#i was so excited to finally uncap the summon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iceshard1011 · 3 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders Characters: Deceit | Janus Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Additional Tags: pre janus' photoshoot, he had no right looking that gorgeous okay, yeah literally got inspired by the fact that janus and roman wore the same lipstick, could be romantic or platonic, Insecurity, Self Confidence Issues, Deceit | Janus Sanders Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Sweetheart, who is only mentioned once, Making Up, (kind of), Hopeful Ending, Guilt, Makeover, In which i call myself a multishipper and then continuously go nuts over roceit, Ro goes from confused himbo to romance expert way too fast, and that's bias for you, Listen just because janus is self preservation doesn't mean he's got good self esteem, Janus ‘self care’ sanders: what is makeup, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Relationship Summary:

Janus needs to get ready for his turn for that stupid photoshoot idea Thomas offered him. He’s not exactly looking for help, but he gets it anyway.

And… maybe something more.

2k word fic under the cut :)

The mindscape hadn’t seen much of it’s self-proclaimed prince lately. It was painfully noticeable, given the halls weren’t being deafened by singing, and no one was as challengeable or as willing to bicker as much anymore. Patton’s smile was just this side of strained at breakfast. Logan would look up, eyes sparkling and eyebrow half-raised, the beginnings of something on his tongue before he would remember there was no one to say it to. Virgil kept sneaking sideways glances towards the staircase, as if no one could see him.

Not that Janus was bothered, of course. He had always preferred peace and quiet over chaos. He had just… become slightly acclimated to it during his years with Remus.

Except… it did make things exceptionally difficult when Janus needed something.

Even more so when he didn’t know exactly what it was he wanted.

Janus tried not to curl his lip too much as he stared at his reflection. Stupid sides and stupid Thomas and his followers and his own stupid thoughts. This looked wrong and felt wrong and Janus was a few seconds away from burning this damn —

An opening door. It creaked slightly, not enough that it was Virgil’s, but certainly not Logan’s. It was opened hesitantly, not something that Patton would have much reason for. Perfect.

Janus stuck to the shadows as he slunk down the hallway. It was unnecessary, as had been prefaced many times by the others — even Virgil had caught him at one point, in the middle of slithering silently into the kitchen for something to drink.

“You don’t have to do that,” Virgil had said. “You’re allowed to get something to eat.” (Janus had not pointed out that his throat had been parched and itching for water from a dying scream after flashing images had raped his sleeping mind.) “Plus, you look ridiculous skulking behind furniture like that, anyway.” Janus had flicked his tongue at him and left to get his water.

Roman hesitated at the top of the stairs before slowly making his way down. Janus didn’t know what he was looking for, but it didn’t seem to deter him. Once he was out of sight, Janus shot into his room, the door still creaking open.

What did he need? What was he going to need to put on? What were the requirements of this stupid activity?

He didn’t even know what he wanted. What would help? What would cover up enough that he fit the unspoken, stupid critera for these damn photos? What did foundation do? Would it dry his skin out? He was not in the mood to deal with brittle scales.

Lipstick. Roman had used lipstick in his photoshoot.

Janus shot forward and grabbed the first one of the display rack.

“Stealing now, are you?”

Janus whirled around, thankfully crushing the rather embarrassing squeak before it could escape.

“Oh, absolutely,” he purred, but the not-lie was immediately evident the moment Roman’s angry eyes trailed down to the lipstick clenched in his fist.

“You sly little —” The prince marched forward, face twisted dangerously, and despite himself, Janus found himself stepping backwards.

Roman wasn’t violent. He was brash, and impulsive, and when he pulled his sword on whatever startled him, but he had never, not once, used physical aggression to prove a point.

Janus found it hard to believe he would start now, but… Roman had never been driven to such a point before now.

And Janus was the reason.

It was when he had stalked close enough that their height differences were clear enough that under normal circumstances, Janus would be rather annoyed (now, however, he was only focusing on keeping his breath calm and his gaze level), that Roman seemed to notice the way Janus was dressed.

“What are you wearing?” he uttered, suddenly sounding far more confused than mad.

“Something that was certainly all my idea,” Janus hissed, waiting for the disbelieving eyebrow raise, for the look that said You? Really? Waiting, as tense as he had ever been, for more laughing.

Roman did nothing except manage to look even more lost. “Oh.”

Janus wasn’t sure if he felt irritated or guilty at the prince’s crestfallen look.

Irritated, apparently, as his thoughts began to hiss.

Oh, terribly sorry that I’ve been accepted like the rest of you. My apologies that I aim to help Thomas just like everyone else in this damn place. I am so sorry that for whatever godforsaken reason they asked me to put on these ridiculous —

“Well, hurry up and finish the look,” Roman said, as if resigning himself to a fate that no one asked him to.

Janus blinked at him.

Roman summoned a hand-held mirror and held it out towards him.

Janus didn’t quite say ‘what the hell’ — but it was close.

Roman seemed smart enough to read the baffled look on his face. “You can apply it here so I can be assured you will hand it back when you are done. I can’t trust someone like you to return it otherwise.”

“I’m sure you can replace a single stick,” Janus said, just slightly scathingly.

Roman didn’t seem discouraged. He expectantly held the mirror out further.

Janus’ stomach was writhing uncomfortably. He kept his face carefully blank, loath to betray how distasteful he found this, and glared at the mirror. He ignored the bemused look Roman gave him when he struggled with uncapping the lid, and fought against the slight tremors in his hand.

He didn’t get very far before Roman, looking absolutely scandalized, reared back like a startled horse. Janus paused when his mirror was yanked away and glared up at the prince.

“I would appreciate a limited amount of interruptions,” he began but Roman had already dumped the mirror and darted forward to snatch the lipstick from his hand. “Hey!”

“Why did you try applying it like that?” he cried. Janus shuffled, bewildered.

“I know exactly what you’re —”

“No, no,” Roman interrupted, waving his hands. “No. Stop. Come here.”

Janus bared his teeth. “Why?”

“You look like you’ve never applied makeup a day in your life,” Roman said, and suddenly Janus didn’t have any quips to reply with. Roman squinted. “You’ve never used makeup?”

“Because I have always had a reason to,” Janus snapped. Roman raised his hands, which surprised him.

“Right.” The prince beckoned again, but Janus remained rooted. What on earth was the moron trying to achieve?

Roman seemed to pick up on his hesitance, and leaned forward, quietly scrutinizing. Janus bit back on a snarl.

“When’s the shoot?” Roman asked.

“What?” Janus said, slightly more harsh than he intended.

“The photoshoot,” Roman clarified.

“Whenever I want,” Janus snapped.

Roman, rather than retorting, or recoiling, lit up. “Perfect!”

Janus slunk backwards. “What are you playing at, White Knight?”

A flash of confusion danced in Roman’s eyes for a split second before he lost himself in his excitement once more.

“Your makeup, Phantom of the Opera!” he shrilled, bouncing over to his vanity and pulling out the chair. “I’ll do it for the photoshoot! Come, sit, sit!” Janus narrowed his eyes. He didn’t move. Roman faltered. “Or… or not. I don’t —”

“Why?” Janus interjected.

“You can’t get dressed up without a little makeup,” Roman said with a smile.

“The others did,” Janus pointed out, but Roman waved him off.

“It’s imperative to feel good when you should be looking good!” He began to dig around in his draws, pulling out a variety of brushes and different coloured palettes. Janus didn’t know what any of them were for.

“What are you implying?” he asked slowly.

Roman paused long enough to level him with a skeptical look. “You, who came in here for makeup and got caught red handed… are trying to ask what I am getting at?”

Janus glared at him.

Roman gestured to the chair once more. “Sit.”

Sulking, Janus sat.

Roman studied him carefully for a moment before beginning to sort through his ridiculously large assortments of strange… makeup… things.

The prince started slowly, using an odd, coloured sponge, but Janus still flinched when the first cold sensation started to plaster his face.

Roman pulled back as well. “Sorry. Here, this is primer. It’s kind of like moisturiser.”

Janus’s tongue flicked in and out for a moment in consideration. Coming to a decision, he forced himself to sit still and allow Roman to start again. He must have realised Janus was still not entirely comfortable with this setting, so he began to offer what each tool was and what it did as he applied it to Janus’ face.

Primer, foundation, ‘concealer,’ whatever the hell that was…

It was quiet for a few minutes while Janus let Roman work before he finally had to speak.

“You’re… not doing my other side.”

Roman didn’t pause, moving to pick a different brush and palette. “Your scales?” he asked, focusing on where he was working. Janus found the lack of eye contact oddly comforting.

“Why aren’t you covering them up?” Janus asked.

Roman did halt, then, and lowered the brush. He frowned slightly. “Why would I want to?”

The earnest in his voice made Janus falter. The prince’s genuine confusion made his chest feel impossibly wide and too warm. Roman had already resumed his work, completely clueless to what he’d done.

You fucking himbo, Janus thought.

“Close your eyes for me,” Roman instructed. Janus frowned at him. Roman didn’t seem to understand that kind of action required an amount of trust that Janus certainly did not have for him yet. He elaborated with a beseeching, “Please?”

Janus’ eyes closed.

He could tell Roman was pleased when he got back to work. “Keep your eyes relaxed, but don’t open them, unless you want a bunch of brush bristles where they should not be.”

“Pleasant,” Janus remarked.

“Very,” Roman agreed sagely. Janus bit down the smirk.

It was quiet again, apart from Roman beginning to hum the beginnings of a song. Janus didn’t recognise it, and he wasn’t even sure Roman knew he was doing it. But it wasn’t unpleasant, so Janus let it be. The lack of silence was comforting against any awkwardness that could have remained.

Eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara.

Eventually, Roman leaned back, and beamed. “There.” He held up another — how many did he have? — handheld mirror. “Look!”

Janus looked.

Roman’s smile softened as he glanced between Janus’ face and his reflection. “You like it.” It wasn’t a question.

“How do you know?” Janus asked.

“I didn’t push any blush on your cheeks.”

Janus didn’t point out that Roman had moved his hand to Janus’ knee and it was burning through the skirt, but sure. Janus could agree that he didn’t hate the look Roman had given him.

Roman’s eyes scanned over Janus’ face once more, and this time Janus matched his gaze unwaveringly. A smile twitched at Roman’s lips, and the prince jumped.

“Oh! Almost forgot the whole reason this happened!” He twisted around and turned back, jabbing the lipstick at Janus’ face. It was jolting, and Janus jerked backwards against his own will. “Sorry, sorry.” Roman held a hand. “Come here, come back. I’ll be gentle, promise.”

Janus remained still as Roman lined his lips with the paint. The fingers pressed to the edge of his jawline rendered him rather useless against his instincts, anyway.

Roman’s eyebrows twitched downward for a second. He must have made a mistake, because he moved to carefully swipe a finger at the edge of Janus’ lips.

Goddamn it, this was such a mistake.

Janus swallowed.

Finally, after way too long how slow do you apply lipstick, Roman pulled back, seeming satisfied.

“Now you're ready for a photoshoot,” he decided.

Janus glanced back to his reflection. He still had some of his own details to add, but… yes. Janus could almost agree.

Roman went back to sorting through his various makeup supplies. Janus felt a little transfixed with the deft movements of the prince, how certain he moved, how he knew where everything needed to be. A confidence Janus had failed to see in… a very, very long time.

A sharp laugh, vicious and hurtful, the lie doing nothing to soften the blow —

Janus stood abruptly, the chair wobbling against the carpet. Roman glanced up. He seemed to remember where they had been before Janus’ makeover, and for a moment his eyes darkened. Janus braced himself for another argument.

Then Roman’s shoulders relaxed and he tilted his head. “Have fun,” he said. Then, after a moment, added, “You’ll kill it.”

Janus halted at the doorway before he could flee, taken off guard. He glanced down at the prince, who gifted him a small smile.

Janus didn’t smile back. He turned to study the doorway framework. “It would certainly be rather�� dismal if you came down for dinner at some point tonight. Presumably, at the same time as everyone else.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, truly?” he said. His voice was warm.

Janus sighed theatrically. “Oh, I don’t know. I couldn't argue if you were to try to prove me wrong.”

Roman tossed his head. “Watch it, Noodles. You don’t want to defy a knight.”

“Perhaps not,” Janus mused, regarding a chip in the doorway’s wood. “But a hero never backs down from a challenge.”

He didn’t wait to see Roman’s expression. He wisped away down the hallway without looking back, without seeing what he could have just done.

Like a coward.

He may have just made things worse. He could have reversed everything that odd makeup session had built. He was well aware of the fact that if that was the case he should have kept his mouth shut.

But oddly, Roman’s silence hadn’t seemed heavy. He hadn’t tensed. He hadn’t shouted, or scowled, or slammed the door in Janus’ face.

Granted, Janus hadn’t given him a chance to, but…

As he slid into his room and quietly closed the door behind him, he didn’t feel horrible. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Now. He set his gaze on his closet, still open and waiting. Where was his hat?

#sanders sides #roceit #janus sanders #roman sanders #long post #cross posted on ao3 #inspired by twitter #sanders sides fic #angst #janus is a sad boy #fluff #hopeful ending #literally someone has probably already done this #so. those skirt pics huh.#janus is unfairly pretty

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why-not-a-tickle-blog · 4 years ago

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Tickletober Day Five

Drawn on

“Oh, come on, please?” Roman asked.

“No way. It’s gonna tickle, and I just know as soon as I move you’ll want to wash it off and fix it up again, and I’ll be trapped there till it’s done.” Virgil said, crossing his arms.

But Roman was patient. He waited till the next day.

- - -

“Could I do it now? Please?”

“Nope.”

- - -

“Today maybe?”

“Nuh-uh.”

- - -

“Please?”

“Look, I’ll tell you when.”

••^*^••

It turned out to be a while later, the plans rather dusty and pushed to the back of his workspace, when Virgil quietly knocked at his door.

He seemed rather shy, especially as he looked over his shoulder and quietly shut the door behind him, waving a hand to lock the room.

“Roman?”

Roman raised an eyebrow at the strange behavior. “Yeah?”

Virgil’s face turned slightly pink. “Um... you know that drawing thing you wanted to do? I’m uh... inabitofaleemood.”

Realization struck suddenly, and Roman chuckled. “By the looks of it, you’re in more than a bit of a lee mood.”

Virgil blushed even more, his face twisting. “Look, if you don’t want to I’ll just leave-“

“Whoa, hey, absolutely I do. I’m just teasing a little.”

Virgil curled in on himself, almost pouting.

Roman meanwhile was summoning tools already, shaking the dust off the plans and hanging them on the headboard of his bed. “If you lay in the middle of the bed I just have to look up to see the blueprint, and I can lay a tarp down to keep the blankets clean, heck, the tarp can be heated in case you get cold, and I can line up the pens and markers here, and the paint will go on last, and—“

“I won’t be able to be still,” Virgil mumbled, chewing on his lip.

Roman grinned. “Oh, of course not. I’ll get get some water and a washcloth, and maybe even a toothbrush for difficult spots, since you’re in such a lee mood.”

Virgil blushed even more, fidgeting and squirming. “No, I really can’t. You’d just be cleaning the whole time.”

Roman frowned in thought for a second.

Virgil shrugged. “There’d have to be some way to keep me still.”

“Wait— wait, are you actually- you want to be tied up?”

Virgil was blushing darker than Roman had seen before. “I can just leave-“

Roman scrambled off the bed. “Hey, wait, it’s ok, I don’t mind.”

Virgil stopped, but looked like he was about to combust from embarrassment.

Roman gestured to the bed, and Virgil scrambled onto it, sitting in the middle and curling into an embarrassed little ball. Roman suspected that the more he tried to be soft and careful, the more embarrassed Virgil would get. So he just bounded onto the bed.

“So, am I drawing on your back, or do I get to drive this little tummy absolutely crazy?”

Virgil got a tiny shy grin, and laid back, belly up. His shirt and hoodie disappeared.

Roman grinned. He tapped each ankle, and they were stuck where they were. Virgil even put his arms up, still blushing. Roman tapped his wrists so they would also stay.

“If you ever call a safe word, they’ll come loose right away,” Roman promised.

Virgil nodded, chewing on his lip a bit.

Roman got a bit of an evil grin and also tapped Virgil’s stomach. Now his back was stuck, flush against the bed, and stopping all wiggles from messing up Roman’s art project.

He glanced up at Virgil’s face to see wide eyes and an attempted shimmy. The glimmer of excitement was clear.

Roman uncapped a nice black marker. “You ready, little Lee?”

Virgil blushed a bit more, but nodded.

