#keep enough breathing room for it not to mutate into hopelessness

[spitblaze]

trying to find a happy medium between 'keeping myself and my followers informed and educated' and 'not dousing myself in so much horrific news that i turn into a doomer' and also 'desparately not trying making this about myself and my own comfort but also knowing that my mental health doesnt exist in a vaccum and succumbing to the everything is bad forever mindset helps absolutely nobody'

[booppooo]

Body Guard: Chapter Four

Abby Anderson x Fem! Reader Series

AN: heyyy, how y'all doin... anyhoo I hope this chapter meets ur expectations, enjoyyyy

Warnings: blood and injury, murder, infected, lethal weapons, swearing

Word Count: 2632

-

June 12th, 20 hours remaining

Abby was quick as she traveled through the buildings and down alleys. Y/n found herself struggling to keep up and it didn't help that Abby didn't mind to check on her. Not even a simple look over her shoulder. Y/n knew Abby had every reason to ignore her, and the thought made her slump over and slow down (this and the fatigue from little sleep and food).

The soldier was driven now not by fear of her leader dying, but by the irritation of Y/n's poor choices. Now her primary goal was to get this mission over with to be rid of the doctor lagging behind her, as selfish as that was. Her shoulder burn and stung from the hack-job that was her stitches and the growing infection. However, her pain was an after thought and surely would never come up in conversation with Y/n; she could see the physician now.

"Not much farther." Abby informed with the first words that had been spoken in hours. Y/n stayed silent.

They had gotten to the roof of an old building and were able to gage a portion of Seattle. Though it may never return to the hustle and bustle it harbored decades ago, mother nature's makeover was far more encapsulating. The way vines and leaves seemed to swallow structures, and how streams and rivers flowed through the destruction done by FEDRA, it was something of a beautiful disaster. Abby had seen it a hundred times and still she couldn't help but watch it for a moment, just a moment.

"We don't have much time."

Y/n's voice was quiet and cautious, afraid if she said the wrong thing in the wrong tone she'd be thrown from the roof. Abby's faint grin scrunched back into a scowl as she watched Y/n climb down the latter. She was right, time was running out, but hearing it come from Y/n made it more aggravating.

The hospital was just out of reach. The soldier knew they'd be back at the base by now if they had been given a truck and a few more men. If Isaac made it through this surgery, Abby hoped she'd be getting a little more than 'top soldier' treatment. From Y/n's perspective, she just hoped Isaac would make it, no need for the gold star. The doctor seemed to gain some confidence by taking the lead. Much like Abby, she didn't bother to glance back, not when the hospital was this close. She almost hoped Abby would speak up about it and say how she needed to keep behind her just to strike up some banter. But the blonde kept quiet and jogged behind her, it wasn't like she'd take a wrong turn now.

-

Months ago the hospital had been swept to gather supplies. The stadium, as well as other outposts, were running low on just about everything and needed just a quick pick me up. At that time, there wasn't a reason to venture into the lower floors that had been lost to the infected, there wasn't a reason to risk losing men.

Abby held the second set of keys to all the outposts and kept them stashed in the bottom of her pack. She unlocked the chain keeping the hospital secure and readied her pistol for any unwelcome intruders. Again, Y/n was on her heels every step of the way - feeling as if they had gone too long without some excitement.

She fumbled with the list in her pack, "Okay, we need-"

"It's going to be either in the ER, ICU, or trauma, that's all that's left."

Y/n frowned at Abby, though she couldn't see it, and stuffed the list in her pocket. It was becoming more and more clear how hopeless their friendship was.

With their masks on they began rummaging through the abandoned waiting rooms and hallways leading to the three units. Y/n searched for anything remotely medical while Abby searched for straggling bullets and supplies to make pipe bombs. Though Y/n was under the impression she had seen the worst of it on her date with the stalker, Abby knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Y/n watched as Abby stuffed a single bullet into her pocket, "Seriously? One bullet?"

The blonde remained silent.

"How do you know it's still any good?" Y/n pressed.

Abby shot a look at the doctor, but all that could be seen were threatening eyes piercing through her mask. So, Y/n took the hint and they carried on into what was left of the emergency room.

-

15 hours remaining

The gas masks were already hazy from heavy use and old age, this mixed with the spore filled air, visibility was low. Once again, Abby turned to Y/n with her stern eyes and instructed her to stay close.

As they traveled from room to room they stripped them of what they had left. In the process they came across some med kits that they were both hopeful had the desired supplies, but were only met with an empty box. In the process a few clickers and stalkers were put to rest, nothing out of the ordinary for Abby, except for Y/n essentially clinging to her.

They crouched behind a bed and listened closely to the clicker stumbling and, well, clicking. Abby held a bloodied finger to her mask and Y/n nodded, it was the last clicker and would be easy to dispose of if they were silent. With her shiv in hand, the soldier silently glided across the floor getting closer and closer...

Crash!

Y/n gasped and scrambled, her face draining of color. The clicker screeched and whipped around with its flailing arms, landing on Abby. It's mutated mouth closed in on her neck as she did all she could to push it back. Her shiv did little now that she was using both her hands to shove and smack away it's clawing fingers.

I'm not dying here! Abby thought.

With a mighty shove and a grunt, Abby managed to buy herself just enough time to re-grasp her shiv. Her jaw clenched and her teeth bared as she prepared herself for the next attack, all she could hear was her heart thumping in her ears.

Therefore, she failed to hear Y/n sprinting around the room for a weapon. She nearly came up empty until she remembered the pistol that had been snuggly tucked in her jeans. Without a second though the doctor fled for Abby, and within the window in which Abby managed to create space between her and the clicker, Y/n fired her shot.

Then another. And another.

Then her gun stopped firing bullets and clicked every time she pulled the trigger with a trembling finger. She was like a broken record, tugging and clicking.

As her heart steadied, senses such as hearing and touch returned. Abby heard the clicking and finally gripped reality as she looked up from the deceased clicker. Droplets of blood had splattered onto Abby's mask but she could still clearly see a shaking Y/n amidst the darkness and spores. She reached over and snatched the emptied pistol from her loose grip.

"The hell is wrong with you!?" Abby hissed at the surgeon.

Y/n hadn't even noticed her vision was blurred from the tears in her eyes. Abby's voice was distant and fuzzy.

"I told you to stay put so shit like this doesn't happen."

The blood pooled around the clicker and seeped over to Y/n's boots. It ran slow and thick from the dead body. She was fighting for a full breath.

"Are you even listening?"

Abby's boots stepped into the dense puddle and obstructed the view of the body. Her voice was clearing up.

"You..." Y/n choked out, "You almost..."

Abby furrowed her brows and tilted her head to meet Y/n's eyes. They were dark yet wide.

"I could've lost you."

Abby could see the agony in her eyes, the absolute terror. She would scoff any other time seeing as their dynamic was nothing but snarky comments and eye rolls, but Y/n was shaking like a leaf and her words just barely made it past her lips.

"Uhm.." Abby was unsure, "Let's keep going."

A quick look over Y/n's shoulder and Abby could see where the commotion had come from, the ceiling had collapsed some right where Y/n sat. Even more reason for them to kick it into high gear.

Abby guided Y/n from the room by her shoulders. She was much smaller than Abby, most people were, but she never got to feel how much smaller people were than her. Most of the time she was lugging another soldier packed with muscle, but this time she had her arm wrapped around a frail surgeon, something she hoped she wouldn't have to do again.

Once they returned to the hall, a long, streaky trail of blood lead straight toward the exit. Surely it wasn't them, they had spent their time fighting their battles in designated rooms. Whatever it was that did this was nothing but trouble. However, all that was left to sift through were ambulances just beyond the blood ridden exit - just their luck.

The building vibrated and more ceiling crumbled at the sound of a booming, guttural roar. Not a click, not a screech or even a scream from a bloater or shambler - a threatening, dangerous roar. 

[itsagrimm]

Imperial Tech 5

CN: soldier life in a fascist state, getting observed and recorded, violence, drug abuse, getting drugged without explicit consent, memory loss, forbidden relationship, getting carried + lifted up, tech & ONCE doing a lot of selfreflecting

Summary: The scenario plays out with Techs and not Crosshairs inhibitor chip working. Y/N is part of the elite squad working under commander Tech. Y/N gets called ES-01 or ONCE by their team somethimes. Previously, they killed senator Tarr, took the Syndullas into custody and are now on the hunt for Hera. (Basically everything just like in the show except for Tech in charge instead of Crosshair)

Imperial Tech X They Them Reader

Part 4

XXXXXX

Ryloth was starting to become Techs least favourite planet to been on. The planet had a challenging terrain, Admiral Rampart was continuously holding him back, but most importantly the dust forced Tech to clean his glasses several times per rotation.

But even with the dirt gone from the lenses the screens showing surveillance data from all Ryloth gave no clue to Hera Syndullas whereabouts.

Tech leaned back. He just needed to be patient. Hera would turn up sooner or later. Children had a high dependency and emotional connection to their caretakers and were unlikely to leave them behind even it was the most rational decision to ensure their own survival.

A part of his mind kept observing and evaluating the data. Another part wandered off. This morning Y/N had cried. Tech had wanted to keep Y/N close so that he could keep the one person calming him down safe, but he had failed. His miscalculation and lack of information about Y/N inner workings had come with the cost of Y/N breaking down into his arms. The regret of carrying out a killing order was too much for Y/N. His command was the direct cause for their pain. And yet Y/N only had whispered about the Empire and service to it itself as root for their misery. A grand and dangerous claim, still Tech could see some causality between the Empire existing and Y/N’s suffering.

But he still hated himself.

Tech had scrambled the recording in Y/N’s helmet to keep this treasonous confession off the records. And he had sedated Y/N to buy them some time to collect themselves. Extrapolating from the way the former clone force 99 had been treated the Empire would never allow a soldier like Y/N to feel regret or be critical and would punish every kind of perceived treason or weakness. And so, his report noted a minor concussion. As a trained medic and commander no one had questioned his claims. For now, he had at least in some way kept his ONCE safe even it was just picking up the pieces of his previous mistake. Another wave of self-loathing washed over Tech.

But at the same time, he felt pride swelling up his chest. The feeling of him carrying Y/N into the security of the LAAT. Their head resting on his shoulder. Half-closed eyes searching for answers from him and lips whispering Tech.

He grinned.

Oh yes, he could get used to that.

The memory was intoxicating. His overclocked mind stuttered at the thought of Y/N’s body in his arms. Like always Y/N calmed and slowed his thought process like nothing ever before.

Tech breathed in and took another look at the data before him. Still no sign of Hera Syndulla. The comm was silent as well. Surprisingly pleased he took a sip of caf before devoting his main attention to Y/N again.

Tech had arrived at the conclusion that he cared for ES-01. He wanted to know everything about them. A part of his brain spiralled around with a constant loop of thoughts about them and their well-being. And just the thought of Y/N’s physical presence near him gave him a calm he had never known before even with his brothers.

He knew that his attachment to his subordinate was forbidden. And he knew that whatever his feelings and basically needfor Y/N in his life were likely not reciprocated. He was just a clone even with his desirable mutations. And he was their commander. Any kind of romantic interaction - not even including physical interaction - was unlikely, overreaching and a danger for them both.

All he had for himself was a little mental box of lovely little memories and even lovelier fantasies of Y/N that kept him occupied in the refresher. That had to be enough.

Another sip from the caf and glance at the monitors. No Hera Syndulla to be found. Nothing of particular interest to note. He checked the comm chatter for news about the Empire or his brothers but there was nothing as well.

But it was fine to ask if Y/N was fine, right? He was their commander and he had given the order to give them some rest, so he was his duty to require report, right?

Tech thought about his brothers. They would know what to do now. Wrecker would support and reassure him no matter what he did. Echo would keep his opinion to himself until asked or in severe disagreement. Hunter would sit down next to Tech, pat him on the shoulder and tilt his head for 12,4 degrees right before giving advice. And Crosshair would just grumble about Tech overthinking again and then just pointing out the most straight forward action.

Crosshair decision making was the easiest to replicate for Tech now.

So that is what he did.

“ES-01?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The bunk room on Ryloth was dark. Someone must have pulled down the blinds. The other members of the elite squad and commander Tech were gone. Y/N checked their comm. Apparently the team was on the hunt for the little Twi’lek girl, that had escaped. Y/N was expected to rest.

What happened?

Their memory was still foggy. The last thing Y/N remembered was being at the canyon, the overwhelming feeling of regret, of breaking down and of commander Tech.

He had…

Y/N checked their arm. A little puncture was visible there.

Yes, a part of their memory slowly returned.

Tech had sedated Y/N. He had drugged them. He had carried them and-

Y/N pulled back the thin blanket. He had removed their armour. Y/N blushed. The memory of his long fingers with little scars carefully peeling Y/N out of the plastoid was rising from the depth of their mind like a lazy fish breaking surface of a deep dark pond.

The door to the bunk room opened. Y/N looked up expecting to see one of the returning elite squad members. Instead, Captain Howzer, clone commander of all the regular troopers on Ryloth, entered. Y/N rose and saluted. He was not in charge of the elite squad, but he outranked Y/N immensely. Howzer just waved them to stand comfortably.

“ES-01, there is no need for such formalities. I hope I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all. I was left to recover from the last mission. But I am well enough now. How can I help you, sir?”

Howzer smiled. It was a friendly smile, honest and a bit sad.

“They call you ONCE, right? And your squat uses they/them for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mind if I do that too? Numbers and assignments are a bit impractical sometimes so us clones use monikers, but I don’t know too much about naturally born’s and their naming traditions.”

Howzers smile turned a bit shy.

“Not at all, captain. It’s alright.”

Howzer sat down on one of the bunks in front of ONCE. ONCE followed his lead and fell back on their bunk. Now they sat in the small room, their knees nearly touching and smiling like young cadets in polite anticipation.

An awkward second none of them spoke.

“I appreciate you checking on me. But I am sure you are not only here to ask about my health, sir.”

Howzer looked away like he got caught pranking.

“Well… I do think it is my job to make sure everyone on my base is fine. Even if you are not under my command and it isn’t technically my base anymore.” He cleared his throat. “But I do actually need something else from you as well.”

ONCE studies his face. He was a high-ranking officer, an experienced soldier and - like all clones - a warrior. And despite the harsh realities of war that shaped all the clone trooper’s life’s, Howzer had maintained youthfulness in his demeanour. Even now, he looked at ONCE with an open and careful expression.

“What can I do for you, captain?” ONCE finally answered and hinted at the helmet and the build-in listening device as a careful reminder that their conversation wasn’t confidential.

“ONCE, I need to know what happened up there in the canyon.”

“Sir, I am sure I can’t add to what you already know from the reports.” ONCE replied defensively. Whatever Y/N might feel about their life as a soldier, talking openly about their work was a luxury they could not afford. Especially when Y/N was still working through the fragmented memories of being carried and stripped out of their armour by commander Tech.

