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everparanoid · 6 months ago

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Depths of Eternity Left Behind

Satoru Gojo x Sorcerer fem! Reader

On October 1st, 2018, you find Gojo crying in an empty classroom and you try to comfort him.

A story in which you are a Grade One sorcerer working alongside Gojo who falls in love with the man behind the overconfident bravado, but can't seem to get close enough to reach him beyond the limitless infinity that separates you.

cw: Canon compliant. Major Character death, Canon Typical Violence, Suggestive Content, Mentions of Pegging and Petplay, Mentions of death, Fluff, Angst. Major Spoilers for Manga, JJk 0 and season 2.

Word Count: 6.3k

Minors Do Not Interact

Spoilers below.

October 31st, 2018. Summary of the Notice from Jujustu Headquarters

Suguru Geto’s Survival was confirmed. We hereby declare the reinstatement of his death sentence.

2. You and Satoru Gojo have been deemed accomplices in the Shibuya Incident and are hereby expelled from Jujutsu society. Following your confirmed death in Shibuya, you are to be wiped from all records. In addition, any attempt to free Satoru Gojo from his seal will be deemed a crime.

3. Masamichi Yaga is sentenced to death for inciting you, Satoru Gojo, and Suguru Geto, causing the Shibuya Incident.

4. The suspension on Yuji Itadori’s death sentence is hereby revoked, and his execution shall be carried out promptly.

5. Special-grade sorcerer Yuta Okkotsu shall be appointed as Yuji Itadori’s executioner.

October 1st, 2018. Tokyo prefecture, Tokyo Jujutsu High School 30 days before The Shibuya Incident

“Sensei, good evening,” Itadori called out to you.

You had poked your head out of the door when you heard the young trio returning from their day out in the city. “Itadori, have you seen Gojo?”

Halting, Itadori’s face contorted in thought. “Gojo sensei?” His arms were filled with shopping bags, presumably Nobara’s. You wondered how his arms hadn’t given out from the amount he was carrying, but you supposed the vessel of the king of curses was a special breed. “Isn’t he on a mission?”

You cursed under your breath. “I thought he would be with you guys,” you said. “Yaga told me he returned earlier today.”

“Knowing him, he’s probably slacking off somewhere.” Nobara rolled her eyes, gesticulating languidly.

Itadori smacked his fist onto his open palm, jostling the bags still hanging off his forearms. “Have you checked--?”

“I’ll call him,” Megumi interrupted, quick to bring out his phone. His fingers dashed over the screen bringing up Gojo’s number.

You waved dismissively. If the kids hadn’t seen Gojo then something was wrong and calling him probably would ruin any chance of you had figuring out what it was. Gojo had a way of masking his problems in front of the kids. “No need, Fushiguro.”

Megumi lowered his phone. “Are you sure?”

“He is around here somewhere.” You smiled. “You guys have a nice rest of your evening.” You slid the door closed.

You found Gojo in one of the sparsely furnished classrooms. He sat slumped, his long legs man-spread, his head resting on the backrest of the chair, and his blindfold on. The setting sunlight pouring in through the open window bathed his white hair in a gentle orange glow.

You didn’t know if he knew that you were there. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge you. It was rare to catch the blindfolded man unaware—ever since the incident with the star plasma vessel and Toji Fushiguro all those years ago his defences had been ironclad. And yet there you were watching the strongest man you knew break.

His cries were hollow sounding. Too frail to be considered sobs of pain, but strong enough to express the tip of an iceberg of agony. From being in its presence, you felt an iota of the weight he carried on his shoulders.

It was fifty-fifty whether your presence would make him raise his guard again, putting on the front of the bubbly jester entertaining the court. However, you couldn’t just stand by and watch him cry.

When was the last time that he was told it was okay to be weak? When was he allowed to be anything other than the strongest?

Gojo was the strongest, that was a known fact. One accepted by everyone in the jujutsu world, even by the overconfident man himself. He was born into strength; it was his birthright.

Throughout the heavens and earth, he alone was the honoured one.

You knew this. It’s not like anyone would ever let you forget. It was why you both agreed you couldn’t be anything more than what you were. It was what kept your worlds apart despite how much you wanted to be a part of his.

Gojo is the strongest.

Other’s words echoed around your head like a mantra.

He was never weak. He could never lose. He was never afraid. He was Satoru Gojo. Six eyes; limitless; idiot; pain in the ass; love of your life… the strongest.

And he was alone, you reminded yourself.

//July 2007

“Is that Satoru?” you asked, watching the usually aloof teen training alone on the fields. It was a hot day in July at Jujutsu High. Hotter than it had been over the last week, and so instead of wasting away in a classroom you’d buddied with Shoko to sit outside near the training grounds.

Shoko hummed in affirmation from beside you. With focused hands, she filled her cigarette paper with tobacco, holding the filter between her lips. She didn’t need to look up to know where you were looking.

“Is he okay?” you asked.

“When is he not okay?” With dainty fingers, she rolled her cigarette. “Fuck this, I’m just going to buy pre-rolled next time,” she said. She licked the edge of the paper, sealing the cigarette. “Come with me later.”

“Sure,” you said absently, your attention failing to leave Gojo. Shoko could have asked you to rob a Konbini and you would have agreed. “He’s been doing a lot of missions alone since the failure of Tengen’s Star Plasma vessel mission... I haven’t even seen him hang out with Suguru.” Or me, but you don’t say that. This wasn’t about you. Even though you had been just as close with the two as they were with each other; not to the same strength level and ability to throw down, still, it was always the three of you—and Shoko occasionally.

Shoko shrugged, lighting her cigarette. “They’re big boys, they can work separately.” She took a drag. “Besides, I can’t imagine him needing backup anymore. Anyone else would be a hindrance.”

You outwardly agreed but couldn’t shake the thought that even the strongest person needed support. And Suguru was his right-hand man. They were inseparable like two sides of the same coin—yin and yang; only imbalance came if one existed without the other. It felt wrong seeing them apart. “Still—I should go and check on him.”

“Don’t,” Shoko said.

You stopped mid-way into getting up and looked back at her. “Why not?”

“Because asking Gojo to open up is like extracting blood from a rock,” Shoko monotoned. She crossed her left leg over the right and leaned back, taking another drag.

“Rocks don’t bleed,” you said.

“Exactly, rocks are weapons.” She tipped her head to the side. “That’s why you’re better off not going to him. Unless you want to be the one hurt, and news flash, I can’t reverse heartbreak.”

You looked away, guilt-ridden. It wasn’t a secret that you were in love with Gojo.

“Besides your form of empathy is about as kind as a slap,” Shoko added.

You hesitated. She had a point. You cast your gaze between Shoko and Gojo in the distance, divided. He whipped a pale hand across his sweaty forehead, his focus undisturbed. He looked tired, determined, and way out of your league.

“Fine, I’ll check on Suguru,” you said, grabbing your bag.

Shoko shook her head. “Out.”

“Again?”

“He’s on a mission alone.”

Alone.

The word rippled through you.

“Couldn’t one of us have gone along with him?” you asked. “We are here too.”

She coughed out a bitter laugh. “And I’ll what? Heal his mouth after he successfully does his job? He’ll be fine.” She stood and placed a hand on your shoulder, taking a final puff in the process. She blew out the smoke. “Like I said, they’re big boys. They’re just licking their wounds right now.”

You watched as she dropped the cigarette butt and stumped out its orange glow with her shoe.

“They’ll be fine,” she said. “Trust me.”

/October 1st, 2018

You often forgot that Satoru was a human too. If you let the words of others, and even the words of the man himself poison you, you too might have been able to ignore that key detail. The only thing that worked to remind you that it was Gojo shouldering the responsibility of the world.

Throughout the heavens and earth, Gojo alone was the honoured one.

Alone.

He would always be alone. He was always alone. Amongst a crowd of people, he was alone. When he was with his students, he was alone. When he was with you and his other colleagues, he was alone. When he was in your bed on the odd times you both were able to sleep in each other’s arms after months of back-to-back missions—he was still alone.

It troubled you.

Despite being whatever you both were—bed buddies? Colleagues with benefits? Star-crossed lovers? You still couldn’t truly reach him. Nor could you fathom the depths of his loneliness or how heavy the head was that wore the thorned crown. It must have been agonising to be seen and acknowledged but not levelled. To be put on a throne you didn’t ask for and wield its power at unsatisfying levels against things that could only at best be considered insects, excruciating even. You imagined it was like holding back a scream of agony after losing a cherished one. Suppressing everything for the sake of not setting the world on fire—to not become the enemy.

But Gojo had no enemies.

//December 24th, 2017

The sky was a deep azure gradating with the orange sunset forming pink and purple stained clouds the day Suguru Geto died. The stars were clear in the sky, and the air was crisp and fresh. It was a new day. Yet in those hours before so much had happened. So many had fought to stop the person you once called your friend. So many years of friendship, years of sitting in classrooms and shaking your head as he and Gojo goaded each other; years of catching the rebounds of their hoop sessions in the sports hall and laughing with them when they returned from their missions—were gone in a matter of hours.

It was just another day. Insignificant. Unsatisfying. There was no big bang, no screaming and shouting. It was just over.

You hadn’t been there when Suguru died. You hadn’t heard his last words or seen his face when Gojo killed him. You didn’t get to see his smile again or hear his soft-spoken voice—the same one he’d use when he’d pat your head and call you kind for trying to stop his and Gojo’s fights, but ended up adding fuel to the raging fire because it was fun to watch Gojo pout. You hadn’t heard any of it, but Gojo had.

And he was alone.

“He’s gone,” Gojo said closing the door to the room in the morgue where Suguru’s corpse lay. You caught a glimpse of Shoko adjusting her gloves and pulling the sheet over his face before you were completely cut off. “He won’t hurt anyone anymore,” Gojo said, his voice steady and empty.

“’Toru,” you said weakly, his nickname meek sounding on your lips.

He looked down at you, his lips pulled into a tight line like he was suppressing everything he wanted to say. If you could have seen his eyes behind the blindfold you were sure they were just as troubled. But you couldn’t because Gojo never showed weakness.

He is the strongest.

“I should have stopped him before—” he gulped, his fist clenching at his side. “I should have been there. I could have—.”

“Could have what?” you interjected. “Could have saved him? Could have talked him out of insanity?” You scoffed. “No, you couldn’t.” You knew it was the wrong time for tough love, especially when Gojo had willingly opened up to you, but you couldn’t meet him on his level. Your emotions were running too high—and you hated rehashing the past. And that’s all his words were doing for you. Restating not Gojo’s failure, but your own. “He killed his parents. He wiped out an entire village of people. He was prancing around like some born-again Buddha with an almighty saviour complex spouting nonsense about monkeys and mass genocide.”

Gojo remained still. He had no funny remarks or stupid grin. He was a ghost of himself. Before this in your eyes, Gojo Satoru had died once. It was after he returned from failing Tengen’s star plasma protection mission. And he never fully returned. It was like he was teetering on the edge; neither here nor there.

You knew he knew that you were right.

You were rarely wrong.

They’ll be fine, trust me.

You didn’t blame Shoko, or Gojo, or even Yaga. You blamed yourself. You should have been there for your friends. You could have been there for them… both of them. But you weren’t. You were too weak. You weren’t Gojo or Suguru. You were you. Just another Grade One sorcerer growing alongside two Special Grade giants—watching them race on ahead and crash and burn without even attempting to catch up and put out the flames.

You didn’t have time to filter the words vomiting out of your mouth. “What? Do you think you could have brought him along on all those missions with you back then after Riko? Like he could have worked alongside you when you were acting like everyone was a burden?” You stood, pointing a single finger into his chest—not bothering to question that he was allowing you to touch him. That in front of you he had let his limitless technique down. He had met you midway and let you into his world just like you wanted, all because you were one of the last people he had whom he believed somewhat understood him beyond the bravado. “Have you forgotten that you alone are the strongest Satoru, not you and Suguru? Just you. And the moment that imbalance came—the moment you both realised that you were no longer equals—was when you could never have stopped him. If anything, you would have pushed him there faster.”

You dropped yourself back into your chair, burying your head in your hands. Tears fell quicker than you could stop them. And so, you let them and felt them soak your dark clothes.

Gojo didn’t attempt to comfort you or say anything for the matter. Instead, he stood over you as you sobbed—letting your tears slide off his loafers.

When your tears let up, and you finally were able to hear yourself think again you noticed the puddles on and around his shoes. You hadn’t known he was still there—that he had stood and let you say all of that to him, and not said a single word. Your eyes trailed slowly up his long legs, to his relaxed hands, his chest, and up to his blank blindfolded face, emotionless.

Dread incensed you, made your mouth dry and your eyes even drier. Guilt had you recalling everything and letting go of all your misplaced anger.

You’d said too much. He’d let you touch him, and you threw everything back in his face. All because of your selfish guilt.

“Satoru.” You didn’t miss how he flinched slightly at the word. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of that. I am just upset. It’s not your fault.”

“No,” he said. “You’re right.”

His smile unnerved you; told you that you had fucked up.

“Throughout the heavens and earth, I alone am the honoured one.”

You went to touch his hand but were stopped inches away by his limitless technique. “Toru,” you pleaded, wishing that you could take it all back. That you could go back to who you both were before the world tore you all to shreds.

His fists clenched. “Only me,” he said.

And for the second time since you’d known him, Gojo Satoru died again.

/October 1st, 2018

“I know you’re there,” he said.

You straightened, pushing off the door frame you took a hesitant step into the empty classroom. You had been so lost in thoughts that you didn’t realise he had stopped crying and had lifted his head, watching you through the blindfold.

Gojo lifted the rim of his mask. His unearthly blue eyes were tinged red around the edges and deep bags framed them. He gave you a weak smile—the gesture not leaving his lips. “You spyin’ on me?”

His tone didn’t hit when he looked so drained.

You slid the door closed behind you. You didn’t know why you did it. Perhaps you thought that some privacy would allow him the space to lower his guard. As if the flimsy sliding door could shut out the rest of the world, and let you in. “I came to check on you, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Check on me?” It hurt you how foreign those words sounded on his lips. He tilted his head, his already smiling lips pulling into a larger grin. “Did you miss me that much?”

You suppressed a frown. “Of course not, stupid.”

Missing would have been an understatement. Worried was more like it. Worried and pitied.

He laughed; the sound was a relief to your ears. Even if it was fake, you decided that seeing Gojo laugh was better than seeing him cry. You loved his laugh—his smile. You wondered how you could protect it. But the strongest didn’t need protecting. The strongest protected everyone else. That was his purpose. That was what he did.

Satoru Gojo alone was the honoured one.

“You love me,” he teased unaware of how true those words rang.

You did love him like how a sunflower loves the sun.

“When was the last time you slept?” You deflected.

“You sayin’ I look like shit?” He stretched his arms above his head, lifting out of his laid-back position. “Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t insult shit,” you said seriously.

He laid his head back again, lowering his blindfold over his eyes. “I was sleeping.”

You raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

You stood between his legs. “You can talk to me.”

He remained silent.

“Or not, we can just be in silence. It’s nice not hearing you speak for once,” you continued, lightening the mood. Unfortunately, your best way of comforting people was not comforting at all. If past events hadn’t been an indicator, you’d never been good with empathy, and you didn’t claim to be. Most of the time you avoided heavy conversations because of how awkward it would be to not relate to or understand any of what was being said to you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to but if you had a choice you would choose to not participate. Unless it was for Gojo and once upon a time, Suguru too.

Gojo was like you in that sense, well you thought Gojo was like you, but it turned out you were completely wrong on that front. The selfish man was the most empathetic person in the world. Who else could understand the burdens of these young sorcerers and vessels but the tool of the jujutsu world himself? He was thrust into a life of assassination attempts and responsibility from the day he was conceived after all.

//August 2018.

Principal Yaga gave you a curt nod as he passed you in the corridor. He was exiting the faculty room leaving you to enact your perfect plan on Gojo. It was a simple prank.

An easy one.

You had to wait for him to be mid-conversation with his guard down. This meant ignoring his texts enough that he would be too busy spamming your phone with inappropriate messages and stickers, to notice you sneak in outside of his field of vision to surprise attack him from behind. It was nothing compared to the horrors he’d pulled on you this week. Gojo had taken to pranking you, so it was only fair to return the favour.

You weren’t playful often. You tried to present yourself as the dependable stable one out of you and Gojo for the kid’s sake, and the rest of the faculty's sake too. However, sometimes the man tickled your nerves just enough to have you unable to do anything else but retaliate. This happened to be one of those times. You had no malicious intent aside from the crippling desire to avenge yourself because unlike Gojo you weren’t trying to embarrass him in front of the kids. Yours would just be a little jump scare.

You darted forward, your arms open wide to capture him from behind only to fall smack bang into thin air, frozen by the pressure of the limitless space between the two of you. Being this close, you noticed the fine hairs on his neck standing on end like a startled cat.

Was Gojo afraid?

“Failed,” he said cooly, stepping forward and releasing you from his invisible hold. “Ya should’ve tried a different approach.”

“How did you?” you asked, your words falling off.

He spun to look at you “Back shot? really? I know you can do better. If you wanted to peg me you could have just asked. I’d buy the strap-on and everything so ya don’t have to worry your pretty little head.”

You went to wack him but his limitless once again halted you. “It was going to be a hug, you freak.” You lowered your hand. “Besides, I’m sure you were shit scared just then—admit it.”

Gojo laughed and squeezed your cheeks, pulling and stretching your face like playdough. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m not,” you swat his hands away.

“You didn’t respond to any of my texts,” he said. His hand traced down your face before lifting your chin to look at his masked eyes. “Now that you’re here though, you can answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Are we on for tonight?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you held your focus refusing to give him another thing to annoy you with. “You’re really not going to explain why you’re sitting in the faculty office with limitless on? Utahime isn’t even here to throw stuff at you,” you deflected.

He wrapped his other arm around you, bringing you into a hold that was too intimate for school grounds. With a dip of his head, he brushed his lips over yours. When you went to kiss back, he pulled back, smirked, and then dipped down again. You couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy kissing Gojo. Any woman in their right mind would die to be in your position—fuck it, you over ten years ago would have died to be here too; alone with this gorgeous man. However, not even his lips or his curious hand slipping under your shirt and clasping your bra could distract you enough from the fact that even in an empty faculty room he was on guard; waiting for an attack—for something to disrupt his peace.

He broke the kiss, your residue lip gloss glistened on his lips. “I’m going to need compensation later for the emotional damage your failed assassination attempt caused me. PTSD is real you know.”

He manhandled your face with the hand still caressing your chin. The door opened and Nanami entered with a mug in his hands and a newspaper tucked under his arm. Gojo let you go at least letting you save some face. You reclasped your bra bashfully.

You brushed off your clothes. “Nanami.”

Nanami greeted you in return, setting his coffee on the coffee table and sitting on one of the adjacent sofas.

“Na-na-mi! Aren’t ya just the most respected man I was looking for? What do ya say we hang out for a bit and talk about the social and political state of the world?” Gojo grinned.

The stiff ex-salary man’s response was immediate. “No.” His attention moved to Gojo, who wore your gloss like a trophy.

Gojo turned to you and shrugged, sticking his tongue out comically.

You shook your head, wishing he would give the other man a break. Not everyone had a high threshold for Gojo’s buffoonery, and Nanami was one of those people.

“How about we go to this bakery they sell good kikufuku and we could—” Gojo tried again.

“No.” Nanami opened his newspaper.

“But—”

“Have you considered putting a leash on him?” Nanami asked you.

Gojo snapped his fingers. “Kinky, I like the way you think, Nanami. I’ll buy a leash and collar whilst we’re in town—it’ll be perfect for tonight.” He draped an arm over your shoulders and leaned down till his lips brushed the shell of your ears. “Would you like to be my pet?”

“I think Nanami was implying that you should control yourself,” you muttered, your body tense. You feared not only was Gojo probably serious, but he also now had discovered another avenue in which to stroke his raging God complex.

“But it would be more fun to control you,” he said.

Flabbergasted, you shoved him—well you tried to.

Gojo stepped back his arms up in surrender and limitless once again on. He laughed menacingly. “I’ll take that as yes.”

Nanami cleared his throat, aggressively.

“I’ll get you a cute blue collar to match my eyes,” Gojo said to you. “I know how much you love them. That way when I am fucking you, you’ll know who you belong to.”

Your eyes widened. “You—”

Both disturbed and visibly disgusted, Nanami closed his paper, picked up his coffee, and evacuated the room.

Gojo gave you a fleeting kiss on your temple. “Na-na-mi! Wait for me.” He strode off after his junior, abandoning you in the faculty room. “I wasn’t done asking you whether you think this shirt makes my butt look too big. Hey! We’re going into town remember. Don’t ignore me! Na-na-mi~!”