The first sweeping line didn’t get a laugh, nor did the second, but Roman poked down in the little bellybutton, and that certainly did. After that, every line came with a little stream of giggles.

His original plan had been more art-oriented, but he couldn’t help getting addicted to the sweet giggles and squeaks, and gradually his plan morphed to specifically add more detail in Virgil’s more sensitive spots, especially along his pant line, and around the bellybutton, and between his ribs.

Finally he capped his marker, and Virgil gasped and giggled away even without further tickles. Roman had a truly evil idea. Wonderful, fantastic, beautiful... and evil.

“The lines are all here!” He clapped once. “And now it’s time for paint! I hope your lee mood is still pretty big.”

Virgil must have gotten over his embarrassment, cause he didn’t blush at all. “You’d better do it well, those little marker tickles just made it bigger.”

Roman’s grin just grew. He snapped, and the first color of paint he was using filled up Virgil’s bellybutton. He dipped a brush in, swirling it around and relishing in the squeaks and squeals.

He’d also picked a color he didn’t need much of on purpose, sliding the brush quickly to get the color where he wanted it. Cause the fun part was next.

“Oh dear~ I’ve made a mistake~ with only one little paint pot I’ll have to clean it out between each color~”

Virgil’s eyes went impossibly wide, and he practically squealed as Roman slowly took the paint out, bit by bit. But when Roman sighed, shaking his head, and summoning an electric brush, he started quickly babbling desperate pleas.

“It still has paint, and I need to have my colors pure. It has to be very clean between each and every color~”

Roman Loved the shriek when the brush touched down, and maybe he cleaned a bit longer than was necessary, but really, it was worth it to hear all the beautiful laughs and squeals.

He snapped, and the next color filled the little button. “With such a complicated painting, we’ll be here for quite a while~ I hope you’re comfortable, Virgil~”

#tickletober2020 #tickle fic #my fic #lee!virgil #Ler!roman #embarrassment

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icharchivist · 3 years ago

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Is Icha excited about this Unite and Fight?

hey hey hey!!!

honestly? I pretty am! i just hope i'll still have energy for it once it starts DKLFJDFKLJDF

my Dark grid isn't the best but it's not the worst of them, and it's mostly because a lot of my weapons aren't maxed because i've focused all of my mats in elements i cared more for so that's an issue.

but i've also been running dangerously low in Quartz so i'm really going all

at the summon drops

And i really wanted to work on Seox's uncap (even if i'm not close to getting there) so this is finally an opportunity to get as much of the fists as i need.

in general though i'm especially excited because of my crew: our last U&F ran low on people because everyone was busy, now more people should be free, and most importantly our Dark Lord has been really itching for this U&F and i must admit his enthusiasm is really contagious. Kinda want to do good to help him carry us yaknow?

it'll probably give me an opportunity to work on my grid a little more too since my elements always get better after U&F's desperate last minute level up.

But yeah we'll see once we're into it ahah

Hope you're excited about it too nonny, or at least that U&F is going to go well on your side o7

Take care!

#ichareply #anonymous #ichafantalks gbf #ichablogging gbfgws

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murasaki-murasame · 3 years ago

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Let’s just say that I decided to do some desperation summons in GBF because I only got two Tier 4 prizes in the ticket event thing and I became a being fueled by pure salt :)

So let’s just see how that went.

I did like 100 or so summons on the new gala and here’s what I got:

-SSR Sen

-Filene

-Grand Drang

-Summer Shiva [x2]

-Grand Shiva [also x2, lol]

-Summer Mandrake

-a couple of random weapon and summon dupes

I suppose I’m a little sad I didn’t get Summer Shalem, but she wasn’t a huge priority for me. Considering that I was only able to do a third of a spark before I ran out of resources, I’m really happy I at least got Summer Shiva, who was my main target. It’s also nice to get regular grand Shiva, but he didn’t really factor into my decision to pull here, lol. I guess having his weapon gives me yet another option for my up and coming Agni grid.

I’m actually really excited to get Drang, since he’s one of those grand units where I really wanted him, but not enough to spark for him. In terms of this grand pool I’d rather spark Jeanne [who I still want, but I guess it’ll be a while before I get her at this point]. I dunno how much use I’ll get out of him, but it’s nice to finally have him.

I guess Filene’s also nice to have, but from what little I remember of how she works I don’t think she’s super noteworthy.

I’ve never looked at Sen’s kit until now, but she actually looks better than I expected, lol. I dunno how much use I’d get out of her either since I have a lot of good wind units, but that just reminds me that I’m still missing Grand Naru, and since I didn’t get lucky with the lottery I probably won’t be getting her until the end of the year, which is when I plan to do my next spark.

Anyway, I was going to want Summer Shiva just based on his design alone [especially since he continues the trend of male seasonal units getting absolutely insane uncap art], but I’m glad that he seems extremely good. I guess it depends on the exact numbers of his kit, since with how long his cooldowns are and how punishing his G-Naru style passive is, he kinda needs his number to be worth it, but on paper he looks extremely good, especially in the current landscape of light.

The main thing is that, even with his passive, he basically has an unconditional unworldly charge attack, and it also gives him an assassin buff, which at first didn’t seem super crazy, but then I remembered that Nehan exists and can immediately give everyone double strike, which should mean that you on turn one you can use his charge attack and then immediately do a round of assassin-enhanced autos. Which effectively means that, at least in that team comp, he’s the turn one anytime assassin that light has been desperately needing, which is kinda insane. I’m curious to see who he replaces in the current meta team of Nehan, Jeanne, and HalMal/Zahl. I’d be surprised if he can’t compete with any of them, at least.

He also gets a free seraphic passive, which is great for freeing up a grid slot. The free refresh passive is kinda interesting, but probably not as important when it comes to racing. Depending on the numbers, it might do a lot to counteract Nehan’s debuffs, though. It seems like his first two skills also enhance the effect of those two passives, so I’m curious to see the exact numbers on those as well.

Summer Mandrake also seems surprising neat, especially with the upcoming introduction of dedicated sub-aura summon slots, since she gives your earth team immediate one-time dispel cancel. Which would have been really nice to have in earth GW so I could have used G-Sandalphon more easily, lol. But still.

Summer Shalem has an interesting kit, but she seems like she’s designed for hard endgame fights so I’m not really in a position to judge her properly. Her weapon is extremely bizarre in a bad way , though.

So yeah, all in all I think these desperation rolls were well worth it. I guess I could have saved this for the end of the month, but I wouldn’t have had a full spark by then either, and I think I’d prioritize Summer Shiva over basically all of the other new 2021 summer units I don’t already have.

At the very least, this worked out a fair bit better than the desperation rolls I ended up doing after this in Dragalia Lost, lmao.

#murasaki rambles #granblue fantasy #the free 10k crystals is appreciated but I still feel like this is way worse overall than treasure rush from last summer :/

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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years ago

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Bullet Wound

Follow-up to this discussion with Angel. They ended up doing the surgery in Angel’s room instead of the bar because SOMEBODY forgot that was where we agreed to meet. (It’s me I’m somebody.)

Alastor

Knock knock knock, guess who. It's Doctor Alastor and Nurse Hentai, here with their trademark "surgery with a smile" service.

Angel

He opened the door with one of his tertiary hands. The couple others were busy pressing a pink-stained... _something_ to his shoulder.

" Oh nonono, I ain't drunk enough fa THIS, YET. " Angel knocked back the remainder of whiskey left in the bottle he had before trudging to his minifridge for another. " Is Hentai, uh, gonna hurt? He slimy or some shit? How drunk I gotta be? " His eyes were beginning to lose focus.

Alastor

Alastor's gaze landed on the pink stain. Aha. There was the wound, no doubt. "It'll hurt about as much as you'd expect for something the width of a coffee stirrer to squeeze into a wound and yank a bullet out. I can dull your ability to feel around the injury."

Alastor tilted his head to peer into the minifridge, checking to see how good Angel's stash was. "I think you're quite drunk enough already! Unless you want to sleep the next two weeks." He held up the one bit of surgical equipment he'd visibly brought with him: a bottle of Everclear. "But I'd planned to use this to clean the wound."

Angel

" Oh, ya can?? " he responded with uncharacteristically dulled excitement, " Thank _fuck!_ I would'a gone fa a hit but, uh, _Bolivian Ma'chin' Powder's_ all OUT. An' I gotta... uh, show. Even if just ta say I can't work so I can get my standa'd issue ass kickin' an' come back. "

Angel then stumbled to his chair, flipping it around so he could lean forward off the back. " Just... go nuts. Fuck th' rug. I could get a Daddy ta get me a new one if it gets fucked up. Uh... youse can use th' bench if ya need to. "

Alastor

"What, sending a self-E of the bullet wound isn't a good enough doctor's note?" Alastor tutted.

He unscrewed the bottle; for the moment, he was still standing so he could remain taller than Angel. "Now, this IS going to sting—but I've got to clean you off before I can numb the area. I'd warn you to bite the bullet but—hah—we'll have to fish it out before you can do that, won't we!" And here comes the sting.

Angel

" Nah... he's gonna think I photoshopped it... " he groaned with a reach for a throw pillow to scream into. He would've laughed a little more whole-heartedly if not for the anticipated _agony_ that tensed him so hard he could've bit off his own tongue.

" _UGH THIS IS WHAT I FUCKIN' GET!_ " he muffled into the plush pink, now growing darker from the entrance wound, " Why's good shit gotta HURT so bad? It's so fuckin' _DUMB._ " Angel smothered a few more whines and hisses before getting a handle on his breathing again. " ... Can ya do the numbin' thin', yet...? "

Alastor

Ignore the studio audience laughing at your pain, it's nothing personal.

Alastor lightly brushed off what few drops of fresh blood the alcohol hadn't washed from Angel's fur. "Now I can!" He decided owing a small favor to a prince was worth it so he didn't have to drag a miniature apothecary out of his trunk, looked around for a pen or marker—ah, of course, makeup everywhere—and grabbed a tube of black lipstick. "You don't happen to have any bad blood with Prince Gaap, do you?"

Angel

Angel groaned, metaphorically biting his tongue to hold back any amount of quips or name-calling he would've fired at the hip for the sake of not pissing off the demon that was about to start poking around in him.

" Prince a who? " he asked with an instantly regrettable twist to see what Alastor was doing, " I ain't ever known any _legitimate_ royalty... I don' think... "

Alastor

"Then I'll take that as a no." He scrawled Gaap's sigil on Angel's shoulder around the wound—not his most artistic work, given how fuzzy his canvas was, but Alastor was on good enough terms with enough nobles that they wouldn't nitpick tiny errors in his work. "Now, this will make the area around your wound feel temporarily hale and hearty—but it's only a feeling. You're still just as damaged. Don't jump up and do cartwheels." He finished the double circle around the sigil and the lines started to glow green. Good. "Working yet?"

Angel

Angel took a deep breath as the nerves began to cease fire until finally, he no longer felt the need to scream or cry. Well enough to turn his head, he gave himself a peek in the mirror.

" Yeah... like I wanna do cartwheels, " Angel giggled, " Tell Prince Gaap I said thanks ~ " _An' ask him if he's single,_ he chuckled to himself as he stretched his limbs more comfortably about his chair. " Ya gonna stir me like a cup a coffee, now? " he joked.

Alastor

"I'll pass on your gratitude! Just don't tell him you owe him one if you happen to cross paths with him, he'll take it literally and then we'll both be paying him for the anesthesia."

Alastor huffed. "Once I clean the wound a little more. I don't know if you've noticed, but you've got quite a lot of fur around it." He looked around for some sort of towel that wasn't completely soaked in blood, poured a little more alcohol in it, and finally sat on the bench as he started carefully cleaning the wound itself while trying to avoid disrupting the sigil.

"You don't strike me as the type to get shot in the back," he mused. "What happened here—somebody take you by surprise?"

Angel

" Oh, he's _that_ type, " he commented, deciding on whether or not he should offer a razor. He was already going to be getting a temporary bald spot. May as well...

" If ya needa clear it some, there's clippers off th' side a the mirro- " Angel's arms and legs tightened around the chair as he sank his chin _deep_ into the pillow. _When_ was the last time...? Without the sting to distract him, all there was to focus on was the touch and it made his head swim. He didn't know how to process it, so he reverted to his go-to distraction. " _Funny how I still ended up on th' twink ma'ket cove'ed in all this peach fuzz, ah?_ "

He chuckled bitterly as his eyes swept to the ceiling. " Yeah... somethin' like that... Was a _surprise,_ alright... "

Alastor

"Most nobles are. Out of the ones that bargain with humans, anyway." He grabbed the clippers and very carefully started clearing a patch around the entry wound. "You know, between you being called one and *me* being called one, I'm beginning to think that 'twink' doesn't actually mean anything."

Alastor leaned around Angel's side to give him a vicious grin. "So, tell me about this surprise! You didn't think I was doing this without hoping to get a little entertainment in return!"

Angel

" _It means ya never get ta eat **shit,** that's what it means-!_ " he grumbled.

Then a sudden **gasp.** How the hell he manged to scare him despite being the forefront of his attention was beyond him. " _Fuckin'-_ " he groaned with a turn of his head in the opposite direction, " Was an ex... an angry one... That dramatic enough fa you? "

His claws clenched his skin as he tried to replicate the buzz of the razor into his brain. Sure would be nice if he could uncap his skull and do some doodling in _there._

Alastor

"... *Does it.*" There was a little bit of info Alastor was going to file away and never let go of.

"An ex! Oh, yes, *quite* dramatic enough! What did you do to *him?* That is to say—" One freshly alcohol-soaked claw brushed dangerously close to prying into the wound, "—was this earned, or an overreaction?"

Angel

" Earned. Def'nitely earned. Uh... " Angel pondered. He'd already vague-blogged about the incident. Any opportunity to avoid any scandal was already blown.

" She. I let her 'and it to me. It was th' _least_ I could do. "

Alastor

"*She!* That brings up some questions, doesn't it?" He dropped his impromptu wash cloth on his lap and said, "Now, as much as I'd relish prying this story out of you one detail at a time, unfortunately I won't be free to talk for a bit." He summoned up his cane. "Ready to have an alien abomination pry a bullet out of your back?"

Angel

Angel braced himself. Salt in the wound felt well deserved to him. Even if subconsciously, he'd allow every opportunity to pay for what he did to her. Being pried through by an alien abomination, sitting through a mortifying interview, and being shot point blank was a good enough start.

" Wouldn't be the _first_ time I 'ad tentacles in me ~ " he replied cheekily with a thumbs up, " Just don' let 'im get _too_ carried away, yeah ~ ? "

Alastor

"Oh, I plan to guarantee he won't!" A dark blot, small as an ink stain, opened in the air between them, and a single thin tendril wiggled out. "But while I'm giving him instructions, I won't be listening to closely to you. So!" He swung his cane around in front of Angel. "Take Mic here and let him know if you need me to stop, would you?"

Angel

" _Plan_ ta guarantee...? " He snorted, then crimson eyes flickered. He'd voluntarily _hand_ him that thing? " Yeah, ok ~ " Angel wiped off his bloody fingers and gently took the rod. " Can't feel a thin'- " _Liar._ " -so prolly won't need to. "

" Heyyy, Mic-y, how ya doin' ~ ? " he asked sweetly, turning the instrument about and inspecting him curiously. " Al give ya routine polishin'? Ya just, chill in th' other dimension 'til he calls ya? " Like a set of keys given to a toddler, he was sufficiently distracted.

Alastor

"Oh, I can't complain! It's not allowed in my contract!" The cane rolled its eye. "Naaah, who needs polishing? When I poof off, the dirt doesn't come with me!" It gave Angel a wry look. "Or d'you got another reason for asking how often Al *polishes his cane?* Eh?" Mic's humor was somewhat lowbrow compared to Alastor's usual standards. Usually Alastor would scold it for getting saucy. But right then, Alastor's brain wasn't entirely present.

He couldn't actually give his tentacled "friend" orders, per se. They were too different, too alien for normal person-to-person communication. What Alastor COULD do was broadcast a signal that let him slip into a fragment of a tentacle's mind and pilot it directly; but when he was doing so, when he was making sense of the world as the alien beast saw it, he wasn't exactly able to, say, process language.

If Angel happened to turn around, he'd see that Alastor's eyes had gone blank and filled with static. But he probably shouldn't turn around, since that was when Alastor managed to seize control of the noodle-thin tentacle that had wriggled through and fed the tip of it into the wound.

Angel

" Hehehe! I getcha, I getcha. Talk back get smacked, ah? " Angel couldn't can more giggles, but he did feel the need to do some scolding in Alastor's place. At least, as much as he _assumed_ he should.