“The reports do not mention anyone up the canyon.” Howzer continued. “And yet I know that commander Tech had carried you nearly unconscious and a sniper rifle with you both to an LAAT ship that picked you up. And I know that the Twi’lek senator Tarr got hit by a precise blast coming from somewhere of the top of the canyon. I was there. I know what I saw. And I can add all these information together. You need to tell me why it happened.”

Howzers voice had become demanding and intimidating.

And yet he still had the expression of a young man in disbelieve of the atrocities happening in plain sight. ONCE felt hopelessness and regret rising again. Howzer just wanted to understand but it was impossible to explain the banalities of evil at work. The Empire was power hungry. The Twi’leks were resistant. And Tarr had died because he outlived his usefulness as a pawn in this power struggle, killed by ONCE. They remembered that much. But with the listening device in their helmet close by ONCE was in no position to confess without getting court martialled afterwards - if they were lucky.

There was nothing ONCE could say.

“I am sorry, captain. I can only recall very little. But it seems you already know what happened. I am sure you will understand why it happened and that I had no pleasure in following command. But I am a soldier -maybe a bit like you. We are expected to follow orders whatever the costs and then continue on like nothing happened.”

ONCE smiled, hoping he would understand.

Howzer nodded, his expression now nothing but hopeless and lost like a little boy without his family.

ONCE took his gloved hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

It was a familiar gesture between two equally helpless hostages not in control of their life’s.

A desperate look crossed Howzer before he silently formed a word with his lips, carefully hiding his message from the listening device.

Hera

It was the Twi’lek kids name that got away. The kid, that the elite squat was hunting down.

ONCE shook their head.

No, they don’t have her. Yet.

Y/N’s comm lighted up – the Commander calling in.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Commander Tech was in the observation room. Various monitors displayed a never-ending racing flow of surveillance data in aurebesh, numbers and holo transmissions.

Most of it was in in Basic, some wasn’t.

Staring at it with a cup of caf in his hands was the commander.

“How are you feeling?” He asked without looking away from the screens.

“Better.”

In the blue tinted electronic light coming from the holo screens Y/N could see Tech raising an eyebrow.

“I am not only your commander but also your medic. Are you sure you are fine and therefore fit for duty?”

Y/N considered the underlying question. Do you want to return to being a soldier?

“Sir, as long as I am well enough to perform, I am expected to serve.” I don’t have a choice but to return. I can walk steady on both my feet and hold a gun therefore I am good enough to be cannon fodder again. That’s what I signed up for.

Tech tilted his head and took a sip from his cup.

“That is valid point you’re making. As you can see, I am a bit busy with searching the run-away Hera Syndulla. Officially, I can’t examine and clear you fit for duty right now. But I will take your word under the condition you stay close to me in case something happens. Is that alright with you?”

ONCE considered. The commander was asking for a favour. He wasn’t ordering. And he had not only covered for them once but was concerned about their safety. In the oddest way possible and considering the circumstances ONCE was tempted to call this romantic.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

Y/N sat down next to Tech.

“Do you remember everything from this morning, ONCE?”

His tone was casual. But there was more to it.

“I…yes, I think I remember everything.” ONCE paused looking at Tech. His face was unmoved and impression-less. His eyes hidden behind the lenses, blue by the mirroring screens. “Sir, I am very thankful for your… actions.”

Still, nothing. Maybe all his kindness and patience with ONCE was imagined. Maybe he was just their commander and his reasons from saving ONCE from military questioning and punishment was purely practical.

ONCE felt like an utter fool.

“Fascinating.”

“I am sorry, sir?” Confused they looked at the commander.

“Comm the squad and get your full gear. We are getting attacked.”

An alarm went off.

ONCE saw several alarms popping up on the screens.

A feeling of dread and terror rose in ONCE. Returning to duty was one thing. Entering a fight was another.

Tech grabbed them at the arm, pulling them closer and forcing them to look up to his towering dark height. “Remember, stay close to me.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Y/N left Tech with a look of anxiety and confusion in their eyes.

*crack*

He grimaced painfully. He had broken the cup in his hands, caf dripping down on his armoured leg now. Maybe hiding everything about himself from Y/N would be harder than he thought it would be.

He sighted and allowed himself to linger a bit more on the thought of Y/N and before devoting himself to the tasks ahead.

Someone had attacked the refinery.

What an odd choice. Was it a coincidence with the Syndullas in custody here on the base? Or was there a plan and connection between those facts?

His eyes squinted to see better. Damn Ryloth and its dust. His googles were dirty again.

The Surveillance data showed the leaving troopers going to the refinery. Quiet a lot of them.

If all those troopers left, who would guard the prisoners?

Tech leant back. Caf dripping down his leg, glasses dirty and surrounded by idiots. What was he doing here?

Movement on the screens made Tech face the wall of monitors again.

The surveillance camera transmitted a stream from the refinery with two clones running over the fortified walls.

Echo.

Hunter.

His brothers were here. Tech felt his body respond with a rush of endorphins he quickly tried to ignore.

Think Tech! Don’t let these traitors distract you! What does their presence mean?

He was sure now. Directly attacking the refinery was too simple. Even without him the strategies of his brothers always were absurdly chaotic and erratic. The straight attack just had to be a distraction.

He opened a comm channel to his elite squat.

“Commander speaking. Come to the base shipyard as soon as possible.”

“Sir, isn’t the attack on the refinery?”

“I know, ES-04. Just follow your orders.”

“But sir-“

Tech ended his connection and rolled his eyes. His brothers never had reacted like that. They always knew he had reasons behind his actions.

Frustrated he threw away the broken cup and put on his helmet.

The shipyard was nearly empty. Most LAAT’s and smaller ship were off to the refinery. The attack had drawn nearly all forces away.

ONCE and the Elite squat waited for commander Tech. A couple of regs were with them.

“Who are those?” Tech required.

“Sir, the regular troopers were off duty. I called them in for back up.”, ONCE replied. As always, they were the only one thinking and getting what he had already figured out.

“Good. Get into position before the main gate. Facing inward.”

“The enemy is inside already?”

“Likely. And this is their way out.”

“They? Who is our enemy?”

“Clone force 99.”

The door opened.

Both troopers and elite squad raised arms. But instead of prisoners or the bad batch, Howzer stepped outside.

“Oh.” Tech stated flatly. He hadn’t considered the inner emotional workings at play. Again.

“Brothers!” Howzer call out to the troopers. “What are we doing? We came her to free Ryloth from separatist control. And we succeeded. But look around you. Now we are being ordered to target the very people we sworn to protect! And I will not be a part of it any longer.”

The captain threw down his weapon.

“Who is with me?”

For a short second no one moved. Tech felt his head running at high speed, calculating every option for further action. ONCE, standing next to him, started shaking.

He went cold.

If ONCE threw down their weapons now, they were dead. Tech could do nothing to save them from the empire. Admiral Rampart or whoever imperial was in charge would court martial them. Y/N would be dead. He didn’t need to calculate the chances for that, to know their survival rate were slim.

Please don’t leave me. Tech, suddenly ready to pray to whoever gods were willing to listen to his pleas, leant towards Y/N, unable to stop himself.

They stopped shaking the moment his armour touched theirs.

Some of the regs laid down their weapons. ONCE kept their rifle, unmovable. Relief washed over Tech.

“Arrest those traitors.” He ordered, thinking of anything else but the one person he truly wanted to be saved right now. Even if he had to sacrifice a battalion of regs for that to draw attention away from Y/N.

The elite squad and the loyal troopers moved in. Tech felt detached from what was happening. Nothing mattered. Not even the shuttle with his brothers lifting off somewhere.

He wanted Y/N, wanted to hold them and whisper sweet words and promises he damn well intended on keeping just to make sure that they would be fine and safe. He looked up to see his Y/N putting hand cuffs on Howzer, sneaking a small blade into his boot. His brain registered it but did not care. As far as he was concerned ONCE could commit every act of treason and he would still be ready to commit mass murder just to cover their tracks. Whatever Tech had thought he could keep to himself was brought bare before him the moment Y/N had been in mortal danger, his need for Y/N unable to be hidden.

>>>>>

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<<<<<<<

Part 6

[bluebellhairpin]

Homecoming

Erik Lehnsherr X Mutant!Reader 

A/N: I’m hungry for Erik. I love him. He could impale me with a stop sign and I wouldn’t even mind. So have this long fic that no one asked for! (Also, Reader channels a much healthier path to a Erik ‘Everyone I Love Dies’ Lehnsherr-type situation in this fic. Go Reader.) - Nemo 

Warning(s): Angst. Ugly crying (from me, not the characters). General X-Men antics and Mutant problems. Mentions of Character Death. 

Summary: After the events of Apocalypse, both you and Erik get back something you thought you’d never get to have again. A friend. Maybe even a home.  

Masterlist  

You first came to Charles’ school damaged and broken. 

Like many mutants of your time you were shunned by the world, and hunted by the people in it. You were seen as different, in a time where different was bad. The Difference was dangerous. If you had no way to hide your mutation, you didn’t go into the open. 

Luckily, your mutation wasn’t a physical one, not unless you wanted it to be. 

In a way you were a shapeshifter, a mimic, even if you could only do so with other mutations. 

If you saw someone with wings, you could grow a pair that looked identical. If you saw someone make plants grow, you could too. The only thing was you couldn’t do them both at once. That coupled with an unfortunate circumstance became your undoing. 

The unfortunate circumstance was being caught by one Bolivar Trask.

By the time you managed to get away from him, you’d wished he’d killed you like he had with all those other mutants he got his grubby fingers on. 

You’d reached the streets, aching all over, and feeling as vulnerable as ever. You knew no one, and you had nowhere to go. So you added ‘hopeless’ onto your list of feelings for your first night back in the world.

That morning you found out not all the humans in the world wanted mutants dead. 

Even though he said he was only human, you were convinced he was just being modest - he was surely an angel. He was so kind, taking care of you until you could fend for yourself, and eventually you grew strong enough to be able to protect him too. Him and the little girl you’d brought into the world. 

But you were wrong.

While you were not the same woman you were before Trask had you, you still could only mimic one mutation at a time. Remembering back, you were so confused. It happened so fast. You didn’t know if it was you or the men who found you, but you did know that both him and your girl were dead. You also knew it was easier to blame yourself. It was easier to run.

So you ran. 

Years later, your running lead you to a school - housing a couple dozen other mutants, mostly teenagers - and that’s where you stopped running. 

__________

“Charles, you sure you don’t need any sunscreen?” your lips quirked up, eyeing the seated professor out the corner of your eye.

He didn’t look too impressed.

“(y/n), don’t start now.”

“Or a hat?” you asked, striding over to his side as you leant down and ran a hand over his - now very bald - head. “Don’t want you getting sunburn.”

“I ought to snap those sunglasses right off your face (y/n).” he quipped, swatting your hand away. He was acting all sour about it, but that glint in his eye definitely didn’t make his smile less convincing. 

“Just the sunglasses?” a new voice piqued, followed soon by the voice’s owner sliding over to Charles’ other side, “If it were me you’d be threatening my livelihood instead of some accessory.” 

“I’m special.” you said, sticking your nose up at Erik. 

“You can say that again.”

“Oh quit mumbling Erik.” Charles said, rolling back into the rebuilt mansion - and out of the sun - queuing the both of you to follow close behind. “You could do something useful with those words of yours, like (y/n) does.”

“Teaching isn’t for me Charles.”

“Oh,” you said, looking over at Erik over your glasses, “And inchoherit sentences are?” 

Erik reached over, sliding the glasses right off your nose, before snapping them shut and placing them in your shirt pocket.

“I think you should learn to keep your trap shut.” he said, coming to a stop beside Charles - who was patiently waiting for you both to quit bickering so the two of them could go visit Raven and Hank in the ‘basement’.

“I doubt that.” you said, grabbing your glasses and popping them back on your face before walking off to supervise some students back outside. “Have fun with the kiddies, kiddos.” 

“Well done Erik,” Charles said, turning back towards the way to the Danger Room, “You’ve just met and she already likes you.”

“That was her liking me?” Erik said, unamused as ever. “I’d hate to see how she acts towards people she doesn’t like.” 

“Surprisingly pleasant. If I had to guess it’s so they leave faster.” 

__________

You didn’t see Erik again for months. 

Charles told you he didn’t want to stick around, and honestly from what you’d seen and heard of him he didn’t seem like the kind of man to stay in once place for no reason. When you did see him again he was back at the school, despite his somewhat dislike for being there. 

He was standing in the open front door, dripping wet from the rain outside, and looked like he was not going to move from that spot until he dried off. Luckily you were there to save him. 

“The hell are you doing?” you asked, running a hand through your messed hair as you made your way down the stairs.

“Making Charles’ floor all wet at some ungodly hour of the morning?” he offered, wiping stray drops of water off his face and onto the floor.

“Don’t make more of a mess Erik.” you said, “Just get to the kitchen and try not to make more mess. I’ll grab towels and some other stuff for you.”

By the time you grabbed an armful of towels and a change of dry clothes, Erik was awkwardly standing in the corner of the kitchen closest to the fridge. He was standing like he just realised how uncomfortable wet clothes are, with his arms held out from his body and his legs apart. 

He noticed you as soon as you came around into the doorway, and held his arms out for one of the towels. You threw one over his head instead, while maneuvering around to peel his jacket off. You could safely assume it was a heavy jacket to begin with, but it being so waterlogged made you wonder how he was even still standing with it on.

“What’re those?” Erik asked, nodding his head to the pile of clothes you left on the counter.

“Clothes. Dry ones.” you said, folding the jacket at arms length and hanging it over the sink. “For you.” He went over to inspect them, holding the shirt in front of him, before bringing it to his chest.

“These are not your clothes.” You looked up at him, and he looked over at you. You just nodded.

“You’re right. Get dry and change.” you said. “I’ll go get Charles.” 

__________

Erik hung around for a while after that. And by ‘a while’, this time that meant a number of days. 

You’d pass in the hallways, or he’d walk past your classroom door. You’d meet each other outside during breaks, or back in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning when the world was still sleeping. Not much transpired between you both except small talk. It was never heavy stuff. 

At least not until some rather unsavory people came to the school.

They didn’t stay for long - thankfully - and with not only your help but that of Erik and a couple older resident mutants, those that wanted to hurt you were scared off. That was the first time Erik saw exactly what your mutation was. What exactly it meant.

The people came armed, a small group of mutants that didn’t seem to like what Charles was doing. They would ‘set free’ all the children he’d ‘taken’ and put them ‘back into the world’. As if they’d survive that long without hating themselves. 

The mutants had elemental-like powers, one with the ability to produce ice shards, while another could breathe fire, another could take hold of the plants that surrounded the school, and the last caused the sky to darken and the earth below you to rumble like you’d never heard before.

And then there was your team - your X-Men - ready to fight them, even though half of you had woken up less than five minutes ago.

Erik couldn’t believe what he saw - what you could do. 

There was the ice mutant, conjuring pointed icicles out of nowhere and throwing them at your team, and yet you were right up there - toe to toe with them, matching their deadly projectiles with your own, posing as much of a threat to them as they were to you. 