/ October 1st, 2018.

Gojo’s chest shook gently as he inaudibly laughed.

You went to take a step back deciding that you had been out of your mind asking Gojo to open up to you, only to be stopped by his legs closing against your thighs trapping you in place.

“You tryna leave me?” he asked.

“You weren’t speaking.”

“You said ya liked my silence,” Gojo said.

You scoffed. “I didn’t realise that now would be the time you would decide to take someone else’s advice besides your own.”

He raised his head to look at you, mask still in place over his eyes. “I always listen to other people’s advice; I just don’t always take it. And today happened to be a good day for silence.” He raised a finger, pointing upwards. “Can ya hear that?”

You stopped, waiting to hear something out of the ordinary. You looked around the classroom taking in the empty wooden space before turning back to see that stupid big smile once again on his moisturized lips.

“So not only are you taking other people’s advice but you’re also lying?” You shook your head. “That’s a new low even for you, Toru.”

He pouted and reached his arms around you pulling your hips forward. He hugged you like a koala, his head resting on your lower abdomen. “I’m just playing with you.”

“Play with someone else, you’ve expended my nice quota for the day.” You tried to wiggle out of his grasp. “Let me go.”

Gojo held you tighter. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

You halted your actions. “For what?” you asked breathlessly. You didn’t need to ask, and he didn’t need to tell you for you both to know what he meant. Your hands remained by your side too afraid to touch him. Too afraid to do anything that might freak you both out and break whatever emotional domain you’d locked yourselves in.

“I’m going to die one day,” he said softly. “And I’ll remember this moment when death comes.”

You don’t speak; afraid that he’ll stop if you do.

You imagined the thought of his death soothed him in a way. It was the final frontier, and in both your line of work, it meant that you had been defeated. Bested. Beaten at your own game. It meant that you’d given your all and, in the end, it just wasn’t enough. That you as a warrior had fought with all you might and come out the loser. You’d tried. You’d been tested and you’d finally been chosen unworthy. You imagined that despite how much his words hurt you to consider, the thought of death at the hands of someone stronger than him would be an honour. A blessing. It would be the moment when Gojo Satoru, the enlightened one, finally could be human.

After all, death was the ultimate leveller—the unequivocal equalizer.

His grip loosened slightly as he relaxed his weight against you. “Then I’ll be allowed to rest without regrets,” he said. You don’t miss the end of the statement although it is whispered barely in hearing range. “And maybe I’ll be able to greet you both again on the same level, finally.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in all that?” you asked.

He chuckled. “A guy can dream, right?”

// December 24th, 2018

“Satoru,” Suguru says, a bright smile on his youthful face. He appears to be about sixteen. “Long time no see.” He is sitting a seat away from Satoru in his jujutsu uniform.

“Blegh!” A younger Gojo coughs shooting forward in his seat. The force of the action causes his circular glasses to slide down his nose.

“You couldn’t have held on a little longer?” a younger you asks, sitting beside him, also in your uniform. “I was rooting for you to make it, so, I could at least decay in my grave a bit more. Don’t tell me you missed me or something?”

Suguru calls out your name. “That’s not very kind of you, you didn’t even let him land.”

“He’s the one who hasn’t let me land. I only died in Shibuya less than two months ago. At least you got a year to compose yourself accordingly.”

Suguru nods in defeat, his smile remaining.

“Currently dying again here,” Gojo says between coughing fits.

You and Suguru pat Gojo’s back.

“You’re kidding me this sucks,” Gojo says. He slumps back in the chair, sighing. He doesn’t spare either you or Suguru a glance, seemingly annoyed.

Suguru hunches over and shakes his head. “Pretty rude thing to say right after seeing someone’s face.” He shoots you an exasperated look.

You respond with an unsurprised lift of your shoulder.

Gojo scrunches his face. “I’ve always told my students.” He raises his fingers in quotation marks. “‘When you die, you’ll die alone.’ So please tell me this is just some ridiculous dream.”

You snort.

“Does it matter?” Suguru says.

“There’s nothing you can do about it either way,” you add, pulling his ear. “We are all dead either way, stupid.”

He swats your hand away and scratches his head. “No shit.” He looks perplexed. “Fuck, and there’s still all that stuff with his dad.”

“Megumi’s?” you ask. You’d sort of presumed he knew. “Thought you’d said you wanted to die without regrets?”

Gojo looks up at the high airport ceiling thoughtfully. “I asked Shoko to handle it.”

“Of course, you did,” you whisper. “Always a step ahead.”

A wistful smile appears on his lips. “Always.”

You begin to mindlessly play with the back of Gojo’s hair.

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes.

“So, how was the king of curses?” Suguru says segueing the question to the culprit of Gojo’s demise.

“Insanely fucking strong, and I could tell he wasn’t giving it all he had.” When your hand stops massaging the back of his head, he reaches back and takes your hand into his. “Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve won even if he didn’t have Megumi’s ten shadows.”

Suguru brows raise. “I’m shocked anyone could make you admit that.”

“I’m not,” you admit.

Gojo gives you a bashful look. He squeezes your hand in his.

It’s odd for you to see him be so openly vulnerable, but you like it. No, you love it.

Gojo looks down. “I feel kinda sorry for him,” he admits softly.

Suguru glances at you quizzically but you give him no reaction, allowing Gojo the space to continue. You’re not sure if he means Megumi or Sukuna or maybe both, but you decide to listen anyway.

“I’m no stranger to feeling isolated,” Gojo starts. “There was always this gulf between me and other people. Even if they adored me. You can admire a beautiful flower…but you can’t ask it to understand you.”

Suguru straightens in his seat.

Gojo lets go of your hand, scrunching his hand into a fist. “I put everything I had into tryin’ to reach him. To make him understand…all my physical training techniques I mastered… my explosiveness, quick thinking, and attempts at humor. I gave it my all, but it wasn’t enough. The loneliness that comes with unrivalled strength…the one who will teach you about love is—” he pauses, “I had fun.”

You place your hand on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He gives you a thankful nod. He releases a weak laugh, the mood lightening. “Sukuna wasn’t able to give me his all though. And I think that’s a damn shame.”

“Consider me jealous, at least you had the satisfaction of going out with a bang,” Suguru says.

“Satisfaction, huh?” Gojo scoffs. “I guess my only disappointment was that you weren’t there to slap me on the back.”

Suguru laughs.

“But I guess I am glad I died facing a strong opponent. It’d have been embarrassing if I let some disease or old age get the best of me,” Gojo says.

“What are you a samurai?”

Gojo's eyes widen.

A sly grin appears on your face when you watch Gojo turn around to see a young Nanami and Haibara sitting behind you all. They begin to scuffle for a while mocking Gojo for his selfish mindset in life. You remain silent, watching him the way you always do.

Gojo is the strongest.

Those words still hold despite you both dying. His strength isn’t just about his physical prowess but his mental one. It is why you love him, you decide, even though it kept you worlds apart in life.

“What ya thinking?” Gojo whispers bumping your shoulder playfully.

“Nothing much,” you whisper back. You flip your hand palm up on Gojo’s thigh and he interlocks your fingers.

“Don’t look like nothing much,” Gojo teases leaning down to search your eyes.

You dip your head, watching your interlaced hands. “I’m just glad we’re all together again.”

You don’t look but you hear Gojo’s smile. It sounds like an endless blue ocean crashing against a yellow sandy shore. It feels like the sun warming you back to life.

Gojo lifts your hand and kisses the back of it. “Me too,” he says. “Which one are you choosing North or South?”

“Does it matter what I chose?” you ask not disclosing your choice.

“Maybe.” His gaze flicks to your lips. “Definitely.”

“When did you two get all sappy?” Suguru interrupts. “It’s disgusting.”

“Exactly,” Nanami adds. “I had to endure that. Trust me it gets worse.”

“Sounds to me like a whole lot of bitchless jealousy,” Gojo says, raising his voice over their declarations. “Personally, could never be me.”

Haibara laughs. “I think it’s cute. Good for you, Gojo-san. Finding love despite your personality.”

Gojo grins and pulls you into his chest. “Thanks, Haibara. See, ‘least someone is happy for me.”

Suguru snickers.

Nanami rolls his eyes.

“I think that was an insult,” you say, raising a finger.

Gojo dramatically hushes you placing a long finger to your lips. “’m taking what I can get. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“When have I ever been? You act out of pocket all the time. Someone has to help Suguru humble you.”

Gojo shakes his head. “Betrayed by my girl and my best friend…that’s crazy. Not even in death can I catch a break.”

The airport fills with the sound of laughter.

And in these short moments, laying against Gojo’s chest encased in his comforting scent as he bickers with Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara, you feel like nothing is blocking the front of either of your eyes. Like in some absurd way, this is what Gojo meant. You know that even if these days fade… even if you’ve come to know his world, different from yours in the depths of eternity left behind…even now the blue remains—clear; in the summer colours that refract off your cheeks like crystals becoming one with the endless sea.

Gojo’s thumb brushes your cheek smudging away the tears. He says your name softly. “You cryin’?” He asks peering down at you from above.

You reach up and pull off his dark sunglasses. You see those blue eyes, glimmering like sunlight on water, or like grains of stars in an infinitely expanding galaxy that used to spill through the gaps between your fingers. And they’re staring straight back at you. Asking ‘Will we meet again?’

You nod, unable to say the words that are stuck in your throat.

But Gojo doesn’t need to hear it, a grin forming, nevertheless.

“Hey, Principal!” Gojo shouts looking up and spotting Yaga up ahead trying not to be noticed. “Thought ya said no Jujutsu sorcerers die without regret?”

/ October 1st, 2018.

You let your hand slowly move to his white hair, caressing the soft locks. “You know, you’re pretty weak for the strongest man,” you said endearingly.

“Maybe I’m pranking you?” he muttered. “Making ya let your guard down and believe I am weak so that I can get some. I am prone to lyin’ ya know.”

You hummed in disbelief. “What an unfunny lie.”

“What a sick twisted joke,” he agreed.

Thanks for reading!

KO-FI MASTERLIST

#gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu satoru #gojo angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk fanfic

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dangerousduckcloud · 5 months ago

Text

Flowerbeds make up for a nice eternal rest

Read it also on AO3

“I still haven’t met Superman.” “He is not impressive.” “I don’t know, he can fly. Seems pretty impressive to me.” “Yes, but if we were on a red sun planet, he would not be able to fight even against Drake.” The endless trees had turned into gray and boring buildings, each taller than the other, people walking in and out of them, others leisurely getting to their destination on the sidewalk. Damian was still listing the reasons as to why Superman wasn’t impressive, at one point including the topic of physiology. “—a child could do it.” “Yeah.” You agreed, to what? You’re not sure. “But he can fly.” The exasperated groan that left him made you and Cass snicker, secretly high fiving each other.

Chapter 8 < > Chapter 10

taglist: @kurai-hono-blog, @katrina0-0

You couldn’t even see your shoes, nor the mist that was coming out your mouth with every shaky breath. The room was cold, gelid, the feeling on your feet was the first thing you stopped sensing.

You couldn’t move, your arms secured with leather restrains to your sides, your legs the same. The gurney you were tied to was vertical, the metal surface chilling your bones, the wheels squeaking with every movement you made, however you couldn’t get far, as something you couldn’t see had it bolted to the ground.

You were once again in Scarecrow’s basement.

Your breathing became more erratic by the second at this realization. The darkest shadows had a life on its own, dim, white orbs like eyes fixed on you, crawling from side to side. Your screams were empty, devoid of any sound.

Tiny pinpricks were crawling all around your arms and legs, going up, and down, left, and right. Something smooth was slithering around your legs, slightly squeezing.

You were alone.

No one knew where you were.

Your mouth hurt, your chest hurt, your throat hurt, but you kept on screaming, barely a sound leaving you.

This was it. There was no escape. No one was coming. No one—

“Jane!”

You jolted awake, clothes sticking with cold sweat, breathless and a feeling of suffocation forcing you to breath in quick gasps, strong hands were on your shoulders, pushing them away with a cry.

“Don’t hurt me!” You cried, pressing yourself against the headboard as much as you could.

“It’s me.” The deep voice said, hands raised and opened. “You’re safe. You’re in your room.”

You forced yourself to look at the voice, dark, green eyes shining in the moonlight, worry etched on his face.

“Jason?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He said, sitting down slowly at the end of the bed. “You were having a nightmare. You’re in Wayne manor.”

“Jason.” His name was the only thing you could say, your grip on the blanket tightening, tears pricking at your eyes once more. “Jason. He was— I was— The lab, I—”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to explain. Would you…” He wet his lips, looking at the wall behind you. “Would you like me to hug you?”

You nodded, barely registering his words, your shallow breath regulating as soon as his arms closed in around you, the thick material of his suit cool against your palms, a finger idly tracing the bat emblem on his chest, eyes unfocused, mind racing.

He smelled like sweat, gunpowder and morning dew.

He never complained, never moved besides the soft rising of his breathing, your room bit by bit being illuminated by the early sun, but still veiled in darkness.

“Thank you.” Your voice was rough. His breathing stood to a halt for a second, swiftly going back to normal, his hum reverberating all over your body.

“It’s alright. I’m glad I was here to help you.” I’m glad you were here, too, was left unsaid, your mouth left hanging open. “Come, I know something that’ll help you.”

Palm up, he waited until you grabbed his hand, amused at how his engulfed yours. It was big, rough and calloused like everyone else in this family, the remnants of a scar rubbing against your palm.

They weren’t the hands of a model, but they were hands that fit with yours like two perfect pieces of a puzzle, made to hold each other.

The digital clock on the kitchen read half past five in the morning, the sun rising over the city’s skyscrapers. Jason led you to the kitchen table, pulling out the chair for you. Normally you would’ve said some lame joke to ruin the mood, but you were still too shaken by the nightmare to even think of something.

He walked towards the pantry, pulling out ingredients for whatever he wanted to prepare, walking from one side to the other and murmuring about the placement of everything.

“Damian said you’d left the manor the day after… That day.” He stopped for a second, drops of vanilla falling from the spoon to the counter at his sudden halt.

“Needed to get somethin’” You hummed, enthralled by his movements. “Can’t say no to Alfie when he asks me to stay, so I come by while he’s sleeping… Then I heard you crying. Had you ever had nightmares about it?”

You shook your head; however, he had his back towards you. “No. Why did…? Was I supposed to?”

“I’m surprised it took you so long.” He placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of you, the smiling face of whipped cream melting already. “It’s the aftereffects of the Fear Toxin, it usually lingers for a day or two.”

“It’s been a week.”

“Yeah, but you also had a hell of a week. Maybe your mind ‘postponed it’ until you dealt with everything else. You know, the whole different universe and all that.” You hummed, taking another sip from your drink and analyzing him. His posture was relaxed, his eyes closing while taking a drink of his own, relishing the flavor. He didn’t look as if he was still angry about what happened a week ago, if anything he was completely unbothered by it. However, before you could ruin the moment and question him about it, he spoke once again. “Has Timmbers had any luck with that?”

“’m not sure. I don’t go to the cave often.”

“I would ask him, but, you know, he doesn’t like me much.” His apathetic tone showed he didn’t know why Tim would be wary of him, or did he simply not care? The other emotion he had was a frown on his face after trying to take another sip of his cup only to find it empty.

“Gee. I wonder why that is.” Cuttingly, you stood up to put both cups on the sink, turning around and leaning on the counter with both hands holding it.

“What do you mean?”

“Jason. You tried to kill him.”

“Well… Yeah. But I apologized.”

“You—” Flabbergasted, your mouth opened and closed, and you couldn’t stop looking at him, but this time it wasn’t because you were mesmerized by his looks —which, alright, you still were—, but also because you couldn’t believe how dense he had to be to believe a simple apology was going to fix it. “Jason, I—You… You’re unbelievable. In what word a simple ‘Sorry for almost killing you’ is enough?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” He stood up, the chair dragging behind him, green eyes focused on you, gradually getting closer until you had to crane your neck a bit to hold his stare.

“I don’t know, maybe show that you care about him? That you actually mean your apology? It doesn’t take a detective to figure it out. You know, you’re always telling Dick off for how awful he handled my situation, but you’re no better. You’re just like him, and like Bruce, and—”

“I’m not!” The sudden rising of his voice shut you up with a click of your teeth. “I’m not like him.” Even though his eyes were entirely on you, it was as if he wasn’t seeing you, but some ghost of his past, his regrets, and his failures. The next time he spoke, his voice was soft and lacking the heat they carried earlier. “I’m not…”

The roles had reversed, your trembling hand moved upward his arm, fingers ghosting over the skin for comfort, to ground him and bring him back from wherever he had gone, and yet as soon as you touched him, Jason pulled back as if touched by fire.

“Jason, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

He shook his head.

“Don’t. It’s… Fine. Just drop it.”

You stood there; arm half raised from when you wanted to hold him, eyes glistening once again. Seconds ticked by and his breathing had slowed down, the glowing of his eyes dimming.

When he looked up, his eyes immediately went to some part below your eyes, your chin, maybe?

“You…” He said, hand painfully close but not enough to touch your face, however he pulled back, walking out the kitchen. “You have cream on your face.”

———

“School.”

“School?”

Cass woke you up at a normal hour in the morning, her finger prodding your cheek, the cutest smile you’d ever seen on her face. You had your arm covering half your face from the sun, voice rough with sleep.

“Yes, school.”

“You go to school?”

“No.” At your raised brow, she clarified. “Damian does. We’ll buy him new stuff for his new year. For you, too.”

“I don’ go to school a‘more.” Sleep wanted to overtake you once more, turning in place to cuddle with your pillows once more.

“No, silly. Clothes for you.”

That caught your attention. You knew Cass didn’t mind sharing her stuff, but you were desperate to have something that was completely yours. Not to mention you wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to buy clothes without a spending limit, something you knew both Alfred and Bruce loved to do. You hadn't met Bruce yet, obviously, but simply by the gigantic gym they'd had installed in one of the old ballrooms was enough to know he showed his love through spending money on his loved ones.

You’d gone back to sleep after your… Fight? Altercation? Whatever it was with Jason. The hot chocolate lulling you to a state of calm and sleepiness. You couldn’t stop fucking up everything with him, did you?

“Good morning, girls. Miss Jane, I’m sure Miss Cass has already explained to you our errands for today.”

You sat down next to a grumpy-as-usual Damian, however something bigger must be bothering him if in lieu of picking small fights with you and insult your intelligence once more, he was forcefully stabbing his pancakes. You’ll take it as a win.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get new clothes?”

“Indeed. And please, do not feel necessary to hold back on buying what you need and what you like, I can assure you, we can pay for it.”

“I’m counting on it.” A devilish yet harmless smile appeared on your face, covering your pancakes with syrup.

“Bruce will love you.” Tim spoke, sitting down on the table with what appeared to be either his third or fourth cup of coffee by how aware he is. “He’ll finally have someone to spend all his money on.”

“By all means, let him. I won’t complain.”

“Why are you angry, little brother?” Cass changed the focus from you to Damian, sure that if he was as powerful as Superman, he would’ve cut his plate in two by the amount of force he was putting on splitting up his pancakes.

“I am the grandson of the Demon’s Head, I am the son of the Batman, yet I am being forced once again to attend school even though the contents they teach I had learned it years before. My classmates are nowhere near my level, yet I am treated as if I am one of them.”

“Aw, come on, Damian.” You hugged him sideways, his ire now wholly directed at you. “School’s fun, where else would you make friends?”

“Jon Kent is my acquaintance.”

“Not acquaintance, Damian, friend. And it’s alright to have only one, but he’s all the way over to Metropolis, you could use having some friends here.”

The summer weather in Gotham was as awful as you expected it to be, with rain coming at short, uneven intervals, the humid heat it brings pressing against your skin, stifling and clammy.

“We shall make a detour to stop for Miss Stephanie.”

Alfred informed you once the four of you were buckled up inside the car, a black SUV big enough to fit even ten people. The seat you’d chosen had a forgotten Superman sweatshirt on it, thumbing the faded logo.

“I still haven’t met Superman.”

“He is not impressive.”

“I don’t know, he can fly. Seems pretty impressive to me.”

“Yes, but if we were on a red sun planet, he would not be able to fight even against Drake.” The endless trees had turned into gray and boring buildings, each taller than the other, people walking in and out of them, others leisurely getting to their destination on the sidewalk. Damian was still listing the reasons as to why Superman wasn’t impressive, at one point including the topic of physiology. “—a child could do it.”

“Yeah.” You agreed, to what? You’re not sure. “But he can fly.”

The exasperated groan that left him made you and Cass snicker, secretly high fiving each other.

The view was something different altogether during the day, and without the added dread of thinking you were unsafe and in danger.

