shake and weaken to sickness, so Geralt kept the flames going all night when he previously wouldn't have bothered to pick up a single stick more than necessary to cook a rabbit. Where Geralt would trudge through rainfall and mud an entire day and night and day again and suffer nothing but discomfort, Jaskier wanted shelter and dry clothes with the first raindrop and needed them by nightfall at the latest, sooner if the wind blew cold through his sodden cloak, or, again, he would shake with cold and burn with sickness.

He could catch a fever from spending an hour in a village where someone was sick, fall ill from simply breathing near the wrong person, and how contradictory was it that humans were so ill-suited to survive outside their communities and yet also posed such a threat to each other.

It baffled Geralt, and it baffled him even more that he’d allowed to let himself be slowed and burdened like that.

That summer with Jaskier, Geralt walked the Path with a chattering ball and chain dragging at his leg. The relief was immense when the seasons turned, when Geralt’s Path led him north towards Kaer Morhen and Jaskier, affected more and more by the growing cold, decided to turn to west to seek a position at a minor court, releasing Geralt from the strange responsibility for his continued survival he’d somehow managed to place on Geralt’s shoulders.

But what baffled Geralt the most was how, in the following year, he picked up Jaskier’s scent one day in late spring and changed course to follow the trail, pace picking up at the prospect of rejoining Jaskier and placing that same burden of worry back on his shoulders.

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Day 8 of my 500 words a day challenge, 1226 words. I’m beginning to struggle with motivation - I know, strange to say that when I’ve for once forgotten my writing in during the day rather than in the evening. Tumblr’s continued refusal to show my posts in the tags frustrates me. If I write words and they don't appear in the tag, have the words truly been written?

Edit: Complaining helped, apparently - this one did show up in the tag! Maybe it’s a game of chance, like rolling a dice.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer Chapter 17: A Most Grievous Revelation

I walked around the giant serpent's body to enter the cavern, careful not to tread in it's blood with my bare feet.  Lukas's words hit home. He'd seen how strong I was and drew conclusions that were too close to a secret I wanted to keep hidden. 

I was a direct descendant of a dragon.

Previous Chapter

Go back to the Beginning

Here, on my own, with no one around, I would not have to hide that fact. This massive cave was just like the one under the sea of Japan, built for massive intelligent creatures. My tiny form was like a grain of sand in a cathedral. The entire hill had been hollowed out.

I no longer tried to block the voices in my head. I listened closely as they spoke to me in the dragon tongue. They were like the moans of someone talking in their sleep -- Fragments of sentences, each one independent of what came before or after. What was a common thread was the feeling of distress.

I opened my eyes. The space, dark to human eyes, was bright as day in my dragon's sight. Creatures infected by the dragon's influence slithered and crawled on the walls. They hissed and snarled and snapped at me. Their eyes glowed in the dark. They bared their sharp teeth. 

 But they were servitors.  

I raised my chin and opened my mouth. "Go away."

The cave went abruptly silent. I walked right past them, looking down at them under my eyelashes. They couldn't meet my eyes, cringing away from me.

At the end of the cave, I saw it. The dragon that was talking in its sleep.

It was surrounded by machines and computers that were still running. A gigantic apparatus held it suspended in the air over a chasm.

I walked as close as I could, standing at the edge of the cliff. I said what I always did before dragons.

"Eternal Cycle." I said in clear draconic.

"Unity In All Things." The song I heard in the tower in Japan came to mind and I began to sing the words.

"Self-sufficiency."

The dragon's sleep talk went silent. It's spiritual presence filled my mind.

"Ouroboros…?" An after-image of the sleeping beast separated itself from its limp body. "What wakes you?"

"The return of the Light King." I said. I settled on to the stone floor dangling my legs over the edge.

"Chaos… Destruction… Madness…" Its voice drifted in and out of my mind.

"Then why wake him?" I asked.

"No… not Light King…. The Abomination…"

"A Hybrid…? Do you know their name?" I tilted my head.

"Wishes to be a dragon…"

"Who does…? Show me!"

The ghostly after image continued to it's incoherent mumbling. "Disgusting.. sacrilege… The Light King… may he die…" The sound ended in a gutteral moan and vibrated painfully through my skull.

The after-image dissolved. I got the feeling that the last of the dragon's spirit had left the cave.

I sat in reverent silence, mulling the words in my head. How could a human become a dragon? I was dwarfed by this beast. My father was ten times his size!

I gathered my feet under me and moved to the computers. I tried to see if they were still connected to the internet.

They were not. I stared into my reflection. My eyes were burning yellow.

The sun was coming up sending light into the cave entrance. Carrion birds were finding the dragon serpent's body. They were tearing chunks out of it. I could sense the dragon's blood entering their bodies, corrupting them.