And as soon as rock and metal joined play, even more followed, you trading weapons the size of your hand to ones that make cars look like a childrens toy. 

All because of you, half of the team didn’t even need to batter and eye at these ill-intended visitors. And those ‘visitors’ decided to leave, whimpering with the promise to not come back - at least not until they thought they were stronger. 

In short, Erik was impressed. 

__________

“You know, I don’t usually let others join me up here.” you said, feeling Erik make his way to the rooftop behind you, “It’s my space.”

“Your’s now, maybe. But I’m sure there are at least half a dozen students who come here for the same thing.” he replied, coming to rest next to you, his legs dangling off the rooftop to mirror your own.  

“I don’t blame them.” 

It was true. While there wasn’t much to see from the roof of the school, on nights like this there was plenty to see. The sunset was disappearing under the horizon, painting the sky with a bright orange and pale lavender, leaving space for the stars to come out to play. It was beautiful.

“I’m leaving soon,” he spoke, voice soft and his eyes not meeting yours, “An island called Genosha. You’d be welcome to come with me, or even just to drop in for a holiday.” 

You cracked a smile at that. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” he said, looking at you, smiling. 

“Sounds like it could be a home away from home.” You bumped your shoulder with his, keeping something pleasant even though he was leaving. Even though this was him saying goodbye.

“For you,” he said, eye twinkling, “(y/n) I’d make it nothing less than home.”

[fanfoolishness]

A Silence Growing

Post-Prickly Pair, Amethyst, Garnet and Pearl try to talk to Steven.  Angst, 2300 words.

***

At first, Amethyst had thought the problem with the cactus was just another wacky misadventure.  Cactus Steven, mutating like crazy, throwing cactus spines everywhere, smashing up the house?  They’d fought so many other monsters before.  Was this one really any different?

Well, sure, this one wasn’t exactly like a corrupted Gem.  It talked, for one.  (Boy, did it talk.)  But the really scary thing about it was the way it seemed to affect Steven, and the way he wouldn’t meet their eyes after the cactus left.

Still, though, Amethyst had thought once they got the house repaired that Steven would get back to normal.  It had only taken them a few days to sweep out all the debris and cactus needles from the different parts of the house, and Bismuth and some of the gems from Little Homeschool had happily assisted in repairs.  

Steven had been there at every step, using his strength to carry siding and windows, helping them with little details.  Amethyst had thought that he’d be happy to talk to help the time pass, but instead he brought down a radio and blasted chipper pop songs while they worked.  Every time she tried to talk to him, he seemed to find something else to do.  Now here it was, nearly a whole week since Cactus Steven had gone crazy, and Steven was still just as close-mouthed as he had been that morning.

She pulled Garnet and Pearl aside one night into her room in the temple.  “Come on, you guys. Emergency meeting.”

Amethyst leaned back in her rickety lawn chair, one of several stacked in a pile in her room.  Garnet sat on a boulder Amethyst had been saving for something; she’d forgotten what.  Pearl paced nervously, touching nothing.  

“So what’s wrong with Steven?” Amethyst said at last, breaking the silence.  “Has he talked to either of you?”

“No,” said Garnet, staring down at her palms.  “I tried to see if he would come to my yoga class yesterday.  He said he had other plans, but he stayed in his room all day.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him several times,” said Pearl sadly.  “He just keeps saying he’s fine!  But I don’t think he is.  I’m not sure he’s sleeping properly.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Amethyst. 

“I, ah, may have tried to watch him sleep last night,” said Pearl, blushing slightly.

“Awww, come on, P!  You know he wanted us to stop doing that.  That’s why we changed his room up, so that we could give the dude some privacy,” said Amethyst, rolling her eyes.

“I know, I know.  I was worried,” said Pearl, looking uncomfortable.  “But even though it was late, he was still awake. And I don’t think he was doing anything.  You remember how sometimes he used to play video games all night, or try to call Connie secretly when her parents had gone to bed…  But all he was doing was laying there and staring up at the ceiling.”  She sighed.

“Did he actually talk to you though?”

Pearl chuckled ruefully. “No.  He just asked me to leave.”

“Ouch,” said Garnet, shaking her head.  “Not the best approach.”

“Well, I tried.”  

“We don’t want him to feel ambushed,” said Amethyst, picking up a piece of trash and idly swallowing it.  “But it’s obvious something is bugging him, right?”

“Of course,” said Garnet.  She frowned.  “But I can’t see a clear path forward for him.  I used to believe I understood him.  Yet something has changed.”

“So what should we do?”  asked Pearl, folding her arms across her chest.

“We gotta keep trying, right?  Like, I think one-on-one is definitely the best approach.  I used to get so mad when you two would lecture me about acting like a Crystal Gem,” said Amethyst.  “But it wasn’t so bad talking to just one of you.  He probably feels the same way.  And he probably feels pretty crappy about what Cactus Steven did.”

For a moment they were quiet, remembering how they’d asked Steven to talk after Cactus Steven burst through the house and escaped.  Amethyst saw him in her mind’s eye again, miserably clutching a flower from the cactus, covered in spines, his eyes red.  And all he said was I think I’ve said enough, before tossing the flower in the trash and getting the broom.

“We will keep trying,” said Garnet determinedly.  “The more opportunities we provide him to speak his mind, the better.”

“We won’t give up on him.  We’ll figure this out.  He needs us, and we just need to figure out how to be there for him,” said Pearl, a fire alight in her eyes.  Amethyst felt heartened, looking at the others.  Yeah.  They could figure this out.

“All right,” said Amethyst.  “Operation Talk to Steven.  We got this!”

***

Operation Talk to Steven was not going according to plan.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on their part.  Every day they tried something new, though they were working hard to keep it subtle enough to not annoy Steven.  They got together frequently to compare notes and give each other critiques.  Some days Amethyst was almost sure they had it.  Other days she started to worry it was hopeless.  

They each had preferred techniques.  Pearl kept trying to cheerfully mention to Steven how well she was doing these days, and how it was so helpful to get things out in the open and talk about them.  Garnet took the approach of encouraging Steven to meditate and reminding him of how reflection and yoga could provide true calm.  Amethyst put on maximum chill when she wasn’t trying to just get him to laugh again.

Yet Steven fended off every attempt with a bland smile and a tired, “I’m fine, really, thanks.”  

They tried changing roles.  Garnet attempted jokes, dry sarcastic things that would have had Steven howling a year or two back, but he replied to them as Pearl was so casual and relaxed around Steven that he asked her more than once if she needed to take a nap.  Amethyst tried to pretend she knew how to be wise and collected, and Steven just gave her a raised eyebrow.

“We’ll get it right soon,” Amethyst told the others urgently.  “There’s gotta be something we can say.”  So they kept trying.

But the silence in the house felt heavier every day.

***

Amethyst crept out of the temple in the middle of the night, figuring she would get situated on the couch so that she could catch Steven shortly upon waking up.  She hoped he might be more likely to talk when things were quiet, one-on-one, just the two of them the way it used to be.  She hadn’t expected him to already be awake; nor had she expected him to be sitting out on the porch in the dark, the shape of his head a dark silhouette through the newly repaired window.

She came up to the door, then bit her lip.  She could do this.  It was up to her.

She swung the screen door open.  Steven was sitting at the table outside, wearing his jacket and pajamas, his feet bare, his head propped up in his hands.  He lifted his head as she took a seat beside him, not looking at her in the dim moonlight.  His hair was damp and mussed against his forehead.  “Oh, hey, Amethyst,” he said thickly.

“Hey man,” she said, uncertain of how to begin.  Steven’s phone sat in front of him, the time reading 3:13.  This wasn’t right.  He should be sleeping.  “So… whatcha doing?”

He shrugged, leaning back in the chair and rubbing at his eyes with one hand.  “Um…. I dunno.  Just looking.  Connie mentioned there was a meteor shower going on tonight.”

Amethyst looked up at the full moon, peeking through a cloudy sky.  The conditions were all wrong for any kind of stargazing, the moonlight too bright, the clouds covering most of the sky.  “She didn’t wanna watch it with you?”

“She has school,” he said automatically.  

“On a Sunday?”

“You know she studies all the time.”

“Right.”  Amethyst went for another angle.  “Doesn’t the town have that big telescope?  Wanna go check it out up there?”

“No, I --”  Steven closed his eyes.  There were dark rings under them.  “I don’t even know if Ronaldo still takes shifts up there anymore.  I haven’t talked to him in forever.  It’s probably locked.  It’s fine.  I’ll look it up on TubeTube later.”

“Well, we could always go a little farther,” said Amethyst, thinking furiously.  “Didn’t they fix the warp to the moon base?  I bet we’d get a great view there.”

“I’m not going to the moon tonight, Amethyst.”

“Just a thought, dude.”  She glanced out at the dark waves beyond the beach, watching them go in and out, remembering Steven declaring her the most mature Crystal Gem.  She’d believed him, then; she’d felt so proud of what he’d said.  She wanted to be worthy of it.  Needed to be, for his sake.

She decided to go for it: the direct approach.  “Why are you really up right now?  I know you don’t always sleep as much as when you were a kid-- “ (See? I know you’re growing up, man! Doesn’t that count for something?)  “But something’s bothering you.  Please talk to me.  Come on, Steven.”

The lines of his shoulder, his neck, his jaw tightened.  She could see the way the softness went out of him.  “I already told you guys I was sorry about the cactus,” he said flatly.  “Why do you keep bringing it up?”

“It’s not about the cactus!” Amethyst burst out.  Her eyes pricked with tears.  “It’s what’s behind the cactus, and I think you know that.  We’re worried about you.  We’re not mad or whatever, we’re just trying to figure out what’s bugging you!”

Steven took a deep breath, his hands clenching into fists before he slowly, carefully, laid them flat against the table.  He still wouldn’t look at her.  “Great.  So now I’m worrying everyone.  Everything I do is just so--”  He stared off into the dark, suddenly distant as if remembering something.  

“What is it?” Hesitantly she reached out, touching his shoulder.  He didn’t react at all, though once he would have leaned into her immediately for a happy hug.  How long had it been since they’d hugged?  Not since their snow day, she realized.

“It’s nothing,” said Steven at last.  

“You’re acting really weird,” said Amethyst, fighting back a wave of frustration.  She pulled her hand back from his shoulder, crossing her arms.  The burning in her eyes threatened to become outright tears.  No!  Steven didn’t need her falling apart on him!  “You wanna know what I think?”

Steven hung his head.  “Sure.”

Oh, crap.  She hadn’t fully thought this out.  She took a chance.  “I think you’re like, blaming yourself for Cactus Steven when we all know it was an accident.  We’re not mad at you about the stuff it said.”  

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on his hands.

She tried again.  “I think you feel bad for venting to it or whatever, but you were probably just having a bad day.  I know you don’t really think that way about us.”  

“Mhm,” he said.

She kept at it.  “It seems like you’re kind of lonely since you left Little Homeschool, but nobody’s upset at you for moving on, it just means it wasn’t your thing!  That’s fine!  You’re Steven, I know you’re going to do something awesome.  And if you don’t know what you wanna do yet, that’s cool too.  You could take this time to do other stuff, you know, hang out with your friends, catch up with everybody….”

He tensed, knuckles whitening.  Amethyst stared at him in confusion.  He loved his friends.  Why would he be upset at talking about them?

“You don’t have to, though, if you don’t feel like it!” she said quickly.  “You have plenty of time to figure out your own thing, like we did.  We just wanna help you.”  She leaned over and put her arm around him.  It was harder than it used to be, with how much he’d grown.  “Look, Steven… I love you, okay?”

He leaned his head against her shoulder, breathing hard.  She held him tight, hoping, hoping he’d finally open up --

“Thanks.  Sorry for worrying you.”  He shivered, and Amethyst was suddenly reminded of how cold it was out here in the dark.  “Love you, Amethyst.”  He lifted his head up from her shoulder and turned to her for the first time, giving her a watery smile that didn’t reach his reddened eyes.  “I’d better get to bed.  I guess I’m not gonna see any comets tonight anyway.  Night.” 

She watched him go, the screen door swinging shut behind him, his shadow’s movements quick and practiced as it took the stairs up to his room.  

“I thought you said it was a meteor shower,” she said softly, and this time, she didn’t bother fighting back the tears.   

***

She sat on the porch watching the waves until the sun began to rise, until Garnet and Pearl joined her at the table beneath the pre-dawn sky.  

“It didn’t work,” she whispered as they sat beside her, their faces drawn.  “I thought -- I really thought I could help him.  Something’s really wrong with him.  And we don’t know how to help.”

Garnet wordlessly patted her on the back, her hand strong and comforting.  Pearl raised her arm and laid it over Amethyst’s shoulders.  They watched the gulls wheeling in the breeze, the dawn flaring brighter with every moment, and the silence in the house behind them only grew.

[dreamscapefics]

Imagine Geralt being too scared to pursue a relationship with Ciri since she's his child surprise, but Jaskier going right for her as soon as she's of age. Jas knows Geralt wants her so he makes a point to get a room next to his in every inn and fuck her up against the wall, growling against her neck and calling her his good girl, making her squeal on his cock and Geralt can hear every single noise, every moan and whimper and kiss

Anon! Thank you so much for sending this prompt. I loved it and honestly went crazy with it, so I hope you like it. It’s 7.4k (I know, I have a problem with length, oops?) of jealous pining!Geralt and Ciriskier getting it on. Please enjoy!

Tags: cunnilingus, cocksucking, overstimulation, incest/pseudo-incest, accidental voyeurism, consensual voyeurism, age difference, cum inflation kink, cock-dumb, aggressiveness/possessiveness, daddy kink, under-negotiated poly

~*~

Geralt

Geralt has known since he first laid eyes on his Child Surprise that he wants to make her his. In every sense of the word. But considering that they met under unfortunate and traumatizing circumstances, Geralt had to set his desires aside first because bringing Ciri somewhere safe took precedence.

Nonetheless, he can’t help but admire her ethereal beauty. Emerald eyes hardened by her recent experiences since fleeing Cintra soften every time she looks at Geralt when the witcher comforts her from a nightmare or cuddles her when it’s especially cold at night. Ash-blonde hair, which he had to cut shoulder-length to avoid being recognized, makes her look more mature than her thirteen years of age. Her built is slim, the top of her head barely reaching Geralt’s chest, and yet it doesn’t fail to send heat pooling low in his gut every time Ciri hugs him or huddles closer to him. For warmth or for comfort, it doesn’t matter, since he appreciates it all the same.

The walls that Geralt built around his heart for decades seemed to crumble to dust whenever he lays eyes on Ciri. Something primal, almost possessive, curls in him at the thought of his Child Surprise being so comfortable and pliant around him.

If Geralt hadn’t thought of himself as a monster before, he would do so now at the depraved thoughts and images that constantly permeate his mind about his ward. A part of him feels guilty, sure, but a bigger part of Geralt appreciates the lack of fear and disgust whenever he takes a subtle whiff of Ciri. There’s nothing but the smell of melancholy (which makes sense), safety, and affection. Affection for Geralt, which Ciri freely offers in abundance.