" Buh-BUH! Shouldn't ya know better than ta be talkin' deer dick? At least, _more than me_? Ta at least keep it in th' context a dick seasoned up real nice on a silver platter? " He snickered deviously, remembering certain debaucheries he'd engaged in both before and after death. " I _like_ ya, though! Wonder how much fun ya'd be _outta_ contract ~ "

Gently tapping the deep red surface of the back with a pristinely manicured claw, Angel had a sudden urge to seize an opportunity he might not get later. " Hey... can ya do that radio thin' ta _my_ voice? "

Alastor

"You can't have slapstick without the stick! And what'm I if not a stick? You ain't gettin' me outta contract, though. That's not how it works."

(Alastor, meanwhile, has slithered the tentacle in deep enough to reach the bullet. Pardon the weird feeling as it wraps around the intrusion, and then prods briefly past the bullet to make sure it didn't penetrated Angel's lung. Whole new can of worms if it did.)

"No can do! You wanna get your voice broadcast outta the radio, sure, I'm the Mic for the job, long as Alastor's authorizing the broadcast. But if you wanna GET the radio voice? Uh-uh. Only way to sound like the Radio Demon is to BE the Radio Demon."

Angel

An eye twitched as he took a breath and felt that internal pinch. Sans the pain of one, the sensation reminded him of an air bubble he'd have to spend several minutes patting out until he could finally take a deeper breath again. He shallowed his lungs and stayed still as he could with a held breath until the tendril retreated. A deep, testing sigh of relief, then he shook his head with a glance to the mirror. Alastor sure was getting _busy._ He trusted he was in good hands.

" Nah, I don't wanna do _that._ Just wanna give ya singin' a lil' try. Not _everyday_ ya passed off t' another demon, am I right? Specially not a _talented_ one like yours truly ~ " Angel pouted and pursed his brows. " C'mon ~ Just this once! I promise I'll _do ya right ~_ "

Alastor

"Ya wanna sing, then sing! But I can't give you the voice any more than I can give you deer antlers. It ain't transferrable. It's *his.*"

And there was the bullet being slowly dragged backwards out of the wound it had caused. Carefully. But they probably weren't going to completely avoid doing a little extra damage.

Angel

" 'Tis almost th' season, Sweetie, I can give _m'self_ antle's if I wanted to ~ " He then rolled his eyes and relented, followed by some sensational weirdness in his shoulder cavity. Checking in wasn't his first instinct. It was, of course, to _play._ He'd never nail Alastor's southern belle, so he let his register drop as he casually snapped and tapped his own beat with Mic dramatically in hand. ( At least, theatrically as he could while being an obedient patient. )

https://youtu.be/eAiMOTlUVv4

Alastor

Bullet retrieved. Alastor's eyes snapped back to normal as the tentacle withdrew into its portal, dropping the bullet as it did. He caught it, but waited until the end of the song to speak up. "Not bad." He held the bullet over Angel's shoulder. "Do you want this little troublemaker?"

Angel

" Hehe! _Thanks ~ !_ " Angel took the bullet in a free hand to inspect it for shatter. Thankfully, it was all in one piece. Hentai wouldn't have to do any further digging. " What I owe ya? This thin' gonna last 'til it heals, or should I get ready ta go Vicodin huntin' _now?_ " he asked with an experimental roll of his shoulder and another check in the mirror.

Alastor

"Go Vicodin hunting. And also bandage it up, change the bandage twice daily, check for infection, et cetera et cetera." He stood, stretched, and his cane poofed out of Angel's hand and into his own. "As for what you owe me... Give me the rest of the story about this ex of yours and if I think it's interesting enough, we'll call it square."

Angel

" ... Ya ain't gonna be reco'din' it, are ya? " he asked solemnly, " Ah fuck whatever... " Angel threw himself into mercy and rummaged around his drawers for bandages.

" I 'ad a squeeze t' get the Outfit off m'back, " he began, " Drew it out as long as I could but uh, _women's_ a pretty hot topic wit' th' boys. Older I got... y'know. _Family._ They's wantin' _kids._ Big ol' fuckin'... Italian _famiglia_ ta' keep th' bootleg business goin'. "

Was it the pain of the memory or the pressure of the wrapping? Angel was thankful for it. He even dabbed at himself a bit forcefully to override any involuntary bodily response to the whole ordeal.

Alastor

"You have my solemn vow that I won't start recording." That wasn't a promise that he wasn't already recording.

Alastor could guess where this story was going; his grin widened in anticipatory schadenfreude. "Go on."

Angel

As Alastor's grin widened, Angel's eyes narrowed. He tucked his bandage and leaned back against his vanity.

" She's was _-IS-_ like you. I was about as inta her as she was inta anyone else. At least, when I wasn't mistakin' 'er fa a guy. We's was dumb kids, grew up t'gether in the same mafia network. We knew th' game an' we knew we 'ad ta play it. So we _made a deal._ "

" I broke it in, uh... 1944. "

Alastor

Now there was a twist Alastor hadn't been expecting. He'd anticipated a young bride doe-eyed with love and a young groom miserably trying to pretend it was reciprocated. But a mutual ruse was far more interesting.

And far more relatable. It wasn't very far off from his own parents' arrangement—except that theirs hadn't involved the Mafia.

"Let me guess. Get handcuffed together, play the happy couple in front of the family, ignore each other at home? Something like that?" And the one point that actually concerned him—"Were children involved?"

Angel

" No. We were very close, very convincin'. She was m' best frien'. Like Cherri, I didn' deserve 'er. E'ryone thought we was wildin' in the sack, but it never happened. No sex, no kids, just... two murderin' peas in a pod playin' th' most convincin' game a pretend... 'til I couldn't anymo'e. "

" _Could_ say we 'ad kids involved, though _THEM_ fuckin' wild childs could 'ardly bc counted. They was lil' monste's from the Forty-Two. Loved 'em like m'own. Some's prolly down 'ere. "

Alastor

Good—if they'd gotten offspring involved, that would have just been distasteful. Outside children that Angel actually liked were a different matter entirely.

"So, what did the grand breakdown look like? A big blowout fight and a demand for a divorce? No—Catholic, I presume—attempted murder?" He cocked an eyebrow. "*Successful* murder?"

Angel

Angel actually bursted a laugh. " Nope! Wasn't really... a _single thin-_ ok, it was, but uh, said _breakdown_ was less of a _single act_ an' more of a... "

His eyes searched the air for dates, encounters. It didn't help he didn't remember most of it, but he shrugged thinking that was enough indication in itself.

" _Buncha dragged out climaxes_ fa th' next... three years a so. Then I died an' left 'er ta face th' music all 'er own. Hence... " He then tapped at his shoulder and shrugged as if violence was the logical answer to beginning to level a half century-long grudge.

" She's workin' fa Rosie now. Keepin' th' fucks off 'er turf. I was one a them, " he snickered.

Alastor

Well that was the least subtle euphemism Alastor had ever heard. "You mean the prenuptial agreement for your marriage of convenience didn't include provisions for you to sleep around?" Alastor shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. "I can forgive her for the lapse—it takes multiple lessons to learn that you sexual people aren't exaggerating when you say the allure of sex is irresistible—but *you* ought to have known better!"

But never mind that, there was a personal connection now. "Well, it's a small underworld after all! If she's working for Rosie, then *I* might know her! What's her name—down here, I mean?"

Angel

" That was fa show! " he burst defensively, " We was bound by nothin' but laws an' laws is fake! " Angel pouted with a quadruple arm cross. He hadn't even _intended_ that innuendo as much as he meant to convey the feeling of being constantly at the edge of your seat for years. That'd drive _any_ sane person wild.

" She didn't _care_ who I fucked with! If ya ask _me,_ it's her _own fuckin' fault_ I went off th' 'andle because she had ta fuckin' PLAY WINGMAN AT THE MENAGERIE! "

He ignored Alastor's question of her identity at the moment. He was much too offended and much too defensive to let any shaming go unchecked, untouched by the oblivion of his violent self-assurance.

Alastor

Alastor laughed at the outburst. "Well, if she didn't care who you were crawling under the covers with, then what in the world is it you did in '44 that constituted such a great break from your 'agreement'? You didn't try to kill her, by mutual agreement you weren't cheating—what's left? Beatings? Framing her for infidelity? Eloping with a rival don's son?"

Angel

He clamped his jaw shut, gritting gold grinding into a horrid sound that soundtracked his anger. Angel didn't want to tell him any more than Alastor was surely not going to be letting it go. Should he just lie? Was that better than letting this asshole in on what was arguably _the_ most defining moment of his life?

" I already told you. I died. I left her alone when we were supposed to get through the fucking SHITSHOW together. '44 was just the year I _started..._ dying. "

Alastor

Alastor was silent for a moment as he processed that—and Angel's atypically somber tone at the announcement—and then, at last, said, "Some betrayal. Most people can't help dying—even the people who do it to themselves." Well, it didn't make for an exciting conclusion to the story—he could vaguely imagine the drama and trauma of the story in action, but the retelling left most of it out.

Still—a sham marriage in the middle of mobster family politics; it was a good enough story. "But, very well! Consider your surgery paid for. And I suppose if the two of you think that was reason enough for her to shoot you—HA!"

Alastor suddenly slapped Angel's shoulder. (By sheer luck, at least it was the uninjured shoulder.) "Have you ever heard that joke? 'My ex-wife still misses me—but her aim's getting better!'" Studio audience laughter. "I guess she doesn't miss you!"

Sometimes Alastor kills himself.

Angel

He _almost_ wished he had slapped his injured shoulder, just so he'd have a more solid reason to hit him back. Nonetheless, he managed to dodge _that_ bullet so Angel figured he could call it a day. A day to start dealing opioids.

" Yeah. She didn't miss, alright. " The corner of his mouth could only twitch. He wasn't consciously _stifling_ a smile, but his every deep-seated instinct to self-destruct at the slightest brush with self-awareness took more effort than he had to deal.

" Bel. La Donna. Like th' poison. She's like yay high an' redder than ya fuckin' mop before ya treatment. A spider. Like me. "

Alastor

"Oh, come now, that was funny and you know it."

Alastor's eyes lit up in recognition. "Oh! *Bel!* Yes, we're acquainted! Not *well*, but well enough we'd be obligated to say hello if we passed on the street. My, my, it really *is* a small underworld."

Angel

" Aw _fuck,_ " he groaned, " Best _keep_ it that way. This place is already starting to feel like Double Hell. Last thin' I need's YOU TWO tag-teamin' me... "

Angel then lazily fished for his phone and hit up a dealer. " I'm gonna head out fa meds. Youse- " He hesitated. " ... gonna need anythin'? I'll replace ya everclear. "

Alastor

"Don't you worry! We don't talk much. Anyway, if she's gone this long without spreading the news around Rosie's inner circle that her ex-husband is Hell's biggest porn star, I doubt she has any interest in discussing it now."

He shook his head; he got the story behind the bullet, he had his payment. "It wasn't my bottle, I got it for this."

Angel

" Heh heh... that's the funny thin', " he confessed, " _She ain't known I was goin' by Angel Dust until t'day._ " He picked up a jacket and shrugged through the sleeves. " She always knew how ta cover my tracks. I _don't know_ how generous she's gonna be _now,_ but... here's hopin' she's satisfied with gettin' me penetrated by an alien named Hentai. "

He snickered, returning some to his usual self. " Thanks anyways. Ya didn't have t' be helpin' me out. "

Alastor

"And what's she going to do if she doesn't feel generous? Tell people that the famed porn star Angel Dust married a beard when he was alive? I hardly think that would cause a scandal down here!"

He waved off the thanks. "I'm perpetually bored and bullet wounds are almost always interesting."

Angel

" Oh you'd be surprised ~ Though. I don't think she's the type. Prolly just shoot me again fa hidin' from 'er all these years. "

He snickered and shot Alastor some fingerguns. " If she does, I'll let her hit somethin' interestin' fa ya ~ "

Alastor

Alastor tilted his head thoughtfully. “Yes, that... does sound like her.” He didn’t know a lot about Bel, but he knew THAT. How had Angel described himself and her, murderous peas in a pod or something of the sort? “See if you can’t persuade her to avoid the lungs and the bowels. Those are a pain to deal with. For me. But I imagine they’d also be a pain on the receiving end!”

Angel

" _The heart it is then ~_ " he sang with a wink, landing a heavy hand upon Alastor's shoulder on his way towards the door, " If ya see 'er aroun', be good ta her, ah? I should be back in time fa late dinner. "

Alastor

"A classic! How symbolic."

He gave Angel a farewell nod as he headed out himself. "I'll set aside some leftovers for you." *Never get to eat shit,* his ass. Not on his watch.

#sluttyspiderpolkacock #chat log

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thebenedicttwinsfuck · 4 years ago

Text

Girl

A/N: A lovely commission for @patton-gone-thirsty! I hope you like it, it was very fun to write! (Side note: if you ever want to commission me, feel free to send me a DM!)

Patton was reading on his laptop when he heard a knock on his door and Remus poked his head in. “Permission to enter nostalgia city?” Remus asked.

“Granted! What’s up, baby?” Patton chirped.

“You know that thing we were talking about last week?” Remus asked.

Patton’s heart involuntarily leapt into his throat. “Yeah?” he asked, forcing himself to remain casual for just a little while longer. Just until he knew what Remus was after. Then he could freak out and possibly be a horny mess. “What about it?”

“You want to try it?” Remus asked, coming in the room with a huge grin and closing the door.

Patton gulped, putting his laptop away. “Do…you? Want to?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t up for it, Patty-cake!” Remus grinned. “Come on! I wanna know how you feel about it!”

“I…I mean…” Patton swallowed. “I’d love to give it a shot!”

“You sure?” Remus asked. “You seem a little anxious.”

“Not anxious,” Patton said, clearing his throat. “Horny.”

“Oh. Oh! That’s good, then!” Remus said, clapping his hands. “We could get started right away!”

“If you want that, sir,” Patton said, voice going just a little shy.

“I,” Remus said, using one long stride to walk over to Patton and sensually undo Patton’s cardigan, running his hands down Patton’s chest, “Would love that.”

Patton gulped again as Remus undid the buttons on Patton’s polo shirt and ripped it off his body, before nimbly undoing Patton’s belt and pants in two swift movements. Remus never paused when he wanted something this bad, and Patton, while admittedly a little shocked, was also incredibly excited by this prospect…in more ways than one. They had talked about the possibility of feminization off and on, but had only had a really serious discussion about the in’s and out’s last week. Patton had gotten very flustered over it, and obviously, Remus had noticed.

Remus took off all of Patton’s clothes and took a step back, just taking in the view, and Patton resisted the urge to squirm, or cover up. Remus liked it when Patton kept everything out in the open, rather than being self-conscious. If Patton had it, he should flaunt it, is what Remus always said. And Patton aimed to please.

“Let’s get you dressed, pretty girl,” Remus said, kissing Patton’s cheek and dragging him by one hand over to the closet.

Patton was blushing when Remus opened the closet and summed all sorts of outfits, each more girly and frilly than the last. “Well, first things first,” Remus said, taking a glance at Patton’s lower half. He summoned a hot pink cock cage with a heart-shaped lock, and forced Patton’s cock into it, strapping it around Patton’s waist. “We can’t have pretty Patton coming or touching something that he shouldn’t.”

And already, Patton’s cheeks were redder than a fire engine. Remus was going to be the death of him, there was no doubt in Patton’s mind about that.

Still, Patton wouldn’t have it any other way.

Remus was rummaging through the closet, humming and tutting and muttering to himself, before he came out with a large breast plate, with heart-shaped pasties on it. He turned to Patton and said, “No squirming, dame, all right?”

Patton nodded and Remus maneuvered the breastplate over Patton’s head and got his arms in the proper holes. Remus gave one of the breasts a light slap and laughed delightedly when it jiggled. “We might just turn you into a girl yet, my darling dame!”

“We might,” Patton parroted. The cock cage was already unbearably tight.

Remus poked at it with a wicked grin. “Do you like this, sweetheart? Do you like playing dress-up?”

“Yes, sir,” Patton said softly. He shifted on his feet. He hoped that today would be a day that Remus allowed him to come at the end of their scene.

When Remus finally decided what to put Patton in next, Patton was left feeling decidedly squirmy. Remus had chosen a pastel blue corset, with slightly darker blue pinstripes running down the material. He pulled it around Patton’s body, using a feathery-light touch, before sharply pulling it shut when it fell just under the top of the cock cage. Remus’ nimble fingers had the ribbon tightening in seconds, and Patton gasped sharply as a tug just this side of too-tight pulled the top of the corset, closed, cradling the underside of Patton’s breasts.