Stephanie lived in a regular, common, red brick building, waiting for the Waynes on the steps leading to the apartments. Her bright, blue eyes landed on you, gaze never leaving you even as she sat down behind you and Cass, next to Damian. “Oh, you’re Jane? Cass told me about you.” She waved her phone to wordlessly explain their means of communication. “How did you end up here, again?”

“From a portal to another dimension.”

“Huh.” She let go of your seat’s backrest, leaning on her own. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“You took that better than expected.”

“Weirder things have happened here. I’m surprised it took so long for something like this to occur.”

The mall was crowded with people doing their summer shopping, and teens enjoying their vacations. The building had nothing extraordinary that you wouldn’t find in any other regular mall; regular electronics, clothes, and jewelry stores, not even the superheroes shop looked out of place, something you could easily find back home.

“I’m glad they’re finally starting to have Black Bat merchandise.” Steph mentioned once you stepped foot on the store, Alfred and Damian leaving to buy the youngest Wayne his materials, a shiny, black credit card left on Cass’ hands. “She deserves way more recognition.” The three of you shared a sweet, knowing smile.

Besides having a wide variety of the ‘Batfamily’ merchandise, they also had a section for the other superheroes. Steph had picked up Green Arrow socks, Cass a cute Batman plushie-keychain, and while you were terribly tempted to buy a Red Hood sweatshirt, you chose not to, as it would be painfully obvious he’s your favorite, so you grabbed a Black Bat shirt —earning a warm hug from Cass—, and socks with the symbols of all the vigilantes in Gotham, putting as much distance as you could from the Rogues section, avoiding specifically the Scarecrow merchandise.

Stephanie didn’t have much shopping to do, as she still had left some brand new notebooks from her past school year, simply needing some pens and a new backpack. “Mine got teared up at the last Riddler attack.” She explained. “We were on a school trip to a museum he chose to attack at that moment.”

“Are they… Common? The attacks?” You had to ask, wondering why people would continue being here if buildings were destroyed on a daily basis.

“No. Five… Maybe ten times a year, at most.” Cass said, choosing a shirt she thought you’d like. “The big ones. Most of the time we… Focus on small groups.”

She whispered the last part, assuming she meant stuff like gun trading, kidnapping and muggings. Still… Ten times a year? That was almost once a month of re-building whatever was destroyed, blown up, or burned on the fights.

The girls had helped you buy a whole new wardrobe, with close to forty new long and short sleeved shirts, twenty pairs of jeans and pants, as well as three pairs of shoes, and any new undergarments you needed, the face of the worker brightening with every piece you picked up, most likely working on a commissions basis. Every girls dream.

With the three of you with both your hands full of bags, Steph led you to the food court to wait for Alfred and Damian, surprised it was taking them longer to buy.

“So, Jane. How you’re liking the city so far?” Steph asked between bites of her ice cream.

“She escaped once.” Cass deadpanned, Steph bursting out laughing. “Was kidnapped by Scarecrow.”

“Shit, really? That must’ve been traumatizing for someone… Like you.” For someone that doesn’t have supervillains walking on the streets.

“Being kidnapped is traumatizing for anyone.”

“Yeah, you know what I meant.”

You took another sip of your milkshake.

“It’s… Weird, I never expected to live in the stories I’d read so many times.” The people around the court were all focused on their own conversations, the sound loud enough to muffle yours. “Never thought they’ll be real somewhere.”

“And why did you escape? Wanted the real Gothamite experience?”

“I didn’t know what was happening!” You exclaimed, a pained look on your face. “I thought everyone was brainwashed into thinking they were living in Gotham and I was gonna be brainwashed too. Neither Tim nor Dick explained anything to me.”

“Sounds like ‘em.”

“Here you are.” A not so childish voice exclaimed next to you. “Pennyworth says it is time to go back home if you are finished with your errands.”

The three of you were almost done with your treats and could easily finish them on the way back to the parking lot.

That is, if a wall of the mall hadn’t collapsed.

And several men dressed in half white and half black suit came through the hole.

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rise-of-littleclan · 11 months ago

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Moon 0 - Part 1

CW: Blood, Gore

Pythonback twitches and shifts in his nest, one the young warrior has had for moons now but still feels foreign and stiff to him. Unable to sleep, the spindly tom gazes lazily out the entrance to the Warriors den as he has for hours, watching the moon's slow trek across the deep, twinkling sky and musing about how cold and barren the camp looks during the night. His father, Echoglare slept soundly a pace behind him, but he could hear Fennelpeak moving in his nest, the russet-furred deputy has been under a lot of stress recently and Pythonback felt a pang of sympathy for the overworked tom. Amber eyes dart again to the clearing where a familiar pelt stalked into camp. With a few bleary blinks Pythonback recognized Jumpfang's sandy dappled pelt as he made his way to the apprentice's den. The young warrior's eyes narrowed in confusion; What could Jumpfang need from Buzzardpaw at this hour? He wondered speculatively. Maybe a night hunting lesson? The older warrior was known to be stuffy and strict with his training regiments, so it wasn't completely out of the blue. What was stranger though, was the tom exiting and all three smaller forms of LeapClan's apprentices following behind him. From the distance it was hard to tell, but from the puffed pelts and anxious glances around camp, the apprentices seemed scared of something. At this Pythonback stood, trying to be as quiet as possible to not wake the warriors around him, and padded out of the den. As he breached the archway into the clearing Jumpfang's gaze met his, and the toms ears briefly fell flat against his head before flicking back upwards alertly. "Jumpfang.. What's happening?" Pythonback asked as he approached. The older tom glanced behind him into the warriors den then met Pythonback's gaze, hissing out a quick hush. He seemed irritated, which was only accentuated by his rapidly flicking tail. Jumpfang grumbled as his gaze flicked from the cream warrior to the trio of apprentices and then back. "Pythonback, you need to take the apprentices deep into the territory, now. Quickly, go." He shoved the apprentices towards him with his tail and narrowed his eyes at Pythonback expectantly. Pythonback froze momentarily, taking in the urgency in Jumpfang's tone before nodding and ushering the apprentices towards him. This is how I can prove myself, I'll keep them safe from… From whatever is happening. As the group of four rushed out of camp through a rear exit, Pythonback spared a final glance to Jumpfang, who hadn't yet moved, staring the group down as they left. It sent a prickle down Pythonback's spine as he again turned and fled camp with the apprentices. It wasn't long after the small group fled camp that yowls of alarm rang in the distance, and not long after that yowls of fear and pain. Pythonback's stomach flipped on itself but he pressed forward, keeping the apprentices in front of him to catch them when they stumbled or tripped. Finally, deep into the territory as Jumpfang instructed, the group came to a slow stop. The cries were so distant they were barely perceivable, and after a minute halted altogether. The trio of apprentices collapsed in a heap, curling against each other. Lilacpaw pressed into her brother, Bluepaw, comfortingly as he curled into a ball, the younger Buzzardpaw doing the same against Lilacpaw's flank. Pythonback hesitated as he glanced around, Should I go back? I think they're safe here… The tom hunched over and eased his labored breathing. Yes, I'll… I'll go back and help. Just need to catch my breath. In the commotion of everyone settling, the nearing thrum of pawsteps goes unnoticed.

Part 2

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mirandapriestlyswife · 8 months ago

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Mirandy Fanfic- Apocalypse Au: Prologue

Hi! Before you read I would just like to say as a disclaimed this is my first fanfic and it has not been peer reviewed or anything of that sort so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical mistakes. This AU is heavily inspired by “Last Man on Earth” and I intend to write multiple chapters for it. Constructive criticism is welcome! Please enjoy :)

New York City, the city that never sleeps. Theres always some type of noise; sirens, traffic, yelling… Theres always some type of noise. Something to serve as a reminder that, “Hey! You aren’t the only person in the whole world!”. At least thats what it used to sound like..

Tonight, all that could be audible was the rustling of trash in the frigid November air. Andrea Sachs, Andy, former reporter for The Mirror marched her way down block after block. She couldn’t pin point exactly when the pandemic began. Early March of last year perhaps? Or maybe mid February? She couldn’t remember.. Hell, she was still trying to process the fact that everyone, everything she once knew was dead and gone.

New York City had been put under lockdown almost immediately after the United States government had declared a national pandemic. Andy hadn’t seen her parents since..

Sure, they’d talk over the phone, but there was little to talk about when the entire world was practically put on pause. She heard from her sister, Jill, every once in a while, but she had her own problems.

Andy had borderline lost complete touch with her entire family by August of that year, until she was notified that she had lost not one, but both parents to the infection. Both dead at home, not even in a hospital. Soon followed her nephew, then her sister, then her sister’s husband. In only a matter of 6 months she had lost the people most important to her.

After her and Nate, her ex boyfriend, had split, her childhood best friend had graciously allowed her to crash on her couch until she found her own place. Living with Lily was… Well.. Not the easiest.. Somehow this girl, even in the midst of a global pandemic, still managed to bring home a guy every weekend. At the time Andy had debated killing Lily on more than one occasion.. Oh how she envies those times. Two months later, Lily passed. The hospitals were already crammed to the brim with patients so, just like her parents, her best friend had died at home.. But this time, it was even worse, since she was the one to discover that body.

Andy had always been sensitive, possibly too much so. But she can’t recall a time she had cried harder than when looking at the lifeless corpse of the girl she’d known for more than half her life. Oh Lily..

She got laid off the next week. You would think the world of journalism would be booming during such trying times? But no. People simply stopped reading the paper. “Too depressing” is what she remembers her mother saying when Andy had asked if they had seen the latest death poll. She couldn’t blame people for not reading the news. God knows she would’ve too if it wasn’t the only thing keeping her from going insane. With every book in her apartment being read more than twice, along with having long ran out of DVDs, the only thing she could find comfort in now was the constant cycle of magazines and newspapers placed at her apartment door every morning. Eventually that stopped coming too.

Eventually.. Everything stopped. Electricity, running water, food. It just all.. Came to a halt. People seemed to have disappeared. It was like the entire human race just one day packed their bags and left Andy there. Alone. She was all alone. She cried over the fact a lot. No, not cried.. More like wailed. Wailed as loud as one could, hoping that someone, something would hear her, and come over and bring her into a warm comforting hug..

Of course the chances of that were 0 but.. She still had some hope. Tonight, Andy lazily roamed around the streets of New York, glancing into long abandoned shops and restaurants.. Often times she found herself sleeping in luxurious hotels and suites for free. I mean, why not? If theres no one there to charge you or say, “Ma’am this is an art museum, you cant stay here.” Why not sleep in The Met??

She walked with purpose down those cracking sidewalks, even though in reality she knew she had nothing left to live for. Had she contemplated suicide? On multiple occasions. The only reason she was even still alive at all was because she knew her parents would’ve wanted her to keep going, “keep fighting” her father would say. Andy sighed, what purpose was fighting if there was nothing to fight for? She walked aimlessly for hours, only stopping every so often to raid a bodega for a bag of expired chips. She rarely thinks of her time at Runway, or at least she tries not to, since it just opens up a can of unresolved feelings that she cares not to open. She wonders what those clackers would think of her now. It makes her chuckle. Thoughts of models with mouths gaping in shock at the sight of Andy Sachs, in her college hoodie and jeans she hadn’t washed since July making her way down Manhattan with a bag of expired Doritos and no makeup, flood her mind, causing the rarest of chuckles to fall from her lips.

The only reason that Runway even popped into her head was due to the sight of the massive, ever-ominous, Elias-Clarke building across the street. Oh how she despised that building. She’d walked past it a million times. One million more times than she had liked to. Every time she saw the damned thing it brought up feelings… Feelings she’d love to forget. Feelings towards fashion, towards Runway, towards her.

The dragon lady, the ice cold bitch of fashion, Miranda Priestly. The woman that had stolen Andreas heart and stomped on with her Prada heels.

Andy cringes at the shameful acts of her past self. Falling head over heels for a woman is one thing.. But falling for a woman 25 years her senior, and thats super rich and powerful?? Oh how could one be so stupid?!

Now here she stands, before her former prison of employment. She’d never actually bothered to intrude the building. She figured she’d find the usual. Abandoned computers, dust bunnies, medical masks, maybe the occasional cockroach. Shockingly, even after seemingly every other living organism had died out.. Or at least reduced in size, cockroaches rained ever strong. Six legged assholes.

Something inside her tells her, “Just go for it. Get some closure.” So, thats exactly what she does. She crosses the empty street, sliding over a taxi that had inconveniently been abandoned in the middle of the road, and walked right up to the front door.

“Its probably locked..” She muttered to nobody. Andy had developed this habit of talking to herself over the months of isolation. It was comforting, to hear a voice. She jiggled the rotating door and to her utter shock. The thing budged. And in one swift motion, she was in the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building once again. Things have hardly changed… Well.. besides the lack of anorexic models talking about how they “Almost called in fat today.” She rolled her eyes at the memory of hearing a 100 pound model saying those exact words to her.

Andy stops at the stairwell. Should she go up to the Runway floor? Why not? Whats the harm? Worst thing that could happen is she cries, and it isn’t like she wasn’t going to do that anyways. She made her way up the stairs. Climbing floor after floor until eventually she found her way to her former place of employment. More like imprisonment, but still. She abandons her empty Dorito bag on her old second assistants desk. She wonders what skinny 5’11 blonde supermodel Miranda had replaced her with. Had her name been Stacy? Or Sylvia? Or-

Andys shocked out of her thoughts when she hears a noise. Walking.. Yeah thats- that’s definitely walking. She stops frozen in place. The building is almost entirely dark besides the sunlight coming from the windows where Mirandas office used to be, so she couldn’t exactly see well. Her whole body starts shaking. What should she do?! She hadn’t seen an actual living person since.. Since.. Since she couldn’t even remember. The walking got louder, the click clack of what sounded like… High heels..? No it couldn’t-

Andys internal monologue is suddenly silenced when she hears a gasp from behind her. Shes too stunned to move, to speak, to do much of anything besides meekly turn her head around. And who is she greeted with?? No one other than the dragon lady herself of course…

“Andrea?” An impossibly regal Miranda Priestly asks.

And thats about it for the prologue! Thank you so much for reading :)

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icarusfrommars · 6 months ago

Text

In The Muck

In the land of Tolria there resides a Bard and a Guard, two traveling companions who seek to see the world, giving performances and engaging in heroics wherever they find themselves. The two have spread their names far and wide as a pair of mischievous do-gooders, who are always ready to take up arms against the evils of oppression and hopelessness. A duo so dauntless that in some places of the land their names are synonymous with bravery and heroism. With chilling might and wondrous talent they brave their adversaries, bringing steel and song down upon their dastardly victims. The pair that is so grand, so fierce tha-

"Can you please stop with your boasting, sire." protested the Guard, more commonly known as Royal Protector Xantumal Chorster, actively hacking through the underbrush in a fussy sort of way, fit with many grumblings and shakes of the head to emphasize his dislike of the situation.

"Excuse me for trying to think of ways to market us to the masses in these dismal backwater places!" came huffy reply from the Bard following behind, whose full title was Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar, the Glamorous and Most Elegant, Second in Line of the Throne of Drestar and Duke of Drent, Illusionist Extraordinaire, Daring Magician, and most importantly an Elf of the Common Folk. A humble title for one so narcissistic. Xerseine will suffice, however, for purposes of this story. "Ugh! My boots keep sinking into the bog and I have the constant presence of a sneeze I am right on the verge of, but it won't seem to tip!"

The elf vigorously scratched his nose in a manner befitting that of his aristocratic heritage and let out a frustrated groan, very clearly an indication of his noble distaste of the fetid swamp they found themselves trudging through, which was nothing if not insistent on dragging the two down inside. Both of them had ample amounts of filth clinging to their clothes and flowing into their boots, something that Xerseine often mentioned in a manner that shows his dignified restraint against complaining about issues he nor anyone else has control over, that being not very much. Xantumal, meanwhile, was at this point accustomed to his companion's cries of disgust with their situation, as he had only been already dealing with them for five shards (months) at this point.

"It's probably the stardust geysers. A local from town told me that they were more active this time of year. Apparently it's a common side effect for elves and other magical beings that get too close. Something about arcane particles or whatever."

"Well, it's all just dreadful if you ask me. You're so lucky that you humans have no natural sense of the Ley as we elves do, otherwise your eyes would be watering just as bad as mine are."

"First of all, saying "you humans" like that is…" Xantumal started, but halted his words midway. Scolding his charge went against his training and place, he knew that much. He caught himself on more than one occasion on this journey nearly speaking out of line, and it had only gotten more frequent as the two spent more time together. Xantumal took a deep breath, steadied his emotions, and respectfully turned towards his prince.

"Apologies, your highness. What I meant to say was that I think the water in your eyes is more likely from the multiple bouts of sobbing when you and your cape fell in the muck. Sire." He ended his helpful retort with a sharp jab on that last word.

Xerseine beheld the bundled up silk he clutched between his fingers. This fine fabric was imported from the distant shores of the islands of Caerdonel and was worth many weights of gold. Well, it was when it wasn't sopping wet and riddled with the essence of the swamp. It was completely ruined, no hope of recovery whatsoever.

"Oh. I suppose you're right." That was Xerseine's favorite cape. He only donned it because he didn't have another one that matched his outfit for today. His "arcane allergies" once again began to act up, as he instinctively rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, spreading more of the swamp's mess upon his pale face.

With that sorted, Xantumal returned to his work of slashing through the tall swamp grass that blocked their path. The two found themselves in this situation after recently coming across the town of Chambery, situated just near the border of the Silver Bog here in the country of Mariton. They arrived in town yesterday evening, and decided it would be good to try their luck with the local inn. Usually the pair made good money in a small town like this, seeing as the townsfolk don't often see magic or High Elves that often, let alone both at the same time. That was how they managed to afford their way through Faloque, after all, and they hoped that it would be the same for Mariton. However, unfortunately for them, this was not the case. While Faloque was destitute and looking for any sort of comfort or break from the monotony of their lives, Mariton was much more of an intellectually minded land whose forte was inventing new forms of magic. So an illusionist strolling on into town and putting on a show was less of a spectacle, and more of a nuisance to most.

The two thought that Chambery would be different, since it is closer to the Faloque border, but once again the two were met with empty stares and uninterested audiences. Xerseine's attitude of self aggrandization and belittling of the townsfolk who passed by in a hurry also certainly did not help. It was less of a nuisance, and more akin to verbal harassment. Eventually, the town guard, if you could call a twelve year old with a wooden sword and an old man who could barely hold his weapon straight a "town guard," demanded the pair pack it up and shut it down. After a back and forth between the geezer and the elf about who was older than the other (it was not Xerseine), Xantumal decidedly pulled the elf aside so he could stew in sophisticated anger, and packed up the stage himself.

However, this left them empty-handed, as the only coin placed within Xerseine's Viol case was a chocolate one, which melted inside and completely ruined the splendid velvet lining. Up until this point they managed to get by relatively easily, without needing to resort to too many acts of daring and no trudging through swamps, but worse came to worse. The Bard and Guard found themselves broke, hungry, and desperate. Over drinks that were extremely cheap but still too expensive for them to really afford (causing Xerseine to have to give up another one of his favorite scarves, which was the 5th time this shard), the two discussed the idea of possibly doing what they dreaded the entire adventure: actual adventurer work.

"And so, alone in the wild, our heroes present themselves up to the challenge. The Bard, regal in all his actions, nobly acquainted and a friend of the folk, was called upon by the unfortunate souls of the quaint village of Chambery to fell the foul dark beast residing within the fog-layered waters of the Silver Bog. A terrible thing, made of sharp teeth and deadly smoke which came in the night with an unholy groan and terrible stench, full of… malicion and… devilrocity! For weeks this godless creature came knocking around the locked shutters and barred doors, looking for an unguarded entrance where it could slink in and devour the residents whole. When it could not, it found the chickens and the lambs and the asses and consumed them in the farmer's stead! As a hero of the people always should be, the Bard was determined to venture forth into the putrid swamp, convincing the hesitant Guard to tag along on his quest to hunt down and-"

"Sire, the people of the town deal in forestry and lumber, not livestock," Xantumal corrected the elf, who had returned to embellishing their current situation, "and if I remember correctly, you were the one who begged me not to accept the job. You're changing the story again."

"Xantumal, I have explained this to you on many occasions at this point. Oftentimes you must sacrifice historic accuracy in order to maintain the audience's interest in the narrative." Xerseine dismissively flicked a lump of muck from the pointed tip of his sharp nose, and placed an expression of intellectual superiority upon his muddied facial features.

"I see." Xantumal did not, in fact, see the importance of such falsehoods and narrative changes. He often wondered why Xerseine felt the need to alter the story in such small ways, and mostly the results he came down to were that it must be an issue of ego for the elf. He wasn't too far off the mark either.