“How far along are we to Kaer Morhen?” Ciri asks him one night.

They’re camped in the middle of the woods, and the young teen is curled around Geralt to fight off the chill despite the roaring fire next to them and the furs Ciri is buried in.

Geralt hums and curls his arm tighter around Ciri’s frame, hand resting almost possessively on the girl’s hip. He doesn’t hide the small smirk that graces his lips when he feels Ciri shudder against a gust of wind and buries her angelic face on the crook of his neck.

“At least another month,” Geralt rumbles, his other hand rubbing soothingly along the thin arm wrapped around his torso. He chuckles and can’t help but kiss the top of his Child Surprise’s head when Ciri groans, his leather pants tightening a fraction when the girl breathes out against his neck. “Sorry, pup. We’re taking the longer route to keep Nilfgaard off our backs.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Ciri whispers. “Thank you for keeping me safe, Geralt.”

Affection blooms in Geralt’s chest, and he tightens his hold around her before pressing another kiss to her head. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. Being openly affectionate.

Hmm.

“Always, pup,” Geralt whispers back, chest rumbling in pleasure when he feels Ciri huddle closer. The weight of her growing tits pressed against his side sends another bolt of possessiveness to run through him.

He wants, so fucking much, but he knows he can’t.

~

They accidentally bump into Jaskier at one of the backwater villages they’re passing through.

After giving a heartfelt but stilted apology to what happened at the mountain almost a year ago, in which the bard milked every word Geralt uttered through gritted teeth like a cat that got the canary for a few seconds longer than necessary before accepting it with an over-the-top bow, Geralt introduces his friend to Ciri.

Ciri, who giggles behind her hand at Jaskier’s theatrical display, smiles and curtsies at the man dressed in bright colors.

“Lovely Ciri,” Jaskier says after he straightens himself. “What an absolute pleasure to meet you at last, my dear.”

“Likewise, Jaskier,” the young teen says. “Geralt has told me so much about you.”

Geralt arches a brow at her. He’s quite certain that he didn’t talk that much about Jaskier. Maybe once or twice. In passing.

Probably.

“Hm, has he now?” Jaskier directs a curious look at Geralt, who grunts in response. The bard grins at that. “Ah, I’ve definitely missed that.” Then he claps his hands. “So where are we off to next?”

“We’re going to Kaer Morhen,” Ciri pipes up before Geralt can answer.

He glances at his Child Surprise, only to feel dread settle in his stomach when he sees a sparkle in her eye as she continues to look up at their latest companion. That familiar sparkle has only ever been directed at Geralt before, and he’s not sure if he likes the way Ciri is staring at his friend.

When Geralt turns away to look at Jaskier, he doesn’t miss the calculating look in the bard’s eye as he meets Geralt’s gaze with an impish smile.

“Well, to the Witcher’s keep, it is!” Jaskier says with a grin, but not before winking at Ciri, who giggles again.

Geralt rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, although deep down a part of him doesn’t look forward to sharing Ciri’s affections with him.

~

Like everything in his life, Geralt learns to deal with it.

Yennefer, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Jaskier. Hell, even Triss.

They all become a part of Ciri’s life, and Geralt is so proud of her for having such a huge capacity for love. He’s secretly thankful to have the others’ support. Should anything happen to him, at least Ciri has other people to rely on.

“You’ll always be my number one,” Ciri tells him on her sixteenth birthday.

Geralt gifted her a customized dagger, emerald and topaz stones decorating the hilt. Upon seeing it, Ciri thanked him profusely with a kiss on his cheek and a tight hug, which Geralt returned just as tightly, lifting her petite form from the ground.

“Love you, pup,” Geralt whispers in her ear.

He feels Ciri shiver, her arms tightening around his neck. His slow heartbeat stutters when he feels moist lips press on the curve of his jaw, Ciri’s breath warm in his ear as she lovingly utters--

“I love you, too.”

Fuck.

~

The years pass by, and Geralt’s affections for Ciri deepen the older his Child Surprise gets. He, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir train her to be a Witcher minus the mutations, while Yennefer and Triss teach and train her to control her Chaos. In-between that, Jaskier educates Ciri in literature and history, geography and maths, and even poetry and politics.

She grows from a sweet-faced, cautious girl to a beautiful, powerful, and courageous woman. Ciri also developed a mischievous streak, thanks to Lambert, but it only made Geralt’s heart soften further every time he sees his ward’s beatific smile or hears her peals of laughter.

He knows he’ll always want her, always lust and crave for Ciri the way a man who’s responsible for raising his daughter isn’t supposed to. But Geralt has long accepted that it can never be, so if all he can ever have of Ciri is this, then it should be enough.

But it can’t be helped the way his heart cracks every time he sees Ciri, now eighteen and ready to walk the Path, flirt back with Jaskier.

He witnesses Jaskier flirt, shameless in his affections as he bestows a kiss on Ciri’s knuckles. On Ciri’s cheek, her forehead. And one time, the curve of her jaw from when she hugged the bard in greeting after not seeing one another for nearly a year.

This is enough, he thinks, even as he stands to the side and witnesses the two people he loves most fall for each other.

It has to be, he thinks again, even if it’s the furthest thing from what he desires.

~

Jaskier

Jaskier has always known Geralt has feelings for Ciri. Well, not always, perhaps. But he’s suspected. Ever since that first time Geralt introduced them to each other, Jaskier saw that glint in Geralt’s expression when the witcher thought he wasn’t looking. In the years they’ve been friends, Jaskier has studied and memorized every grunt and expression, and the face Geralt made that time when he was looking at Ciri was one of longing and desire.

And Jaskier, well. He’s also not blind to Ciri’s less-than-innocent affections, bestowed upon both him and Geralt.

Oh, yes. As much as Geralt claims to understand humans, he sure doesn’t see just how much Ciri wants him back. Granted, the child is more subtle about it, and it’s only thanks to Jaskier’s very good observational skills that he managed to detect it at all. It only worsened (improved? Eh, technicalities) over the years, as they trained her to be a Witcher and sorceress. The hopeless romantic in Jaskier yearns for these two to get their heads out of their asses, but to no avail.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise when Jaskier’s flirting pays off. Though Jaskier has known earlier that she’s always had a bit of a crush on him, when Ciri started flirting back with him it still took Jaskier by surprise, if only briefly.

Can’t blame her, really, he is quite a catch, after all.

Besides, there’s nothing wrong with it anyway, given the fact that Ciri is eighteen and a grown woman. And Melitele, how she’s grown. As much as he wants Geralt to have the happiness he so deserves, a part of Jaskier - the selfish part, that is - can’t help but cave in to his own desires.

Ciri has grown so beautifully, her ash-blonde hair framing her high cheekbones and striking emerald eyes. She’s grown in height as well, but Jaskier is still taller, the top of the young woman’s head reaching his chin, which is perfect because he only has to dip his head a fraction to kiss Ciri’s forehead. As for her body - gods, she’s curvy in all the right places, her breasts big and ripe and so tantalizing to look at, the globes of her ass plump and firm.

Surprisingly, nobody was against the blossoming romance between him and Ciri, and Jaskier thanks his lucky stars for that. He surmises that he’s probably the lesser evil, that it’s better that Ciri ends up with him - a humble bard and a trusted friend and companion of the White Wolf - than with some random person who may or may not have ulterior motives for bedding the princess. Some part of Jaskier thinks that he should feel guilty for pursuing his best friend’s daughter, but Geralt has remained tight-lipped about it, save for that time he nodded at Jaskier when Jaskier was whispering sweet nothings in Ciri’s ear after dinner.

While a part of him feels guilty, another part feels sorry. Sorry that Geralt is unable to make a move, to stake his claim or whatever. No, Ciri is not some animal or a property to be claimed - she’s a person meant to be loved and cherished and treated well. And Jaskier does. While a part of Jaskier feels sorry for Geralt, he also can’t help but be smug about it. He’s not going to shove it in his friend’s face, no, Jaskier is not that cruel. But he can’t help but feel pride at the fact that Ciri chose him.

And not only just choose Jaskier, but also lose her virginity to him.

~

“Jask,” Ciri moans, head thrown back in pleasure against the pillows and thick furs beneath her. “Fuck, just like that- fuck!”

Jaskier moans from where his mouth is sucking on her clit, hands grasping the backs of her thighs as he forces them further apart. They’re in Ciri’s room in Kaer Morhen, halfway through the last winter before his love sets out on the Path come spring.

He settles one leg over his shoulder before bringing his hand to Ciri’s pink folds, already slick with her juices after having come twice on Jaskier’s mouth, tongue, and fingers. Jaskier loves her like this, laid out naked on the bed, skin sweaty and flushed with arousal as he inserts two fingers inside her.

“Ah!” Ciri cries out, one hand moving to grab Jaskier’s head while the other remains by her side, tightly gripping the sheets. “Fuck, Jaskier, just fuck me already.”

“I am fucking you, my love,” Jaskier answers impishly, licking a stripe between her folds before swirling his tongue around her swollen clit.

Ciri makes a noise between a growl and a whine.

“D-don’t be an ass,” she gasps out when Jaskier’s fingers start to piston in and out of her, his tongue unrelenting on her clit. “I want your cock in me, Jask!”

Jaskier hums. “Just one more, Ciri. One more for me, my good girl.”

Ciri sobs as Jaskier inserts a third finger inside her, lips closing around the little nub as he starts to suckle on it greedily. They’ve been having sex for weeks now and Jaskier easily got used to the fact no matter how quiet they try to be in their lovemaking, the other Wolf Witchers will still hear them. So, really, there’s no need for them to hold back.

Which is why Jaskier loves it when he goes down on Ciri, the young woman so sensitive and receptive to his touches that she turns to putty every time Jaskier eats her out. He knows she loves it, loves how overstimulated she can get by Jaskire’s mouth and fingers before he eventually slides home into her. Her moans and whimpers, cries and demands for more and please and harder, Jaskier, never fails to send a thrill of pleasure and desire up his spine.

Jaskier lets go of her thigh as he lets his hand travel up his lover’s hips, abs, and then to her breasts. He pinches and rolls Ciri’s pebbled nipples, and she shouts and rolls her hips against Jaskier’s mouth and fingers, eagerly chasing after her third orgasm. It’s after a simultaneous pinch of her nipple and a suckle of her clit that Jaskier feels Ciri’s body shudder, inner walls clenching tight as she comes with a loud, broken moan of Jaskier’s name.

Pulling out his slick fingers, Jaskier sucks the digits into his mouth while he climbs up and on top of Ciri. Grinning blissfully, Ciri meets Jaskier’s lips with a pleased hum, loving the taste of her juices in his mouth. She pulls her long, muscular legs up to wrap around Jaskier, her feet resting on the small of his back as Jaskier guides his cock to Ciri’s wet cunt. They moan in unison, mouths still gliding against one another, when Jaskier finally enters her.

“Oh fuck, yes,” Ciri moans breathily. She wraps her arms around Jaskier’s broad shoulders, fingers curling on the back of his head in a light grasp. Jaskier moans as she bites his lower lip, and he snaps his hips roughly into her in response. “Jask. Fuck, baby, just like that.”

Jaskier shudders. He fucking loves it when Ciri uses that endearment on him, and he knows Ciri is aware of it, too. His arms move to wrap around Ciri’s body, their sweaty chests flushed together now. He adjusts his position, legs spreading a bit wider and planting his feet on the flush bed before deepening his thrusts, the wet squelch of skin slapping on skin drowned out by Jaskier’s grunts and groans and Ciri’s wanton moans.

They’re no longer kissing but their mouths are pressed together, open and panting. Jaskier angles his hips and thrusts in roughly, making Ciri gasp and grasp his hair tighter. Jaskier groans then traces the seam of Ciri’s lip with his tongue before diving into the hot, wet cavern of his lover, who reciprocates by tilting her head for a better angle. The kiss is hot and messy and filthy, and Jaskier’s chest blooms with love for the woman underneath him.

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs against her mouth. He smiles back when he feels Ciri smile.

“I love you too,” she murmurs back.

“Are you okay, darling?” he whispers next as he starts to kiss a trail from Ciri’s mouth to her cheek and jaw. “What else do you need?”

Ciri cranes her head to give Jaskier more access to lavish kisses and bruises down the side of her neck, legs adjusting to wrap tighter around him.

“S’perfect,” she whispers back, sounding wrecked and fucked out, which was Jaskier’s plan for tonight. “You’re perfect, Jask. B-but please - ah! - please, baby, fuck me harder. I want to feel you when I train tomorrow.”

Fuck. “As you wish, darling.”

And Jaskier delivers, plowing hard and rough into Ciri until it’s probably bordering on painful for his beloved, but Ciri’s moans become higher pitched until she’s screaming her pleasure from the intense fucking Jaskier is giving her. He hisses when he feels blunt nails scrape down his back to grasp his asscheeks. But the brief pain only spurned Jaskier to look down at Ciri’s lust-filled eyes, sweat trailing down his forehead and lashes as his hips begin to falter when he felt his balls draw tighter, his orgasm drawing closer.

He unwraps one arm around Ciri, only to bring it to his lover’s engorged clit. It only takes a few strokes before Ciri comes, her walls clenching around his cock that it makes Jaskier see stars when he comes half a dozen thrusts later. And he comes so hard inside her he nearly passes out, but fortunately he was able to fall beside her rather than on top, their chests heaving as they come down from one of the most intense climaxes they shared.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasps out. Ciri snorts in laughter beside her, and he can’t help but chuckle in return. “What are the chances they’re on the other side of the keep?”

“Zero.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier repeats, but it’s more amused than worried.

Ciri snorts again before turning to curl herself around Jaskier. Despite the sweat and come sticking to their heated skins, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around her, fingers trailing soothingly from waist to hip as they bask in the afterglow.

“I can’t wait ‘till we’re on the Path together,” Ciri murmurs from the crook on Jaskier’s neck. “Hunting monsters, earning coin, and getting fucked silly by my lover.”

Jaskier is too old to blush, but here he is, flushing pink at being referred to as Ciri’s lover. Because he is. He’s Ciri’s. And Ciri is his.

“I can’t wait for that, too,” Jaskier murmurs back, pressing his lips to her sweaty forehead. “Oh, the songs I will write and sing of you, my love.”

Ciri giggles, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat at the familiar sound he’s grown to cherish so much.

“Me, too.” Then she adds thoughtfully, “Hope dad doesn’t complain much, though.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, didn’t dad tell you? He’s traveling with us for a few months. Didn’t want him to at first because I’m a grown woman, but he said he just wants to ease me into the Path now that I’m officially a Witcher-slash-Sorceress.”