From there, Remus pulled out pink fishnet stockings and arm tights, carefully pulling them up Patton’s arms and legs and doing the little bows at the top of each to make sure they were secure. It felt constricting and soothing at once, and Patton loved looking down at his body and seeing all these girly things on him.

“Two more things,” Remus promised. He pulled out light blue heels from the closet, slipping them on Patton’s feet perfectly, and then…Patton gasped. A light blue collar with pink hearts decorating the fabric. “Is this okay?” Remus asked.

Wordlessly, Patton nodded. Remus had never wanted to collar him before, this was an entirely new experience, and Patton was touched that Remus wanted to go through it with him.

Remus reverently pulled the collar around Patton’s neck, before taking a leash, hooking it to the front loop and attaching it to a hook on the wall. “Now, then, dame, let’s do your makeup and hair.”

“Okay, sir,” Patton said, sitting down at the vanity Remus summoned.

The first thing Remus did was to pull out magnetic heart-shaped earrings, the same shade as Patton’s cock cage and attached them to Patton’s lobes. After that, he pulled out eyeliner, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick. “I can’t wait to kiss this off you,” Remus murmured lovingly, as he uncapped the lipstick. “Pucker up, buttercup.”

Patton did so and Remus put the lipstick on with expert efficiency. Next, came the blush. “Do you think I should fuck that pretty little cunt of yours when I’m done with your makeup?” Remus asked.

It wasn’t until Patton made eye contact with Remus that he realized he was supposed to answer. “That would be nice, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I think so too,” Remus mused. “Close your eyes.”

The eye shadow and eye liner took seconds to apply, a light touch on his eyes before Remus said he could open them and Patton looked into the mirror. A still stocking-clad hand flew to his mouth at what he saw. He hardly recognized himself as he inspected himself in the mirror. The corset a stark contrast to the fishnets, the makeup making him look oh-so-feminine, and fuckable. He adjusted his glasses, before grinning. “I love it, sir!” He exclaimed.

“I’m glad darling. Now,” Remus waved away the vanity and his voice hardened into a decidedly dom-range as he said, “On your knees.”

Patton was quick to obey, tucking his legs underneath himself as he put his hands on his knees and kept his eyes attentively on Remus. Remus put a thumb on Patton’s chin and kissed him, slow and sweet, but Patton could feel the impatient hunger underneath.

Remus pushed Patton down until his ass was high in the air and his hands were spread on the floor. “I don’t want your hands leaving the floor, sweetheart, is that clear?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” Patton said.

“Good,” Remus said, walking behind Patton.

There was the sound of a zipper, the pop of a lube cap, and then Patton could feel Remus entering him. “Oh, good job, sweetheart, you’re learning to relax around me,” Remus praised.

Patton smiled proudly, chirping, “Thank you sir!” as he kept his hands glued to the floor.

Remus’ hands roamed Patton’s body, massaging his shoulders, trailing down his sides to his hips, where they gripped tight as Remus shoved himself further into Patton and Patton gasped.

In and out, in and out, never at quite the same rhythm, but that in and of itself was predictable to Patton. Remus did so love to keep him on his toes. At a particularly hard thrust where Remus found Patton’s prostate, Patton wailed and his hands instinctively rose to touch his cock before he froze, slamming them on the floor again.

Remus didn’t move, and Patton didn’t dare breathe. “Dirty whore,” Remus growled, dangerously low. “What did I tell you to do?”

“Keep my hands on the floor, sir,” Patton said.

“And did you do that?” Remus asked.

Patton gulped. “…No, sir. It won’t happen again, sir!”

“It had better not,” Remus warned. “Or else I might just have to spank you. As it is, I’m a bit busy fucking you senseless. Be glad that I’m simply warning you this time.”

Patton’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Of course. I’m nothing if not generous,” Remus purred, pulling out a little before sinking himself back into Patton.

Patton hummed at the sensation of feeling full. The cock cage was starting to hurt, just a little bit, but Remus seemed in a good mood, so Patton was hopeful.

Remus leaned down onto Patton, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as he continued to fuck Patton’s ass senseless. Remus’ breathing was heavy, and Patton was mewling like he was in heat, and the contact was so close and so intimate, and it was only a matter of time before—

Remus came hard inside Patton, spilling it all over his insides as he rode the shock wave, before finally pulling out. “Your turn, sweetheart,” Remus said.

He unlocked the cock cage and Patton was immediately at attention. Remus’ fingers danced around Patton’s cock, twisting and teasing as Remus pulled Patton back into sitting on his knees and kissing him everywhere. On his lips, up his jaw, to nibble around his earlobe just a bit and trail kisses down the side of his neck, sucking hickeys there. Patton loved the hickeys. They were Remus’ way of saying, “This one is mine. He is mine and you’d better stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.”

Patton whimpered, a high, keening noise at the back of his throat as Remus found a particularly good twisting motion that had Patton uncontrollably bucking his hips into Remus’ hand. “Such a good girl,” Remus crooned. “All dressed up and pretty, just for me. Just for me to ravage you and show you what a good fucking you can get with the right guy. You love this, don’t you? You love being my good girl.”

“Y-yes sir,” Patton stammered out in a gasp. He was close, he was so close, he just knew he needed a little more… “Sir, please, just a little more, I’m so close!”

Remus chuckled, teasing Patton’s cock more before he whispered in Patton’s ear, “Come for me, darling.”

And with one final twist in just the right direction, Patton cried out, only to have his noises swallowed by Remus kissing him and gently stroking him to completion as come spilled everywhere on both of them. When Remus pulled away from Patton, he was beaming. “You did so well, Patty-cake, I’m so proud of you!”

He undid the collar around Patton’s neck and summoned some water, gently holding the bottle to Patton’s lips, letting him sip as much as he needed before gently pulling it away and placing it on the floor.

“That was good,” Patton said, dazedly smiling at Remus. “I would love to do that again.”

“I’ll bet,” Remus said, standing and picking up Patton, putting him on the bed and cuddling him close. “Is there anything you need? More water? A snack? Anything you want, I’ll get it.”

“Mm,” Patton hummed in thought. “I think I just want my amazing boyfriend to cuddle me for a few minutes as we talk about nothing. Or, maybe, plan for our next scene like that. Because I have a couple of ideas…”

Remus’ eyes lit up as he proceeded to drag every dirty little detail of those ideas from Patton’s mouth. In a while, Remus would help Patton clean up and take off the makeup and the clothes. In a while, Patton would help Remus with their weekly dinner. But for now, they were content to just cuddle up close to each other, and rest.

#lemons #sanders sides fanfic #intruality #patton sanders #remus sanders #tj writes

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azvolrien · 4 years ago

Text

Fifteen Years at Dun Ardech

Like the little series about Asta in Stormhaven, this is more a collection of slice-of-life vignettes than a single story; unlike them, it didn’t end up quite as long in total, so I’m posting them in one big lump.