However, it was easier to simply agree and move on rather than sit and listen to an hour's worth of Xerseine's tedious ramblings on the structure of stories and how to captivate the audience in the right ways and so on and so forth. That was yet another thing that he had become accustomed to on this journey, and he considered it even worse than the complaining at points. At least when his lord was whining Xantumal understood what he was complaining about. But when it came to theatrics, he was much less invested.

"All I'm saying is that-" He hacked through another clump of cattails in their way, which clung to his sword, "maybe your audience might appreciate a real story for once." He shook the plants off his weapon and proceeded with his work, his patience with the bog wearing thinner and thinner with each swing.

"I resent the notion that my recountings are in any way fictitious. They are simply… revised to be more appealing." Xerseine adjusted his nose and sniffled regally once more, with the faith that it would provide a moment of relief from the dust of the geysers which permeated in the air. Alas, another fruitless effort that only muddied his face further. "And besides, they can't discern fact from fiction. To those people, my word might as well be gospel! I'd wager I could begin my own religion were I willing to try."

He scoffed at the notion at first, chuckling to himself as they continued forward through the watery underbrush. However, upon further introspection, perhaps that concept wasn't so far fetched as it seemed. It would certainly be a consistent form of income, and he imagined that his royal bloodline would give him an advantage over a more common individual in growing a following. Perhaps founding a sect of his own might be a profitable venture. Only as a business opportunity, of course.

"Sire?"

The elf pondered further. He would likely need an upfront investor in order to afford a compound, though with his web of contacts that shouldn't be too upsetting of a predicament. The question, then, was one of compelling new initiates. He required a satisfactory foundation on which to structure the cul-... organization.

"My liege?"

As a baseline, he needed a compelling hook for new investors. Something that would truly enamor them and thereby entice them to part with their earnings in a consensual manner. Something that was entrancing on the surface, but underneath was simply fruitless. He delved deeper into the concept, with the sense that he was nearing a breakthrough.

"Prince Drestar."

Perhaps a tier system would be sufficient? If a member invested more, then they would be provided greater benefits in the afterlife? Yes. He was closing in on an epiphany. It can't be the afterlife though, that market has been cornered. It would have to be afterlife-like, but what would it be? He was drawing close to a conclusion, he could sense it. It needed to be something tangible, yet elusive. Unknown, yet commonly speculated on. Not gods, no, but…

"Xerseine!"

"Extraterrestrials!"

At this time of year, in the beginning of the season of Growth, you can hear many beautiful noises within the Silver Bog. The distinct pop of a stardust geyser releasing the pressure generated by the latent magic of the earth. The gentle creaking croak of the Wyrd Frogs, whose mating season was in arrival. The soft clicking of young Silver Bats, searching for a delicious meal of tasty Fog Moths or juicy Brush Beetles. An eerily pleasant droning of the Zuratura Bird, who has sparked many folktales and legends of Bog Banshees luring men to their deaths. There are many more sounds of the swamp, and the residents of these areas often refer to these unnervingly captivating noises as Nature's Orchestra. If you ever find yourself with the privilege of visiting the Silver Bog in this season, it is highly recommended that you truly immerse yourself in this beautiful symphony of nature, as it is a most fantastic sound to behold. However, all of this majesty and more had been drowned out by the incessant and irritating racket of Xerseine's woes and Xantumal's constant frustrated grumbling for the past few hours.

But in that moment, the orchestra of the bog overtook the unspeakably awkward silence that befell the Bard and the Guard in response to the elf's inexplicable outburst. Xantumal stood in stunned confusion and surprise, doing his best to wrap his brain around why Xerseine could have possibly gone completely silent for five minutes before randomly yelling out about aliens. He was not doing very well at it, completely puzzled by the prince's crazed declaration as his face sat with a strained expression in an useless attempt to comprehend his charge. For his own part, Xerseine felt extremely daft, with his arms outstretched towards the sky in a gloriously inane manner and a mirthful expression on his face. Slowly, extremely so, he lowered his hands and melted away the childish grin, replacing it with a bashful grimace.

No words were given for some time as the pair stood there in confusion and embarrassment. Neither side seemed to be able to acknowledge what just happened in a way that would be comprehensible, leading to a standoff over who would mention it first. Eventually, however, Xantumal finally cut through the tension.

"We're… here." He stated with a shake of his head and a rough exhale from his nose. With his right hand on his hip in a disapproving way, his left gestured to a small clearing past the underbrush, where an island of more stable ground revealed itself.

Xerseine, ever eager to evict himself from both the torture of the muck and the foolishness of the situation, bounded forward from the spot where he statued to the respite of solid ground. Hopping on his right foot, he swiftly unbooted his left and dumped the grayish-brown slime back into the swamp from whence it came. The elf swapped feet and repeated the action for the other, before desocking his toes and giving the genuine Opretonian goat wool stockings a good wringing. Xantumal pulled his feet out of the mud as well and joined Xerseine on the shore in cleaning out the gunk that had built up in his greaves, making sure to give his feet a good massage as well, which was an understated yet important part of being a Royal Protector. Most of the common folk don't realize how much standing there is when you're charged with protecting the royal family, often for hours at a time. Taking good care of your feet, then, becomes not only a necessity, but often taught in basic training for royal guardsmen such as Xantumal.

"Right, I believe this calls for a drink, then!" Cheered the prince, who produced a most expensive and luxurious bottle of genuine Longeaves Port Red, meant only for a momentous occasion. Considering that the two of them just managed to wade through the leech-filled murk of the Silver Bog without the misfortune of one or both of them dragged into the mud completely, this might as well be as good a time as any. Well, that and the unfortunate situation of the elf lacking in any other bottle of indulgent which might help distract him from their current plight. Xerseine gave his pockets and pouches a pat in search of his favorite ornate gold bottle opener, made by the dwarves of the Northern mountains and carved with ancient runes that were said to enchant the bottle to taste as fine as starlight. A fine marketing scheme that the dwarves came up with to sell more of them off to gullible elven princes. Unfortunately for that gullible elven prince, the bottle opener was nowhere on his person to be found, neither was it discovered within the confines of his traveling purse. In fact, the bottle opener was comfortably resting under the counter at the inn of Chambery, where an intoxicated young bard had left it on his stool the previous night after insisting that it was a truly magical artifact to a disturbed barkeep.

Adorned in grime, missing a precious trinket, and completely sober, Xerseine finally let loose his mounting rage in a reserved and eloquent manner befitting of a prince by exclaiming the most foul words he could conjure up to the heavens above. Meanwhile, Xantumal continued to stretch his legs, having moved on from tending to his toes and now performing his standard fitness routine in order to maintain his strength. While he was not a huge fan of workout culture and dieting and other so-called "healthy living" techniques, Xantumal certainly understood the importance of keeping his body in good condition, especially his legs.

He never skipped leg day. Ever.

Xerseine's completely senseless one-sided shouting match with the sky concluded with a draw, as the elf stomped and stamped at the soil beneath him. With a dignified pout and a smattering of muttered curses, the bard slipped the still soggy garments onto his feet once more and retrieved his purse from where it rested on the ground. Xantumal moved on from his 50 jumping jacks to now 50 lunges, which he threw a cross-body toe touch in with as well. He was already at 19 completed by that point, with the final 100 one-armed push ups just around the corner. 50 for each arm, of course.

"Hurry it up, Xan. We haven't all day here." came a curt demand from Xerseine, who was ready to simply kill the damn thing and go home.

"Twenty-three… Twenty-four… I can't, sire… Twenty-five… Twenty-six… If I stop now, it would result in possible cramps and… Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… that would obviously not be good… Twenty-nine… in the heat… Thirty… of battle… Thirty-one…" The guard prided himself on maintaining his strength, but prided himself even more on keeping with his routine.

"Can you at least skip the push ups? Just… do them later or something."

"Forty… Doing them later would… Forty-one… Forty-two… go against my routine… Forty-three… Forty-four…"

"And doing them right now would go against my orders. You decide which is more important."

Xantumal did not respond to that. He knew that it was yet another attempt to get a rise, as that's all Xerseine ever seemed to want from him. Well, he hadn't given the elf the satisfaction of truly speaking out of place yet and he wasn't about to either. For a moment, he did consider simply ignoring Xerseine's command and just completing the routine as usual, but thought the better of it. Xerseine pined for disobedience, so the most disobedient thing Xantumal could do was to simply do what the elf asked of him. Therefore, he simply finished the lunges, did his post-routine stretches (slowly as possible, just to frustrate the prince even further), and gathered his gear. He turned back to Xerseine, who was still visibly on the cusp between simmer and boil, and stood at attention as another small act of personal rebellion.

With a roll of his eyes, the bard set off, with the guard marching in a comically overblown manner. See, he could totally enjoy himself! He wasn't just an uptight stick in the mud! Obviously the words of a drunken Drestar from last night still reverberated within a cranky Chorster's head. It didn't help that Xerseine was acting especially… Xerseine-y today.

The elf stopped after only a few paces, and Xantumal halted in his tracks as well, giving a good military stomp to truly punctuate his act of obedient defiance. Xerseine gave a few troubled 'erms' and 'uhs' before stamping down a boot of his own and turning left, with his companion resuming his over-the-top performance behind. Once again, after a short while, the elf stopped and muttered to himself. Resolutely he once again pivoted, this time making a half turn to go the opposite direction, and set off, with Xantumal behind. They only managed to get another thirty steps or so, before Xerseine paused yet again, made a series of anger-filled arm flailings and let out many frustrated grunts and groans, before finally spinning around to show Xantumal his face, flush red with mounting rage and clearly reluctant to admit anything.

"Yes, sire?" Xantumal mischievously teased, faking an innocent inquiry.

"Damn you, Chorster, you know what's wrong!" Xerseine managed to venomously spit out behind clenched teeth, seething with annoyance.

"I'm afraid not, my liege." It took everything he had not to crack. Somehow he kept it steady, though, proving the drunken bard from last night wrong once again. See, he was capable of good acting.

If there were a term for the expression the elf provided his guard, it would have to include the meanings of several different phrases that all involve the desire to inflict incredible amounts of bodily harm. However, to his credit, he once again spun around, gave an anguished cry that would likely give even arena pit fighters pause, before returning to face his companion, this time with a forced grin pushing its way forward through tightly held lips. "Xantumal. Quit playing games with me. This is serious, and I would very much like to get it over with so we can get out of this terrible swamp full of mosquito bites and allergen geysers!"

"I agree with you, sire. This bog is quite dreadful." Xantumal put on his best impression of Xerseine's voice, which he saw caused a vein to bulge in the mocked elf's forehead. Both of them could hardly hold it in anymore, and the man's eyes began to wet from the humor of the situation.

"Good," Xerseine was holding out his hands in desperation as his eyes were wide as saucers, "so tell me."

"Tell you wh-" A small crack in his facade caused him to release a tiny giggle, once again drawing even more ire from Xerseine. The game was coming to a close, but first he cleared his throat and regained his composure.

"Tell you what," here came the final blow,

"Xersy?"

Xantumal knew that the elf's mother used to call him by that nickname when he was a child. He also knew that the prince hated it beyond anything. Xantumal let loose his laughter, unable to continue any longer with the bit. He had finally gotten one over on his liege, after so much mockery and torment, and it was liberating! Meanwhile, for Xerseine, the gates of wrath were unleashed. The bard's head might as well have been smoking, as the words he shouted were tinged with fiery breath.

"Where the Hells are we supposed to be going, you insolent pigheaded willowsniffing fatbritched hornswallowing gitsuckling bootstamped venomsnatched coneydogging thoughtrotten buffoon with a diseased incontinent garden hamster for a brain?!"

With each different insult, Xerseine forcefully poked and prodded and punched Xantumal's chest. All the while, the man could not stop himself from releasing every ounce of mirth in his body, nearly keeling over and collapsing from the full chested cackling emerging from inside. For five shards at this point Xerseine had belittled, mocked, bad-mouthed, and bullied Xantumal, all without a single ounce of retaliation. Thus, for Xantumal to finally pull off this victory over Xerseine? Well, it felt absolutely glorious!

That was until the prince forcefully smacked him across the face with an open hand.

An enraged Drestar shoved himself close to the stunned Chorster, an accusatory finger aimed directly at his face. "How dare you speak to me that way, guardsman? I am your prince and you will show respect towards me and my name! In case you have forgotten, guardsman, my name is Prince. Xerseine. Thornbush. Drestar. And I am your superior! If I ever hear you refer to me in such a way again I will have your head mounted on a spike. Am. I. Clear. Guardsman. Chorster?"

Xantumal had never seen the elf like this before. Usually, even if he was the recipient of light mockery, he would simmer for a short bit but always take it in stride. But this? This was hatred. This was rage. This was a level of fury that the guard didn't even think the prince was capable of. He stood, transfixed in shocked silence. On one hand, his training was so ingrained into him that he instinctively felt the need to drop down on one knee and plead for mercy from the elf. However, on the other…

"You struck me."

"I did, yes," Xerseine raised his right hand once again, this time to go back across the other side of Xantumal's cheek with the back of his open knuckle, "and if you do not submit right now, I will do so again."

Xantumal was raised to be a Royal Protector. It was the duty of his father, his father's father, his mother's father, his mother's mother, and on and on up the tree spreading out into various mothers and fathers. From the day he was born, he was instilled with a sense of honor and service to the crown of Drestar. His place was below, a protector, a guardsman. So why, then, did he feel so conflicted at that moment? He knew in his head that he needed to follow his training and the teachings of his mentors, however in his chest he felt a growing flame, ready to be released. He felt unsure, uncertain. His identity and purpose were on the line here and yet…

Xerseine went to bring his hand against Xantumal's other cheek, but it was immediately taken a hold of by the man's own hand.

"Listen here, Xerseine! For five shards, no, for the last twelve years I have done nothing but submit! I have taken every insult, every order, every outburst, and I have handled them all in stride! Because you are my prince by your bloodline, yes. However, if you have forgotten, your titles were stripped, Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar. You have no claim over anything anymore, Duke of Drent! In fact, you have no right to order me to do a single thing! Yet, for all of the time I have spent with you, not once did I ever question my loyalty. I have been and always will be loyal to the crown of Drestar. To your father!"

Xantumal held tightly to Xerseine's wrist, wrenching it from its place near his cheek to firmly twist it around, causing the elf to wince in pain. By this point, the one with the stunned and fearful expression was no longer the guard, but the bard. Xerseine had never before been spoken to in such a manner by anyone, let alone his own servant, and he certainly hadn't been taken ahold of like this.

"Don't you ever question my loyalty again. I am here on orders from your father to look after you, not yours. In fact, I was actually only ordered to watch you so long as you stayed within the borders of Drestar! Yet here we are, in Mariton, hundreds of miles away! I could leave you here and now and be fully within my duties as Royal Protector. I choose to stick around, Xerseine, because if I didn't there is a more than likely chance you would already be dead."

With that, the man releases the disgraced elf, tossing him back with force enough to send him to the ground. By this point, whatever anger Xerseine harbored was completely eradicated, replaced entirely by fear and remorse. Xantumal looked away, returning his focus back to the mission at hand.

"Get up! We promised we'd deal with the monster, and that's exactly what we're going to do. Afterwards we can discuss our… arrangement."

The man hoisted the elf up by his collar and set him on his feet. It took a rough push, but soon the two were in motion, in pursuit of their prey. A chilled breeze blew through the swamp, choreographing the fog in a strange dance that made it seem almost alive. The orchestra that sounded so serene before changed their tune to one of suspense, as the two infiltrators barreled forward into uncertain danger. Though Xerseine embellished the appearance of the creature they were after, in truth nobody in town could give an answer as to its real appearance. The only bits of information that they gathered was that it was large, pitch black, and wielded a sharp row of teeth. The two weren't even certain whether or not its lair truly lied ahead, as it was seen as a bizarre speculation by an old town drunkard. However, as it was the only lead they had to work with, they decided that traveling through the murky bog in search of a small den hollowed out of the side of a hill was better than just wandering into the bog in hopes of bumping into the damn thing.

Thus, after three hours of trudging through that muck, they finally arrived at the hill the drunken man told them about. From this angle, it was hard to tell if there really was a den within, as it just seemed to be a normal hill. As they rounded the left side, however, it all changed. Sometimes old codgers just simply have a way of inexplicably knowing things, through the sheer power of insanity and alcohol. Right there, fast asleep within a small crevice that would be nearly imperceptive in a heavy fog such as this to anyone who wasn't looking too hard, was their culprit.

A young girl, who could not have been any older than 11 or so, and who was wrapped up in nothing but a thin cloth to keep her warm.

"Pantheon be praised," a troubled Xantumal said with an exasperated sigh, "we've got a… kid… situation."

Xerseine, who was cowering both in shame and terror, using Xantumal as a human shield, slowly poked over the man's broad shoulder pads. Expecting a ravenous beast to be residing in the hole, he was not prepared to see just the small, shivering child in its place. With a scoff and a wave of his hand to signify the dismissal of his foolish fright, the elf gave a wide step around his flesh shield, shooting Xantumal a mischievous wink.

"Oh, I'm fantastic with children! They absolutely adore me. You just stay here. You might scare her off with your combative stance."

"Combative stance? I don't have a… combative stance." Said the man whose hand was resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword and whose legs were firmly planted in a way that would allow him to release the blade with a swift upward slicing motion with a wide berth, perfect for sudden and swift decapitation.

Xerseine provided an unconvinced glance in response, then returned his attention to the dozing youngster. Her lengthy raven black locks obscured her facial features, though that was not what stuck out to the elf. Judging by how her milk-pale skin clung to her thin bones, it was clear to Xerseine that she was extremely famished, and were it not for the slight amounts of movement upon the surface of the paper thin shawl that covered her, most others would have mistaken her for a corpse. The privileges of elven eyesight were almost as satisfying as the privileges of elven nobility in that sense.

A stardust geyser only a few meters away gurgled with arcane gas, causing Xerseine's nose to once again continue its unfortunate irritation and his eyes to flood over. He doubled over, took in a deep breath through his nose, and violently released it with a sneeze so loud it reverberated across the murk and startled a pair of hunters looking for a wild swamphen that would provide a tasty feast for tonight's supper.

Both Xantumal and Xerseine froze, as the poor girl stirred in her slumber. A bleary-eyed visage peered out from underneath the veil of hair, curious as to the intruders who decided to interrupt the small bits of slumber she was able to afford. As her gaze came into focus enough to comprehend the sight of two strange men with swords looming over her, she paused for a minute in surprise. The scrawny one reached out a hand which came much too close for her liking. The girl released an ear-splitting screech, even louder than Xerseine's outburst and causing those hunters to flee in terror, crying about bog banshees out for their blood.

Thinking quickly, Xerseine snatched up his flute from his pack and jammed it against his lips. A soft tune from his childhood erupted from its ornate brass construction, intended to soothe the disturbed child and laced with a twinge of magic to make sure it took. Take well it did, as the girl switched from a terrified scream to instead a silent and tense observation, her breathing extremely fast-paced. Her knees were pressed up to her chest and she attempted her best to cover herself with the small bit of fabric she was previously using for warmth.

"Yeah. You sure are great with children, sire." bluntly stated Xantumal, with an unconscious slip back into his protectorate role. He was still on edge about the situation, with a sense that something was off about this unusual child. His hand did not move from the hilt of his sword.

Xerseine ignored the man, offering a graceful gesture of kindness and fair noble generosity to the girl. "Hello there, fair maiden. We are no marauders with intentions to bring harm upon you. We are simple and humble travellers in this realm." Slowly and methodically, he inched towards her. She responded by bundling herself up in an even tighter grip and ducking her head deeper into the comfort of her knees. Xerseine was unsure if the girl could even comprehend his words, her eyes darting between him and Xantumal, who was still just as poised and ready to release his blade at any moment. The elf followed her gaze over his shoulder and shot his companion a commanding glance. Xantumal relaxed his shoulders and fixed his posture, however to the sword his hand was kept firmly gripped around. "This scowling fellow here is my loyal servant, Xantumal."

The bard looked back at the girl, attempting to reflect kindness in his eyes. To an outside observer, however, it was more along the lines of an uncomfortable bowel movement. "Most know me as Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar, the Fair and Honourable and…" He suddenly felt a sharp taste of bile in his mouth as he began to recite his title, as if his body were rejecting his own personage. The elf cleared his throat, conceding the attempt at formalities. "You can simply refer to me as Xerseine."

Xantumal was firmly concerned with ensuring Xerseine's safety, and so kept his expression narrow and expectant of the worst. However, this small moment of humility from the prince did evoke a slight twitch of his brow and a flare of his nostril.

"What is your name, little one? I promise we are an honourable duo and shan't bring you harm."