Huh. Now that’s interesting, Jaskier thinks. Geralt never mentioned anything about traveling with them come spring, but then again it sort of makes sense. Firstly, Geralt is nothing but an overprotective dad, which Jaskier doesn’t blame him for in the least bit. And secondly, Jaskier isn’t an idiot. He’s seen the looks Geralt keeps giving him since he and Ciri consummated their relationship. The longing and want is a sight to behold on the witcher’s face, but jealousy is not a suitable look on him.

Jaskier isn’t sure what Ciri’s feelings are for Geralt, now that they’re romantically involved. Maybe it was just a passing crush, maybe it’s more. But knowing that Geralt’s affections for his beloved has not waned in the slightest over the years, Jaskier supposes that it won’t hurt if he carries out a few tests of his own. Just to see if the attraction still goes both ways.

And he knows the perfect thing to do.

~

Geralt

Spring finally arrives, and Geralt sets out on the Path once more. But this time, he leaves with Ciri and Jaskier, the former beside herself with excitement at the prospect of finally leaving the Witcher’s keep to find her place in the Continent.

Once they reach the bottom of the Blue Mountains, they set on the path and continue traveling for several days, camping in the forest and bathing in rivers, until they reach a village. After stabling their horses and paying the stableboy to tend to them, they first go to the inn to rent a room for the night.

“Make that two rooms, please,” Jaskier interjects at once after Geralt grunts at the innkeeper for a room with two beds. Geralt and Ciri exchange a look before Geralt turns suspicious eyes on the bard. “Single beds would do. And two baths as well, lovely madame.”

Ciri purses her lips to hide a smile but Geralt’s frown deepens at the wink Jaskier throws at his… at Ciri. He’s spent most of winter listening to them go at it like rabid animals, and Geralt is not in the fucking mood for whatever the bard is planning. It’s one thing to hear Ciri’s moans and whimpers in the safety of Kaer Morhen’s walls, and it’s another out here on the Path. Where other people can hear. And that’s something Geralt isn’t sure he’s comfortable with.

“Two rooms are too expensive,” Geralt grumbles to Jaskier as they take the stairs to the second floor. “And unnecessary.”

Jaskier waves him off with a smile and a pat on his shoulder.

“Come now, Geralt,” he says. “Ciri’s a grown woman. Surely you want to give her some privacy when she’s bathing.”

Jaskier gives him an arched look while Ciri blushes prettily beside him.

The image of Ciri - wet and naked and bathing herself, touching herself - is brought to the forefront of Geralt’s mind, and it takes a moment longer for him to think of an appropriate reply.

“Don’t be crass,” he grunts with a scowl, swallowing inaudibly past the dryness in his throat. “I’m just being practical.”

“It’s fine, dad,” Ciri soothes him with a hand on his arm. Geralt turns and his heart melts at his daughter’s soft smile. Then it broadens until she’s grinning cheekily at him. “But Jask is right. I’m a grown woman now.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but nods his head in understanding.

“Great! Let’s meet at the tavern for dinner, then? Our baths will be arriving soon.”

And just his luck, Geralt’s room is right next to theirs. Geralt just grunts in agreement before unlocking his door and stepping inside. He can hear their muffled voices next door, interspersed with giggling and wet smacks that can only be them kissing. Geralt tries his best to tamp down the jealousy that’s been simmering lately, taking deep breaths instead to keep his emotions under control.

He’s happy for Ciri, of course he is. And he’s happy for Jaskier, too. His daughter and best friend finding love in each other was shocking at first, yes, but Geralt has grown to accept it. But it doesn’t mean he’s not immune to fits of jealousy every now and then. Hearing Ciri’s sounds of pleasure has brought Geralt to completion a handful of times, yet it’s a torture of its own kind because he knows why Ciri is making such beautiful, shameless noises. The fact that it’s Jaskier who is giving her such pleasure somehow makes Geralt ache for her more, makes him crave to get a touch, a taste, of his little girl.

A thud breaks Geralt out of his musings, and he looks up in confusion from arranging his packs in the corner. Realizing it’s coming from next door, Geralt is about to yank his door open when he hears another thud, followed by moaning.

Geralt blinks and then exhales through his nose. Fuck.

“Jask, please,” he hears Ciri moan. Geralt’s leather pants become tighter at the sound of her breathy gasps. “Please, please, I want your cock.”

Fuck, Geralt repeats as he gulps and staggers to the end of the bed where he lands on gracelessly.

“Begging so prettily, my love,” he hears Jaskier praise, then it’s followed by the sound of sucking and slurping and-- shit, Geralt thinks. The bard’s mouth is likely buried on Ciri’s cunt. “You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you?”

Ciri lets out a whimper that makes Geralt’s cock throb, the huge bulge on his leather pants bordering on painful, but Geralt grits his teeth.

“Yes yes, please, I’ll be your good girl.”

“Fuck,” Geralt whispers under his breath. He closes his eyes, imagines Ciri saying those words but to him instead. “Fuck.”

What follows is what Geralt can only describe as a quick and dirty fuck. He listens, enraptured, as Jaskier gets off Ciri twice, his daughter obviously holding back on her moans and whimpers. Geralt wets his dry lips when he hears the rustle of clothes being shed and thrown carelessly, the sounds of flesh pressing against flesh as two bodies land gracelessly on the straw mattress bed. Geralt grits his teeth when he hears Ciri beg for Jaskier’s cock, her voice breathy and dripping with lust and love and desire. And Jaskier eagerly replies back, just as breathily, that Ciri’s being such a good girl, his good girl, as he tells her to turn around and go on her hands and knees.

At this point, Geralt finally gives in and unlaces his pants. He only shoves it down past his thighs before he grasps his throbbing cock with a hiss. Precome dribbles down from the tip and Geralt smears it around his thick length, spitting on his hand to add more slick. He lets out a gasp when he focuses back on the two people fucking next door, the sounds of Jaskier rutting into Ciri mixed with their moans of pleasure.

“Is this what you wanted, princess?” he hears Jaskier growl.

“Yes!” Ciri moans, and Geralt can tell she’s moving her hips back to meet Jaskier’s thrusts. “You always fuck me so well.”

“Of course I do, darling. You’re such a good girl. You’re my good girl.”

“Yours,” Ciri affirms with a broken sob. “Always yours.”

Geralt tightens his grasp around his length, one hand stripping his cock while the other fondles his heavy sac. He’s only a room away, but it’s like he can hear Ciri’s voice in his ear, the squelch of her dripping cunt being plowed roughly by another man’s cock audible from where he’s perched. His nostrils flare, and Geralt swears he can smell her sweet and musky scent from here as well, and it’s that thought that sends him over the edge.

Geralt comes hard, thick ropes of hot cum painting his chest and throat. He opens his eyes in shock when he hears Ciri make a high keening sound, and he’s heard it dozens of times before that he knows she reached her climax as well. A minute later and Jaskier follows, hips stilling as he cums inside Ciri with a drawn out groan.

Everything is silent aside from their heavy breathing. Geralt’s heart is beating like a normal human’s against his ribs, and he blinks several times at the realization that he just masturbated to Ciri and Jaskier having sex. Next door.

Fuck, Geralt thinks.

“That was incredible,” he hears Ciri comment with a breathy giggle. Geralt’s heart twinges at the sound.

Jaskier returns it with a throaty chuckle of his own. Then it’s followed by a smacking of lips and tongue.

“Glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart,” Jaskier replies, and even Geralt can hear the smugness in his tone. “I’ve been wanting to do that all week.”

Ciri giggles again. “So that’s why you got a second room, hm?” There’s no reply, but Ciri’s laughter is bright as she says, “Brilliant idea there, love. But next time, maybe don’t get a room next to dad’s?”

Geralt stiffens, and he hears Jaskier hum before the bard replies, “Maybe. But where’s the fun in that, hm?”

What?

“You’re awful!” Ciri laughs while a light smack to Jaskier.

“I’m really not,” Jaskier disagrees smoothly, and Geralt is confused. “Now come on, darling, our bath’s arriving soon.”

As they get up to dress once more, Geralt remains seated on the bed, pants unlaced and soft, wet cock hanging out. And all he feels is confusion and longing.

~

It happens again at the next village they pass through.

Geralt has been soaking in the steaming bathtub for the better part of an hour and a half when he hears Jaskier and Ciri stumble into their room next door. He hears them clumsily shed their clothes in-between heated kisses and muttered praises, Ciri’s whimpers turning to moans at the telltale sound of Jaskier sucking bruises on her collarbones where it can be hidden by her shirt. Geralt’s cock swells until it’s stiff under the water, and he bites his lower lip to fight off the groan that rumbles in his throat when he guiltily takes himself in hand.

He can hear their heartbeats pick up, which is quickly followed by a loud thud of someone’s back hitting the wall. Geralt nearly jumps when he the sound reverberates on the wall next to him, and he realizes how small the distance is from his position in the tub to where Jaskier and Ciri are.

What follows next nearly short circuits Geralt’s brain. There’s the thud of someone going on their knees, then he hears Jaskier swear before he chokes off into a moan. Ciri’s moan joins his before it’s interrupted by the sound of suckling.

“F-fuck, Ciri,” Jaskier gasps.

Ciri hums, then she takes a deep breath, her voice muffled around a mouthful of -- of cock. Fuck, she’s on her knees and deepthroating Jaskier, whose head is thumping against the wall. The wall that’s the only godsdamn thing that serves as a barrier between Geralt and the coupling that’s happening next door. He continues stroking his cock - long, languid strokes as he closes his eyes and listens to Jaskier’s filthy praises of Ciri’s cocksucking skills, how she’s a good girl taking his cock so well and how Jaskier is going to reward her for being the best lover he’s ever had.

Geralt’s chest rumbles, jealousy and desire and longing warring within him as he listens to Jaskier talk while Ciri hums and mutters, “you taste so good, baby” before diving back in to swallow the precome with a slurp before taking Jaskier’s cock to the hilt. This goes on for several minutes until Geralt can smell how close Jaskier is, and then the bard forces Ciri off his cock. Ciri’s moan of protest is immediately cut off when Geralt discerns the shuffling sound as Jaskier pulling his daughter up from the floor, only to turn her around as Ciri’s back hits the wall.

“Jask-- oh.”

Geralt’s breath hitches when he hears Jaskier’s huff of breath, accompanied by him lifting Ciri off the ground.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, and he grips his cock at the base when he perceives Ciri’s legs wrap around Jaskier’s waist.

“Going to take you like this, love,” he catches Jaskier mutter, his voice muffled from where it’s likely pressed against Ciri’s long, pale neck. “Going to you make you mine like this.”

There’s a faint sound followed by Ciri whining.

“Jask, please, baby, please,” she pleads, and fuck if that doesn’t make Geralt’s cock pulse with want. His baby girl sounds fucking stunning like this.

Jaskier tuts and then murmurs, “No, darling. I want you to come on my cock. Just my cock. Be a good girl for me, please?”

Ciri lets out a sob but Geralt thinks she nods her head.

“Okay.”

“Lovely. So beautiful, Cirilla. So good for me. My love, my princess.”

Jaskier continues to whisper pretty names and erotic praises, and Geralt makes out the sound of his cock entering Ciri’s wet, tight cunt. The bard groans while Ciri lets out the filthiest moan Geralt has heard so far. It’s a high keening sound that breaks into a drawn out “fuck”.

Geralt holds his breath and his patience is rewarded as Jaskier proceeds to plow into Ciri. The thuds against the wall become a steady, crude beat as Ciri tightens her hold around Jaskier, whom Geralt guesses is clutching her plump cheeks while relentlessly driving his cock in and out her. Geralt finds himself matching Jaskier’s thrusts to his strokes, distantly impressed by the bard’s stamina.

“So fucking good, darling,” Jaskier says in-between grunts. “You love having me inside you, don’t you? Can’t get enough of my cock keeping you warm and full.”

“Yesyesyesyes fuck.” Ciri chokes off a moan when Jaskier’s next thrust comes rougher. “Just like that. Jask - ah! - fuck, I love your cock. Love how f-full I feel. L-love it especially w-when you - ah, ah - cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groans. Somehow, Geralt thinks he changes the angle because Ciri squeals and whimpers, the squelch of skin slapping on skin lewd and obscene to Geralt’s ears. “Ciri. Darling, sweetheart. Oh, my good girl. So good for me. I’m close. So fucking--”

“Yes yes yes,” Ciri moans wantonly. “Fucking cum in me, daddy!”

Holy shit.

Geralt does. He bites his knuckles hard to stop himself from moaning. He distantly hears Jaskier groan out loud, the bard going still as he spills his seed inside Ciri, who in turn comes with a cry.

“Daddy, huh?”

Geralt’s fucked out brain registers Jaskier’s voice, a teasing lilt in his tone. Ciri’s answer comes a beat later, embarrassment clear in her voice.

“Yeah, well,” she clears her throat before she tries again. “You keep calling me your good girl, so. Calling you ‘daddy’ sounds fair.”

There’s silence for a while. Geralt’s heart rate returns to normal when he hears Jaskier hum thoughtfully along with a light smack of lips.

“I prefer it when you call me ‘baby’, though. Are you sure it’s me you want to be calling that, hm?”

And Geralt’s heart picks up again.

“Jask…”

“Yes, love?”

“Come on. You know I…” she trails off again. Geralt takes a whiff, and his brows furrow when he detects the scent of embarrassment, lust, and… and guilt.

Guilt?

Before he can ponder further, Jaskier’s soothing voice filters through again.

“I know,” he says reassuringly. “And you know I’m fine with it. In fact, I encourage it.”

There’s doubt in Ciri’s voice when she replies, “I know, but what if… I don’t think--”

“There’s no harm in trying, right?” Jaskier interjects gently. “Besides, you know I’m perfectly okay with it.”

“Okay, but not right now. Soon.”

“Okay. Soon, then.”

“I love you, you know that, right?” Ciri says when they break apart for air. Geralt blinks, and his heart twinges at the clear affection in her voice.

He hears Jaskier kiss her deeply before pulling away again to say, “Yes I do, and I love you too. Nothing is going to change that, my love.”

They start kissing again, and this time it’s accompanied by the shuffling of their feet as they make their way towards the bed. As Geralt listens - eavesdrops - on such an intimate moment, he wonders to himself what Jaskier is encouraging his daughter in.

~

“Hope you enjoyed last night.”

Geralt stiffens in shock from where he’s saddling Roach, and he slowly turns his head in time to see Jaskier’s knowing smirk. He couldn’t breathe for a second, fear gripping his heart as he meets his friend’s steady gaze. Jaskier’s smirk softens into a look of understanding, then he pats Geralt’s shoulder.

“It’s quite alright, my friend,” he murmurs as he walks past Geralt. Fortunately, Ciri can’t see Geralt’s stoic face, or hear what Jaskier says next. “Our girl loves to put on a show for you.”

Then he walks away humming a familiar tune, and Geralt is left standing beside Roach, mouth agape in shock as his brain processes Jaskier’s words.

~

So that’s what they do. Every time they stop by a village and rent a room for the night, Geralt is treated to a “show”.