I’ll upload a little cheat-sheet for the names of the months tomorrow.

~~~

12th of Sirakithi, AI 2740

Asta set the pencil aside and lifted the knife. The edge was sharp, and the point fine enough; it would do. Perhaps she could neaten it up later, once she had determined whether the principle of her idea was sound. With her tongue between her teeth, she laid the knife point against the stencil and made the first cut: a circle as perfect as she could manage, forming a ring around the centre of the piece of wood, itself a hand-sized disc as thick as her thumb and still with bark around the edges. She ran the knife around the stencil a few times until the circle was inscribed deeply into the surface.

Movement in the corner of her eye and the creak of the bench told her Roan had sat down beside her, but she didn’t look up from her work and Roan did not speak.

Time for the second cut. Asta put down the circle stencil, lifted a metal ruler instead, and scored a line across the wood and through the exact centre of the ring, then a second line dividing the ring into perfect quarters. She nodded, sheathed the knife, and checked her notes.

“What are you doing?” asked Roan.

“Well, it’s a bit of an experiment, really,” said Asta, tapping a fingernail against the runes neatly written in dark blue ink. “I’m not completely sure if this will work – and I’ll need a little help from you a bit later on.”

“Mm-hmm. So what are you trying to do, then?”

“One minute, my love.” Asta picked the knife back up and, with the point, carefully carved out the first of the required runes in the middle of the first quarter.

“I have a proper chisel you can use for that,” offered Roan.

“Maybe for some later refinements,” said Asta. “This is working for now.” Roan nodded and sat back, folding her arms and crossing her ankles.

More runes joined the first, one in each quarter of the circle then more outside the rim, on either side of where the dividing lines crossed it. Asta held it up to eye level, blew away the wood shavings, and nodded again. Finally, she reached down to her feet and picked up a small pebble, the perfect white quartz worn into a smooth oval about an inch long and slightly flatter on the underside, then took a pen from behind her ear.

“I haven’t seen you with that pen before,” said Roan. “Looks fancy.”

“It’s a Constructist’s pen,” explained Asta, uncapping it and carefully drawing over all the lines she had carved, before just as carefully drawing more lines onto the surface of the pebble and dividing it into quarters like the circle. The greyish ink glittered oddly on the white stone. “Calburn – you remember I told you about him – gave it to me as a present for my last birthday.”

“When is your birthday?” asked Roan with sudden concern.

Asta grinned at her. “You haven’t missed it if that’s got you worried. The eighth of Rivedi – not for a while yet. What about yours?”

“Twenty-sixth of Voynithi.”

“Ha!”

Roan frowned, not angrily. “Wh-why is that funny?”

“Well – by the traditions up here, as a berserker you’re called a Child of Torravon.”

“The old Sea Loch war goddess, yes.”

“So it’s interesting that that was when you were born, since – well, the twenty-sixth of Voynithi is usually right in the middle of the festival of Voynazhret, the festival of the Kiraani war god.” Asta shrugged. “Whether or not Torravon and Voynazh are just different aspects of the same overarching war deity is something for the priests to argue about, but if that’s when you were born, maybe you really do have their blessing.”

“I… couldn’t say,” said Roan thoughtfully. “So what’s special about that pen again?”

“Oh, yes. It contains a special metallic ink. You see, for constructs and associated magics, pretty much any medium – well, not any medium, but you know what I mean – will work in the short term. You can turn an ordinary kite into a messenger construct if you know the right runes to draw, but wood and cloth just don’t hold the enchantment properly and it’ll wear off after a while, anything from a couple of days to a few weeks. For a long-term enchantment you need to work in metal and stone – specifically crystalline stone, very solid with low porosity. Which is where you come in!” Asta held up the pebble. “Crystals are fantastic at holding magic. So – if it’s all right – I’d like you to put a little bit of magic into this stone. Not a lot, just, say… as much as you’d use to summon a witchlight for reading.” She handed it over. “Don’t worry about smudging the ink; it dries quickly.”

A faintly uncomfortable look had appeared on Roan’s face, but she clasped the pebble between her hands and closed her eyes in concentration. Nothing visibly happened.

“I… think that’s it,” said Roan.

Asta nodded and took the pebble back. “The moment of truth, then.” She placed the pebble in the centre of the wooden disc and rotated it until the lines matched up. Immediately the pebble began to glow with a soft white light. Holding her breath, Asta moved the pebble again so the markings were out of alignment, then back again. The light faded and reappeared accordingly. “Yes!” Asta punched the air, making Roan jump. “It worked!”

“You were making a lamp?” asked Roan, smiling.

“The broch’s very cosy,” said Asta, “but it also doesn’t have any windows. I can’t always be pestering you for a witchlight when I want to do some reading, but candles don’t give a very good light for it. Hence: pebble light!”

Roan leant in to plant a kiss on her hair. “The gods were brutal not to give you magic of your own.”

Asta shuffled closer and rested her head on Roan’s shoulder. “Whichever gods they were.”

---

18th of Sirakithi, AI 2740

After the seventh time Roan came down the stairs, ran out to her workshop, and rushed back upstairs with various materials in her arms, Asta closed her book with a snap and sat up on the couch.

“What are you doing up there?” she asked. Roan stopped with one foot on the bottom step. “I’ve never seen you so full of beans.”

Roan started climbing the stairs again. “I’ll show you in a wee while!” she called from halfway up them, out of sight. “I’m nearly done.”

Asta smiled, shook her head, and went back to her book. After another ten minutes, Roan’s heavy booted footsteps clumped against the wooden boards overhead and – far less excitably than before – descended the stairs. She crossed the room from the stairway door and sat down at Asta’s feet at the opposite end of the couch, wringing her hands.

“Are – are you all right?” asked Asta.

“Oh, aye, aye. I was just thinking about something… Something you said earlier.”

“…Roan, if anything I’ve said upset you, I’m sor-”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” said Roan, brushing the apology aside with one hand. “But – you remember when you made your wee lamp?” She pointed at it on the end table beside Asta, with no sign of deterioration to the pebble’s glow.

“Of course.”

“When you got me to put the magic in the stone, you said to use as much as I would for a reading light. Well, I… I don’t. Conjure lights for reading, I mean. Because I don’t… I don’t read.”

Asta blinked. “But – I know you went to university. How could-”

“It’s… Look.” Roan picked up another book Asta had left on the couch – High Master Rathlean’s The Making of Constructs – and opened it to a random page. “What does the first sentence on this page say?”

Asta glanced at it. “‘The exact ingredients and proportions of spell-fluid will vary depending on the size and purpose of the intended construct.’”

“See, I can’t do that. Just… look at a page of writing and see what it says. Something just doesn’t click in here.” She prodded her forehead with a fingertip. “I have to go through it slowly, one word, sometimes one letter at a time, or it just… doesn’t make sense. So I can read, yes, but it doesn’t come easily to me, so it’s not something I do for fun. But you do! You brought your books with you when you came back here, and if there’s nothing else that needs your attention you’re always reading even if it’s a book I know you must have read before. And you… probably don’t want to just leave them in a stack all the time, so I…” She bowed her head until her chin touched her chest and mumbled something unintelligible.

Asta leant closer. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said – well, just come upstairs for a minute.”

Asta marked her place with the dust jacket, put the book down, and followed Roan upstairs to the bedroom. She had rearranged it a little, moving aside some rugs and the laundry basket to make room against one wall.

Roan leant on the wardrobe and pointed across the room, looking at the floor. “I built a bookcase for you.”

There were four shelves made of flat, neatly-sanded wooden boards, evenly spaced by supports made from pine logs stripped of bark but still fragrant. On the top shelf, Roan had placed two little statues of polished stone – one a seal, the other an otter – to act as bookends.

“You – you can rearrange the books any way you like,” said Roan as Asta knelt beside the shelves for a closer look. “I wasn’t sure what order you’d want them in, so I made sure the shelves are all far enough apart for the tallest book to stand up, and that it’ll stay steady even if you put the heavy ones on the top shelf.” Asta didn’t reply; Roan frowned, straightened up from her slouch against the wardrobe, and crossed the room to stand behind her. “Asta?”

Trembling slightly, Asta took a deep breath, got to her feet, turned to face Roan, and tackled her onto the bed.

“Well,” gasped Roan when they came up for air a few minutes later. “I think there was a ‘thank you’ in there somewhere.”

---

6th of Gracilis, AI 2740

Roan was singing to herself in her workshop – an old Sea Loch folksong about bringing in the catch of the day. Asta paused on the path to listen. Roan had a good singing voice, a warm, clear alto similar to her usual speaking tone, but even after months together Asta couldn’t persuade her to sing with any sort of an audience. She waited until the song was over before she steeled herself and rapped her knuckles against the door. It wasn’t latched, and swung open at her touch. She held a precautionary sleeve over her nose, but it didn’t stink as much as it sometimes did.

“Something the matter?” asked Roan, looking over her shoulder. “You don’t usually come in here.” She was scraping the flesh off a large fox pelt stretched out on a board, and while a leather apron protected her clothes, her hands were red to the wrists.

Asta dragged her eyes away from the blood and sat down on a chair by the door. “Nothing’s wrong, no – but there was something I wanted to ask you about. A couple of somethings, actually.”

“Something so urgent you made yourself come into my workshop?” said Roan. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I thought I should ask before I forgot about it… or lost my nerve.” Roan gave her an encouraging nod and turned back to the pelt. “So, first something… Will you teach me to fight?”

“What brought that on?” asked Roan.

“I – look, I know I don’t exactly have what you’d call a… a warrior temperament.”

“You don’t need to say that like you’re ashamed of it,” said Roan, still scraping.

“I’m not, not really. But I – I’d like to be able to protect myself a bit better. So – will you teach me?”

“Aye, I’ll give you a few self-defence tips.” She glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. “Tip number one: if you can, run.”

“Well, that’s a good start.”

“We can do some more later, once I’m done with this pelt for today.” Roan paused and considered it. “This should be a good one once I’ve finished preparing it. I was going to sell it out at the market, but would you like a new hat for the winter?”

Asta sat up slightly. “That would be nice, actually – but please don’t leave the mask on it.”

Roan gave her a thumbs-up and kept scraping. “What else did you want to ask about?”

“This might be a taller order, but… The next time you go hunting, not just checking the traps but taking your bow and going up into the hills for a few days… Can I come with you?”

“If you’re sure you want to, but – why?”

Asta sighed and laced her fingers, looking down at her hands. “It’s not that I enjoy hunting – I don’t really have an outdoorswoman temperament either – but I… I don’t like being left on my own here with just the chickens for company.” She raised a hand to her forehead and dug her fingers into her hair. “It… gives me bad thoughts. And – and if I came too, you’d be able to use Pardus to carry more stuff!”

“We’re going to have a chat about that ‘bad thoughts’ comment later,” said Roan quietly. “But of course you can come too. To be honest with you, I don’t like leaving you here either – not since I came back to find you’d been kidnapped, and I’d only been gone for a couple of hours that time! I hadn’t planned on going hunting for another couple of weeks, but – aye. We can set up the chicken feeder and head out together.” She paused again and cast an eye over Asta’s clothing. “You’ll need to wear trousers, though. Skirts aren’t very practical up on the hills.”

Asta looked down at her skirt. “I don’t think I have any trousers.”

Roan laughed. “You can borrow a pair of mine. I love you, but – picking ticks off your legs is not a task I’d look forward to.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s understandable.” Asta turned her gaze to the fox pelt, curiosity taking over now that the shock of the blood had passed. “So… What’s the next step once you’ve finished scraping it?”

“The skin? Well, first I buff it up a little with that stone there,” Roan nodded towards a smooth lump of granite sitting on the nearest workbench, “and then it’s time for the first coat of, um, oil.”

“Why did you hesitate there?”

“The oil is made out of… its brain.”

“Oh, eurgh,” said Asta, half laughing. “Really?”

“Aye, it makes for a nice soft pelt. And the amounts work out pretty evenly at one brain per skin, so nothing’s wasted.” She grinned over her shoulder again. “Still want that hat?”

---

10th of Messis, AI 2743

Asta crawled out of the tent and straightened up, stretching out her back. The camp was sheltered among some huge boulders on the high, windswept plateau above Loch Gorm, and a small copper kettle was already boiling on the campfire. Asta rescued it and poured out some water for a morning cup of tea. “Roan?”

“Up here.” Her hushed voice came from the top of one of the boulders.

Asta circled the boulder and clambered up to join her, by some small miracle not spilling any of her tea on the way. “What’s the matter?”

Roan pressed a finger against her own lips, staring intently to the north-east where a high, steep-sided ridge rose up, its craggy summit rounded by the same long-gone glacier that had smoothed the plateau and dropped the boulders. In the far distance beyond it, the higher, sharper peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth were just visible on the horizon, black and white with stone and snow. Though it was only early autumn, a few patches of snow still clung in sheltered hollows on the ridge, and the wind from the north cut like a knife; Roan had the hood of her cloak up against it, the seal skull resting on her head. Asta pulled her coat tighter and wished she hadn’t left the fox-fur hat in the tent.

A pair of binoculars sat on the stone between them. Asta sipped her tea as quietly as she could. “What are you looking at?” she whispered.

“On the ridge over there,” said Roan just as quietly. “Towards the left, about halfway up, there’s a wee tree sticking out at a funny angle. You see it?” Asta nodded. “Just above that tree – on the rock face.”

Asta shaded her eyes. “There’s – something moving?”

Roan picked up the binoculars and held them out without looking away. Asta took them, found the tree through the lens, and slowly pointed them upwards until the moving object came into sight. Then she almost dropped the binoculars.

“That’s a-”

“Yup.”

“But they’re supposed to live-”

“Uh-huh.”

Asta cleaned the lenses on the hem of her woollen jumper and lifted the binoculars back to her eyes as if that might change the view. “…What is a snow leopard doing this far out of the Dragon’s Teeth?”

“No idea. Maybe it’s lost. But isn’t it beautiful?”

Asta watched through the binoculars as the cat picked its way across the cliff face, leaping nimbly from one tiny ledge to the next until finally it reached the top and disappeared over the ridge. “Yes,” she breathed. “It is. The menageries in Kiraan and Stormhaven had tigers, lions, southern leopards – but until now the only snow leopard I’d seen was stuffed in a museum.”

“I’d never seen any cat bigger than a lynx up here,” said Roan, shaking her head. With a faint sigh of effort, she got to her feet and offered her hand to Asta. “Mind your mug there.” She looked to the north, narrowing her eyes. “We left enough in the feeder to last the hens another couple of days, but I don’t like the look of those clouds on the horizon. Best we start heading back down to the broch.”

They broke camp and loaded the packed-up tent, the kettle, and the gralloched carcass of yesterday’s red stag onto Pardus’s back.

“It’s an older beast,” said Roan as she wrapped the antlers in cloth to protect Pardus’s smooth fur from the points, “so it’ll need to hang for a while, but we’ll get a good bit of venison out of it. Should last us a while if we store it right.” She caught Asta’s eye and pulled her in for a hug, leaning down a little to touch their foreheads together. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you help with the butchery.”

“I think I had too genteel an upbringing,” said Asta as she led Pardus along the narrow deer trail through the heather.

“Oh, aye?” said Roan, up ahead; the trail was too narrow to walk side-by-side.

Asta paused to button up the ear-flaps of her hat. “It – well, you know it’s not a moral objection. You don’t let them suffer and nothing goes to waste – and I love being out on the hills with you. It’s just, watching the process of it…”

Roan stopped walking to let her catch up. “You don’t need to worry about it,” she assured her. She beckoned Asta nearer and drew in close to her ear. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she murmured. Asta nodded. “The first time Granda took me hunting and I saw him gralloch a deer… I just about sicked my own guts out.”

“Oh, Roan!” Asta laughed and pushed her away. Roan just smiled and started walking again.

As the trail reached the edge of the plateau and wound down through a forested glen towards the sea, it gradually widened until they could walk two abreast again. It was warmer beneath the sheltered trees; Roan had to lower her hood, while Asta tucked the fox-fur hat into one of Pardus’s saddlebags. The sun cast a shifting light through the leaves, which were only just beginning to turn.

Then, down the slope to their right, towards the sound of the river that had carved the glen, something moved among the trees – something huge. Roan stopped in her tracks and flung a protective arm out in front of Asta, readying her spear in her other hand. Twigs snapped and branches rustled. The creature emerged into the open, turned, and froze at the sight of them. One ear flicked.

“Well,” said Roan softly, wide-eyed. She slowly lowered the spear. “Isn’t this a day for wildlife.”

The great elk stood completely still. It was even taller than an ordinary elk with broad, flat antlers tapering out to long, sweeping points along the leading edge, each antler almost as long as Roan was tall, but its muzzle was more like that of the stag tied over Pardus rather than an elk’s comical drooping snout. It lowered its head a little as if considering a charge. Roan groped blindly for Asta’s hand and held it tightly; Asta squeezed Roan’s hand hard in reply. Neither of them took their eyes off the deer.

Roan swallowed, let go, and took one sudden step forwards, flinging both arms up with a wordless yell. The great elk bolted like any other deer, bounding away down the trail and back into the trees and out of sight.

Asta allowed herself to breathe again. “I thought they were extinct in the Sea Lochs!”

“They are rare,” said Roan. “I’ve found tracks and the odd carcass, but that – I’ve never seen a live one before.”

Shaking a little as the tension eased, Asta edged closer to Roan and wrapped both arms around her waist. Almost absently, her eyes still fixed on the point where the great elk had disappeared, Roan gathered Asta in against her chest and kissed her forehead, smoothing down her hair with one hand. “You all right?”

Asta nodded, breathing deeply. “You?”

“Aye. Aye, I’m all right. Not gonnae let any daft stag mess with my wife, even a stag as big as that one. Whew. Let’s get this other one home, eh?”

“You remember the last time we were in Auchtertan?” asked Asta as they began to follow the trail down once again. Roan nodded. “I picked up an interesting volume in that little bookshop near the mercat stone, written by a wizard with a background in hunting and farming. There were some diagrams that might be useful – runic arrays he used to stop meat from spoiling, or slowing it down at least.”

“We wouldn’t go through as much salt,” said Roan thoughtfully. “Aye, we can give them a try.”

“Roan?” said Asta a couple of hours later, as the trees thinned out and the glitter of sunlight on seawater came into sight up ahead.

“Mm-hmm?”

“You called me your wife earlier.”

“I did, aye. We’ve been together long enough for it – suppose it’s a wee habit I’ve got into. Nice habit, though.”

“Do you… want to make that official?”

Roan stopped dead and stared at her, eyebrows raised and a faint smile on her face. “Asta zeDamar, was that a proposal?”

“Not a very romantic one, I know,” said Asta ruefully. “But I thought – we could maybe ride up to Duncraig for a few days. Book a hotel room, go to the registrar’s office… Make a little holiday of it.”

Roan lifted her off her feet and kissed her soundly.

“Was that a yes?”

“It was, aye.”

---

15th of Gracilis, AI 2743

Pardus galloped over the massive Kingsferry Bridge, leaving Duncraig further behind with every step. Asta tried to concentrate on riding, but every so often her eyes were drawn to the brand-new silver ring on her left hand, and a small smile appeared on her face.

“Maybe we should have tied a ‘just married’ sign to its tail,” laughed Roan, seated behind her on the construct’s back with her arms snugly around Asta’s waist. “Hey, Asta?”

“Yes?”

“When we get to the crossroads at the far end, can we go straight over?”

“What? The road home is to the left.”

“I know, I know – but there’s something I want to show you first.”

Asta didn’t answer. Her smile faded, and Pardus slowed to a sedate jog.

Roan leant forwards to try and see her face. “Are you all right?”

“The road straight over goes to Castle MacArra,” said Asta quietly.

“Ah.” Roan held her a little tighter and kissed the side of her neck. “We don’t need to go that far – there’s just a house I need to visit, well outside the estate borders.”

“Really? Why?”

Roan hummed for a second. “It’s a surprise.”

“So mysterious,” said Asta, the smile creeping back. “Well – all right. But we might have to stop overnight before we get home.”

The house in question was a sprawling single-storey building with a slate roof and walls of warm red sandstone, placed in the middle of a huge garden with plenty of shrubs and winter-bare trees among the flower beds and patches of long grass. To one side, a carriage with two constructs in harness sat in an open-ended coach-house, while a little pointed turret above the main door was decorated by an iron weathervane with a silhouette of a running dog above the points of the compass.

“Roan, what is this?” asked Asta as she climbed down from the saddle.

Roan took her hand and led her over to the door. “I – I wanted to get you something really special for a wedding present. So I started asking around at the markets, and went to the library in Auchtertan…”

“You went to the library for me?” Asta touched her heart, eyes wide.

“The librarians were very helpful. And I found out about this place! The woman who lives here breeds rough-coated wolfhounds, and she has a good reputation. I – I’ve never had a dog. But the books said that they’re a clever, affectionate breed that take well to training, and that they’re very long-lived for dogs – almost twenty years!”

“They’re also very big,” Asta pointed out.

Roan’s smile was only a little embarrassed, and she clasped both of Asta’s hands between her own. “I still worry a bit about leaving you alone in the broch,” she said. “Even if it’s only for a few hours, I worry. In case something happens while I’m away. I know it’s daft, I know you look after yourself just fine – but I still worry. So if we’re getting a dog, I… I want it to be one that can keep an eye out for you.”

Asta freed one hand and reached up to brush Roan’s hair out of her face, stroking her forehead with one thumb. Her fringe was getting long. “That wasn’t an objection,” she said gently. “It won’t hurt to give your self-defence tips some backup.”

Roan smiled and rang the doorbell.

A stout, motherly woman answered it with a smile. “Yes, you’re here to see Whisky’s litter, right?” she said when Roan introduced herself. “I got your letter – I’m Siobhan. Through here, through here – the pups aren’t old enough to leave her yet, not for another couple of weeks, but I can introduce you and you can see if there’s anyone you get on with.” She opened a door into a pleasant, airy room, its floor covered with straw and newspaper, and waved them through. Asta paused, her path firmly blocked by an enormous dog with a rough, shaggy, grey-brown coat.

“This is Whisky,” said Siobhan, stroking the massive wolfhound’s ears. “Each of you hold out the back of your hand to her, let her have a sniff, and she’ll settle right down.”

They did as they were told. Whisky took her time inspecting them, snuffling at their hands, but she seemed satisfied by whatever she found and, tail wagging, lay down on a wide, somewhat chewed cushion in the corner of the room. In her place, half a dozen boisterous puppies wobbled over to say hello.

Asta sat down on the floor with a bump.

“I’ll leave you to it for a while,” said Siobhan, smiling. “Would you like some tea? I’ll go put the kettle on.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Roan, trying not to laugh as the puppies swarmed Asta under Whisky’s experienced eye.

“Yes, we can have a chat in the kitchen – I like to have an idea of the homes my dogs are going to.”

They returned to the dogs’ room a while later, half-finished mugs of tea in hand.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like there should be any problems,” said Siobhan. “You ought to have plenty of room out there, and I know there’s a good vet working out of a surgery in Auchtertan. But if you’ve no objections I’ll send one of my daughters out for a wee inspection in a few days, just to be on the safe side.”

“We don’t have a spare room for her,” warned Roan. “She’ll have to sleep on our couch if she ends up staying the night.”

“Och, there’s a wee inn near the vet’s place she can use,” said Siobhan, waving a hand. “Let’s see what your wife has to say.”

Roan opened the door, took in the scene, and closed it again. “Can you give her a minute? She’s completely covered in puppies.”

“Ah.”

Roan let herself back into the room and knelt down. Asta lay flat on her back on the floor with a look of delirious happiness on her face. One of the puppies had made itself comfortable and fallen asleep on her stomach, while its siblings joyfully wrestled each other across her legs.

“So, ah…” said Roan. “Have you chosen a puppy?”

Asta managed to lift a hand and laid it over the one using her as a bed. Her smile somehow grew even wider.

Roan laughed and leant down to kiss her. “I’ll tell Siobhan.”

---

8th of Nivalis, AI 2754

“Any plans for today?” asked Asta. “Other than the usual chores, I mean.”

Roan stirred a spoonful of honey into her porridge. “I thought I’d take the boat out and go fishing,” she said. “See if I can catch something more substantial than the river traps can take. It looks like it’ll be a nice day for it – bright for this time of year and not too windy. Want to come?”

“No, I’ll let you wrestle fish by yourself,” said Asta. “I think the chicken feeder’s timer needs a few tweaks – I was going to see if there’s anything I can do with the clockwork. Can you make sure you’re back before dark, though? I’ll need your help if the runic arrays need refreshed.”

“I’ll see to it,” promised Roan. “Bramble can keep you company in the meantime – won’t you, Bramble?”

Bramble’s attention was focussed on her morning biscuit, but she wagged her tail at the sound of her name.

“That was a yes,” translated Asta, reaching down to scratch the back of the huge dog’s neck. “Do you think Riabhach will help out again?”

“Aye, he usually shows up outside the mating season,” said Roan. “He’s quite good at chasing fish onto my line – not sure why, when he can catch them just fine by himself.”

“Maybe he just likes your company,” said Asta.

“Maybe. I’ll set a fish aside for him anyway.”

With the morning’s chores out of the way, Roan packed herself a lunch, kissed Asta farewell, and jogged up the coastal track to the boat shed on its beach. Asta watched from the wall top until she was out of sight, smiled, and went to inspect the chicken feeder with Bramble trotting at her heels. Fully-grown, the top of her head reached slightly past Asta’s waist.

There was nothing wrong with the chicken feeder that a little grease to the gears couldn’t fix, but the arrays on the feed container that halted rot and deterred pests were getting worn and scuffed. Asta freshened the runes with some metallic paint, but anything more would have to wait until Roan came back from fishing. She washed her hands and glanced up at the sky. The earlier clear blue was gone, replaced by ominous shades of grey. Asta sighed and whistled to Bramble, collecting her harness and leash from the hook by the door. “Time for a walk, eh, girl?”

Bramble wagged her approval.

The rain started on the way back from a long walk up the coast of the loch. Asta muttered a curse and pulled up her hood, breaking into a run that Bramble easily kept pace with, but the downpour only grew heavier until she was soaked to the skin before she had even reached the broch. Trees thrashed in the rising wind; somewhere behind her, the creak of wood rose to a scream as a branch tore off and was carried away. Had the sun set? It was hard to tell – black clouds shrouded it completely. Asta reached the gate and rushed through. The outer wall held off the worst of the wind, but even so the hens had already taken shelter in their coop. Asta closed the hatch and bolted it to keep them safely inside, then let herself and Bramble into the broch.

“Roan?” No answer. Nothing to worry about – she must have taken the boat into some sheltered cove to wait out the storm. “Stay,” Asta added to Bramble, who had just given herself a vigorous shake in the middle of the entrance passage. Bramble sat down to wait by the door, licking the water from her whiskers, until Asta returned from upstairs with an old towel for her. “There we go, that’s better, isn’t it?” said Asta, untying Bramble’s harness and drying her fur as well as she could. “Who’s a good dog? Yes, you are, you are! No, don’t – don’t lick me. Let’s get the fire going so you can lie down and dry off properly. Then…” Asta looked down at her sodden clothes. “Then I’ll try to dry off.”

Changed into dry clothes and with the rest draped over a frame by the fire, Asta settled down on a couch with a book, firmly nudging the still-damp Bramble back down on the rug with one foot when she tried to climb up beside her. She was far too big to nap on Asta’s stomach any more, but she never quite seemed to understand that.

They waited.

Asta got up to fill Bramble’s bowl and heated a couple of leftover fishcakes for herself. The wind shrieked outside and did not let up until long after Asta had dozed off on the couch, one hand resting on Bramble’s shoulders.

The storm had passed by morning, leaving a clear sky and still, cold air, but Roan had not returned. Asta climbed to the broch’s rampart and looked in all directions for any sign of a tall red-haired figure in a sealskin cloak. Still nothing. Asta let the hens out and collected the eggs, then boiled a couple of them for breakfast; one for herself and one for Bramble as a treat. After another silent hour, she buckled Bramble’s harness, clipped on the leash, and set off towards the boat shed. It stood open and empty on the deserted beach.

Asta’s nails dug into the palm of her hand. She let Bramble off the leash and climbed to the top of the rocks past the boat shed’s beach. Still nothing – wait. She called for Bramble to follow and began to run, along the coast and over the uneven rocky pavement, stumbling on patches of seaweed and splashing through shallow rock pools.

She slid to a halt and almost lost her balance at the edge of the rocks, staring down into a deeper channel carved where the sea had found a point of weakness. It was like a miniature gorge, about as wide and as deep as Asta was tall, and as the tide ebbed it left white sand bare at the landward end.

White sand covered with spars of shattered wood. Treated boards, not loose branches, smoothed and curved into the proper shapes. Some were still nailed together; most just ended in a mess of splinters. One loose board still carried some decoration: patterns based on the carvings from the ancient symbol-stones, and writing in a hand Asta recognised as her own.

A name: Each-Uisge. Asta’s breath shuddered in her chest, harder and harder until it almost wouldn’t come at all. Bramble whined and licked her hand, leaning against her hip.

Asta fell to her knees and screamed at the waves until her voice died.

---

Light-Through-Waves’ 34th Winter

Sometimes, Light-Through-Waves really wondered why he bothered. Seal-That-Walks was quite clever for a human, and he was rather fond of her and her mate Black-Mane, but she often couldn’t understand even the simplest things without a flat shape to look at. Any foal could tell the storm was coming, could taste it in the wind and the water – the rest of the herd had gone to ride it out in the south coves – but when he had tried to warn Seal-That-Walks she had just taken it for a game and kept floating out on the hollow log. He had thought that if he helped her catch enough fish, she would go back to her tower on the shore before the storm hit, but no. She had eventually realised he was worried – just before the storm hit, by which point it was far too late. The wind had ripped away the log’s wing and raised waves that crushed the wood to pieces.

Light-Through-Waves had tried to help. Every foal knew it – if you couldn’t make it to a cove, then you should dive deep below the waves for as long as your breath would hold. He had grabbed Seal-That-Walks’ front flipper in his jaws, careful not to break her fragile human hide with his teeth, and dragged her down to a safe depth, but the foolish creature had fought him, battering at the soft skin around his nostrils with the tiny claws of her other flipper until he had to let go and she shot back to the dangerous surface. In a storm! Seal-That-Walks was a strong swimmer for a human – so, not very strong at all by any proper standard – but even a grown stallion like Light-Through-Waves had trouble at the surface in such weather, and the sea had carried her away. He had tried to follow at a safe depth, only resurfacing when his lungs could no longer bear submersion, but the current had her and she was out of sight in the space of a heartbeat. Light-Through-Waves pinned his ears back against his skull and swam with the current.

Slowly, the storm above weakened, and as the sun rose Light-Through-Waves lifted his head from the water, trying to catch any scent on the wind. There – a faint breeze from the west. He ducked back below the surface and bared his teeth as he swam, letting the water filter across his tongue without going down his throat. Beneath the salt was the sharper taste of human blood.

The water was getting shallower; he could feel it in his whiskers. There was an island up ahead, one he knew; the Whale-That-Was-Not swam there whenever it left the loch by Seal-That-Walks’ tower. Not much good for hauling out – the rocks were steep and any beaches big enough for a herd were always busy with humans – but there was a reef off the coast that was all right for a quick rest. He would be coming up on it soon.

The taste of blood grew stronger. Light-Through-Waves lifted his head from the water. The reef was just up ahead – and it was occupied. Seal-That-Walks hung from the rough stone, half in the water, bashing against the rock with each wave, and limp except for one clutching flipper. Light-Through-Waves drew up beside her and gripped the rock with his own claws. The edges were sharp, but his hide held up better than hers and none of his blood clouded the water.

He barked softly and nuzzled her face as he would to encourage one of his foals. Her face was almost white beneath the streaks of blood and her odd blue markings, but she breathed. One eye was bruised and swollen shut, but the other opened a tiny crack. She coughed, water splattering from her mouth, and made the sounds she used to mean Light-Through-Waves: a small growl behind her teeth and a hiss at the back of her throat. Alive. Good. Light-Through-Waves drew back and shoved his long head beneath her foreleg. With vast effort and little strength, Seal-That-Walks released her grasp on the stone and clung to his neck. Light-Through-Waves pushed off from the reef and swam for the beach. It was too close to where the Whale-That-Was-Not rested for his liking, too near the humans that cared for the Whale, but humans were what Seal-That-Walks needed.

He hauled out on the beach, tired after the long swim. Seal-That-Walks lost her grip on his neck and collapsed to the sand, shivering and exhausted. One of her hind flippers did not look right. Light-Through-Waves gave it a nudge, and she flinched away with a strangled cry. Injured, then.

Humans had less blubber than a newborn foal, nothing to keep them warm but the extra skins they wore over their own. Next to useless. Light-Through-Waves curled around her and lay down to wait for help.

The sun climbed higher, casting a warm light over the beach, and his fur fluffed out as it dried. The Whale swam out from its den and away towards the mainland. Then – human voices up the beach. Light-Through-Waves raised his head. There was a large group of them coming down the sand, picking through the debris along the tideline. He roared to get their attention. It worked – they began to run down the beach towards him, shouting and waving their arms. One young female with a red mane like Seal-That-Walks drew ahead of the herd and flung out one arm, throwing something that stung Light-Through-Waves’ snout. He flattened his ears and backed slowly away from Seal-That-Walks, baring his teeth. The young female showed her own and he reared back in surprise – since when did humans have fangs? – but it wasn’t a real threat and she knelt on the sand beside Seal-That-Walks, her shoulders up as if she was trying to make her mane bristle.

The rest of the herd caught up, all of them fully-grown or near enough. None of them carried blades, but the air shimmered where they raised their arms and more unseen wasps struck at his muzzle and shoulders, painful but without drawing blood. They thought he was the threat! But they didn’t want to hurt Seal-That-Walks; as far as he could read human expressions, there was concern on their faces as they gathered around her. He retreated into the sea, watching as the odd shimmers disappeared and one human ran back along the beach. More of them arrived, lifted Seal-That-Walks onto a strange flat log, and carried her away.

There was nothing more that Light-Through-Waves could do. He dived beneath the water and began the long swim to the mainland. His herd would be wondering where he had gone – and Black-Mane would want to know her mate was safe.

Quite how he would explain to Black-Mane that her mate was safe… He would have to give that some thought.