The girl gave no response, however her breathing began to still. Slowly, her fear subsided, and she relaxed her bunched up form as the surprise of the two strangers fell away. Xerseine once again turned to Xantumal and gestured for him to provide his cloak. The guard approached their bags which they abandoned near the water's edge, rummaged about within his own, and produced a blue and white cape which was standard issue for those within the royal protectorate. Unlike Xerseine's drape, however, Xantumal had the foresight to pack the cloak away so that it would not become drenched during their crossing through the muck. The elf took it from him with a thankful bow of his head–which once again gave Xantumal a brief moment of pause–before offering the article to the girl. Slowly and gently, as if taming an animal, he set it down in front of her and retreated a few feet back towards his partner, giving her space to retrieve it if she so wished, which she did.

"I'm getting a bad sense here, sire. There's something up with that girl. She's unnatural."

"Nonsense. It's simply your soldier's paranoia acting out of turn."

"I'm telling you, I don't like this. Sometimes it's more than paranoia, it's intuition."

"How is it that a helpless young lady all alone in the bog gives you such trouble, Sir Chorster?"

"I can't explain it exactly. It's as if something about her is rotten… Like she has an aura of curdled milk."

"First of all, disgusting, secondly, that's not how you speak of a lady, third…"

Xerseine let out a wheezing chuckle at Xantumal's insinuation of this "aura" about the girl, holding onto his shoulder for support as his knees buckled from his unquenchable mirth. The guard, stoic as ever, kept his gaze affixed to their subject of conversation. His grip on the sword tightened even further.

Nearby, that same geyser from before once again began to bubble and fume, spewing that mystic ash into the surrounding atmosphere. Xerseine's nose had only barely recovered from the previous bout of frustration, as yet another was brought upon him. The same reaction was had by the girl, who utilized Xantumal's cloak as a sort of oversized handkerchief as she doubled over from the fumes.

Within a split second, the man lunged forward past Xerseine and readied his blade, its point aimed right between the eyes of the girl, who was immediately once again accosted with fright. He had been suspicious of her presence this entire time, and now there was clear proof that something was amiss. The only beings who react to the dust of these geysers are…

Xerseine, catching his breath after a series of sniffles, placed a firm hand on Xantumal's shoulder and spun him around. "What is the matter with you today? You can't just brandish your sword at a maiden such as her!" With a bit of a scuffle, he grappled against Xantumal's tight grip on his sword. He gave the guard's hands a few harsh slaps, before finally and forcefully wrenching the blade from him. "You need to be more considerate of those who are lesser off than yourself! Therefore…"

The sword now in Xerseine's hand was a precious heirloom to the Chorster family. It was a time-honored tradition that the sword, made of pure silver ages ago, was passed down to the most recent Chorster recruited into the royal guard. As Xantumal was that most recent candidate, it had been in his possession for many years at that point. He treated the blade with more care and tact than a father might treat his son, and he never went anywhere without having it on his person, with intense emphasis on anywhere. It meant more to Xantumal than anything else.

So, of course, Xerseine casually and uncaringly hurled it over his shoulder and into the swamp.The guard could only look on in horror and unbelievable anger as it soared through the air, its silver beauty glinting off the small rays of light that pierced their way through the trees, before it was swallowed whole by the mud of the swamp with a sucking sound. Xantumal made a very similar sound, as he exhaled every molecule of air from his body all at once and deflated like a ball punctured by a hundred spikes.

"Therefore, I rescind your right to bear arms in her presence entirely." To the maiden, he gave a deep bow, and to the stunned Xantumal he gave a pat on the shoulder. "As I said, you shan't be harmed by our presence, young one." To Xerseine's delight, the girl stood from her cowering spot and cracked a smile in his direction. He returned a smile of his own and once again bowed deeply. Finally, he was getting through to her!

Or so he thought. As he raised his head and the pair locked eyes, he realized he hadn't truly given her face a thorough examination. The girl's eyes turned red and bloodshot, unnerving the elf. With a frightened falter, he fell upon his behind, crushing something hard and uncomfortable underneath him.

Xantumal managed to finally break himself free from his disbelief, and began towards Xerseine with a definite intention of harm upon him. However, upon witnessing that the girl had reversed the roles and was standing over the elf, duty replaced rage. The man threw himself in front of Xerseine, walling him off from whatever this thing approaching was.

The girl took a few steps in the pair's direction as Xantumal called out, "Go no further, creature! Leave us and the town nearby alone, or else we will be forced to claim your life!" His warning, however, was difficult to hold up when he was without weapon and his companion was flat on his ass in the dirt behind him. The child before them began to shift, her thin, milk-pale frame becoming lanky and gaunt with her already tight skin stretching to fit these elongated limbs. Her blood-red eyes sunk into her skull, which barred nasty, dagger-like rows of teeth, yellowed and ridden with grime. The fingers and nails on her hands extended out, resembling sharp talons and which could undoubtedly puncture straight through the toughest of armors mankind could fashion. The creature's hair also fell longer, almost touching the ground despite the fact that the monster was well over 7 feet by the end of its transformation.

The two shot nervous glances at each other. They found their beast alright.

Before there was time to react, Xantumal was quickly swatted aside by the monster, his body flying through the air and slammed into the murky water of the bog with a painful splat rather than a splash. The guard groaned in pain, though nothing seemed to be broken. Praise the pantheons for padded armor! With mud clinging to his loose dreads, he lifted his head up and gave a shout to Xerseine.

"Quickly! Play something and put the thing to sleep!"

The beast methodically and patiently creeped towards the downed elf, who was trying his hardest not to need new trousers for reasons beyond trudging through a few miles of mud. He scooted himself backwards, away from the beast who was approaching at a brisk pace, all the while scanning the landscape for where his flute could have rolled off to.

Then he scooted another foot backwards and found the remains of his instrument underneath him, with a fine dent in the shape of his rear right in the middle. This must have been what he fell upon a moment ago, and it now was useless for any sort of music making. Unfortunately, he left the rest of his musical toolkit with his bag, on the other side of where the monster was gaining on him. There was no hope of getting past the thing to retrieve them. He would undoubtedly be skewered well before he got the chance.

Xerseine took a fearful moment to wonder how his life ended up this way. He once lived lavishly and comfortably in the grandest palace in the world, with servants at his every beck and call. He didn't have to lift a finger for an entire day and everything would be done for him. He owned titles and land, with entire regions under his direct oversight. The galas and parties and balls he put on within his holds were said to rival those of the Gods themselves. Fascinating all with his noble recountings of adventures that he most definitely embarked upon. He was one of the most powerful political figures in all of Tolria not but 6 months ago.

And now here he was, about to die in a swamp to a… Hair…ling… He'd workshop out the name in the Realms Beyond, he figured. The elf, with a long sigh and acceptance of his fate, closed his eyes and waited for his swift end to come to him in a dignified way, with the honor of those in his royal heritage. He gave one final, serene prayer as he watched his doom come near.

"Oh, Pantheon! Xantumal! Please save me! Xantumal, help me! Please! I don't want to die!"

The Hairling, who frequently enjoyed the sound of its prey squealing in fear, pulled back its lips even further than they already were as far as they could go. It drew its black tongue along the rows upon rows of deformed teeth, imagining how good this defenseless little morsel must taste. While the monster wasn't too keen on the taste of human, this being wore a different scent around it. It reminded the creature of fresh fruit in the springtime and the smell of morning dew. Yes, without a doubt, this little snack was full of mouth watering and incredibly juicy magic. The Hairling drew its claw near to the morsel, before rearing back and…

With a cry of battle and a leaping lunge, Xantumal appeared as if he was summoned by Xerseine's cries and tackled the creature to the ground. The two rolled a few feet from Xerseine, a tangle of black hair engulfing them both. The guard and the monster wrestled there in the dirt, the man somehow overpowering the unholy strength of the beast. Xantumal began to send blow after blow into the teeth of the monster, causing his knuckles to become cut on their points. The Hairling gave out a vicious cry of pain and frustration, desperately trying to tear the revolting human from off of it.

"Xerseine! Now!" called Xantumal, gesturing to their packs on the shoreline. The elf quickly did as told, managing to finally find his footing in spite of the fear gripping his whole body. He threw his weight towards the bags, quickly stumbling his way to them as fast as his unstable legs would take him.

With a roar of rage, the Hairling threw Xantumal off of its prone position and once again back into the mud. He landed with an "Oof!" this time right against the rim of one of the geysers which were so active during their trip. He gave it a quick glance down inside the hole.

It was frantically bubbling, and looked ready to burst at any moment.

Meanwhile, the Hairling quickly got to its feet and, with a shake of its gaunt face to reorient itself after the human's beating, started after its tasty little snack. The beast lunged forward after Xerseine, who was only a few feet from their packs. It managed to just barely take hold of the morsel by his ankle, causing him to fall to the ground just barely out of reach of the bags. It succeeded, despite the intrusion of the disgusting human, and now it would feast on the fruits of its labor, or in this case, meat.

Xerseine strained his arm as far as it would reach. All he had to do was grab a hold on his bag…

The creature pulled the fresh meat closer, closer. It managed to get to its feet, still with the meal in its claws, and went to examine its prize.

Which is exactly when Xerseine swung his bag as hard as he could against the sunken eye socket of the monster. With a screech and a howl, the beast recoiled in pain and covered its injured eye, its vision becoming full of pinpricks of light which staggered the beast. Xerseine managed to slip free of its claws and quickly found the ground below him headfirst with a thud. The elf was now the one seeing stars, waving his arm in frantic search of the pack he dropped when he fell.

Now the monster was exceptionally enraged, turning to Xerseine with the intent of doing worse than simply eating him alive. It once again shook its head, cleared its eyesight, and bounded forth, talons first, ready to rip the elf to shreds.

Unfortunately for the Hairling, Xerseine found a hold of his violin. He didn't have the bow, but that didn't matter. Thinking quickly, he plucked the strings that he vaguely remembered would cast his sleeping spell, hoping that it would be enough to stop this terrible monstrosity.

But instead of dropping to the dirt in slumber, the creature was launched into the air, flying away from Xerseine as if a sudden force sent it careening backwards into the muck. Both the bard and the monster were stunned, neither expecting such a spell to emerge from his improvisation. It landed not too far from where Xantumal lied against the geyser, as the man waded his way to the Hairling as quickly as the swamp would let him. Once again the creature attempted to clamber to its feet, but the unstable ground underneath the muck proved to be a greater adversary than anticipated. It seemed nothing was going in its favor today…

Xantumal was swift in reaching the monster, engaging it in a headlock from behind as it struggled to get to its feet. Though the beast's claw-like nails swung and swiped, the guard had a hold of it in such an angle that it could barely reach behind. Xantumal heard the geyser bubbling behind him, about to blow. With all the strength he could muster up inside of him, he dragged the Hairling, kicking and howling and swiping, right over the arcane geyser. He stuck himself within the geyser's pit, feeling the heat rising on his back.

During all of this, Xerseine had willingly entered the murky waters on the other side of the island. Frantic and mostly running on adrenaline, he combed the waters for the sword he so carelessly discarded before the creature emerged. He cursed his own name for doing something so foolish, wading through the waist high muck in desperation to find the blade. Where could it have gone? Where is… Ouch! The elf stepped on something sharp and long in a particularly deep section of the swamp…

Xantumal felt the geyser boil beneath him. Sensed the aura of it, as he had when they first entered this bog. It reminded him of times as a child, running about playing knights with his older brothers. He wished that he could be home right now, to be able to make mischief like that once again and get into all sorts of trouble. To dream of being a great hero to the people and receive recognition by the king himself. He shook his head. This was no time for childhood reminiscing, especially since he held a very angry and squirming horror creature pinned down, who was doing its best to take his head while halfway inside a geyser about to explode on the two of them.

"Xantumal! Your sword!"

The guard saw the silver blade spin through the air once again, landing not too far from where he and the creature were interlocked. He turned his gaze to the island, where Xerseine stood, covered head to toe in mud and dripping wet. The elf gave the man a confident nod, and readied the bow to his violin. Xantumal flung himself off the beast, who swung wildly at the man as he escaped, managing to cut a nasty length down his back with one of its claws. As he trudged through the water, he could sense the beast's aura of spoiled milk and rotten eggs on its way after him, looking for revenge against the guard.

Suddenly, there was a whistle from the shore, as the creature turned to see its desired meal standing confidently at the top of the hill. The monster screeched once more and abandoned its hunt on the man, still prioritizing its next feast over anything. It saw the elf place the bow against the strings of his violin and begin a tune. Xerseine didn't have time for words with the last spell, but this one deserved a proper casting, he determined. The bard closed his eyes and exhaled, before quickly fiddling out a tune.

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

A beast they described, yet none could expect

The wickedness of your smile, the awfulness of your stench!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

Your game was set when you challenged the bard!

And the match was met when you battled the guard!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!The truth, it seems, your sneezes did give away,

And soon enough, your arcane allergy will save the day!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

Remember this when you're long dead!

'Twas your own fault we chopped off your hairy, hairy head!

Though it could not understand the words, the Hairling recoiled with each verse, as if it were being tormented by countless voices. It felt the taunting force of Xersine's song like a million arrows in its head, as it stumbled backwards towards the geyser. It tried covering its ears, tried shutting its eyes, tried to screech over the words, but nothing worked. On and on the nasty musical meal taunted him, repeating that same song until it could no longer bear it. The monster reopened its sunken eyes, ready to tear the elf to shreds.

And it was at that moment that the geyser directly behind the monster erupted. A massive shower of arcane dust fell upon the beast, covering every inch of it above the water with scalding hot fumes. The monster cried. The monster howled. The monster screeched.

Then the monster sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed.

It simply could not stop. It was completely overtaken by the geyser's influence, completely rendering it unable to see where it was going or what it was doing. The Hairling sneezed for almost a minute straight, until its vision went cloudy and its face went numb. It sneezed long enough for Xantumal to grab on to his sinking sword. It sneezed long enough for him to make his way over to it.

And when it was doubled over, its lungs on fire and its nose finally clear of the particles that refused to leave, it discovered that it sneezed long enough for the man to raise his sword and bring it down upon the creature's neck, parting its hairy, hairy head from its body. ----------------------------------------------------

"I do believe that they shorted us for this job."

Xantumal Chorster and Xerseine Drestar sat at the bank of the Silver Bog, counting out the gold pieces they received in return for the head of the creature that tormented the small town of Chambery in the country of Mariton. The original reward poster offered a total of two hundred gold for evidence of the slaying of the monster. There were, in fact, only one hundred and eighty two gold pieces in the coin purse which they received.

"That's not even the worst of it. Look, Xers."

Xantumal divided his share into two separate piles, one that had coins featuring an insignia of three shields and a crown above them, while the other pile was made up of coins with a triangle hole through the middle and an ornate arrangement of flowers surrounding it. They were very clearly distinguishable from one another, even from a distance. He picked up one of the triangle cutout gold pieces and help it up to the sky

"A good amount of this is Faloque currency. We can't even use it here in Mariton. Damn crooks…"

"I wouldn't jump to calling names too quickly, my friend." Xerseine interjected, unwrapping one of his coins that turned out to just be made of chocolate and popping it into his mouth, "Perhaps it was simple blind ignorance of how the rest of the world actually works. Or maybe they just didn't have enough gold here in town."

As if Xerseine had just spoken in ancient tongues, Xantumal gave him a confused and worried expression. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, sire? We were in that bog for quite a while. You didn't contract anything, did you?" Instinctively, Xantumal went to put his hand to Xerseine's forehead to check his temperature, just like Granna used to do when he was sick.

Xerseine batted the man's arm away and scoffed heartily. "I feel perfectly complacent, though I appreciate your concern. However, my nose is certainly ready to leave this swamp and never return. I still have that itch that refuses to go away." He ruffled his nose with a sniffle, only gaining a small bit of relief from the attempt. He sighed and opened another chocolate coin, resting it on his tongue and letting it melt against the roof of his mouth.

"If you say so. You're just acting… strange is all. More understanding all of a sudden." While the elf wasn't looking, Xantumal quickly nabbed one of the chocolate coins and snuck it in his own mouth, crushing it to bits with his tongue against his teeth.

"I suppose I realized something in the muck. Perhaps it was just an idle reflection but on our way back I saw myself, really probably for the first time ever. Covered head to toe in mud, beaten up, missing half of my valuables, and clothes ruined and I… Well I guess I had a revelation of sorts. I used to hoist myself up upon the backs of other people, telling their stories, lifting their experiences and puppeting them as my own. I never stopped to consider the people who risked their lives to ensure a small town like this could sleep in peace, even for a single night. I never gave credence to the lengths they must have gone through for something so small. I just… bastardized their tales with tawdry fluff. You were right, Xantumal. Sometimes the true story is better to tell." Xerseine moved his pile of chocolate coins in between the two of them, not noticing the one that was pilfered a moment ago was gone, "And sometimes, you just have to accept the truth, despite its mucked up visage."

Xantumal felt as if he had just been shot by an arrow in that moment, as he responded to that confession with a look of abject shock the likes of which he had never experienced before. Did he hear him correctly? Did Xerseine just say that he was… right?

"Don't hold your mouth so agape, Xantumal. You don't want a Silver Mosquito flying in there." Xerseine gave Xantumal a slap on the back and a hearty laugh at his own joke, but Xantumal still could do nothing but stare at him with disbelief. Xerseine, the elf who challenged the king himself and was banished for it, admitted to being wrong for once? It was completely unheard of, and yet here they were.

"Hello? Xantumal?" Xerseine waved a hand in front of his friend's face in an attempt to wake him from the stupor that claimed him, alas to little results. Xantumal still remained just as stunned as before. Xerseine switched tactics and gave a quick snap right in front of the man's eyes, and that seemed to summon him back into his body, though he was still unable to bring himself to form anything coherent for a moment.

"Y-yes, sire. Apologies, your highness, I didn't… Wow." Xantumal had no words. He legitimately had no idea what to say in response beyond "Wow."

Xerseine, for his own part, was extremely confused at Xantumal's strange attitude, but waved it off. Having to live so short of a life must make you crazy earlier, he thought. And so, the two sat in silence, finishing off the last few chocolate coins between them and listening to the gentle creaking croak of the Wyrd Frogs, the soft clicking of young Silver Bats, the eerily pleasant droning of the Zuratura Bird, and all other sounds of Nature's Orchestra that can be found in the beauty of the muck of the Silver Bog.

Art by @madiroller

#Xerseine Drestar #Xantumal Chorster #OC #short story #dungeons and dragons #Tolria #Young Misadventurers #fantasy #writing #paranormal

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tmd-clangen · 8 months ago

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MOON 0 | SMILING MOON

As the two strange rogues fled, Heartstripe came to a sudden halt. “Cosmos above! Foxpaw, are you alright?!” Heartstripe cried, veering over to her apprentice. At this point she didn’t care if the other cats got away as long as she ensured his safety. I can’t possibly let Star Night down on the honor of mentorship! But this isn’t about you right now, Heartstripe!

Foxpaw shook himself briskly as the two rogues fled up the slope and away, growling. “Yeah, I’m fine!” he replied, frustrated, though the tone wasn’t a jab at her. “Just all scratched up now…”

Heartstripe pressed her paws to his fur to part the tufts and look closer at each of the red marks on his pelt. “Are you sure you’re okay?! We should get back to camp quickly, wounds shouldn’t stay out in the cold for so long, that’s not good–”

“I promise I’m completely alright, they don’t even hurt that bad. Please don’t worry too much, I’m okay,” Foxpaw meowed, backing away from her a little and smiling lightly. “That tom that attacked me seemed pretty young and inexperienced. They both seemed really little.”

Heartstripe nodded slowly, having made the same observation. The pitches of the tom’s voices, their shorter statures, the lightness of the wounds… It’s likely they’re not any older than six moons, maybe even younger. “Okay. Well, still, we ought to return quick. Star Night is going to want to hear about this. And you know Asterhaze is serious about never leaving even the smallest things unattended.”

“Yup yup, I gotchu,” Foxpaw replied humoredly. “Let’s go then.” He stuck his bushy tail up high and turned around to leave the other way.

Heartstripe let out a pressed sigh, catching up to him and taking the lead. “As if we didn’t already have enough problems to worry about… now there’s the possibility of rogues,” she fretted.

Foxpaw shrugged his shoulders, then said, surprisingly grimly, “Well, they might not be a problem for long, if the next moon turns out to be a blood moon. The beasts will take care of ‘em for us… you know, what usually happens?”