Ciri bouncing on Jaskier’s cock as Jaskier fondles her breasts and narrates to her all the filthiest things he wants to do to her when they return to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

Jaskier going down on Ciri and getting her off three times with his hands and mouth before flipping her over and plowing into her from behind until Ciri is sobbing and begging for Jaskier to ruin her, to fuck her so hard she won’t be able to ride her horse for the next week.

Ciri choking on Jaskier’s cock as Jaskier grasps her hair and fucks her throat before pulling out to paint her face and chest with his cum, Ciri moaning and suckling on the tip of Jaskier’s cock to milk him dry.

There’s that time they were slightly tipsy and Geralt fisted his cock to the sounds of Jaskier bending Ciri over the desk, lifting one of her legs to rest on top of it, and then taking her from behind. Ciri’s whimpers and pleas for more, harder, please, baby, was so lascivious that Geralt came twice before either of the two reached their own climax.

Geralt also notices that they have a thing for fucking against the wall. Ciri especially loves it when Jaskier lifts her up, the only thing supporting her the wall she’s pressed against and Jaskier’s strong arms. Jaskier drives his cock into her at a punishing pace every time, and that never fails to make Ciri squeal and cry out like a whore, and then come with that high keening moan that breaks halfway and makes Geralt’s cock throb that he comes so fucking hard.

And then there’s last night, when Geralt is in bed and stroking himself for what’s probably the hundredth time as he listens to Jaskier pound Ciri through the mattress, their moans salacious and loud to his enhanced hearing. The heavy thumping of the headboard hitting the wall can also be heard, and Geralt half wonders, not for the first time, just where Jaskier gets his stamina because not once has the bard failed to keep up with Ciri.

“Gods, just like that.”

“I love it when your cunt quivers around me, darling.”

“Harder, ah, harder, fuck!”

“I’m gonna cum again, love. Do you want it?”

A broken sob. “Yes, Jask, yes. Please. Want it so much. Want to be full of your cum.”

Jaskier only lasts for another minute until Geralt picks up his change in breathing before Jaskier stills and lets out a deep, satisfied groan. The image of his friend, face slack in pleasure as he spills his seed inside Geralt’s ward sends him to the edge, back arching and hips bucking as he strokes once, twice, thrice before angling his cock and painting his chest and abs with thick ropes of cum.

Fuck.

Geralt lets out a slow exhale, his body limp on the lumpy mattress as he regains his breath after listening to the coupling next door for nearly an hour. He doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. They’ve been doing this for three months, and Geralt should’ve parted ways with them a month and a half ago, but something compelled him to stay and continue… whatever this is.

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? He knows the reason why he hasn’t left yet. He knows who, and though Geralt is still confused at what exactly they’re up to, he remembers Jaskier’s words to him.

“Our girl loves to put on a show for you.”

And Geralt has every intention to see it through the end.

~

The end, Geralt finds out a few weeks later, is far from what he expected. Given the fact that he’s been actively listening in and masturbating to his best friend and daughter’s coupling for the past several months, Geralt was expecting something explosive or… hell, even dramatic.

But that wasn’t the case.

Nonetheless, the sight still left Geralt breathless.

He’s just returned to the inn from being at the market, having spent a few hours haggling with the blacksmith for repairs on his armor, restocking his potion supplies, and looking for a new bridle for Roach. Geralt climbs up the stairs, and he’s almost at the end of the hall where their rooms are when he hears an odd noise coming from his room. Senses on high alert, Geralt unsheathes a dagger from his side and quickly pushes the door open, only to be greeted with an unlikely sight.

It’s Jaskier. And Ciri. Naked.

On Geralt’s bed.

Geralt distantly feels his hand let go of the dagger, his weapon clattering to the floor as his mouth hangs open in shock, amber eyes wide at the salacious view before him. Jaskier is leaning against the headboard, chestnut locks slightly damp and curling on the edges as he stares at Geralt with a pleased, knowing smirk as he trails his hands up and down Ciri’s curves.

Ciri. She’s leaning against Jaskier, her back pressed to the bard’s broad and hairy chest, and it’s this particular view that has Geralt clenching his jaw and gulping inaudibly.

Ciri, whose ash-blonde locks are put up in a messy bun, her neck and chest glistening with perspiration. Her legs, lean and long that go on for miles, are tangled with Jaskier on the sheets below, but at the sight of Geralt she shamelessly bends her knees and spreads them. Eyes wandering from her perky breasts to her abs, and then the curve of her hips, Geralt’s nostrils flare when he gets a whiff of her sweet, musky scent - a fragrance Geralt has become intimately familiar with in recent months. His mouth salivates when his eyes finally land on Ciri’s cunt. Her pubic hair is trimmed, exposing the pink folds moist with her juices and arousal, the little nub looking swollen and so fucking inviting.

Geralt’s leather pants are tighter now, his cock swelling at the sinful beauty in front of him.

“Ciri,” Geralt rasps out, eyes feasting on the image of one of Ciri’s hands going down to her cunt, fingers trailing between her southern lips as she starts to play with herself. “What…”

“We thought you might want to be an active participant for the encore,” Ciri purrs, emerald eyes hooded with lust as she bites her lower lip to fight off a moan when she flicks her thumb against her clit.

Geralt’s breath hitches and he looks from her to Jaskier, who’s still smirking at Geralt.

“You heard our girl, Geralt,” Jaskier agrees with a cock of his head. “Well? Are you going to shut the door or not? We’d really prefer not to have an audience for this.”

Geralt moves to close and lock the door behind him, but not once did he look away.

“Are you…” Crazy? Joking? Serious? Sure?

It’s Ciri who answers this time.

“Yes,” she says with a sigh as she buries her middle finger inside her stretched hole, emerald eyes dark with want as she meets Geralt’s hungry gaze. He growls low in his throat when Jaskier moves his hands to fondle Ciri’s breasts, fingers pinching and rolling her pink nipples as Ciri moans and starts to roll her hips against the two fingers now buried inside her. “Please, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts, and it’s like his body is moving of its own volition as he quickly divests himself of his boots and clothes in record time. Naked, he kneels at the foot of the bed, right between Ciri’s spread legs. He inhales their arousal - his, Ciri’s, and Jaskier’s - and something unfurls in Geralt. “What do you want, little girl?”

Ciri shudders, but her voice is strong when she says, “I want you to fuck me, daddy, and I want you to cum in me.”

“Such a good girl,” Jaskier praises, mouth sucking bruises on the side of her neck as he lightly squeezes her tits. “Telling daddy exactly what she wants.” Then he looks up and meets Geralt’s gaze, and Geralt feels something like understanding pass between them. Jaskier’s smile is lazy but seductive when he tells him, “Go on, then, love. Feast on our girl. She’s all yours.”

“Yours,” Ciri agrees with a moan.

Well, who is Geralt to say no or deny their desires, right?

So he leans forward and finally, he feasts. Once he’s sated, he goes for seconds. And thirds, and fourths.

And so on.

~*~

A/N: I didn’t know how to insert it in the fic, but Ciri drinks some birth control potion to prevent her from getting pregnant ‘cos she’s a cockslut and really loves it when Jask, and now Geralt, cums in her. ;) Also, I know I ended it in a cliffhanger, but I intended it like that. Thank you for reading!

[aenwoedbeannaa]

A Curse Meant to Be Broken || Part 6

Summary: You have made your decision--you will take the greatest of risks in the hope that it will save your life. However, to your horror, Geralt doesn’t seem so optimistic. 

Word Count: 2,698

A/N: I’m back, y’all! As part one of my WIP Week, here is the next chapter of one of my favorite WIPs. As always, thank you so much for reading, yada yada–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

Freedom & Destiny

You wake slowly, feeling like you’ve got a head stuffed with cotton. At first, your eyes don’t listen when you tell them to open—or rather, they protest strongly against it. You are, it seems, only able to blink them open for a few seconds before they flutter shut again, as if weighted down by lead.

On top of that, you feel different. Changed, somehow. Though, you can’t seem to put your finger on exactly what about you feels off. Aside from an overwhelming exhaustion, you don’t feel any pain. You stretch your fingers first, then your toes, as if to test that theory, but you’d been right. You are able to stretch your whole body without any pain, aside from the dull ache in your back, which you knew would not be going away until your body was mutated—changed enough to dispel the venom.

Sensing you stirring in your sleep, Geralt brushes his fingers across your face. You blink up at him, finding him staring down at you with tired eyes.

“You look like hell,” you inform him with a little grin, wanting to put him at ease. His face is still lined with worry, and it looks as if he hasn’t slept at all.

“How kind,” he responds, though his smile does not quite reach his eyes.

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows, “Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

“Geralt!” You pout, even though the idea that he’d stayed awake all night watching over you was more than enough to melt your heart. Still, you didn’t need him worrying himself sick over you. You could handle it… You’d have to.

“Those potions can be deadly, Y/N,” he reminds you quite needlessly. As if you’d forgotten about that.

“Well, I’m alive,” you point out. Yes, you were alive, and you planned on keeping it that way. Everything about the mutagen you’d taken was unpleasant, from its horrid taste to the way that it burned down your throat and then out from your chest until your whole body felt like it was on fire. But, it was your only option, the only way you’d get to stay alive, and stay with Geralt. You’d drink a hundred more, a thousand more if you had to. No price was too great.

“And thank the gods for that,” Geralt says as he shifts so he can press a kiss to your lips, one hand gently cradling the side of your face. You sigh into the kiss, mouth opening for Geralt to explore, which he does eagerly.

Your body is already buzzing, somehow still pent up with need despite the effects of the mutagen you’d taken the night before. You push yourself against him, letting a hand slide down his sculpted chest, wanting to memorize every inch of him. You could get used to waking up this way.

You’ve only just begun sliding your hand up under his shirt to lift it over his head when he pulls back from the kiss and moves one hand, gripping your wrist to still your own. You sigh and blink up at him—you’re alone, no chance of anyone bothering you—why stop now? But, as if he can hear the thoughts in your head, she gives a slight shake of his own. No.

You pout, resigned. He just sighs and smiles down at you, the spark in his eyes telling you that he’d prefer not to stop either, but—

“You’ve got to eat something. We’ll go down to the kitchen.”

Your stomach turns at the idea of eating anything, especially when the last thing you’d consumed had made you feel like death itself, and you begin to protest, “I’m not hungry, Geralt.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, releasing your wrist and pushing himself up, swinging two large legs over the side of the bed. “You need to eat, or the mutagens won’t work.”

Of course, from the way that he says “won’t work,” you gather that he actually means “will be far more likely to kill you.” You groan and push yourself up, following suit and swinging your legs over the side of the bed, standing up carefully, more slowly that usual. You don’t want to risk blood rushing to your head and sending you into a heap on the floor—you don’t need him any more worried than he clearly already is.

Gingerly, you reach your arms up over your head and stretch, surprised at the lack of any discernible discomfort. If anything, you feel more flexible, stronger. Yes, the mutagen is definitely changing something, though you can’t exactly tell what. You resist the urge to pelt Geralt with questions about the strange liquid and what exactly it is doing to the cells in your body. It had certainly felt as if it were ripping them clean apart; but you know there must be more to it than that. Perhaps, as quickly as it had seemed to rip them apart and scramble them, it was putting them back together—now changed, maybe better somehow. That was the point, after all, wasn’t it?

Once you are confident in your ability to walk without making a complete fool of yourself, you walk over the the wardrobe. Inside, you find a few of your own clothes—most of which were rather dirty after all those days of traveling—and some new ones that must have been scrounged up from around Kaer Morhen. As you grab a pair of breeches and a tunic, your mind wanders.

When was the last time there were new Witchers being taught here? How many had there been? Were these close from some of them? Young men who spent their days training for a job that would most certainly kill them in the end would explain how they happened to have clothing that was relatively the right size.

Once you’ve dressed, you turn around to face Geralt, attempting a nonchalant smile despite the fact that your nerves are fraying. You know you want to do this—you just with there was some certainty in it. The only thing that seems relatively certain to happen, regardless of the choice you make, is that you may die. But you can’t bear to think about the unfairness of all that just now, so you do what you always have and push the thoughts down, down beneath every other thought you can conjure up.

“Ready?” Geralt asks.

You nod firmly and follow him to the door.

* * *

“How do I feel?” You repeat the old Witcher’s question back to him as if you hadn’t heard it the first time. “I… I mean, I guess I just feel… different.”

They’d given you a second potion after breakfast, which had seemed like a horrible idea. It took all of your self-control not to gag and empty the contents of your stomach back onto the large wooden table. However, after a few anxious minutes passed, the burning sensation down the back of your throat faded away, leaving no pain in its wake.

It did, however, leave you with your muscles tingling—aching for movement. But, despite the increased energy, you felt the strange sensation of a slowed pulse. At first, it only reminded you of the slowed pulse of the fever you’d had as a child. Some kind of bacteria or virus, you don’t remember what the healers had called it. You only remember the dazed feeling and the terrifying realization that your heartbeat was slowing down; much too slow to sustain human life. But, you’d survived that. And now, you supposed, the slowed heart rate was simply part of you—if you lived, that is.

“Explain what you mean by different,” Visimir pulls you from your thoughts.

You glance up at him, fingers drumming on the table, “I feel like I could run a mile, or… I don’t know, climb the gods-damned walls or something.” It is the only explanation you can think of that makes any sense. “And my heart,” you quickly add, “It’s beating slowly.”

“Hmm,” the gray-haired man says, cocking his head to the side and allowing a small smile to appear for the first time, “It seems you’ve brought me the perfect candidate for a Witcheress, Geralt.”

Geralt smiles, but it is strained, as if he’s got less faith than the old man. You decide that, at least in this particular instance, you’d side with the one who’d been overseeing training and mutations for longer than anyone you know has been alive.

“You know there’s no such thing as a perfect candidate,” Geralt says, somewhat bitterly.

“That’s right enough,” Visimir mused. His eyes looked distant; lost in thought. But, unlike Geralt’s gaze, which seemed to be filled more with guilt and fear than anything else, the older Witcher’s eyes were just that—thoughtful. He was thinking things though, of course, but he was not writing this all off as a hopeless situation, which was more than you could say for most of them.

Once again, you feel your temper beginning to flare, the way everyone seems to talk about you as if you aren’t right there in the room with them.

Hearing the exaggerated huff of air you let out, Visimir turns his attention back to you, “We discovered… relatively recently, that there are certain people whose genetic makeup makes them better suited to undergoing the mutations than others,” he explains. “People like Geralt and, apparently, you.”

That last sentence knocks the breath out of you and you turn to look at Geralt, questioning. He hadn’t told you about that particular detail. Though, you suppose, it wasn’t really necessary information.

“Me?” you question, turning back to Visimir after failing to obtain the answer you wanted out of Geralt.

“Humans do not usually respond to mutagens the way that you did,” he explains, “You drank it last evening, yet here you are, walking around on your own the next morning.”

“How long does it usually take?”

“Assuming they live, a few days.”

The matter of fact way in which he says it would ordinarily be off-putting, but after learning about the poisoned blood in your veins, you were quickly recovering from any shock due to imminent danger. It just… Did not seem like something that was taken overly seriously here at Kaer Morhen. Which, you assume, is better than the alternative.