~~~

To Be Continued! ain’t no bury your gays over here

Some notes:

Asta originally mentioned the bookshop being near the mercat cross, that being what they’re called in the real world (here); however, since they don’t have Christianity but are aware of crucifixion, the cross has a rather different cultural meaning for them and I changed her line to a more neutral ‘mercat stone’.

Bramble’s breed isn’t just referred to as a rough-coated wolfhound because they don’t have an Ireland; while they were the main inspiration for how she looks, she isn’t an Irish Wolfhound. For one, they generally don’t live for more than about eight years compared to Bramble’s expected twenty.

As you might expect for a wild animal, Riabhach doesn’t actually call himself that. However, both Roan’s name for him and his own refer to his markings: riabhach means ‘brindled’, while ‘Light-Through-Waves’ comes from the patterns you get on a surface when light shines on it through water. He also, despite his intelligence, has a rather unrealistic idea of human lung capacity.

#az writes stories

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lostcybertronian · 6 years ago

Note

"oh God, it's sticky!" Bim and the Jim's for the prompts (again sorry about sending it early)

I’m not sure how I feel about this one. Not sure if I like it.

Headcanon that one of the Jim’s powers is that they can manage to summon demons using anything. Most of the time they don’t know they’re doing it.

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace @blue-greenstylinson @cookieface678 @bing-iplier

Prompt: “Oh god, it’s sticky!”

*cue Jim News intro*

The frame pans over a dishwasher, over the fridge that sits next to it- it’s plastered with a few crude drawings of squirrels, over which have been scrawled big, cartoony, pink mustaches- over cupboards and counters, until finally it reaches the oven and the figure hunched over it.

“Hello, my name is Jim,” Field Reporter Jim whispers from offscreen, “and this is my associate Jim. Today we are here, in this place, doing a special, once-in-a-lifetime baking segment with our friend and colleague, Bim Jim Trimmer.”

The frame wobbles, zooms in on Bim, who is hunched over a mixing bowl, stirring furiously while occasionally pausing to consult his batter-spattered phone.

“Need eggs,” he mutters, turning, making for the fridge.

The frame follows him, panning from his sugar-dotted dress shoes to his pants to his neon pink apron, coming to rest on his face as he opens the fridge and peers inside.

It zooms out just in time to see him shut the fridge door with a huff. Then he spins and approaches the camera, and the Twins, who are hidden in the shadows just behind the doorway.

Bim doesn’t notice them, merely continues on, oblivious.

“Now’s the time, Jim! Let us see this masterpiece!” As soon as Bim’s footsteps fade, Field Reporter Jim pops from the shadows, lunges forward with big swinging steps, making a beeline for the mixing bowl.

Cameraman Jim follows. “Sneaky Jim! Sneaky Jim!” and a blur of floor tiling is all the frame can catch for a solid ten seconds before he raises the camera to examine the mixing bowl, which is filled with white batter. A rubber spoon handle pokes out from the mixture.

The spoon disappears as Field Reporter Jim grabs it. The frame pans to him just as he licks some of the batter off the spoon. “Mmm! Quite tasty, Jim! But-” his eyebrows furrow, and he turns to stare into the camera, holding his microphone to his mouth- “there’s something crucial missing. In order for Bim Jim to make the perfect confectionary delight, we must assist him.”

With a dramatic flourish he whirls and makes for the cupboards, flinging them open and pulling out a bottle of rainbow sprinkles, a massive bag of jumbo marshmallows, and a half-empty jar of caramel sauce.

“Quickly! We must add the missing ingredients, Jim!” He waddles back toward the bowl, somehow managing to juggle everything in his arms all at once.

The frame focuses in on Field Reporter Jim’s movements as he uncaps the sprinkles, pours all of them in. The marshmallows go next, nearly overflowing the mixing bowl. He’s halfway through pouring in the caramel sauce when he stops short and drops the jar with a sharp clatter to the stovetop.

“Gosh darn it, Jim!” He smacks himself in the forehead, “we forgot the magic words!”

He glances at the camera, “how can we forget such a thing, Jim? Bim Jim would be so disappointed in us!”

He takes a deep breath, and-

“-abort! Abort! He’s coming back!” The frame wobbles and sways and catches mostly Field Reporter Jim’s back as the Twins scurry back into the shadows behind the doorway.

A moment later, Bim comes back into frame, and it follows him as he heads back into the kitchen, back to his mixing bowl. In one hand he carries a jar of red-looking liquid.

He unscrews the jar and goes to pour it in, stopping midway when he notices the open jar of caramel, the empty bag of marshmallows, the overflowing bowl. “What the- oh god, it’s sticky!”

Then he hears the hushed giggling coming from behind him and he spins, looking furious. “Jims!”

As he does, the jar tips and red liquid spills into the bowl.

The batter begins to bubble and rise, and Cameraman Jim tracks it as it forms into something it is definitely not supposed to be.

“What the hell did you idiots do?” Bim shouts just before the batter- having grown two massive limbs and some sort of doughy, marshmellow-dotted face- swings one appendage and bats Bim away like he’s nothing.

He collides with the Jim Twins, sending all of them to the floor in a pile of limbs and causing Cameraman Jim to drop the camera with a clatter.

It registers screaming- an excited “demons, Jim! demons!”- and Bim’s “run! Get out of here! Go!”

The frame flickers, catches Bim throwing himself at the creature, then cuts to static.

#the jim twins #bim trimmer #field reporter jim #cameraman jim #jim news #markiplier egos #fanfiction #lostandwandering #my writing #lost writing tag #writing prompts #humor #demon summoning #asks #thepoolofthedead

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pyromouse · 7 years ago

Text

[short story thing about how nate and mouse know each other because it was sort of implied. i meant to post this a week ago but didn’t finish editing it til today]

The sign declared “FLORIST! HELLA CHEAP.” in handwritten letters. Even had a few attempts at drawing some roses on the corners. It was tacked to a crumbling alley wall and pointed further in.

Pretty shoddy craftmanship, if anyone asked him.

Nate shuffled down the narrow alley until it started to widen. He honestly didn’t expect much out of this venture. Who grows plants in a forgotten back alley? Someone who can’t put up a respectable sign, obviously.

So his jaw might have hit the ground when he passed through a wooden gate and got a look at the sheer volume of flora packed inside. Rows of neat flower beds, potted plants on shelves, a rusty fire escape transformed into a blooming trellis.

“How-”

A head bobbed up from behind the hydrangeas. “Oh, hi! Can I help you with something?”

“Uh...yeah.” He took another few steps in. “A dozen roses.”

“Red or white?”

“Mm...six of each.”

The florist snipped the flowers from the bush with quick careful fingers and tied them together with a red ribbon. “I can can give you a gift tag for ‘em if you’d like.”

“No, uh, that’s fine..” His gaze drifted over to a few plants in the corner. Huh. Didn’t expect to see that here.

“You grow belladonna? You know that shit’s poisonous, right?”

The florist huffed. “Of course I do. That’s why they’re in plant jail.” They pointed and Nate noticed the little wire fence with a cardboard sign declaring the belladonna was ‘doing some hard time’ and was not for sale. “I just liked the way the flowers looked, y’know?”

“Oh. Because….I kinda, uh, need it.”

The florist fixed suspicious white eyes on him. “I will not be an accomplice to a poisoning-”

“What? No! It’s not like- ugh.” Nate gave a frustrated sigh. “Fine, forget it. Can I have some of the ivy clippings?”

As Nate pointed out a few others, he noticed the florist’s increasingly confused expression. Most of his selections didn’t match and some weren’t even blooming. But they didn’t pipe up about his weird bouquet. They carefully set the plants in a large paper bag and rang up his total on a beat up calculator. Nate dropped a twenty and a ten on the makeshift counter and hefted the bag as he turned to leave.

“Hold up!” The florist waved a five at him. Nate waved it away.

“Just keep the change.”

“Really? Thanks dude!”

*****

Nate learned a few things about the florist in the following months. Their snow white hair had to be natural, or they were extremely dedicated to dying their roots. They played classical music for the plants and liked dancing down the rows while watering. Once in a while Nate caught them light up to smoke, but curiously never seemed to see a lighter in hand.