I stayed in the cave, eyes closed, comfortable in the presence of the dragon corpse, spending time with that inhuman side of myself. I could feel my own body reacting, twisting towards it, like a flower turned to the sun. The serpent's blood soaking my clothes was not helping matters. I wasn't afraid of turning servitor any more. If I felt it got to be too much, I used the ability granted to me by my father to suppress it. The closer I got to the dragon’s side the more I understood what I was told about blood purity, a speaking spirit and spiritual visions.

My body was human, my mind and soul were a whole other matter. This dragon spirit did not recognize me as human or hybrid. He called me by my name. He knew where I was from. Is there any wonder then that no human name ever felt right? It was only when a dragon called that I felt like myself.

I waited for a good stretch of time, looking down into the chasm. I sang the simple dragon melody, seven notes to fit the seven syllables of each word. I imagined myself as a winged ivory serpent curved in on myself, pursuing my own tail. I reached up to my dragon’s scale. “Self-Sufficiency…”

I felt a familiar presence. I’m no longer alone here. I lifted my head, eyes wide. I mentally questioned who it was and immediately received a reply from the visitor’s spirit.

The figures coming toward me were far away, small and swallowed by the light in the entrance of the cave. But I wasn't relying on my ordinary sight.

It was his spirit that I felt. I lifted myself to my feet, squinting to see. As the recognition became more solid, joy rose in my heart like a sun.

It was Johann. I could tell by his tall silhouette. It was Lu and Caesar and Nono. They were here. They were all here!

As soon as he saw me, Lu rushed forward and locked me into a crushing hug. My fingers curled against his back. I buried my face into the fold of his jacket.

"Lu! Mind the cliff!" Nono scolded him.

"Is it really you?" He pulled back to look at my face.

I could only give him a tearful nod.

"But how? How did you survive!" His big brown eyes filled with happy tears that ran down his face. He was a little mess, sniffling like that!

I opened my mouth to answer but then stopped, my smile fading. 

I couldn’t tell him.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady." Caesar approached me next, his tone a mock scolding. He took my hand examining my fingers. “You didn’t turn servitor after all. Mingfei… I think we all owe you an apology.”

I shook my head. “No, it… its fine. Don’t regret what happened. It turned out alright in the end.” I tried to pull my hand out of his but he held on.

“Explain.” 

“I found another door. That’s how I ended up here.”

Nono who had been standing there in astonishment, came to my rescue, slapping his hand away. “Are you really going to interrogate now?” She put her hand on her hip, “Well, I’m happy I don’t have to regret recruiting you, Miss No-name.”

"How did you know to come here?" I wiped my tears away.

"We monitor signs of draconic activity. With an earthquake this strong in an area not prone to them, we were sent to investigate." He was looking up at the massive dragon corpse.

"Even now you’re so expressionless?" Nono said with a knowing grin. She turned to me. "Johann didn't believe you survived. He got really emotional about it. Don't let his facade fool you." 

I looked over at him, he was only half looking at me and but after a moment he turned to me. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

"And I shouldn't have survived… to be honest. I got lucky"

“Why didn’t you come back to Cassell?”

“There was no way to communicate.” I said, surprising myself with how easily I could tell a half-truth. “Besides, it worked out. I was able to save some children who were being experimented on. Someone’s trying to revive the Light King and turn Hybrids into dragons.”

Shifting the focus of the conversation, I looked up at the big dragon corpse. “The earthquake revealed the entrance to this cave.”

I told myself to stop talking even though I wanted to spill my guts right then and there. I didn't like how fast Lukas picked up that there was something different about me. I didn't like how I was treated like an object and even hunted for who I was and what I could do.

Fortunately, this seemed to satisfy Caesar, “We’ll contact Schneider to secure the site.” 

Caesar turned to Johann. “Mind catching her up?”

The two exchanged glances and unspoken words.

Johann came to me. “Let’s go outside.”

It was a warm and humid day. I had to hold my nose against the stench of the dragonkin serpent. “Ugh…”

“Did you do that?” He asked. 

“I had help. In fact I should probably get back to them and let them know you’re here.” I looked up at him. “So… I’ve must have missed a lot.”

Once we were some distance away, we stopped under a large tree. I sighed.

Johann’s expression was completely unreadable, schooled into that doe-like blank look,  but he was watching me intently.  “How long have you been here?”

“I lost track of time, to be honest.”

“It’s been nearly six months.” He answered me. "Cassell College Japan Division. They broke away from us. Hydra is what they call themselves now. They accused us of working with the Devil Clan, after they found records of you in their possession."

My gaze shifted around trying to think of a plausible story. Failing to do so, I simply said, “I see.”

“You’re not going to explain?” He turned to more fully face me.

I turned away from him. “It’s hard to explain. I’d rather not. But the truth is, I didn’t like how they were being treated. I wanted to find a cure for them, so I rescued a few of the children so they wouldn’t die.” I sighed. “Sorry I made you worry…”

“I don’t worry about the dead.” He said, “I just… miss them.”

“I missed you too.” I chewed my lip, chest tightening with anxiety. “Did you hear about someone named Ruri?”