“I don’t wish that fate on any cat, even if they oppose us!” Heartstripe murmured sharply. “I’m rather appalled you think that way–”

“I mean! Not to say I like that happening to anyone, either!” Foxpaw tried hurriedly to repair his statement. “But it’s just… you know. That’s what happens all the time. We have an outsider problem and we don’t interfere because we know we’re guarded enough already and, nature will, well…”

“All right, why don’t we just stop talking about this,” Heartstripe laughed strainedly, trying to put an end to the topic. It’s a little uncomfortable to see he thinks this way… I have no doubt it’s because of Glowroar. She shook her head thinking of the violence-happy golden tom. “I understand what you’re saying but Star Night is going to want to hear about this issue anyway.”

And I need to see how I can resolve this, to a permanent end, Heartstripe thought to herself, brows furrowing slightly as she gazed off into the starry sky. It’s my duty, now.

"Anyway, you think you did good?"

Foxpaw exclaimed proudly, "For sure! I think that's been one of my better training sessions recently! And next time, I won't get all clawed up by some little cats."

“During a training outing, Heartstripe suggests to Foxpaw that this would be a good time for them to practice all sorts of things. Foxpaw gives her all he’s got! However, when they’re about to leave, they have a stressful encounter with two strange cats. While the assumed rogues get away unharmed and Foxpaw is left scratched up, Heartstripe is determined to tell Star Night everything and figure out how to end this new problem.”

#tmdclangen #moon 0 #clangen #willow colony #heartstripe #foxpaw #big apologies about the lateness of this!#i honestly forgot to post it for a bit

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actrixquadras · 8 months ago

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So Far Away AU Part1

Chapter 0: Prologue

The moon, as a sentinel, stood in the silent expanse of the cosmos, where the stars twinkled like a distant memory. Ever glowing, ever moving, and in its long existence, it had seen everything. The birth of the world that it orbited, the creation of life, the creation of Grimm, the rise of magic, the rise of civilizations, their subsequent fall, the departure of its creators, mortals imitating its creator. It had seen it all.

But throughout its eternal life, it could never understand one thing. Why didn’t the living give up? Its creator before leaving the land below and before scarring its body, along with his brother had killed off the living, and yet the living came back. The living fell victim to her creator’s creations yet they doubled back and thrived. They went to war with each other, and some had their souls forcefully merged with the beasts, yet they held onto their short lives like a natal seeking to cling to its mother.

The moon questioned it a lot. It sought the counsel of the sun, the only other body that held onto this land in this celestial space, and even it didn’t know the answer to the living’s tribulations. The living were stubborn, they were tenacious, and that very quality of their made them a joy to watch, and yet their pain ached the moon the same way the shattered pieces of itself once did.

The situation that was going on below it now was also not helping. From the vantage point it sat, the moon could see the battle that was currently going on. It witnessed the tumult below, the clash of steel, a symphony of war cries echoing through the dark forests her creator once called home. The living and the Grimm collide, their struggles etching upon the canvas of the land. From the experience it had, it was clear what the living was trying to achieve. A way into the castle that loomed over the dark horizon, fenced behind the walls of the creatures of darkness.

It was a battle against the living and the being of old times. A being who was cursed by the moon’s and her fellow celestial body’s creators to live eternally. It was a war against impossible odds. The being who wanted nothing but to die but take the world with her as an act of revenge and resentment.

The amount of explosions, blood, and sweat flowing there was enough to fill a lake. The strewn flesh and buzzing of flies that surrounded them made the lunar entity nauseous. It was pitiful, it was painful. It could have been short if the living just gave up.

The moon’s eyes wander as its gaze catches action all over the battlefield. One unlucky man was facing off against a madman who had his soul merged with a scorpion at the time of his birth. There was a standoff between two maidens, one fond of fire and the other fond of ice. The only difference between them was that the fire-crazed maiden stood all alone while the woman touched by the frost was protected by the knight of rust and two of his close comrades.

But there was one entourage of warriors that caught the lunar entity’s eyes the most.

It was a group of four women and one young man steadily breaking their way through the enemy lines. Their first major advance was pushed by the maiden of frost and the knight of rust before they were halted by the maiden of flames. Their second breakthrough was achieved with the help of the man with automaton legs and two shapeshifting damsels. The moon looked at them with bated breaths as they fought its creator’s creations just to reach the abode of the sad witch.

The heft of those punches, the twirl of those ribbons, the precision and grace of those stabs and dust, and the swing of that scythe all made the metaphorical heart of the shattered celestial shudder. Such grace, such bravery was admirable. But the moon knew better. The moon knew well. It was for naught. No amount of bravery would let them come out of this place alive. No amount of grace would allow them to come out of the place unscathed.

Some of them will perish, dying a hero’s death. Others will be left to pick up the pieces, forever stuck in the cycle of mourning. All the moon could hope was that the ones who would be left behind could make something out of their life, for they still had a long life to live.

The moon lost sight of those warriors as they entered the witch’s keep. It might be a celestial that orbited the land below, but there are certain places where its gaze couldn’t reach. It never knew what goes on behind closed doors.

Its gaze goes all over the battlefield. At first, it fell upon the group of soldiers who were holding a line of defense. The soldiers consisted of groups of different uniforms. From leather to cloth. From the knightly armor to carbon kevlar. From flesh to automaton. From humans to the beast people. All of them came together to defend their right to live.

Few warriors held the lunar entity’s eyes longer. There was this one man who was touched by the spirit of the monkey, if that’s what his tail meant, bouncing around from one Grimm to another, spinning his weapon with such force and athleticism that it would make any person with an eye for such things swoon. One woman simply smiled with her black glasses on as her weapon tore through the beowolves. There was also this one rabbit woman who seemed to change weapons on the fly, but for some reason, her weapons looked transparent. Was it the result of the so-called ‘Dust’? It was pretty, yet the moon understood how vicious it could be. Did her creators intend the so-called dust to be this powerful?

But the moon couldn’t help but sigh. This unity would come to an end once the war was over. That is how it always was. Every single time the living would come together for a common cause, then when they achieved that cause, they would go back to being enemies. It was nothing new to the moon. Like how birds needed to fly. Like how animals had the urge to feed. Like how the sun and moon had the instinct to always orbit the land below, the living always had the instinct to fight. Maybe it helped to give them a purpose to live, maybe it was a thrill… the moon never knew.

The moon’s mind found itself wandering back to the warriors back at the castle. It glanced in its direction, and it could feel the ripple of whatever was going down at the castle. But the walls that surrounded the stand-off between the warriors and the ancient witch protected them from the lunar entity’s peeping eyes and like a fickle being it was, its gaze went back to the battlefield, but this time to the likes of the unlucky man.

The fight between the man cursed with bad luck and the crazed beast-man was uneventful for the moon’s taste. To be specific, it was the way it ended that left a bad taste in the orbiting celestial’s mouth. Those two warriors bounced around the battlefield, decimating everything around them. Any Grimm that got caught between them was reduced to dust and the moon didn’t know whether it was because of the bad luck emitting from the curse man or the sheer intensity between those two warriors. The walking scorpion would steal his aura, and the cursed man would retaliate by swinging his sword-scythe, cutting off the madman’s sting in the process. The crazed man would acrobat his way around the unlucky man.

It was when it happened. The moon doesn't know exactly what happened back there. Was it intentional, or was it purely accidental? During his hijinks, the beast-man lost his footing for a second and he fell on his sting. It was also a sting that was man-made and filled with more potent venom. The crazed man died instantaneously, with a crazed grin on his face and the unlucky man looked at his corpse with an unfazed expression.

Maybe the death of the humanoid scorpion was planned after all.

As the man cursed with bad luck walked towards the castle, the moon found its gaze on what it considered a more interesting fight it could watch at the moment.

The maiden of winter was doing all she could do to keep the maiden of fall near the ground, but she was struggling as the fall maiden was powered by not one but two maiden powers. The knight who was on an ethereal jackalope, courtesy of the dust princess, was doing everything to support the winter maiden along with his comrades. One of the comrades, a woman with a huge hammer, was setting off explosions while another comrade, a man was trying to grapple the said maiden with his hooks.

The moon had always hated the fall maiden. All she did was take from everyone else. There was a time when it sympathized for the woman but now all it felt for that woman was loathe. The lunar entity was one of the two witnesses of when the maiden killed a girl who was originally supposed to be the maiden, the other witness being the warrior with silver eyes. There was a time when the moon thought that the woman was redeemable. But that feeling left the entity when the fall maiden killed a child to gain the summer aspect.

Now, all the moon wanted was to see the maiden of fall have a taste of defeat. The winter maiden and her supporters were already running on fumes. At one point in their fight, the fall maiden had destroyed the jackalope leaving the knight at a disadvantage. Powered by the aspects of two maidens, the fall maiden goes on the offensive, forcing her opponents to take cover behind the rocks.

Suddenly, the knight walks out from his cover. His shield was fully deployed and his sword was in his dominant hand. His helmet revealed nothing other than his blue eyes which were glaring at the fall maiden. The knight takes the stance, his shield close to his chest and his sword ready. The moon was not sure what history was between the knight and the maiden but as soon the said knight took the stance, an evil smile grew on the fall maiden’s face and she shot out a continuous stream of fire on the knight, completely engulfing him.

At first, the moon was concerned. The amount of fire the maiden had used was too much. No normal human could withstand it. But it was in for a shock when the knight tanked the fire and kept walking through the flames, one small step at a time. His eyes were locked on the fire maiden and he boldly waded through the flame as if it were a bog. The fall maiden took his stride as a challenge and kept spewing the flames and as a statement, she brought herself close to the ground, but the knight kept walking towards her, unfazed and the fall maiden didn’t like it at all.

What the fall maiden failed to realize was how the winter maiden and the other two of the knight’s comrades were sneaking closer toward her. The Knight of Rust was just a distraction. The hatred and mockery the fall maiden felt for the knight made her narrow-sighted.

It was quick. The fall maiden didn’t have enough time to realize when two grappling hooks attached themselves to the ground and as she looked in the direction from where the hooks came from, just for her gut to be kicked by the man who was reeled in by those hooks. The maiden was not given enough time to react when the hammer girl swung her hammer into her back with unadulterated rage. The winter maiden swoops in to incase evil maiden’s lower body in ice and the last thing the evil scourge saw was the knight she called weak, swinging his sword in full force, aiming for her neck.

There was no hint of hesitation. His armor was burned in some places and it melted in some places. The red sash he wore around his waist was scorched with heat. He had discarded his shield to use his free hand as an extra force. There was no anger in his eyes. The only thing that was left in them was indifference as he committed himself to that strike.

And just like that, the head was separated from the torso. Smooth like butter. It was quick. It was painless. The moon knew very well that the people who brought that fate on the evil maiden wanted her to suffer, but some victory is better than nothing. The knight stood there as the winter maiden burned the corpse for an extra measure. They were exhausted but they were glad.

But their joy was short-lived as a loud noise caught the moon’s attention. The castle was crumbling. It was falling to pieces. From the exposed section, the moon could make out a few figures. The lady with the scythe was the only one standing facing against the ancient witch. Her teammates were on the ground, battered and bruised and the moon was not sure whether they were breathing or not. The boy who went with them was missing an arm but was still standing, albeit barely and he was using his predecessor’s cane as a support. The lady in red was bruised and bloodied and in her hand was what the moon recognized as the sword of destruction.

The witch loomed over them with a pitiful smile on her face. The lady in red looks at the young man, who just nods at her. A grim expression grew on the red huntress’s face as she closed her eyes and from the tips of her eyelashes, the moon saw a silver light leaking out. The boy stumbles into position right in between the witch and the huntress, his cane charging up some sort of attack.

The moon’s eyes widen as the sword of destruction starts to glow with a silver aura, keeping the witch at bay as the field of aura generated by the cane is sucked in by the sword, and in a blink of an eye, the light explodes, blinding everything in the battlefield.

The explosion was so powerful that every single Grimm that was nearby vanished without a trace. The Grimm which were farther away scurried away in fear, an emotion that was foreign to them. The castle was decimated by the said explosion and the moon knew that the odds of someone surviving that explosion were very low.

There were varying emotions and expressions among the forces as they saw the castle come down into dust. Some looked in awe at the destruction and some stood like a deer caught in headlights. Some were rejoicing and some let out a sigh of relief. But there was one group of people who were making a break towards the castle. The knight was in the lead, his exhaustion all up in smoke as he saw the keep crumbling down, closely followed by the winter maiden and his comrades with the man with unconventional bad luck in the back.

But it was never enough. The moon lamented. No matter how much effort they put in, it would never be enough, for the castle was so far away.

Hey guys, this is my first au for my favorite pairing. Please forgive me if its difficult to follow since English is my second language. I hope you enjoy it.

#weiss schnee x jaune arc #rwby whiteknight #so far away au #jaune arc #weiss schnee #winter schnee #rwby #its my first au

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italiantnea · 2 years ago

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#0-2_shiratama_ryuko/ I'm about to laugh

prev: 0-1 // next: 0-3

—–

She’d lie in wait for him. That morning, she’d made up her mind to do so the moment she opened her eyes.

The problem was where.

After much thinking, Shiratama Ryuuko hid in the shadow of the shoe box. When Otogiri Tobi came by, she’d jump out energetically. She’d done something similar before. That time, she hadn't particularly intended to scare him. She’d just thought, “He’s here!” and poked her head out from the shoe box’s shadow, and Tobi had been startled and stepped back.

That had been kinda fun.

She wanted to give him a real proper scare. What kind of reaction would Tobi have then? Her heart pounded with excitement imagining it. But—

As she held her breath and imagined Tobi’s expressions and behaviors, a thought bothered her.

What kind of human felt such happiness at the thought of scaring a friend?

“What do you think? Chinu…”

At times like these, Ryuuko couldn't help but talk to her well-used pochette.

“Oh no!”

She whipped her head around frantically. Luckily there was nobody around right now. If someone were there they’d think she was a freak.

Ryuuko put both hands on the pochette and sighed out a single “Phew.”

“...Huh?”

Something was strange.

‘Strange’, or rather, the pochette was rustling.

“Chinu…”

Ryuuko unzipped the pochette. Immediately, Chinu’s horns shot out. Her white fur trembled restlessly.

“Does it hurt? It’s okay, come on out.”

As Ryuuko whispered to her, Chinu pushed her body about halfway out of the pochette as if she had been waiting to do so. Her small mouth poked out between her fur and cried out, “Uchuu—”

Ryuuko nodded at Chinu and began walking. It wouldn't be a problem if Chinu were to be seen. Well, most people couldn't see her anyway. Even so, she was still somewhat concerned about attracting attention. Numerous students came and went around the shoe box.

“I don't think scaring Tobi is such a great idea either…”

Kuii.

Chinu cried out, as if to say, “Right?”

“Lying in wait…”

Maybe she was thinking about it the wrong way. She didn't have to lie in wait, she just had to wait for him somewhere.

“Would it be better to wait in the classroom?”

Uyuu. Chinu cried.

“...But for some reason I just can't feel at ease.”

Suddenly, Ryuuko stopped in her tracks.

“Am I speaking too much? I’ll seem like someone who likes to talk to themselves…”

She began walking immediately. Ryuuko walked quickly.

Chinu looked up at Ryuuko. Chinu didn't have anything that resembled eyes. But she really was looking.

When she kept Chinu in the pochette, she could act as if she wasn't there. She couldn't have Chinu looking at her like this. She always ended up being aware of her presence.

Ryuuko came to a halt on the landing of the stairs. By chance, no one was around.

“Chinu—”

She touched the pochette. About three fifths of Chinus body was outside the pochette. Despite that, she filled the inside of the pochette.

“Have you gotten bigger after all? Chinu…”

She’d been smaller in the past.

Back when her grandmother had bought her the pochette there had been plenty of space. It had been roomy.

Was she growing up steadily?

Little by little, bit by bit.

Ryuuko was the same after all. For instance, compared to three years ago when she’d been in fifth grade, her height had changed considerably. She’d grown around fifteen centimeters. But she wasn't quite aware of it herself, and she didn't particularly feel like the scenery she saw every day changed much either.

However, lately Chinu was awfully big.

It was sudden.

She’d suddenly grown bigger.

Recently.

When had it started?

“...”

Ryuuko breathed in.

Unyuu.

Chinu cried.

Some female students were climbing up the stairs. Ryuuko moved to the corner of the landing so as to not get in their way.

Her heart was pounding.

Ryuuko felt strange right then. For some time, she hadn't been thinking of anything. She probably hadn't seen or heard anything either.

She'd been spacing out.

Ryuuko slapped her temple with the palm of her left hand. She couldn't help but do this whenever she tried to remember something. She did this often during tests too. It was a habit from way back.

Why was she spacing out? Since when had her mind gone blank?

When?

That’s right.

Ryuuko had been thinking about something. Chinu. Recently, Chinu was bigger. Had she ever felt that before? Just like how Ryuuko grew taller, Chinu was growing bigger as well. That was undeniable. She’d been smaller in the past. The past. When was ‘the past’?

Lately, she’d grown bigger.

Ryuuko squeezed her eyes shut.

There it was again. It wasn't like she lost consciousness. Saying her consciousness felt faraway wasn't quite right, but it was like a white wall appeared in front of her, and her thoughts wouldn't continue beyond that point. This happened from time to time.

For instance, this happened when she tried to read books her grandfather bought her. She would encounter a difficult passage, and she couldn't understand it no matter how many times she read it. All of a sudden, she would be unable to think of anything. Afterwards, when her grandfather asked her questions, she would surely be unable to answer them, and she’d get scolded. The thought of that scared her desperately.

She’d sometimes blank out in the middle of being questioned by her grandfather too. Why aren't you saying anything? Her grandfather would yell. He’d rap on the table with his fingertips, and Ryuuko would come to her senses. Even when she apologized profusely, her grandfather wouldn't forgive her. Once he was angered, his mood wouldn't improve that easily. Thanks to that, even her grandmother would become cold.

A good for nothing child.

Whenever that happened, Ryuuko would reflect on herself.

I am a good for nothing child.

There are so many bad things about me.

A bad child.

Me, good for nothing.

I am a good for nothing child.

That’s why.

So that must be why—

And then Ryuuko would blank out again.

Kii. Chinu cried out. Did that happen first, or was it the stimulus of the footsteps and presence of someone walking up the stairs? She didn't really know.

“Ah.”

Ryuuko ran to the edge of the landing. Two male students were climbing up the stairs side by side. Both of them were in the same class as Ryuuko. The boy carrying a backpack on his back looked up at Ryuuko with upturned eyes. Otogiri Tobi’s eyes widened slightly.

“Good morning, Tobi!”

Ryuuko raised both hands in the air. It was an unconscious action.

Tobi furrowed his brows like “Eh?” and Ryuuko not only thought, “Wahh…”, but also said it out loud.

Ryuuko was striking a strange pose indeed. This looked like she was cheering in jubilation. Though it was true her heart leapt at seeing Tobi, it wasn't to the point of cheering hooray. She put both hands down.

“Ah…”

Tobi quickly dipped his head.

“Good morning.”

“G-good morning!”

She’d said good morning just now. She’d accidentally said it again, how embarrassing.

Beside Tobi, the boy with the long bangs was dumbfounded. Of course she’d been aware that he was there, but honestly Ryuuko hadn't paid him much attention. Thinking of it now, that was quite rude.

“Um, good morning to you too, Asamiya-kun!”

After bowing to Asamiya Shinobu, Ryuuko realized she’d just said good morning three times. Her embarrassment boiled over, and her whole body felt hot.

“...Fuah! I, really, I…”

“H—”

Tobi covered his mouth with his right elbow and looked down.

Asamiya-kun even burst out laughing.

“You sure are a funny one, O-Ryuu.”

The backpack on Tobi’s back too, laughed with a fuhaha.

On Ryuuko’s end, she found it upsetting for her embarrassment to be made fun of. She wanted to protest, but with Asamiya-kun here she couldn't talk to Baku.

Besides, seeing Tobi’s shoulders shaking as he tried to stifle his laughter, she somehow felt like none of that mattered anymore. Involuntarily, her face relaxed, and now even Ryuuko felt like laughing. She tried to hold it back, but it was no use.

“Fufu…”

Somehow she managed to hold back a stifled laugh. However, perhaps triggered by Ryuuko’s laugh, Tobi burst out a “Fu…” Ryuuko felt like screaming. Tobi had been trying so hard to hold it in. This was bad. She was getting pulled along.

“Hey man, what the hell…”

Asamiya clutched his stomach and began laughing loudly.

Ryuuko covered her face with both hands. She wasn't even sure in what way she was laughing right now. Baku grumbled, flabbergasted.

“This is beyond funny, it’s straight up weird now, you guys…”

---

prev: 0-1 // next: 0-3

#inochi no tabekata #inochi no tabekata light novel #THAT'S RIGHT. TWO CHAPTERS IN TWO DAYS. JUMPSCARE IF YOU WILL😎#these first chapters are really quite short

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milkytheholy1 · 2 years ago

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Everything Ends: Part 9

A/N: sorry for this being a little late, I was watching Turtles Forever for the first time and it's given me some great ideas for future fics. Stay tuned for some very cool things to come!