“Don’t fill her head with crazy ideas just because she lived, Visimir.” The hint of venom in Geralt’s voice knocks you off-balance slightly. You felt like you were going to get whiplash listening to the two of them going back and forth. You hardly had time to digest this new information from Visimir before Geralt seemed to quash any glimmer of hope it gave you.

“You know I don’t bother with crazy ideas, Gerlt,” Visimir says in the same calm way he seems to say just about everything.

“She helped kill a Noonwraith, and she drank a mutagen and didn’t die,” Geralt says, and you feel your stomach turn over on itself in disgust at his tone of voice, “And you actually think that makes her a Witcher?”

Your hands curl into fists, nails biting at the skin of your palms. You want to scream, but you manage to keep your voice calm, almost deathly so, as you look at him, “Wasn’t that the whole point of bringing me here?”

“I brought you here to save your life, not end it.” You can see concern in his eyes, but it hardly matters now—all you can hear is the tone he’d just used, the one that made it seem as if he regretted everything. The one that made it clear that he did not think you’d be capable of becoming a Witcher.

Fuck. You are angry with yourself for believing that he was different—for believing that he actually believed that you were something more than a weak country girl who needed saving and couldn’t possibly be anything beyond that.

Perhaps you had been too trusting of him—maybe he had only taken you away from Stephen and that shit town so that he could make you his own. You had let your guard down, and you had been taken for a fool. You’d promised yourself that you’d never let that happen, but it’d been too easy to fall for it. You’d wanted to fall for it.

Of course, you also recognized that it could quite well be that he was worried—that he had no faith that you’d actually be able to survive. Though, that didn’t make it hurt any less. You had thought that if anyone believed in you, it would have been him.

You hardly register what is being said around you as you wrack your brain for memories of the last weeks, trying to pick out moments where he might have given away this clearly obvious fact. You felt far away, disconnected from the voices of Geralt and Visimir sitting with you.

Still, you manage to pull yourself out of your thoughts to speak again.

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” you finally speak. You are surprised by how calm you still sound—surprised, and almost terrified. You sound far too measured, far too calculated. It has been so long since you’ve spoken like this that you managed to forget what it even felt like. “If you were so convinced that I was dead, you could’ve just left me back there.”

“Y/N,” he cuts in, eyes wide, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“It was pretty obvious what you meant,” you say through your teeth.

“That I don’t want you to die?” He asks, frustration in his voice.

“That you think me doing anything worthwhile is impossible,” you hiss.

Visimir, who had fallen silent, clears his throat before speaking, “This isn’t the time.”

Both of you snap your heads in Visimi’s direction, but several moments of silence pass before either of you manage to say anything.

“I’m doing it,” you assert before Geralt has time to say anything. Though, you suppose, it isn’t exactly something that he can argue against anyway. Regardless of his beliefs, this is the only way that you won’t die. Still, you feel the need to make sure that you get your point across first.

This is your choice—your decision—and it has nothing to do with him.

Geralt remains silent as you reach out a hand to take the small vial that Visimir has produced from one of the many pockets of his old, faded Witcher’s armor.

He is silent as you pop the cork from the small glass tube and drink it, tossing your head back and swallowing quickly.

He is silent as you stand up, suddenly with the same feline grace you’ve noticed in him, and leave the table.

Your first thought is to head back to your room—you vaguely remember the stone hallways and corridors that he’d led you through earlier this morning—but you decide against it. You feel a strange pulsing in your veins, a strange urge to run and run until your body gives out. So, you head from the hall and through the large doors, down the steps, and then push open the heavy wooden door that leads outside into the courtyard—into a land full of grass and trees, sheltered by the nearby mountains.

You take a few deep, calming breaths, and then you run.

You run straight for the trees, your body somehow knowing where to step and where to avoid. Branches crack beneath your feet, but you manage to avoid any of the low hanging branches that ordinarily would have scraped your face and arms. There is something beautifully natural about this—a strange feeling that this was what you were meant to be all along. Perhaps destiny was real; perhaps it was kinder to some than to others. Perhaps you were one of the lucky few.

And, despite the anger and sadness and guilt surrounding the fight you’d had with Geralt, you smile as your legs propel you forward along a trail you hadn’t even known existed. For the first time in your life, you feel free.

[areiton]

holy orange bottles - irondad

Read on AO3 

~*~

This was encouraged by @verdantmoth​ and inspired by Taylor Swift’s Soon You’ll Get Better and that’s all you need to know, really. 

~*~ 

This is the thing--he hovers. 

He hovers because Peter died in his arms, and he undid it and almost died, and by the time the world was set to rights, his arm replaced by a shining metal thing, Harley was at Peter’s side, both of them endlessly young and beautiful. 

They fell in love, sometime in the four months he lay in a coma, and Peter graduated from Midtown and he woke up to a world as different as it was good, and he hovers because he knows Peter, knows he’ll never give up Spider-man, but he watched his son die once, and he’s not sure he’ll survive it a second time. 

So he hovers. 

He hovers, and even still--he doesn’t notice. 

~*~ 

Peter sleeps a lot. He slumps exhausted into Tony on the couch, snuggles into Harley during movie night, snores under Morgan’s bony knees and against Rhodey’s thigh and under Pepper’s gentle hand. 

“He’s comfortable here, with us,” Tony says and Harley bites at his lip. 

“What if it’s more than that?” 

~*~ 

Morgan’s hair is tangled in his metal fingers, a laugh on her lips, and it’s at odds with the tiny room in the medical wing where he’s never spent much time. He’s always pushed into the room where Rhodey Steve Natasha Bruce Pepper sat under doctor’s care. 

“You can go back,” Pepper says, untangling their daughter from him, her eyes soft and warm. “You don’t have to wait with us.” 

He loves her for understanding. He kisses her forehead, and slips through the door separating him from Peter. 

Peter, who is dozing on the exam table, curled around Harley’s hand and pillowed with Tony’s sweatshirt, a pile of electrodes taped to his skin. 

“You lasted longer than we thought,” Harley murmurs. 

Tony huffs, and Harley looks up at him, wide wet eyes. 

“Hey,” he soothes, and he doesn’t want this role, doesn’t want to coax one child through the loss of another. “Hey, it’s ok, Harls. It’s ok.” 

“Do you remember what you told me, when we met?” Harley asks, a million miles and lives away from that surly little boy. 

He remembers. Of course he remembers. 

“I fix things. That’s what I do.” 

“Fix this,” Harley demands, voice raw, and Tony nods.

It’s a promise he doesn’t know how to keep. 

~*~ 

“We think,” Helen says, softly. Gently. “That the effects of the soul stone and your mutation are fighting.” 

Peter stares at her, and Tony--

Tony stares at Peter. 

He should ask questions, reassure his boy, hold Peter’s hand because he can see it’s trembling. 

He doesn’t. 

He listens, half aware and dazed, while Harley does, while Helen and Bruce explain something he hates and he watches Peter. 

~*~

Life changes. Drastic and small, top to bottom, life changes. 

Drastic--the boys move into the mansion, into the dusty unused wing that gives them privacy but keeps them close enough that Tony is underfoot constantly. He paints the sitting room and kitchenette and the sunroom where Peter likes to sit and watch Morgan playing, bright yellow and sky blue and a horrid shade of green that they argue about while Peter grins at him, alive in a way that is heart-breakingly rare. 

Small--tiny orange bottles line the bathroom shelves, days fill with doctor appointments and therapy sessions, and naps between because now--now, their new normal is resting. 

“I miss Spider-man,” Peter mumbles against his side. Harley is with Pepper, and the two of them are alone in the Mansion, and he’s curled against Tony’s side, a slighter weight then he’s ever been. “I hate this,” he adds, and there’s a hint of petulance in his tone. 

“Shhh,” Tony soothes, rubbing his trembling back. It’s sunny and warm and Peter is shivering against him. “You’ll be better soon, swinging around the city and giving us all heart attacks.” 

“Do you think so?” Peter asks, sleepily and Tony blinks back tears. “I don’t think so, Mr. Stark.” 

~*~ 

He cries, alone, in the silence of his shop, with DUM-E and U watching. 

He cries, great shaking sobs that remind him of a different shop, a different time, of ash on his hands and a desperate hopelessness and a ringing silence. 

~*~ 

He prays, now. 

When he’s pouring pills out of holy orange bottles. 

When he’s holding Peter as he throws up. 

When he’s laying, sleepless, next to Pepper. 

When he’s sitting next to Harley, belligerent and drunk and clumsy in his grief. 

He prays for a miracle. 

~*~

Tony is scared--terrified--that he used up his miracles, when he brought back his son and half the universe with him, when he survived. 

~*~ 

He says it like a mantra. When Peter is sleeping and he adjusts a blanket. When the boys are slumped against each other at the table. When Morgan perches on the couch between them, the three curled around each other like puppies, his beating heart outside his body. When he’s watching Peter working, slowly, but still working, in the workshop. When Peter looks at him, wet eyed and shivering weak, vomit flecking his mouth. He says it, like if he says it enough, a bastardized rosary, it’ll be true. 

“Soon, you’ll be better.” 

~*~ 

He is grateful, and bitter, that May is gone, dead in the aftermath of the Decimation, that she does not have to watch her son, their son, withering before her eyes. 

No parent should have to bury their child, he thinks. 

No parent should have to bury them twice. 

~*~ 

Rhodey finds him, because Rhodey always finds him, in the workshop the night Helen says, I’m sorry.

She cried, when she said it, when she laid the science and scans out, and he has never hated science, but he hated it, then. 

Peter Parker was dying. 

And nothing they were doing, could do, was enough to stop it. 

Rhodey slips into the ‘shop and slips around him, and holds him while he sobs, when he screams grief and fury into his friend’s broad chest, the safest place he’s ever known. 

Rhodey holds him while he falls apart, a complete, broken mess. 

And when Tony dries his eyes, Rhodey walks at his shoulder, a silent steady support, while he goes to take care of his family. 

~*~ 

The world gets smaller, in stages. The city and the Mansion, and the boys’ wing, and Peter’s bedroom--smaller and smaller, a narrowing that makes him ache. 

Peter deserves the whole world, not this sky blue room and windows full of dreary sky. 

Orange bottles wink at him from the bureau. 

“You have to take care of Harley,” Peter says, one afternoon. He sounds lucid, vibrant and awake and alive, and it hurts because it won’t last. 

“Pretty sure that’s your job now, spider-baby.” 

“Tony,” Peter says, softly and he blinks back tears. 

He doesn’t know how to do this. How to lose Peter, and survive. 

He doesn’t want to know how. 

“Please,” Peter asks. 

“Yeah, Pete,” he says, soft, helpless, and Peter smiles at him. 

He’d do anything, had done everything, for that smile. 

~*~ 

He prays to God, something he hasn’t done since the first time Howard hit him. 

The age of miracles and heroes has passed, but maybe. 

Maybe one more. 

Dear god, grant him one more. 

~* 

Peter’s breath, labored and wheezing, is the most precious sound in the universe, because it means he’s alive. Harley is curled in the bed around him, weak and pale against his sheets, in a sky blue room with empty orange bottles rattling like rosaries when another sound fills the night, the familiar whine of repulsors and the armor. 

He looks up, a smile on his lips, because Rhodey deserves that, and his heart stops as Rhodey’s eyes meet his, a vial clutched in his hand, and wild hope in his eyes. 

“Carol sent something,” he blurts. 

~*~ 

He sits next to his son, sleeping, pale and thin and alive. Still alive, an orange elixir from some far flung planet dripping into his veins. 

He watches and he whispers, a mantra, prayer, rosary, promise--”Soon you’ll be better.” 

[krizaland]

Imagine- Yandere!Dib (or just stalker!dib) x reader x Zim Where the reader recognizes dibs real creepy behavior and ends up going to Zim zam their friendo/crush for comfort and/or protection. And then that freinddhip becomes something more? Sorry for the long thing

Don’t be sorry! I love your idea! I kinda got carried away so there’s gonna be more than one chapter!

Be warned: Yanderes are creepy fucks. This fic will contain stalking, and obsessive behaviors.

Ever since you were little, you always were a little too nice. Anytime you saw someone in trouble, you always had the urge to help them no matter what.

Usually, most people would except your help and you would walk away feeling like you’ve done the right thing.

You never once regretted helping someone in need.

That is until Dib came along.

It all started in Elementary Skool. Dib was being picked on by a gaggle of bullies.

They dangled his favorite camera in front of his face while they pelted him with insult after insult.

Just hearing the sounds of Dib’s pained cries made your heart ache.

You remember pushing the bullies away and saving the camera.

The moment you handed the camera back to Dib, you noticed an unnerving look behind his glasses.

At first you brushed it off and tried to continue on with your day.

However, Dib insisted that you stay and talk with him.  You didn’t think much of it so you decided to humor him.

That was your biggest mistake.

The next thing you were bombarded with a flurry of conspiracy theories and accusations of random students being bigfeets and vampires in disguise.

Needless to say, you were pretty creeped out and decided to avoid him from that day fourth.

However, your attempts were all in vain.

No matter where you went, Dib would always be there, ready to drown you in another wave of paranormal nonsense.

Things only got worse as you got older.

Dib’s desire for your friendship had mutated into something far far worse.

To say he had a crush on you was a major understatement!

He would always follow you around and try to get your attention.

Whenever you needed something, Dib would miraculously have it for you the next day.

However, you knew that if you accepted the ‘gift’ you’d be subjected to yet another paranormal rant.

So you decided to politely decline his gifts, no matter how bad you needed the item in question.

Dib seemed to give up on you after he figured out you weren’t interested in his ‘gifts’.

Or so you thought.

You soon found your locker flooded countless love notes and slabs of heart shaped meat.

Each note was creepier than the last and you couldn’t get the stench of rotting meat out of your locker no matter how much you cleaned it.

You then started to notice cameras following you wherever you went.

At first you assumed it was just part of the Skool’s security system. After all, you’ve heard rumors that the Skool tends to watch students like hawks to make sure they don’t cheat on exams.

However, it didn’t take long for you to start noticing the same cameras peeking outside of your window.

Needless to say, you decided it was best to keep your blinds shut from that point on.

Of course, closing your blinds wasn’t enough to stop the creepy coincidences happening wherever you went.

Not by a long shot.

You soon found some of your underwear and dirty socks had mysteriously vanished.

The trashcans outside your house always rustled throughout the night. Only to be found tipped over by morning.

Things only got creepier at Skool.

You would always feel someone breathing heavily down your back whenever you talked to another student.

You would turn around but no one would be there.

To make matters worse, the next day, the student you had talked to would go missing.

Whenever the class needed to work in pairs, Dib would somehow always end up being your partner.

You always dreaded being paired with Dib for when he was’t spewing his usual brand of paranormal nonsense, he would often spend his time showering you with the creepiest compliments imaginable.

Things got even worse when the Skool Dance rolled around.

Dib wasted no time and sauntered up to you.