He looked at me in mild surprise. “Oh. So you’ve met.”

“Yeah, he was the one who helped me get the kids out. Please tell me he’s not dead.”

“He’s not.” 

“Thank goodness… that’s a weight off. I owe him everything for making this possible. I would have been gutted if it cost him his life.” I walked over to sit next to the tree trunk.

Johann settled next to me, eying the entrance to the cave. I tapped his shoulder. “Hey, am I going to be in trouble?”

“You weren’t in full control of yourself when all this got started. You barely had an opportunity to start classes. They might keep a tight rein on you from now on, but I wouldn’t expect any punishment.” He sat quietly for another second. “But you’ll need to speak with Anjou.”

I twined my fingers together, guilt rising. “He wasn’t responsible. What happened to me, had to happen.”

He turned to me, his golden eyes staring straight into mine. “Is that what you really believe?”

“When I say 'it had to happen', what I mean is… I just have to keep looking forward. Try to make things better in the future. If I hadn’t been on that mission, you would have failed in it. Don’t blame Anjou.”

He kept staring at me after that. 

“I remember. Our conversation in Japan. You were upset at him.” Did he not remember?

He let out a breath and looked away.

“Hey…” I reached up to tap his shoulder again. “I was there for a reason, remember?”

“That’s why I wanted to save the kids. When I found out in Japan what happened to unstable hybrids there, I couldn’t just let that continue. They deserve a happy childhood, just like I had.”

“I’m not sure if Cassell will take them but Robbie and Mom are used to dealing with difficult cases and don’t turn away anyone so long as they’re not like… a total sex offender or something.”

Johann let out a little breath and dropped his eyes. “Cassell will take them.”

I pursed my lips to one side. “Cassell is a College. It’s not for little kids.”

“There’s no alternative.”

I huffed. “No alternative?”

“The house where you used to live is gone. It burned down.”  His eyes flickered with emotion behind them. “Robbie and Mom are dead. So are all the children.”

I inhaled sharply, the words piercing me straight through. I stared, flash frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe or think.  Johann forced himself to look at me. I could tell because of the tension in his shoulders, his hands curling against the ground.

Breathing returned in little huffs. Something inside said that I should do something, say something. Ask a question. What? How? Why? Was he serious? He was always serious.

I needed to stand up, walk away, get away. Johann reached out and grabbed my arm.

“I can walk.” Anger flared at him pulling away. He didn’t let me go.  I looked at him up and down. Who did he think he was?

“Meixiu…”

“What?” I said, eyes glittering with tears of anger.

“That was the name I wanted to give you. I’ve called you that… ever since.”

Even though I had said I would accept any name he gave me, in his moment, it set me on edge. At this moment, I wanted nothing more to be called Babydoll, the nonsense name that Robbie gave me.

The tears spilled over.  Johann quickly moved to support me. Sinking me back to the floor, I whimpered. “Was there a funeral?” Convulsing breaths came in uncontrollable waves.

“Yes.” He replied.

“I didn’t get to go…” The moan cascaded, taking me with it in an avalanche. 

I was sorry.

Sorry that I left them at the start. Sorry that I couldn’t control myself. I didn’t call enough. I was sorry that I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could make the world a better place. When in the end, everything I did was wrong. Everything I thought, wrong. 

And it cost them their lives.

Grief constricted like a serpent, pulled me down in its current and only let me breathe after I had no more air left to cry with. The loud, prolonged, mournful apologies echoed, howling like ghosts in the empty field, out the open air. But the people who needed to hear them never would. 

It went on so long，I got scared that it would last forever. I couldn't stop until every drop of strength was wrung out, until breathing hurt, until I didn't have it in me to move at all. And even then, it was like acid in my stomach, searing from the inside out.

Spent, I leaned against his shoulder, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade. If only he had used it against me from the start.

I watched him slowly take my hand off it, looking at me.  “We’ve all been here. Don’t worry. We won’t leave you alone.”

He didn’t cry with me. His sadness was more like a deep shadow in his eyes. When he said he’d been here. I believed him.

We settled into an agonizingly long wait. My hand would reflexively tighten against his arm when I felt the tears coming or when the pain too strong to hide. If I hurt him, he showed no sign of it bothering him, something I appreciated.

Hollowed out, my restless spirit searched desperately for something to do, for something to say. It circled the inside of my mind: Through memories of home, through my actions, second guessing everything from then until the present. In the present, there was nothing to do but wait and in the future… I couldn’t even bear to think about it.

Finally, my spirit concluded that there was nothing I could do. My mind relaxes, settling into a sad stillness. 

“What time is it?”

Johann checked his phone. “It’ll still be a couple hours before our transport arrives.”

“Do you have any signal?” 

“Yes.”

“...can we listen to some music?”

“Sure… what?”

“Every Time We Say Goodbye… Ella Fitzgerald.”

Next Chapter

author’s note:  美秀 Pronounced may-show