They also seemed to be in a perpetually chatty mood.

“Hiya! Usual stuff today?”

“Mph…” Nate paused, still processing the very idea of being awake at the moment. “Throw in some morning glories.” The florist started clipping swatches of flowers off thet trellis and twisting them into a braid. “You can just toss ‘em in the bag.”

“Aw, no fun.” They stuck out their tongue. “You never appreciate my arrangements. Why would you shell out so damn much for flowers if you don’t even want ‘em to look nice?”

“They’re getting shredded and dried once I get home, soo….”

Their head canted to the side. “Why?”

“For...cooking.”

“Who are cooking for, rabbits? Because you didn’t strike me as a pet guy. At least not a guy who keeps rabbits as pets.” They tapped their finger to their chin. “Seem like a cat person. Specifically that grumpy cat.”

Nate sighed. “How are you so peppy this early?”

“It’s….it’s almost noon.”

He took a long swig from a paper coffee cup. “How much do I owe?”

He overpaid, again, and the florist smiled. “See ya in...what, two weeks?” They waved. “Later dude!”

*****

Two weeks later Nate stood outside the garden gate. He didn’t hear the usual music and rustling inside. The florist didn’t even have a sign up signalling whether it was open or closed (did they know anything about running a business?). Nate rapped on the gate experimentally.

A groan and a mumbled “come in” responded. The florist was sitting on an upturned bucket, head cradled in their hands. “Yo.”

“Uh. You...feeling okay?”

“Headache.” They gestured to a notepad on the work table. “Sorry, but could you just write down your order? I’ll get it once this passes, so you can pick ‘em up later.”

Nate nodded and scribbled down his list: lavender, lemongrass, forget me nots, belladonna, honeysuckle. He got to the gate before pausing. “...take care.”

They gave a half-hearted wave.

He killed some time around town: coffee, reading, dispelling magic traps, more coffee. Around three headed back to the alley garden. All was still quiet, but the gate was unlatched and Nate let himself in.

“Hey…hello? Where - oh, shit. Shit!”

He found the florist sprawled behind the snapdragon patch, one cheek pressed to the dirt. Twice before he caught them napping in the grass (unprofessional and weird) but this was definitely not the case today. A pail half-filled with cuttings had tipped onto its side and a pair of clippers laid near an outstretched hand.

Nate pushed their shoulder to roll them onto their back. Oh, good. They were still breathing. The witch rooted through his bag for a long thin wallet with one hand and tapped their cheek gently with the other. “Hey, kid, can ye hear me?”

It took a moment, and some more tapping, but hazy white eyes fluttered open. “Ngh...wha’ happened?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.” The florist groaned, shielding their face with an arm. “But all signs are pointing to you passing out.”

Slowly, they pulled their body into a sitting position. “Ugh. Head fuckin’ hurts.”

“Why didn’t you take anything for it?”

“Did. Most stuff doesn’t work right.”

“You oughta see a doctor if it’s that bad.”

The reaction was instant. They pulled away from him, shrinking back into the flower and fixing him with a wary stare. Shit. Wrong thing to say.

“Or not. I mean. Um.” The witch consulted his potion case. He slid one out and held it towards them. “Drink this.” Their eyes narrowed, fixed on the little vial, but they otherwise didn’t move. “Holy shit kid, I am not trying to poison you.” Damn, too loud - the florist cringed. Nate lowered his voice and tried again. “I’m an herbalist. I’m sure this will help you but if you don’t believe me, I’ll drink first.”

“I...yeah, if you could do that.”

Nate uncapped the blue vial took a sip. He waited a moment before holding it out to the florist again. Eerie white eyes studied him, but they accepted it cautiously. Their eyes widened as the awful pressure in their head finally relented.

“Give it half an hour to kick in fully. Do you get migraines a lot?” They nodded. The witch hummed thoughtfully. With a snap of his fingers he summoned a notepad from thin air. They gasped at that, but the flurry of excited questions he expected to get never came. Clear sign something’s wrong with ‘em. “I need to ask you some things so I can make you a medicine for this. That alright with you?” They nodded and he flipped open the book. “Mkay, first up: any allergies?” A mumbled negative. “Do you have any other symptoms?”

The interview went on for some fifteen minutes before Nate shut his book and stood up, dusting dirt from his jeans. “Alright. It’ll take two days to make. Keep what’s left of that vial, it’s good in a pinch.”

“Wait, your order-”

The witch held his hand up. “It can wait. Go home before you black out again.”

“Go it, doc.”

Nate rolled his eyes. “And make sure you eat something soon. See you Thursday.”

*****

The florist picked up one of the seven mismatched bottles and studied it curiously. Peachy-pink liquid and a few white petals swirled around the glass globe.

“Wasn’t it blue before?”

“That was a general cure-all. This one’s brewed to treat your migraines specifically.”

“Ohhh. Okay.”

“You take one tablespoon as needed. If the pain is especially bad, take two, but no more than that.”

“...what happens at three tablespoons?”

“Nothing bad, honestly. But you’ll be high as a kite.” Nate took care to mix the potion with their small stature in mind, but there was a very fine line when your patient weighed one-ten, maybe, if they were soaking wet.

“Try to drink something within an hour of taking it. No caffeine though.” Nate fished out an index card with his notes and handed it to them.

“Thanks man.” They stuffed the note into their pocket. “Oh! Right!” Reaching under the shelf, the florist snatched the lockbox and cracked it open. “How much for ‘em?”

“Eh?” was his initial response to the rapid change of subject. Seriously, this kid was too damn energetic when a migraine wasn’t bringing them down.

“Herbalist is like your job, right? So what do you charge?” They shuffled through some bills, looking up at him when he didn’t respond immediately. “C’mon, I’m trying not to be a charity case anymore.”

Nate waved a hand. “Look, I appreciate it. But honestly any money you give me right now I’m just gonna give right back…”

Their eyes light up with the sudden realization. They yanked open a drawer and pulled out the notepad - his order still scrawled on the top sheet - a paper bag, and some shears. “Just wait!”

The florist zipped around, neatly snipping away flowers and stacking them in the bag. It was almost packed full when they scanned down the list one more time. Pulling on a pair of gloves, they knelt down near the belladonna. Snip, snip, snip - a small handful of purple flowers were tossed on top.

Nate raised an eyebrow. Huh. After weeks of denied requests, he wasn’t expecting this.

“Here you go!” They smiled, setting the bag on the counter. “Consider Bella’s bail posted today.”

Nate’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. Weird kid.

“Holy shit! Is that happiness I see?”

Nate huffed. He balanced the bag on the crook of his arm and grabbed his cane with his free hand.

“Remember, no more than two doses. I will not be held responsible if you make an idiot of yourself while you’re out of it.”

They flapped their hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I can do that well enough on my own. Thanks doc!”

“...no problem. Uh, see you.”

*****

“Heeey! Heeey Doc!”

“Where - oh.”

Nate had a few questions. Why was the florist hanging by their ankles from the fire escape? How did they even get up there? Some of those questions were answered when he spotted the bottle on the counter.

“Ah gods...hey! What did I tell you?”

“Only two!” They held out two fingers. “And I listened! Stuff works like magic!”

“Hmm.” They probably didn’t have it in them to lie right now. I can’t imagine them lying about something like this anyway. Which meant Nate had made a miscalculation. He frowned and pocketed the bottle. “I’m cutting you down to one tablespoon,” he called up to them. “...Are you gonna be able to get down from there?”

The florist paused to consider this before unhooking their ankles from the railing and dropping like a stone. A panicked spell to catch them was on the tip of this tongue before their descent just stopped inches above the ground. He stared at them just hanging there, weightless, until they flopped to the ground with a muffled ‘oof.’

“How the fuck…?”

“I have skills! Mad skills.”

Nate’s brow furrowed. No way. I would have sensed something. Still, he had to ask. “You a witch?”

“Nah. Never been to Hogwarts.”

He sighs, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’m putting a ward on the gate when I leave. You should be fine in a couple hours, so...yeah, do that,” he trailed off, watching the florist climb into the wheelbarrow for a nap. An amused smile flickered across his face for a moment. He shut the gate behind him and rattled it a bit to make sure it locked.

“Sciath.” He said, tracing a few runes over the wooden slats. The glow faded but the spell was in place. No one would be able to bother them until they woke. As he passed the through the alleyway entrance, Nate noticed the sign tilting to one side. “So unprofessional,” he mumbled as he nudged it back into place.

#[drabble]#[about mouse]#[about nate]#[nate tends to act aloof or disinterested most of the time]#[but he's a healer by nature so he can't help stepping in sometimes]#[also shiiiit this got long why did it get so long]

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straightestgay-voice · 8 years ago

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Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness: Part 2

A/N: Hopefully, you’re reading this because you enjoyed the first part of the story. I meant to update the over a month ago, but there’s been so much going on from me moving, to loosing wifi, and preparing for finals, but I’m here now.

Read part one HERE

Word Count; Yeah... I’m not counting. Probably a lot.

Characters: Slight oc John, young Sam, young Dean, Agnes(OC), Liberty(OC)

Warnings: Child abandonment

After getting his sons’ approval, Dean was sent back into bed and Sam continued with his cartoons.

John uncapped a beer, and took a quick swig, noticing in the corner of his eye, when Sam gave him a fearful look, but quickly turned away. John glanced at his beer and placed it on the table. He found relief in the boys’ willingness to accept the role as protectors, but realized that if his sons were going to step up, he should too.

“One more won’t hurt...” He muttered to himself, grabbing the bottle once more.

Before he could touch the bottle to his lips, his felt the unnerving vibration of his phone against his thigh. With a groan, he dug into his pocket to fish out his phone. Not recognizing the caller ID on the small screen, he flipped open the Motorola and pressed it to his ear.

“Winchester speaking.”

“This is John Winchester, correct?” The voice was soft, but held a firmness to it, meaning whoever was on the other line meant business. John let out a hum of approval, allowing the speaker to continue speaking. “My name is Agnes Cunning, I’m calling about he DNA test that you were summoned to.”

Without answering, John quickly pulled on a pair of boots, and stepped outside of his motel room, pulling the door closed, letting out a sigh when he noticed the rain pouring off of the extended roof he stood under.

“Hello, are you still there?”

Hearing the scratchy call from his phone, he pulled his attention away from the rain and pressed the phone back up to his ear.

“What about the DNA test?” His usually grizzly voice was toned down to a soft whisper, that was nearly drowned out by the pounding sound of the rain that surrounded him.

“I would like to meet you. I’m the current guardian of the baby, my grand-daughter, you’re testing for, and I wish to have at least an impression of you before... anything big happens. Possibly before the appointment on Saturday.”

John rubbed the scruff on his chin and firmly tugged on some of the longer pieces, a habit he had picked up around the time his late wife, Mary, had died. “We arrived in LaPlace last night. I can meet you at the Biggerson’s on Main... say around two o’clock?” John looked down at his watch that adorned his right wrist, confirming the time before he glanced up again and spoke. “Will the baby be there?”

There was shuffling over the phone, the a deafening silence before John cleared his throat. Agnes mumbled something that John couldn’t quite catch before saying, “If you would like, I can get her ready.”

John thanked Agnes then ended the call.

John pocketed his phone, then entered the room. escaping from the cold outside. Upon entering the room, he saw that Sam was still watching the TV, but now Dean was sat beside him.

“Boys,” John called out to them, their heads snapping towards the sound of his voice, almost automatically. “Get ready, we’re going out.”

By 2:05, the Winchesters were sat in a booth seat at Biggerson’s, the boys’ small sizes allowing them to all be seated on the same side of the table. While the boys busied themselves on flipping through the menus, trying to figure out what they were going to eat this time, John kept his eyes trained on the front door, waiting to see who the ‘Miss Agnes Cunning’ was.

Soon enough, an older woman with a baby’s car seat walked in, looking around as if she was lost. John took this as his que to go up and greet her.

“Miss Cunning?”

Agnes swung her head around, meeting the gaze of the oldest Winchester, smiling softly, causing wrinkles to form around the creases of her eyes and her cheekbones to raise ever so slightly. “You must be John.” She stuck her hand out for a handshake and John graciously accepted, but visibly flinched at the feeling that shot through his body as he made eye contact with Agnes’ brown eyes. “Good to meet you. I’d like for you to meet Liberty.”

As John’s eyes fell upon the squirming baby girl, he couldn’t help but stare at the brown blotches of color that were splattered over her gray pupils. Liberty looked up at John and let out a gleaming smile, sending a warm feeling throughout his body. Instantly, he felt himself relax as he started to remember who her mother was, from the minor traits he could recognize. Liberty was graced with curly dark hair, slightly mocha tinted skin, and cute button nose that wriggled about as she excited smelt the air of the new environment.

After finding the power to pull his eyes away from the baby girl, he looked at Agnes. “I have a booth. Over by the window.” He gestured towards his table and Agnes’ head tilted sightly at the sight of the two boys.

She followed John over to the table, allowing John to begin his introductions..

“Miss Cunning, These are my boys, Dean, the oldest, and this one is Sammy..”

The boys went on to introduce themselves and even went out of their ways to attempt the handshake that they’ve seen their father pass out every time they met someone new.

“Dean, you’re hot. Are you sick?” Agnes asked.

John scratched the back of his head and cupped his neck. “Yeah, he might have eaten something bad.” He explained as Agnes reached over to feel his forehead and the sides of neck, John watching as the pale boy’s eyes dilated as he stared back at the woman in front of him.

As if it was a miracle, the color in Dean’s face rose back to it’s normal hue and he sucked in a big breath once Agnes took her seat. John wasn’t able to question what had happened because once Sam saw the car seat, he became ecstatic.

“Is that the baby?!” Sam wasted no time, propping himself on his knees trying to get on his knees to catch a glimpse of the baby.

“Inside voice, Sammy.” John muttered.

Agnes smiled softly, unbuckling the seat’s belts and sat Liberty on her lap, letting the little baby peer over the table. At the sight of new faces, young Liberty let out a spew of gibberish babbles. “She’s so cute!” Dean couldn’t help but yip as he reached out to try and touch her outstretched hands. “What’s her name?” Dean asked, looking over at his dad.

“Liberty.. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” John looked down at his excited sons with surprisingly soft eyes.

It wasn’t long before a waitress arrived at their table. a notepad in hand, ready to take orders. John allowed the boys to order whatever they wanted, which ended up being two plates of Mega Waffle, with blueberries, strawberries, a fuck ton of whipped cream and a side of bacon. John looked down athis menu once more before ordering a cup of coffee; black, with a bacon, egg, cheese and potatoes dish, along with a small cup of apple sauce for Liberty.

“And you, ma’am?”

Agnes looked startled as waitress addressed her. Quickly, she skimmed her menu with the corner of her lip quirked downward, before choosing to get a fruit bowl, drizzled in honey. After the waitress left, Liberty had gotten a hold of some napkins from the dispenser and was now entertaining herself with waving them in the air.

“John,” Agnes spoke, requesting his attention.. John’s eyes flicked towards the older woman and gave her what she requested. “How does your wife feel about this...” She gesturing to Liberty. “Considering she knows?”

John’s face fell and Agnes had no trouble catching his quick change of emotion and gave a curt nod. “Okay. I see. She doesn’t-”

“No,” John interrupted, “My wife passed years ago.” John looked past Agnes’ intense stare and at the the baby girl who was now giggling at the silly faces being thrown her way by Sam and Dean. “What makes you think I’m married?” He asked, returning his gaze.

Agnes chuckled. “The other man, was married. Plus, Natalie had a type. I found her journal after she died. It had both of your names and numbers in the last page next to a picture of her first sonogram. So I only assumed... I’m sorry.”She explained.

“Other man?” John repeated. By now. the waitress had returned with the boys waffles and the baby’s apple sauce. “So there’s a chance I’m not her father? How many men are there?” Agnes glared at John with fire in her eyes, and John wasn’t sure what it was, but he couldn’t find himself continuing his rant.

“Mr. Winchester, I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are. In this situation, involving Liberty, there are only two of you.”

John was silent while glancing down at the table ashamed, but it wasn’t long lasting. “With all due respect, what happened to Natalie and why did you call for me and...uh...”

“Mr. Broker.” Agnes finished. She sighed as she spooned the apple sauce, prodding the spoon at the babbling child’s lips. “Natalie went... out, Liberty was only a month old. I didn’t even know she left the house. The police report says that a gas n’ sip cashier saw her walk in with Liberty, mumbling things like ‘I can’t do this anymore’ then leave her in the chip aisle, before leaving. It was a few towns away that they found her in a back alley with her heart torn out of her chest, a bite mark in it and the rest tossed next to her body.”