----------------------------------------------------------

Inside the Turtle Tank

"Hull integrity 4%. Breach imminent. Good luck." Came the robotic amalgamation of Donnie's voice as it mocked the two younger brothers through the Turtle Tank's speakers.

The duo were wrapped in each other's arms, embracing the panted breaths and nervous sweats as the countdown continued to tick. The doors to the tank were shaking violently, no doubt due to the monsters that surrounded them.

The red blaring lights served as a reminder and warning that danger was only one step away from them. When the voice reached Mikey's ears, he relaxed a little, huffing out a calming breath "Good, we have an imminent amount of time."

Donnie was too scared to give his usual snark and eye roll, instead flicking his gaze to every possible entrance that could be breached, "Imminent means soon, Mikey." he seethed out through clenched teeth. At the news, Mikey's expression dropped back into that of fear.

The box turtle stared down at his hands, sniffing back the whisps of death that threatened to clutch his soul. Shaking his head, he swivelled away from Donnie's comforting embrace and moved to stand by the Turtle Tank door; a very panicked Donnie watching him with wide eyes.

"Don't worry," he smoothed out, stretching his arms out in front of him. Mikey flexed his fingers as he took in a breath, "I'll save us with my mystic hands!" he began to feel a tingly sensation, but nothing came from it. Mikey kept straining himself, Donnie was sure a vein would pop at some point.

Deciding enough was enough, Donatello placed a sympathetic hand onto his younger brother, a silent way of telling him to stop. Mikey looked back to his hands, clutching his fists together while more tears started to pool, "Maybe Casey was wrong about me."

"About you? Never. P-perhaps you just haven't, errrrr, unlocked it yet. Yep, uh huh, that's what I'm going with." Donnie tried to reason, using video game logic to further prove his point. Mikey turned into Donnie, hugging him tightly. Although Donnie wasn't much of a hugger, he couldn't deny that the comfort of his brother in their final moments wasn't something he would refuse upon.

The crashing and thrashing above them became louder and more violent as the two cried. They crouched in the middle of the Tank, neither one brave enough to fight. Was the air getting thinner in here or was it just Donatello going light-headed?

A powerful scream halted the two brothers, the clanging from above stopped for now. It seemed as though the creature's attention was drawn to something else. The mood had changed significantly, and the atmosphere had gone eerily quiet, which couldn't have been good.

"Hull integrity at 0%, it was nice knowing you." Donnie wanted to curse out the damn thing, why did he have to make his AI so snarky; even if it did have a great voice.

Once the movement of the tank's doors caught the attention of the brothers, they wept aloud. The light from outside was too bright, too artificial as it seeped into the lowering cracks, this looked like it was truly the end.

"This is it, Donnie." Mikey whispered, "WE'RE GONNA DIE!" he screamed out, rapturing Donnie's eardrums. The two squeezed their eyes shut as the light finally embraced them and-

"Knock, knock!" came a friendly voice, one of which they recognised greatly. Mikey blinked his eyes open, seeing an all too familiar silhouette, "April?" he questioned.

Said teen braced a hand against her hip, winking at the pair as they fell out of each other's arms, "Anyone order a rescue?" she quipped. From the ramp's side, a krangified creature leapt at April, but you were faster. Running towards her with speeds that would have made even Draxum jealous, you threw some of those nasty blue vials at the monster, "I got it!"

The creature screamed in pain, collapsing to the side while it's skin burned away. The boys watched it with disgusted faces, Donnie holding a palm to his mouth while his face went to a deeper shade of green, "Boom goes the herbicide!" April cheered, high-fiving you.

You and April threw a few more vials at the vines encasing the Turtle Tank, stepping away as it ungracefully dropped the thing to the ground. Mikey was the first to bolt out and hug you, lifting you in the air and squeezing you ever so tight.

"(Y/N)! I'm so glad you guys are here, you saved us!" he cried. Mikey had managed to drag April, Splinter and Donnie into the embrace, all of you enjoying and relishing in the warmth of family; even if Donnie struggled against the hold, "Uncomfortable with emotion."

Once you all pulled away, Splinter did a head count, he had already lost one son he wasn't about to lose three more. Miming his words, Splinter pointed to each of his children, "Purple, Orange, April, (Y/N), Blue, Fut-" he stopped when he counted the two missing spaces, "Wait a minute, where is Blue and Future Boy?"

Mikey gulped, pointing a shaky hand towards the tunnel of doom, "Somewhere in there..." he murmured out. You felt a shudder run up your spine, man, you did not want to have to go in there at any cost. Maybe it was because it looked scary as hell or maybe it was because you knew that he was in there and that meant having to confront...this whole situation.

Voices echoed and cackled from down the way, "Faster! They're this way, I can smell them." the third sister bellowed out. You shared a worried glance with April, who was equally looking back at you with the same level of fear, "Crap, she found us!" April harshly whispered.

"I thought we lost her two tunnels back," you whispered back, Mikey butted his head into your conversation, "Why are we whispering?"

You three separated, the commotion from behind you getting louder, "We must move, now!" Splinter ordered, pointing towards the tunnel's opening. Swallowing down your pride and a little bit of vomit, you followed the others on shaky legs.

Who knows, maybe meeting Leonardo wouldn't be so bad? I mean, all that happened was a very significant break-up. Yes indeedy, what could go wrong?

#fandom #fan #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #tmnt #reader #fluff #teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo tmnt #ROTTMNT #rottmnt #tmnt leo x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #rottmnt leo x reader #rottmnt leonardo x reader #everything ends

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midnightstoriesblog · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! Recently I've been thinking about Muzan, but what if he's not an actual narcissist like in canon? What if he's kind and gentle (comparable to Tanjirou, if you will). While humans misunderstood demons (resulting in the Demon Slayer Corps(?)), Muzan does his best to keep his demons safe (this made Muzan sort of a father figure to them, and be probably sees them as hus own children (perhaps Kokushibouas a brother. And everytime one of his demons dies, he takes it very hard. He tries not to show it, but his Kizuki's know).

With the demons' and Uppermoon's undying love, respect, and loyalty to their Master, what if he returns to the castle in a panic, injured, bleeding and poison beyond the safe point (they would be confused on how it was possible. He was the most powerful demon, isn't he?) and soon fell into a deep coma?

What would they do and how would they react? I just know that Akaza would be angry and irrational, considering his loyalty to Muzan and perhaps even sees him as a father figure, and he'd probably rather die than loose another parental figure.

I'd be happy to have an angsty start and a good/fluffy ending! It's okay if you don't do this, thank you in advance! Sorry if this does not make sense, cringey, and/or lengthy!

A/N: I'll be honest, this is an interesting idea!! I like it:0 Don't worry, you worded the idea well! :] This turned out quite long, so I hope you enjoy reading it! This will involve the first 6 original uppermoons and also Nakime

~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆

Kind!Muzan falling into a coma… what happens next?

Warnings: Manga spoilers (kind of), mentions of death, generally angst- happy ending though Word count: 1025

That night, when the upper moons were suddenly called to the infinity fortress, they were quite surprised- Muzan wasn't even there yet, and yet Nakime was visibly shaken- and it was at that moment, Muzan showed up… though this time he wasn't the strong figure he always was, now injured and poisoned to a point that was surely deadly, even for him- but the upper moons couldn't react fast enough. Before they got to him, he collapsed and fell into a coma, turning into nothing but a ball of flesh and muscle, a last attempt to save himself- and by extent- the other demons. The reactions were… quite extreme. Some where angry- most were, to be fair- And they all showed that in different ways. Akaza wanted to hunt down the person that was responsible for this right, but two uppermoons ranked higher than him managed to keep him there. Kokushibou was angry too, but both him and Douma were wise enough to know that their top priority right now would be to make sure that their master was alright.

But he wasn't.

And when they realized he was unconscious- the anger they felt was halted for a moment- and it sunk in: their master, the one that took them in at their lowest.. was on the verge of death, and they could do nothing. The thought was enough to make their insides turn with rage, both at the ones responsible and at themselves. But they never ended up finding who did it, besides, the only one who knew was Muzan, so answers would have to wait. That's the most they could do.. even if it would be hard for them.

Nakime often was the one who kept an eye on his condition, though the other uppermoons were never too far away. Though she was silent, it was obvious how worried she was, as her hands always trembled slightly, losing the steadiness they once had.

Daki cried whenever the topic of Muzan came up, she became even more emotional than she was before, and it became even easier to irritate her. Thankfully, Gyutaro dealt with it a bit more well- or at least it seemed that way on the outside- because his demeanor didn’t change much, he was at his sister’s side more often though.

Gyokko always seemed more angry than sad, and most of the time, he was in one of his pots. Anger and irrationality are simply the way his sadness manifested though, and to distract himself from it, he started focusing on making new pots constantly, in hopes that if Muzan would wake up again- when he will wake up again, he would compliment at least one of them.

Hantengu already had his emotional problems before this, so the situation truly affected him. He bounced from emotion to emotion quickly, crying one moment and lashing out the next. That being said, he didn’t like interacting with other demons around this time, simply because he preferred to isolate himself. He needed time to process how this could happen to someone as strong as Muzan.

Akaza.. he threw himself into training even more intensely. He would’ve torn apart the walls of the infinity fortress if Nakime hadn’t stopped him. He spent his time either fighting, training or lurking in the shadows to find out who was responsible for this, even if Kokushibou advised him not to. He took it the worst out of all the uppermoons, as he had lost father figures before- and the fact that Muzan was poisoned only brought back painful memories.. if he wasn't out though, he'd be in the infinity fortress, he simply didn't have the strength to leave sometimes..

Douma's reaction was unexpected to most- for the first time in what felt like forever, his smile dropped, and it didn't come back for a while, in front of his fellow demons at least.. Muzan's coma is one of the few conversation topics that would make him silent, because it really made him think, even more than he usually does- so it's a topic that he often avoids. Quite opposite to Akaza, he almost never was around, only there if upper one- now in charge of meetings- called them. He often wondered if what he was feeling was sadness- and it was a bitter conclusion, because it would be the first emotion he had felt in a long, long time..

Kokushibou, the uppermoon one, one who Muzan thought of and treated as a brother.. He quickly understood that for now he was the one in charge, and that as the first uppermoon, he had to show stability. It was all a façade though. He had always been sensitive to emotions of anger and jealousy, and until now, he didn't know sadness would affect him just as much- but it did. Like Akaza, he also was present in the infinity castle, but never around where Muzan now was. He kept himself busy, reading, sharpening his sword skills, giving orders- because he feared if even for one second he allowed himself a break, he'd feel as vulnerable as a human once again.

The day when he woke up though, nobody was there other than Nakime.

The moment she realized he was conscious, the uppermoons were summoned there the next second. And for the first time in a while, they felt at ease, because now they wouldn't have to question if he would wake up.. It was probably the first time ever when they hugged him, but in that moment they couldn't even speak, so there wasn't much else they could do. All of them insisted he shouldn't go outside as much anymore, because now it was clear that someone out there figured out a way to weaken him, and it was only a matter of time until he was targeted again. Though a bit surprised at that moment, Muzan himself felt that if he were to be poisoned again.. him waking up wasn't guaranteed. And if he didn't wake up, then that would mean that the demons would fade away too.. that thought is the one that convinced him to agree.

~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆⭒~⭒☆

A/N: Aaaa, I'm finally done writing this! It was quite a challenge, but it really got my mind working, so thank you for sending in this idea, anon^^

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #muzan #kny muzan #muzan kibutsuji #kokushibo #demon slayer #kokushibou #douma #akaza #hantengu #gyokko #daki #gyutaro #gyutaro and daki #demon slayer akaza #kny demons

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yeslieutenant · 2 years ago

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Safeword

A/N: Not what I said I was gonna post but 🤷🏼‍♀️

Warnings: SMUT. Dom Jason to tender Jason. 0-100 real fucking fast. Swearing. Safe word usage. Do not read if that triggers you. Bondage. Edging.

Word Count: 560

“I want you to come for me, baby girl.” Jason’s words are husky and thick as they pour out, straight into my ear. His breath tickles the shell, and my arms tug feebly at the rope binding them to the headboard.

“J-J-Jason, please-” the words are spoken through broken cries and sobs, the marine finally being merciful enough to allow my release. The relief is short lived though as his fingers still against my clit, his cock coming to a halt, buried to the hilt inside me. A gasping cry leaves my mouth as he speaks, and fresh tears pour down my cheeks, the rope cutting into my wrists despite it being a satin rope.

“Sorry, baby. What did you just call me?” I can hear his words, and despite my closed eyes, I can see his smirk clearly in my mind. I babble apologies and whimpers as his hands run down my nude chest tenderly. “I didn’t catch that. Maybe we should go again?”

“No please Lieutenant! I’ll be good. I’ll be so good please.”

“Might be a little late for that now, baby.” His fingers return to my clit, spinning almost painful circles against the tender nub. His chest is in plain view as he sits up, my calves resting on each hip as he kneels on the bed and I contract around his unmoving cock. The coil in my stomach curls and twists again, and the rope presses in again, the stinging heat erupts from the now reddened flesh around my wrists. My orgasm begins to crest, but instead of pleasure, my whole lower region feels like hellfire and my lungs squeeze painfully.

“Red! Jason red!”

Jason’s eyes go wide, and he pulls out in seconds, his hands flying to untie the tight red knots, my fists still clenched into fists. As soon as I’m free from the binds, he curls me into his chest and more tears pour from my closed eyes. I sob into his chest, wheezing as he reaches for my inhaler, shaking it before holding it to my face so I can take two puffs from it.

“How can I make you feel better?” His voice whispers, a stark change to how it sounded moments ago.

“Just keep holding me, please.” I feel him nod against the crown of my head as he plants kisses on my hair. Jason’s callused hands rub gentle motions on my back until my breathing has returned to normal.

“Was it too much?”

“I was okay until that last denial. Then every touch felt, I don’t know, almost like actual fire. It hurt.” I admit, my nose still pressed to his chest, the hair there tickling.

“Alright. Hey, it’s okay, doll. I am so sorry.” Jason pulls back his hands running over my hair as his eyes hold a deep affection deep within them. He brings my hands up to his lips, planting tender kisses on the pink skin there before he continues. “But hey, I am so proud of you for stopping me when you weren’t comfortable. Do you wanna talk now or do you wanna snuggle and fall asleep and talk tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow please. I’m so tired,” I say, a yawn breaking loose as my eyelids droop.

“‘Kay, baby. Tomorrow. I love you so much.”

His words bring another choked sob out, and I fall asleep locked in his gentle embrace as he mutters a thousand ‘I love you’s into my hair.

*****

Tags: @kawaiiwitch224 @yellowroseskolchek @house-of-kolchek @lorebite @buttermykolchek @kassiekolchek22

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

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Closer | Bucky Barnes x reader

I wrote this for @mariessecretfantasies’ 500 follower challenge, took me forever but it’s done!! congrats on 500 love, although I bet (and hope) you’re well past that now.

my ‘prompt’ was a song, specifically Closer by Nine Inch Nails… so it’s filthy. purely filth, no plot. don’t say I didn’t warn you. special thanks to @evnscvll for the proofread!

warnings: SMUT of course, mild(?) dub con, d/s dynamics, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal sex, anal sex (and the prep is...not that good), ass-to-mouth (i’m literally blushing as I type this oml i’m so sorry), mentions of blood, slapping, spitting, degradation, semi-public sex, pain kink, and some other generally unhygienic behaviors… this isn’t a dark fic per se but it’s got 0 fluff. not even one ounce of fluff detected. definitely no aftercare lmao. ain’t nobody got time for that.

word count: a bit under 3k

He couldn’t drink anymore-- well, he could, but he couldn’t get drunk, so there was no use. Couldn’t get high on any drug, either. Pain didn’t affect him the way it did other people. But everybody has their vice, their way of hurting themselves to feel something when they can’t feel anything else. You were his, and he was yours.

You couldn’t even remember now how it started. There was definitely alcohol involved, but past that you weren’t sure what had compelled you two to stumble into bed together. Even at the time you had realized it was irresponsible and probably not worth the trouble, but it seemed inevitable in some weird way.

That was how it always felt, actually. Like tonight, when he met your gaze from across the bar. His eyes were so dark, demanding-- it made you shiver even though it only lasted for a moment before he looked away, pulled into conversation with Bruce. But you knew what it meant.

Didn’t matter anyhow; it was a big party, the whole crew and nearly all of the Tower staff were crawling the halls. There was no guarantee of privacy at a time like this.

You were chatting with Wanda when you felt a hand slip around your arm, pulling you back into somebody’s form-- of course you knew it was him, you could tell by the roughness of his skin, the smell of him, the way he pressed against your back…

“Can I speak to you privately for a moment?” Bucky requested with poorly-suppressed irritation, his lips almost pressed against your ear.

“S-sure,” you stumbled over your response. You got the sense that there wouldn’t be much speaking, but you couldn’t turn him down in front of these people without giving yourself away.

And that was how you ended up in a broom closet, pressed against the wall with his tongue dominating your mouth and his hands somehow feeling like they were touching you everywhere all at once.

“Buck, wait,” you managed to murmur against his mouth as his lips crashed into yours.

“Tired of waiting,” he growled in reply. “Turn around.”

You didn’t even think to question it, just obeyed his command blindly as he slammed you into the wall and began pushing your dress up, pulling your underwear aside.

“Not here,” you groaned.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

The absolute second that his cock was free he was shoving it between your legs and fucking you with unmatched speed and ferocity. It nearly burned, the way it forced you open, but it was exactly what you needed. You arched your back to accept his length more easily, your head falling back in pleasure. He responded by grabbing your hair and pulling it until your back arched even more.

“Oh god, Bucky,” you whimpered. In response, he slammed his hand over your mouth and fucked you even harder, as if it were punishment; he didn’t like when you said his name in times like this. He didn’t want to think about who he was, or who you were, or what the two of you were doing. He just wanted to feel you and nothing else.

Funny how a man who’d been unwillingly brainwashed actually craved the chance to forget.

His other hand moved from your hair and slipped down between your legs, roughly rubbing your clit as your hips bucked and thrashed in response. He held you still through it, biting down on your neck hard enough to make you worry about the skin breaking. But he knew by now that you liked the threat of pain, which is why he slipped his left hand down from your mouth to your neck. The sound of your breath halting to silence was so perfect that he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

Already your vision was spotting into darkness, starting at the corner of your eyes and moving in. As you lost your connection with the visual aspects of your reality, everything else became stronger, and it felt like you were somehow seeing better than ever.

He stopped thrusting and leaned closer to your ear. “When I let go of your neck,” he explained quietly, his voice dark and rough, “get on the floor on your hands and knees.”

He released his grip and your lungs sucked in air faster than they could handle, making you cough and sputter a little. Still, you turned around to begin following his instructions. You got a better look at him than you had before. His eyes were so blown out that they were nearly black, watching you with hungry rage. Or maybe it was raging hunger.

You felt his gaze follow you as you stepped around him, bending down and getting on the floor. It was cold and a little bit gritty, both of which made you shudder. You became aware of the wetness which had leaked from your opening, smeared over your thighs and made an uncomfortable patch on the edge of your panties. You didn’t have to worry about that much longer, though, as he kneeled behind you and ripped them off.

“Buck, I need those--”

He slapped your ass, with the vibranium hand. It was so hard that you perceived the sound before your body processed the pain. As you lurched forward, your squeal of pain tore and cracked in your throat, so much that you could barely recognize it as yourself.

One hand slid your dress up further, admiring the warmth and smoothness of your skin, two fingers running along your spine; the other guided his cock to your pussy again.

You weren’t quite ready, not exactly wet or warmed up enough for this angle. You were sure this was the most your body could take, if not a little bit more. The way he pushed into you-- ignoring the resistance of your inner walls, your skin breaking out into goosebumps, your arms and legs quivering-- put you entirely at his mercy. Just as you were about to cry out in response to it all, he roughly shoved three fingers into your mouth: flesh, sweaty and dirty, tasting slightly of scotch and gun oil. They pushed your cheeks out from the inside, stretched your chapped lips until they cracked and you tasted blood. You swirled your tongue around them anyways, ignoring the way it caused drool to lewdly drip down his hand and your chin.

He smiled, in a twisted way, as he looked down at you. “You need it so bad, don’t you?”

You nodded feverishly, groaning around his fingers and letting your eyes flutter shut.

He used the hand on your back to guide your movements, watching your body as it swallowed his length to the base. He could tell you were struggling with his size, and he was almost impressed with your fortitude. Unfortunately for you, it only made him want to push you further.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth, he grabbed your arms at your elbow and held them behind your back, using them to keep you upright as he slammed into you. Each thrust made your knees scrape on the concrete, and your shoulders were twisted into an awkward position that made your muscles burn, but you didn’t care. All it did was add tinder to the flame of pleasure.

Tears stung the back of your eyes. You always cried when he fucked you like this, and he either didn’t care or didn’t notice; it was just so intense, you couldn’t stop yourself. You would probably be bleeding when he was finally done with you, and you would definitely be sore (on the outside and inside) tomorrow.

“Gonna cry, bitch? Can’t take it?” he hissed. You always got wet when he talked like that. Then again, you got wet whenever he talked at all.

Your voice came out hoarse and cracked when you spoke. “Harder,” you barely managed to grit out through your teeth.

Instead what he did was pull out and flip you over, slapping you straight across the face. There was nowhere to hide from him now, with your legs spread and your clothes torn to shreds, so you didn’t even try to suppress the moan when he hit you. He grunted and hit you again, spinning your face the other way. You wanted to ask him to hit you again but he just shoved himself inside you again, putting his weight on your neck as he wrapped a hand around it. You couldn’t moan but you could arch your back; he pushed down on your stomach until you couldn’t do that anymore either, and it forced your g-spot to push right into his cock. You would’ve screamed if you could; it felt so fucking good, too good, too much all at once.

Who could say how long that went on for? It didn’t feel subject to time or space, it all just felt like sensation-- sensation which washed over you until you didn’t know how to experience anything else. So often our bodies feel like machines, slaves to routine. A body which must rise in the morning, rest in the evening; a mind which must toil over the past and worry for the future. Now, you didn’t even know your own name-- you didn’t even understand what a name was for. Your only purpose now, and your only goal, was to feel.

That was what you craved about this: the chance to forget about everything else.

At some point you were pulled back into reality by the way he was manhandling you, tossing you back onto your knees and pulling your body flush with his by your hair.

“Beg me to let you come,” he growled, but you couldn’t even think long enough to put a sentence together, let alone actually get it out. He bit down on your shoulder and you whimpered in pain.

“P-please,” you sighed-- it came out so quiet that even you could barely hear it. His teeth sunk in deeper; you tried to say it again but it was caught in your throat.

He pulled your head to the side by your hair, and slapped the half that was exposed. “Beg me to let you come,” he repeated, slower, “you dumb fucking whore.”

“Please… please, let me come,” you mumbled.

“Louder.”

You hesitated, about to remind him that the hallways outside probably had people passing through and someone might hear you, but your hesitation was rewarded only with more violence as he hit you again-- even harder than the last time. You yelped and bit down on your lip.

You hadn’t realized how weak you were until he let go and you instantly fell to the floor, your hips held up by his hands but your face pressed against the cold cement.

“You can come,” he decided, almost flippantly, as he fucked into you deeper and harder. It seemed like he knew your body better than you did: he made you come faster, for one, and he saw it coming sooner as well. It was slightly embarrassing, but then again, you were on your knees in a broom closet so that was sort of beside the point.

It seemed to hit you all at once, and with no sign of stopping. You reached up to claw at the wall but it did nothing to keep you stable as shocks reverberated through your body. You were about to space out again when you felt the metal tip of his thumb press against your tighter rim.

“W-wait,” you gasped, but he pressed in further and your words were lost to a whimper.

“Oh, you can’t play innocent with me, sweetheart. I know you want me to fuck this little ass. Go ahead, say it.”

“F-fuck my ass, please,” you begged. It sounded shameless, but there was certainly shame (and fear) tingling in your gut.

The thumb pushed in all the way, and before you could deal with the way that felt, it was replaced with two fingers. You hissed from the sting, but willed your body to relax as you fell back into that headspace and simply let everything happen to you.

The transition from two to three fingers was barely noticeable. But you definitely noticed when he pulled everything out of you, guiding the head of his cock higher up. He moved your hips closer as you went limp in his grasp-- a drooling, mindless fuckdoll who, apparently, spread your legs for him whenever he wanted. It was some undefinable mixture of demeaning and liberating.

His cock pressed against your opening, and when it finally pushed past the tightness with a nauseating pop, you bit your lip.

You almost felt prideful when you heard him moan; he was usually pretty quiet. How you managed to feel any sense of achievement or value when you were face down in a broom closet getting fucked up the ass… that was a different issue.

He didn’t give you much time to adjust as he picked up his speed, fucking you so much gentler than he ever did but still rougher than you were expecting, somehow. Each time he was buried all the way inside, you felt like you were miles beyond your body’s limits, fuller and wider than was possible. It made you wet, uselessly.

When he moved faster, his balls slapped against your pussy and you could hear how much you were loving this, even as disgusting and painful as it was. He leaned forward to push your face into the ground and fucked you harder. The new angle pushed him even deeper, opened you up even more brutally, and you couldn’t suppress a cry of pain.

“How’s it feel, huh?” he taunted.

“It hurts,” you told him with a voice much whinier than you intended, but you weren’t exactly complaining. And you definitely weren’t asking him to stop.

Not that you were worried that he would. If anything, it only inspired him to push you further as he grabbed your hips tight to slam you back onto his cock.

He didn’t announce that he was close, but you could just barely tell based on the way your hazy brain couldn’t ignore the rapid increase in his thrusts. A broken growl was your signal that he was filling you with come but you were too numb to feel any difference. He kept fucking you through it, only stopping once every drop was inside you. When he slowed to a stop you sighed with relief, wincing a little as he pulled out and trying to ignore the lewd way that your hole flexed and constricted. You felt his come leaking as it dripped down over your pussy, down your thighs and onto the floor.

The smell in this cramped space was inescapable, and putrid, and only now did you really become aware of it.

“Don’t just lay there,” he scoffed as he stood up, “come over here and get on your knees.”

At this point, you were so well-trained that you were obeying his words before you’d even processed them or taken the time to question what his intentions were.

You looked up at him with watery eyes as he stroked his cock right above your face. He was looking at you with the most uninterpretable expression… cold eyes, tightened jaw, lips curled into a grimace.

“Clean me off,” he demanded, shoving his softening length into your mouth, “come on, clean my cock off.”

You grimaced but did as he asked, sucking and licking as it slid down your tongue and back into your throat. Didn’t take much of him for you to start choking, considering his size.

“Breathe through your nose,” he offered as a solution, but you had been trying to avoid smelling or tasting it. You didn’t even want to think about it.

You even took the time to lick his balls clean, too, and they tasted like your own arousal, bringing back some memories which managed to disturb you in spite of their recentness. When he was satisfied, he pushed you back onto the floor by your throat, and you swallowed thickly.

As per usual, he said nothing as he stuffed himself back into his jeans, or as he made a hasty exit. When he shut the door behind him, you were left there used up and tossed aside; dress ruined, mascara smeared, panties torn, come seeping out of you, gasping for breath. You had no plan for getting out of here without everyone seeing you; you had no plan for getting out of this sick, addictive cycle with him. In the meantime, you would sit in the empty room and wait for the blood flow to return to your numbed extremities, wait for the aftershocks of arousal and orgasm to subside, and let yourself bask in the comfort of the dark.

#maries500challenge #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier smut #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier x reader

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bbysamu · 4 years ago

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Things only the Aoba Johsai boys know about each other

genre: crackhead energy headcanons

warning: none, purely for laughs

Karasuno ver.

Kyotani is a secret Hello Kitty fanboy. The team discovered this on an overnight trip when some hot pink, Hello Kitty boxer briefs accidentally fell out as Kyotani was preparing to head to the shower. It was really funny, but the look on his face made it hard for anyone to laugh.

Makki prides himself on being prankster but tbh, his pranks are really bad. He’s like Winston from New Girl, he just doesn’t have a good grasp on the concept of “pranks”. Makki either goes too big, like the one time an entire tournament had to be halted because he sent the police a fake tip about a bomb in the arena. Or he goes too small, like swapping Oikawa’s knee pads from black to a slightly gray-er version of black and laughing when he sees the captain. The pretty captain had no idea and did not even notice.

Speaking of pretty, everyone knows Oikawa follows a ten-step Korean skincare routine. This man definitely uses the double cleansing method every night. He is unanimously barred from the bathroom until everyone finishes showering because this man will take up to one hour in the there. In his own words, “beauty must not be rushed”

Yahaba has tried the whole “throw-volleyball-at-cute-manager-please-help-me-pick-up” scheme literally at every school they’ve played with that has a cute manager. Success rate is currently 0%. Kindaichi told him it was because of that ugly catfish face he makes. Yahaba doesn’t believe him.

Iwaizumi has an alien plush that Oikawa bought for him after forcing him to attend some alien convention in Tokyo. Iwaizumi uses it as a punching bag and it kind of hurts Toru.

Watari likes Twice, the team only found out because his alarm clock sound was accidentally set to “fancy” during an overnight game.

Kindaichi likes to cuddle things when he sleeps. Matsukawa once woke up to the first-year cuddling his leg. It was an overall, very weird experience.

Kunimi can sleep literally anywhere and carries an eye mask “for emergency purposes” he says.

Matsukawa is actually a big softie and easily cries during movies, specifically romantic chick-flicks for some reason. When the team hosts movie nights, no one looks at the 6′2 middle blocker sniffling and wiping away his tears. Kyotani looked once and the image was all too much for his brain to comprehend, so mad dog-chan erased it from his memories.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #oikawa headcanons #iwaizumi headcanons #hq!! headcanons #hq headcanons #hq imagines #seijoh four #kunimi headcanons #kindaichi headcanons #matsukawa headcanons #hanamaki headcanons

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quazartranslates · 4 years ago

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH133

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 133: The Dream of the Holy Nun (XXIII)

Use Countercurrent Sand to reset the cooldown of the S/L Data skill card.

Save and drink the Devil’s blood.

Detonate all miniature bombs.

There was a loud roar as a violent explosion blew the tower deep in the church into ruins.

At the moment the file was loaded, the demon "Depravity" vanished and the resurrected Qi Leren returned to the state of when he had archived. Now he had no longer drunk the blood of the Devil and was still a human being!

His fragile human body appeared in the center of the explosion and was immediately thrown out by the billow of air, fell heavily on the ground, and even rolled several times before stopping.

There were some surface burns, multiple fractures, and countless bruises and contusions, but these injuries couldn't be judged as fatal injuries. There was no second reading of S/L skill and there is still dust and smoke in front of him. Qi Leren coughed in a heartbreaking way, and the blood accumulated in his chest gushed out from his mouth, filling his mouth with the taste of iron.

It hurt so much, it hurt so much, even breathing had become a kind of torture, he felt truly terrible.

At present, his vision was blurred red with hot blood. Qi Lereen used his single intact right hand to hold the dagger, bringing it toward his chest.

This body had lost its combat effectiveness, so he had to load again.

Before the knife's tip could touch his chest it was stopped by an incredible force, and Qi Leren suddenly shivered and looked into the smoking chaos in disbelief.

In the smoke after the explosion, a figure was coming down from the ruined throne.

The dust and smoke gradually dispersed, and the safe and sound devil came to him with elegant steps. He said approvingly: "Perfect acting skills, precise psychological grasp, unexpected attacks, in order to have me lower my guard you even drank the cup of blood... The only regret is that everything you carefully prepared still can't smooth out the distance in strength."

Su He stopped in front of Qi Leren and looked down at him gently and pityingly.

As time went by, Qi Leren’s hand holding the dagger could not move, and the S/L skill’s countdown was running out.

Qi Leren stared at him, but his trembling hand was too late to send the dagger into his heart. The Devil King looked at him with a smile and watched him step into the abyss of despair.

Five seconds, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one second... The countdown for the skill’s cooling was 0:59:59

"It seems that time’s up." Seeing the light of hope in Qi Leren's eyes dim, Su He leaned down and gently took the dagger from his hand.

Qi Leren looked at him coldly and he realized that he was about to die. Although Su He's expression was still gentle, his repeated attempts to thwart him had angered him, and the Devil of Fraud refused to accept the worm’s deception.

"Since the save hasn't been loaded it means that your current injuries aren’t fatal, but if just little more is done, you will bid farewell to this world, Leren." Su He played with Qi Leren's dagger and looked at him with a cold smile. "I’m very curious. When you really face the test of death, what will your choice be?"

The sharp point cut his throat and the blood flowed out. This degree of pain was not worth mentioning compared with the current pain all over his body, but Qi Leren knew that this injury would be fatal.

Foaming blood would quickly block the respiratory tract, and it would become more and more difficult for him to breathe. If he was not treated, he would die of suffocation or excessive blood loss in a few minutes.

Su He stood up and put another goblet full of blood a few meters away: "Now, you can choose."

Breathing was difficult. No matter how hard he tried to inhale, it was more and more difficult to get enough oxygen into the trachea blocked by blood foam. Blood was constantly lost, oxygen was constantly decreasing, and his consciousness was becoming blurred.

Death was coming, and Qi Leren almost saw the grim reaper hovering over his head. It held the scythe and raised it high…

He didn't want to die, he didn't want to…

No, he wouldn't die. He had the Easter Egg!

But if he easily gave up struggling and accepted death, would Su He believe it? What would he do if he saw through his fear?

Must... Do it again... Again…

The desire for survival once again surfaced in Qi Leren’s eyes and his vision blurred. He tilted his head and looked at the cup of bright red blood a few meters away. His bloody lips moved slightly, longing…

The Devil King watched with great interest as the dying man ignited the last strength with his will. He rolled over and dragged his body forward with his single intact right hand. He lost more blood. His cut throat and injuries dragged out a shocking trail of blood on the ground, which showed how strong his will to survive was at the moment.

It was only a few meters away, but he’d exhausted all his strength.

By the time he reached his destination, the weak human was already dying. He used the last of his strength to hold the goblet, but his trembling hand kept shaking the scarlet blood in the cup…

He cried, and his broken trachea made his cry like a nightingale's whine, so despairing and pitiful.

The Devil liked this sound, watching a strong soul lose its bottom line and become corrupted and dirty. He was struggling to resist, yet he still succumbed to his own desires.

It really was amusing.

With a clear and crisp sound, the goblet fell heavily at the feet of the Devil King, spilling blood all over the floor.

The Devil King accidentally looked at the dying human being and saw his unyielding eyes. He was speechless as blood seeped out along his throat. He tried to pull up the corners of his mouth, showing him a mocking smile.

-Go away.

He growled silently.

In the blood on the ground, the handsome Devil smiled. "I didn't expect you to really do this for him. Humans are obviously so weak, but they’re always unexpected. This is probably what makes them so interesting."

Qi Leren struggled to roll over and lie on his back on the ruined floor.

His cut trachea was bleeding continuously, and the dying Qi Leren looked at Su He in the distance as Su He looked at him in return. After a moment, he came towards him but stopped in the middle.

"What is it?" Su He said, turning his head.

Within the shadow in the corner, a vague unfamiliar figure appeared and bowed slightly to Su He: "I’ve come to convey my King's instructions, the 'goldfish bowl' has raised an alarm. It’s very likely that it will escape again. Please go back and preside over the overall situation."

"It seems that my holiday is coming to an end." Su He said faintly, "Tell Power for me, I will force myself to leave this task and go back now. By the way, I’m bringing a big gift to her."

The shadow bowed again. The special connection between Devil King and Devil King could not last long in the Holy Nun’s field, and it quickly disappeared silently back into the shadows.

In the cold air, Su He’s deep voice came, mixed with mocking emotion: "...That woman."

Qi Leren could hardly see anything. The cloak of death had covered his eyes, the air was growing colder and colder, the chill slowly rose from the ground, and he was dying.

He heard Su He’s footsteps stop beside him, and then the rustle of fabric. He seemed to squat down and gently parted the hair on his forehead.

"I originally wanted to play with you for a while longer, but unfortunately the game has ended early. Your best friend beat Isabel and is on his way, but calculating the time, he probably won't see you one last time. It’s a pity that I can't see his expression when he gets here," Su He’s gentle voice rang in Qi Leren’s ears as he lay dying.

"For your courage and perseverance, I’ll allow you to rest here." A kiss as light as nothing fell on Qi Leren’s forehead. A farewell kiss.

"Depravity’s appearance was beautiful, but unfortunately, you did not become it after all."

The footsteps of Su He's leisurely departure were getting farther and farther away, disappearing from Qi Leren’s ears.

Qi Leren was dying.

Glad and anxious.

Although his brain had almost stopped running, he still understood the dialogue between Su He and the unknown person. He would hurry to leave here immediately, which meant Ning Zhou was safe.

Great... Great... Really, great.

He could be resurrected in seven days, as long as the news was conveyed to Ning Zhou…

Qi Leren, who had difficulty moving a finger, squeezed out the last strength from his body and wrote a 7 with his bloody finger trembling. He also wanted to write another word, "days", but for all his effort he couldn't make his finger move again.

Qi Le people closed his eyes in exhaustion, his breathing halted, and his consciousness sank into chaos because of lack of oxygen. Even the pain became slow and psychedelic, as if his soul had begun to gradually break away from this scarred body.

He absently thought, there was only the one number, could Ning Zhou understand what he meant?

After 7 days, he could be resurrected in 7 days, just wait for 7 days…

Memories began to flash in his mind like fragments, like film pulled out from a camera, and then suddenly it fixed on a certain one. At that time, he was absent-minded because he was thinking about the task clues, and Su He was explaining the meaning of numbers to Dr. Lu: "Numbers are very interesting in the Nightmare World. Many numbers have special meanings. For example, 4 stands for luck and 7 stands for..."

"I love you."

He’d made an unforgivable mistake.

Qi Leren desperately struggled to keep breathing, but the blood foam stuck in his throat prevented him from inhaling air. He opened his eyes wide and tried to erase the numbers written in blood.

He tried his best to squeeze out the last bit of strength from his nerves, bone marrow, and every organ that was about to stop working, to erase this number, but there was nothing he could do.

He couldn't move, he couldn't move at all.

Tears of remorse flowed out of the corner of his eye and he cried. He hadn’t in the face of the Devil's performance, nor in the face of fear of dying, but now it was really out of control.

This desperate fear even exceeded his fear of death itself and his consciousness that is about to dissipate was shouting, struggling, and repenting. He couldn't imagine, couldn’t bear to think of Ning Zhou seeing this message - this simple number. It could be the last straw to destroy Ning Zhou.

The world slowly sank into the dark abyss of death.

He remembered the difference from a few hours ago. At that time, it was so dark that he had only dared to ask Ning Zhou if he wanted to go with him. His timid heart made him even afraid to wait for Ning Zhou's answer and he’d said goodbye in a hurry. He’d always thought they would meet again, so he said: I'll be back soon, you have to wait for me! You must wait for me!

How naive and how stupidly self-confident in front of reality, fragile and ridiculous, vulnerable.

At the last moment before the collapse of his consciousness, Qi Leren saw the Garden of the Holy Tomb.

At that time, he’d woken up from the stump covered with fallen flowers and followed Dr. Lu to the place where Su He was. As he walked, he’d turned his head and saw Ning Zhou.

He’d stood by the broken tree and looked at him from a distance.

So restrained, so distant, but so gentle, there were too many emotions floating in his blue eyes, just like the sky and the sea that contained everything.

He’d suddenly wanted to ask Ning Zhou, how many times had he looked at him like this? And how many times had he missed returning it?

Ning Zhou was always so lonely and silent. All his pains were buried deep in his own heart, without words.

If he hadn't looked back, he would have never seen such tenderness.

He would never have known how deep this repressed love was.

Just a little bit like infinity.

　　&&&

Through the broken stone columns and countless broken statues, Ning Zhou walked forward without looking away and finally came to the front of the cathedral.

The first half of the church had been seriously damaged, with solemn and historical writing under the starry sky.

Ning Zhou briskly walked to the depths of the hall, looking at the two huge stone doors.

The earth was still shaking and destruction had played the final movement.

Ning Zhou took a deep breath, and his abdominal wound was burning and generally painful. He drew a cross on his chest and then pushed back the stone door.

The huge Maria and the stabbed dragon would have occupied most people's field of vision, but Ning Zhou's line of sight chased the familiar figure lying on the ground amidst a shocking pool of blood.

His heartbeat stops at this moment, and whether heaven or hell, it didn’t exist at this moment.

He didn't know how he came up to him and knelt down there.

Open brown eyes looked ahead emptily, and there were wet tears in the corner of his eyes. His blood-stained fingers were stopped on a reddish-brown number.

At the moment before he died, he was saying—

I love you.

Deep in the dark hall, there came the cry of desperation and collapse. Witnessed by the remains of Holy Nun and the Devil, a devout believer finally admitted his love that was not allowed by his God.

But it was too late. At the moment when he’d received his love, he’d lost him forever.

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The author has something to say:

PS: So, there is no love that can't be achieved through a grand death. If there is, then die again.

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