John’s face shone with recognition but decided against speaking what clearly was a werewolf attack.

“They say it was an animal attack... but I just...” Agnes shook her head, wiping tears from her face.

“And you? Why not take care of her yourself?”

Agnes grinned through her watery eyes. “It’s been four months. If I didn’t plan on caring for her then, you’d been contacted a lot earlier.” Her grin faltered. “I’m dying. Stage four brain cancer.”

The table was silent, save for the excited clinks of forks scraping on the plates as the boys devoured their waffles. John, now noticing his bowl of food, took his fork and stabbed one of the potatoes. Before he lifted it to his mouth, he noticed Liberty staring at him with her hand out.

John looked down at his quickly cooling potato and held it out to her. With no hesitation, Liberty snatched the chunk and started chewing on it with not a care in the world.

John smiled at her and went back to his food, stealing a quick glance at Agnes. “You know...” He started, pushing around his eggs. “If she is mine, I will take care of her.” As Agnes listened to him, she wiped a stray tear away from her cheek.

“Thank you. Very much.”

The rest of the meal was spent in a very comfortable silence, John and the boys continued to offer Liberty small pieces of their meal until she started smearing the mushed food in her hair and on Agnes’ shirt.

Once everyone was finished, Liberty was strapped back into her car seat, after Agnes rubbed some baby wipes through her curls, and John paid the bill. Exiting the diner, the boys shared a hug with Agnes while John held the car seat, gently swaying it.

“Alright Mr. Winchester. Until Saturday.” Agnes delivered a hug while John patted her back with his free arm. “And if anything...”Agnes pulled away from their embrace. “I hope you’re her father. You’re a good man.” And with that, the car seat was handed off to Agnes and she walked towards her car in a steady rhythm before the fog from the earlier rainfall covered her.

John released a breath he had no idea he was holding as he slipped out his phone and started dialing a very familiar number.

“Hello Bobby? I need a favor.”

Tag list: @sisterwinchesterwriter @winchesters-favorite-girl @dreamin-of-somewhere-else @peachwizard

#john winchester #SPN #weechesters #winchester sister #babies #impala #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #supernatural #series

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nikkigrand · 8 years ago

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t3-V

As requested, here is the first chapter to that zombie AU!

Chapter 1 - Case #34

It all started with a snake.

Which, in retrospect, was the defining sentence in all of Sakura’s problems. See, even after the bloodiest and shortest war to date, for some ungodly reason, the Hidden Villages had decided to let Orochimaru and his cronies go free without any sort of punishment. It eluded all reason, all moral sense, and he was put into the custody of the Hidden Leaf. But, like most instances of catastrophic proportion, the Leaf did not handle it well and Orochimaru—despite having a prior experiment guard him for every minute of the hour—escaped.

Sakura still had nightmares about the man, so it did wonderful things to her psyche to see him gallivanting about the village like he’d done nothing wrong in his entire life. She had even implored Kakashi, as the Rokudaime, to pursue execution or some other punishment for all of the villainous acts Orochimaru had committed in his lifetime—preferably one where he rotted away in a cold, dark cell for the rest of his life.

She’d never forgiven him for ruining all of what Team 7 had and could have been.

Regrettably, with this new era of peace, archaic methods of punishment were done away with—and that included execution. Instead, Orochimaru was to be fully inducted as a shinobi of the Leaf and was even allowed to keep his former bases in Sound. The council deemed it prudent that they seize all of Sound’s assets under the guise of analyzing all of Kabuto’s research to make advancements in the medical field, therefore improving the longevity of Konoha ninja in the battlefield.

But Sakura would rather cut off her own hands than use Kabuto’s research to save lives when all he’d done to compile said research was torture and take them.

So when the day she’d been anticipating arrived, (because Sakura knew better than anyone else, barring Sasuke and Anko, that Orochimaru would escape) she had jumped on the opportunity to be on the Hunter team to bring him back and finally do what should have been done years ago.

Unfortunately, Orochimaru was as slippery as his namesake. They spent months upturning every rock, checking every source, every sighting, and every lead without result. They had even recruited the ever elusive Sasuke’s aid, and he—with his monosyllabic answers—was barely any help. The Hunter team had returned to Konoha after six months with the weight of failure draping itself across their shoulders, and Sakura was never able to escape a persistent feeling of dread for a future with Orochimaru in it.

Honestly, she should have known that her business with him wasn’t finished—that Orochimaru would be a constant nightmare in her life for as long as she lived. And no nightmare of hers was complete without being strapped, spread-eagle, to a table with a grotesque looking Kabuto looming over her with an ominous syringe.

War had not been kind to him, and fusing and de-fusing with Orochimaru’s essence even less so.

Jerking against the leather chakra suppressing straps binding her neck, wrists and ankles to a cold slab in one of Sound’s hidden bases—one that not even Konoha knew of, Sakura bared her teeth as Kabuto checked and annotated the dosage in the syringe in a thick file.

“What are you going to do me?” Her voice was full of vitriol and rage as she tried to summon her chakra without result.

Kabuto ignored her as he calmly tied a band tightly around her bicep, tapping her vein none too gently, before sterilizing the area with an alcohol swab. Sakura’s heart beat a frantic drum in her chest as he picked up the syringe and took a seat next to her straining form.

“Kabuto, you rat bastard, what are you doing?”

Kabuto tutted. “Language, Sakura-chan.”

Sakura almost screeched with rage, instead choosing to focus what little chakra she could feel inwards in preparation to synthesize whatever it was that Kabuto planned on injecting her with. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that Kabuto had plans to use her in one of his twisted experiments and there was no way she was going to let herself die from it.

“Well,” Kabuto hummed, as if doing her a great favor, “As a fellow medic, I suppose I should at least give you the courtesy of knowing how vital your participation in this project is.”

Remaining silent, Sakura willed away the rising panic. She was having difficulties gathering her chakra; Kabuto had left her with the bare minimum to function—not enough to perform any type of medical ninjutsu or escape. With nauseating dread, Sakura knew that she would not be able to survive whatever it was that Kabuto had planned for her—with her normal mental and bodily capabilities in tact—without some type of divine intervention.

“You see,” Kabuto started, his voice saccharine as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Orochimaru-sama was most disappointed in hearing about your opposition to his reinstatement as a Konoha shinobi.”

“We should have executed him when we had the chance,” Sakura spat, tugging at her arm whose lack of circulation was quickly becoming painful. “As if Orochimaru would ever give up his pursuit of immortality.”

Kabuto chuckled, “Always so smart, Sakura-chan.”

Leaning back, the spectacled man toyed with the syringe in his hand as he observed her struggle with her restraints, “You’re correct. Orochimaru-sama has ambitions far too grand for the Hidden Leaf—ambitions they do not understand. They were fools to assume that he’d let it all go as easily as they let him join their ranks.”

“And you little Leafs are always so foolish.” Kabuto grinned as he stood, uncapping the syringe as he did so. “Because of his rather short imprisonment, if you could even call it that, Orochimaru-sama’s advancements in the cursed seal’s development were lost to your village’s research and war crimes department; which put me, the sole researcher of the cursed seal’s effects, in quite the bind.”

Sakura bit back a whimper as Kabuto’s steely grip came down on her arm, her wide eyes observing the needle as it dimpled her skin. She had no sense of grandeur when it came to her abilities—she knew just as well as anyone the peak of her own mortality; and the fact that he held it in his mottled hands terrified her. Her breaths came in shorts pants as Kabuto paused, his gaze turning thoughtful even as his lips curled sinisterly. Leaning back, he stroked a calloused thumb along the sensitive skin over the bend of her elbow.

“You see, I’ve had to start over,” he said conversationally, lips pursing mockingly, “I had to develop a new curse seal, one without the potential for error and rejection like its predecessors.”

Sakura simply listened warily and with curdling disgust as Kabuto went on to describe the gruesome experiments he conducted on displaced civilians while his master resided in Konoha. Orochimaru wanted a cursed seal that encompassed the same parameters of those previous but with the added advantage of immortality by soul consumption. The snake wanted a cursed seal that would leech away its bearer’s essence until it was nothing but an empty shell, until it couldn’t refuse Orochimaru’s hostile takeover. To counteract the unavoidable act of aging, Kabuto designed a sister seal that would gather the life force of its recipient until it was ready to be harvested for Orochimaru’s use.

Sakura’s disgust morphed into horror as Kabuto relayed, with mock sadness, how each trial run was met with disastrous results. He hypothesized that the seal had not had a proper conduit, nor a proper base, and test subjects either shriveled up like dried husks from the uncontrollable rapid gathering of their life force, or exploded from the strain put on their chakra pools.

“Since our latest failure,” Kabuto intoned, his brow furrowing, “Orochimaru-sama was not…satisfied with my developments and proposed something different—something revolutionary.”

He paused as if waiting for her to inquire what this grand something could be, but Sakura would do no such thing. Cat-like emerald eyes narrowed dangerously at the maniacal baring of teeth that only Kabuto could call an excited grin, and her nostrils flared at the visible giddiness rolling off him in waves.

Mad scientist, indeed.

Brushing off her lack of response with ease, Kabuto resumed his tale steadfastly, “Orochimaru-sama is quite the genius, I must tell you Sakura-chan. It was quite the surprise to know that Zetsu was the one pulling the strings in Akatsuki, wasn’t it?”

At Sakura’s sharp intake of breath, Kabuto chuckled and continued, “Yes, you were there while everyone else dreamed. I, unfortunately, was also asleep. Fortunately for Orochimaru-sama, he was not. After learning of White Zetsu’s rather admirable longevity, I was tasked with scrounging the lands for remnants of his cells.”

He leaned forward, bent elbows resting on his knees as he rolled the syringe in the palm of his hand. “With Zetsu’s DNA and fragments of Hashirama’s cells, Orochimaru-sama and I were able to develop a serum that would alter the recipient’s own DNA to increase their strength and durability tenfold.”

Bright fluorescent lighting glinted off the plastic as he held up the syringe.

“By mutating the recipient’s cells to mimic Zetsu’s own curious mutation of plant and animal cells, we have crossed the hurdle of self-sustainment and mortality. You have heard of trees living for hundreds of years, no?”

Sakura swallowed at the influx of information, the voice in the back of her head reminding her that Konoha’s dendrologists had placed the oldest tree in their village at nearly a millennium. Her mind raced at the possibility of Orochimaru living and committing unspeakable acts like these for forever.

However, Sakura was a scientist at heart, and despite the looming of her impending demise and agony, she couldn’t help but ask, “And chakra? Have you even accounted for a person’s individual chakra?”

Kabuto leered at her supine form, licking his lips as his glasses glinted, “Of course, Sakura-chan. You and I, as scientists and medics, both know that we must consider all possible angles. The recipient’s chakra would flood and nourish their cells so that it is supplemented by the production of each, therefore destroying the potential for chakra exhaustion. We produce thousands of cells each day—it’d be a never ending source of power and chakra!”

“That isn’t a serum,” Sakura hissed, her voice rising, “That is a virus!”

Kabuto lurched to his feet, circling around to the crown of her head, and she jerked when she felt his gnarled fingers comb through her dirty rose tresses as he shushed her.

“It may seem so, considering every recipient has died thus far. But that is where you come in, my dear.” Kabuto bent at the waist, his lips coming to rest by the shell of her ear, “Your Byakugou opens a world possibilities. You have such fine, subconscious control of your chakra. I don’t doubt that you, with such great chakra control would be able to counteract whatever issues you may encounter.”

Kabuto toyed with the strands of her hair as he hummed, “Tsunade-sama had been my first choice, but Orochimaru-sama is quite…fond of her and did not approve. You, however, he holds no such feelings for.”

Rising to his full height, the grey haired man calmly returned to his previous position by her discolored arm and trailed a finger down its length; it had lost circulation long ago and she felt his touch like shattered glass against her skin. Her pulse throbbed in her throat and she swallowed against the fear threatening to suffocate her as Kabuto moved the needle to her vein. She sneered at the crown of his head, thoughts and information churning over in her head until a mirthless laugh spilled from her chapped lips.

“You know that I loathe you and your master,” she spat even as Kabuto calmly lifted his head to stare at her, “And yet you give me something you hope will mutate me into something super-human with expectations that I’ll survive. Surely you know that I’ll kill you the first chance I get.”

Kabuto’s answering laugh was like ice down her back.

“I said I did not doubt that you’d survive,” he corrected, “But I never said I had intentions of letting you live.”

He leaned towards her as if imparting a secret. “See, your ability to survive this is only a hypothesis, as the survival rate in previous experiments is at a resounding zero percent. If you don’t survive, my hypothesis was wrong; but if you do, then I was correct and you’ve served your purpose. You are only a means to an end, Sakura-chan.”

Opening her mouth to let him know just what she thought of his depraved hypothesis, Sakura yelped when she felt a sting against the bend of her elbow that felt like fire coursing through her veins as Kabuto injected the serum into her body. She cursed herself for letting his words distract her. She jerked against the restraints, her chakra lashing out wildly against the foreign chemicals coursing through and invading her cells.

“Orochimaru-sama thanks you for your participation, Sakura-chan.”

Kabuto discarded the empty syringe on top of a steel tray with other medical equipment, moving to grab a file and pen to begin writing down his observations. As Sakura observed this through hazy, agonized beryl eyes, she decided that she’d receive retribution in this life or the next.

Her thoughts of vengeance were halted by what felt like molten lava coursing through her body, liquefying her from the inside out, and she screamed until she started seizing, and then she knew no more.

Kabuto observed as one of the strongest kunoichi in the world writhed uncontrollably on the steel slab, her mouth foaming as her body seized in reaction to the serum streaming through her. A scream ripped through her throat, and he adjusted his glasses as her chakra flared against the restraints.

Subduing her by use of chakra suppressors was not wise, considering the nature of his experiment, but it served a purpose in observing whether or not her chakra would break through to interact with the serum’s components.

Catching Sakura tiredly making her way back to Konoha after a long, grueling solo-mission had been a stroke of sheer luck. Kabuto was not arrogant enough to believe that he could challenge her—one of the Neo-Sannin, hero of the Great War, striker of gods—at full strength and win. He saw an opportunity in her fatigued gait and he took it.

Orochimaru had been most pleased when Kabuto had returned from his supply mission with the battered pink haired woman slung over his shoulders. As Kabuto had told her, Orochimaru held no affection for her after her rather public opposition to his reinstatement; but he respected her, he said, for recognizing a predator and keeping it in her sights.

However, as Kabuto observed the thrashing body on top of the rattling table, he determined that his master would be supremely disappointed in hearing about the failure of his hypothesis.

As he watched, Sakura’s once healthy skin adopted the ashen pallor of a corpse, the bare flesh of her arms and legs mottling, black veins spreading across her once flawless complexion like lightning as her cells died and struggled to reproduce.

Kabuto sighed as he annotated the familiar sight in his hefty file. Standing, he tucked the file under his arm as he made his way towards the woman that used to be Haruno Sakura. He gripped her head by the hair to keep her from moving, and he lifted an eyelid to confirm what he already knew.

The sclera of her eyes, like every other recipient, had bled into a bright crimson as the cells and blood vessels combusted and died. Pupils dilated to pinpricks, her once brilliantly green iris had faded to an eerily pale shade of what it once was, small crimson fibers spaced in between the green as cells reacted violently.

Stepping away, he annotated in his files his disappointing results, not bothering to glance back when he heard the tale tell expulsion of her last breath. As per Orochimaru’s protocol, Kabuto was forced to wait by her cooling corpse for an hour to see if there were any changes in her not previously seen in the others.

When the hour went by and all Kabuto observed was the onset of algor mortis, he deemed the project a loss and called for the base’s disposal team to get rid of her corpse. Within ten minutes, the man in charge for the day was throwing her body over his shoulder and making his way out the door while Kabuto made his last notes in his file labeled: Case #34 / T3-S.

On a whim, to appease the niggling feeling in the back of his head, Kabuto halted the lowly servant before he fully left. Stepping next to him, he placed two fingers on where Sakura’s pulse point should be and held it for a minute. When he felt nothing, he directed a stream of medical chakra into her body and found her void of all life. Nodding to the larger man, Kabuto went back to his file and closed it.

Haruno Sakura had died in the name of science.

Kabuto grinned; how fitting.

Five days later, thirty miles away from Kabuto and two hundred miles away from Konoha, Sakura woke up in a ditch full of rotting corpses.

What do you guys think?! I know zombies aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m obsessed with them right now.

#my fics #sakura haruno

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