“Hey, Y/N! Glad I caught you! I was wondering if you had a date to the dance yet?”

You could see the madness oozing from his amber eyes with every word he spoke.

“Oh! Well I’m actually not going to the dance.” You admitted as you rubbed the back of your head.

“Oh? Why not?” Dib asked as he drew closer.

“Because I have a lot of homework to do.” You knew that wasn’t too far from the truth. You did have a lot of homework but that wasn’t the main reason.

“That’s why? You know, I could help out with that, if you want.” Dib offered, his eyes continued to stare into your soul.

“No. No that’s ok! I’d prefer to do it all myself. A-Anyway, I gotta get going! I gotta get to class and stuff so bye!”

And with that, you ran as fast as your legs could take you.

A creepy smile spread across Dib’s face as he watched you escape.

“Just you wait, Y/N, you’ll be mine someday…Then we’ll be together forever.”  

A small giggle escaped his throat. The giggle quickly grew and grew until Dib erupted into full on maniacal laughter.

The next day, your savior had arrived.

Standing next to Ms.Bitters was the cutest boy you had ever seen!

He may have had lime green skin but you couldn’t care less. After all you’ve seen way weirder kids walk through the door before.

“Class, I would like to introduce the newest, hopeless appendage to the student body. His name is Zim” Ms. Bitters grumbled “Zim, if you’ve got something to say, say it now because after this moment, I don’t want to hear another sound from you!”

Zim was taken aback by Ms. Bitters’s outburst but he quickly regained his composure.

“Hello, friends. I am a perfectly normal human-worm baby. You have nothing, absolutely nothing to fear from me. Just pay no attention to me and we’ll get along just fine.”

You struggled to stifle a giggle as Zim spoke. He sure did have a way with words.

Dib’s mouth was agape as he pointed at Zim. His body shook with anticipation as his crazed mind searched for words to shout.

“Take your seat now Zim!” Ms. Bitters snapped as she slithered back to her desk.

Zim cheerfully plopped down into the seat next to yours, only adding to Dib’s madness.

“Today’s lecture is about outer space and about how it will EVENTUALLY IMPLODE IN ON ITSELF!” Ms Bitters sneered.

Zim immediately hopped up onto his desk and waved his arms around.

“Yes, Zim?”

“In the event of say, a full scale alien invasion, how prepared do you think this planet’s defenses would be? Tell me.” Zim’s voice quivered as he sat back down.

“As I was saying, the universe is just doomed…doomed..dooooomed.” Ms Bitters crooned as bugs crawled around her face.

“Ok, am I the only one here who sees the alien sitting in class?” Dib asked as he managed to regain his composure.

The other students looked all around the room while your buried your face in your textbook.

You felt your stomach churn as you knew that Dib would harass you about Zim at lunchtime.

“There!” Dib snapped as he snapped a finger in Zim’s direction. “Right there!”

A horrified expression spread across Zim’s face as pink sweat dripped down his face.

“That is no kid! He’s an alien An alien! One of the monsters I’ve been talking about! He’s here to conquer Earth-”

“Oh not this again. You’re crazy.” Zita huffed as she folded her arms.

“What about his horrible green head?!-”

“INSOLENT FOOL-BOY! It’s a skin condition.” Zim interjected.

“And he’s got no ears! Is that part of your skin condition?! Huh?! No ears?!” Dib whined as he gestured to his own ears.

“Yes.” Zim replied as he somberly looked down at his desk.

“Man, Dib! You think that just because someone looks different you can call them an alien?” one student asked.

“I guess Old Kid is an alien too, huh?” Another added.

“How’s it going?” Old Kid chirped with a wave.

Dib sighed and got up out of his seat.  He scribbled away on the chalkboard before pulling out a metal pointer.

“Ok, this is us,” Dib pointed to a drawing of a naked human man. “And over here, this is Zim!” Dib pointed to a crude drawing of an alien.

“See the difference? Anyone? Anyone? Questions?”

One student raised his hand and grumbled.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with you? All you talk about is seeing aliens and ghosts and seeing bigfoot in your garage.”

“He was using the belt sander. Y/N! Back me up here! I know you can tell the difference!” Dib pleaded as he turned to face you.

Sure enough, everyone’s eyes were on you as you sunk into your seat.

You opened your mouth to speak but Zim spoke first.

“Oh Puh-lease! He’s always saying stuff! I remember that one time Mhm-Hmm.”

“Hey! You just got here!” Dib snapped as he zipped up to Dib’s desk, “Don’t let him trick you! I know what I’m talking about! And there it is. Sitting. Right. There.”

“Well he does look pretty weird.” Said one student.

“Yeah! And he is sitting.” Added another.

“You see? Actual proof that all of the things I’ve been saying are actually right!” A crazed grin spread across Dib’s face as he spoke.

You looked over and saw poor Zim sweating bullets. You knew all too well what it felt like to be humiliated by Dib.

You decided you had to do something. And fast.

“Finally a way to prove that I’m…That I’m..”

“That I’m crazy.” You mumbled from behind your textbook.

“Ok, now that makes sense.” Zita admitted as she sat back down.

“Man, we almost believed him.” Another student added.

Dib let out a growl as he shot Zim a fiery glare. Zim returned the glare in kind and prepared for a fight.

“Doomed…Doomed…Doomed…Ok go to lunch now!” Ms. Bitters commanded.

And with that, everyone flied out of the classroom and headed for the lunchroom.

Next

[shatteredglassanimated]

Shattered Glass Animated Season 1 Episode 5 - Nice To Melt You

The resistance receives a distress call from their spy in Sumdac’s ranks. With the help of the Decepticons, will they be able to get him out in time?

Overlord Sumdac was not having a good day.

The robotic creature he’d had restrained in one of his labs had gone into some sort of internal lock-down after his first accessing of it’s database, making the retrieval of new data nigh impossible. Not to mention the weeks it had taken to to clean out his private laboratory after his first disastrous attempt to re-animate the robotic head. The cleaning drones he’d sent were efficient and quick (he had designed them after all), but even they could only do so much.

He hadn’t been able to work on any private projects for a week and it would cost him a fortune to replace the equipment lost in the failed extraction-attempt. The resistance kept eluding him and his police-bots proved utterly incapable of tracking them or any other giant, metallic creatures.

If he had been able to, Overlord Sumdac would have isolated himself in his private quarters for the rest of the day, doing nothing but working on simpler, smaller robots as he had often done in his youth when the world seemed determined to undermine his efforts.

Alas, today marked the final test run of a batch of new and improved police-drones. Taller, sturdier and with much more advanced recognition software. For the moment, they were his best bet for nailing the resistance-scum. And thus, too important a project to leave overseeing the tests to one of his underlings.

Especially to one specific underling.

Standing behind the railing of the platform overlooking the assembly hall, Sumdac took a sip from his coffee, noting with annoyance that it was rather cold already. From up above he could see the human workers, scurrying about like mice and throwing nervous looks at him every now and again. They knew he was in a bad mood. And it was never good when Overlord Sumdac was in a bad mood. The only smile in the room came from Fanzone, who was standing to his left, eyes wide with anticipation, like a child about to receive birthday presents.

“Man, this is exciting! Those machines are gonna do so much good on the street sir, I can tell! Dunno what my wife keeps whining about, I’ve never seen those bad boys target anyone they weren’t s’posed to-”

Sumdac did his best to blend out the man’s ranting, gave half-hearted wave. “Begin the final test run.”

The scientist working the console to his right, a nervous man with blond, long hair that made Sumdac keenly aware of his own bald crown and ridiculous sunglasses turned to push a few buttons.

The light signaling the drones being active flared up and the machine straightened from it’s motionless slump and raised its arm cannons. It’s build in police sirens blared as it moved forwards toward the target set up for it across the room. Sumdac huffed approvingly. At least some machines wouldn’t disappoint him today.

But then it happened.

The drone twitched, stopping in it’s advance. Then, all of a sudden, it began to turn away from the target, arm canon still raised.

Sumdac frowned. Fanzone nervously shuffled his feet next to him.

“Deactivate it,” Sumdac ordered, pointing at the malfunctioning drone.

A few hasty typing-noises came from behind.

The drone didn’t stop. Instead, it’s canon whirled to life and fired - right at the wall behind the terrified spectators. Bullets tore through steel and metal, sparks flying everywhere. Workers screamed in a panic, running for the emergency exists.

Sumdac barely managed to dodge a shot. He heard Fanzone give a panicked screech as he dove down.

“What are you doing you incompetent buffoon?” Sumdac barked at the scientist. “Deactivate it!”

“I’m trying, Sir! It’s not reacting!” the man yelled back, frantically pushing button after button on his console.

He needn’t have bothered. The drone suddenly stopped dead in it’s tracks. Sparks flew out of it’s joints, making it’s body twitch. Smoke billowed out of it’s back, followed by a small explosion that made it jerk forward, before, with a last, pathetic creak, it fell in on itself altogether, a sad pile of burning, sparking, smoking metal.

Sumday watched it all, the grip on his mug getting tighter with every second. A small crack formed itself on the mug as the robot burned away.

“How could this have happened?” he growled, slowly turning around to the scientist on the console.

The man flinched under his boss’ piercing glare. “I-I don’t know, Sir. Probably a glitch. I’ll have it disassembled an thoroughly checked for bugs!”

“I’ll do that,” Sumdac snapped. “Evidently I am the only scientist around here worth his salt!” He whirled around, heading for the exit, ignoring Fanzone who was currently whimpering on the floor in a fetal position, mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll never doubt my wife again.”

Sumdac snorted. How easily humans were cowed by minor setbacks. He would never have gotten so far in the world, had his enthusiasm been as easy to curb as his chief of police’s.

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

Prometheus Black watched his ‘boss’ leave, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off his back. Sumdac hadn’t suspected a thing. He’d been worried he’d been too obvious this time.

Though he suspected most of his luck in that regard was due to Sumdac being utterly uninterested in keeping up with his human subordinates beyond the most necessary interactions.

It was this attitude that had gotten Black into several high-ranking position in the first place. He’d merely had to show enough aptitude to be promoted and simultaneously be subservient enough to not get Sumdac’s attention too much. It was easier than it sounded. And it certainly made his job as a mole all the easier.

Though his latest maneuver might have possibly changed that. Prometheus wasn’t really happy with it. The new police drones would have proved disastrous to the rest of the resistance if he’d allowed them to be released at this point in time. He rarely got away from his job long enough to see to Aaron’s equipment and Cyrus’ mutation-device often enough these days. Penny was a good student and did maintenance well enough whenever he wasn’t available, but she was still only a child and it would have been irresponsible to put the work on her full-time. So he’d decided to take one for the team by risking his anonymity - and sabotaged Sumdac’s latest work.

It hadn’t been easy. It had taken him days to develop the acid he’d carefully applied to the drone before the final test and he hadn’t anticipated that it would affect the thing that much. The acid was developed from the blood (?) of the giant metallic creature Sumdac was currently housing in one of his bigger labs. Prometheus had snuck some of it away while his colleagues hadn’t been looking, after witnessing how some of it eat right through one of the toughest surveillance drones patrolling around the body.

Thinking about it now made him remember that his own laboratory still contained the vial he’d used to concentrate it. He’d have to clean that up first things first. Sumdac never visited his employees at their workplaces, but now was probably not the time to rely on a tyrant’s bad habits. Especially when said tyrant had loudly announced that he would investigate the matter himself.

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

“Failures! All of them!”

Sumdac brought his fist down hard on the table, shaking up the pieces of metal in front of him. At his orders, the drone had been disassembled and delivered to his private laboratory. He no longer trusted the scientists from combat-drone development to not completely muck up their investigation. And the ever-growing suspicion of sabotage had flared up again as well.

The drone had been working perfectly before the fateful test run this morning. It simply could have been bad luck that a machine that would have brought him closer to wiping out his fiercest enemies just happened to  break down on the day he’d wanted to determine if it was actually suitable for field deployment. But only fools believed in abstract concepts like luck. And Sumdac was anything but.

And so he examined. Upon closer inspection he managed to isolate a foreign substance unlike any of the fuels used to power the rest of his army. But no matter how he analyzed it, what methods he used to determine his origin, he  found nothing. It was like the substance had appeared form thin air. There was nothing on earth even closely resembling it’s structure, no components that seemed in any way familiar. It was maddening!

“This is hopeless,” he grumbled, letting himself fall back on his chair and massaging the bridge of his nose. “There is no being on earth who knows of this substance.”

“I do.”

“Well, no being on earth but you-” Sumdac stiffened. He whirled around, eyes wildly searching the room for an intruder - only to land on the disembodied head behind him, still hooked up to a multitude of cables. It’s eyes were glowing a piercing red. And it was watching him.

Sumdac blinked. “You... you spoke.”

It wasn’t his most astute of observations, but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment.

The head’s eyes narrowed a little and Sumdac got a feeling if it’s mouth had still been complete it would have given him a derisive smirk. “I did, Professor Sumdac.”

Sumdac felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. “You know my name?”

“I know a lot of things,” the head answered nonchalantly. “Things that would surely benefit you. For example, that fluid you spend the last two hours analyzing. It’s concentrated energon.”

“And you know this how?” Sumdac asked, frowning.

“Because it’s an essential part of every cybertronian. Cybertronians like me or the Decepticons. And those last ones, for your information, are the ones that have been causing you so much trouble as of late.

“Fortunately for you, I have a score to settle with them. Specifically with their leader. So we’re currently, as you humans would say, in the same boat. You need information about... everything, really. And I need a body, so I can rip Megatron apart with my own servos. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

Sumdac was silent for a moment. His mind was reeling. In just a few seconds, this talking head of an alien creature a, a “cybertronian” had answered almost every burning question that had plagued him for over ten years. And it was offering more. Still, his paranoid self remained skeptical.

“And how do I know,” he said slowly. “That you aren’t in some way associated with those ‘Decepticons’? That you’re not just feeding me lies, to trick me into repairing you and then have your big friends out there break in and tear my empire apart?”

The head made a sound that sounded a  lot like a snort. “I would have to care about your empire to want to break it.” It’s eyes flashed for a moment. “And do not compare me to the Decepticon-scum! My name is Optimus Prime and I am an Autobot. We are infinitely superior to them.”

Sumdac nodded and allowed himself a small smirk. Interesting. There was more to those aliens than he’d realized. Evidently some sort of conflict took place between the two factions, the ‘Decepticons’ and the ‘Autobots’. And his guest seemed very invested in it. It was not much information to go on, but he’d built his empire from less. For now, he would have to gauge how serious ‘Optimus Prime’ was about cooperating.

“Let’s say I believe you,” Sumdac started, getting up and walking towards the head. “It still seems as if you are more dependent on this relationship than I am. I will need something from you, to know you really are as useful as you claim to be.”

“I can tell you the identity of the spy in your ranks,” Optimus replied.

“And how would you do that?”

“You’ve connected me to your entire network when you first tried to wake me up. My audials and optics are practically everywhere in this building. And they just so happened to pick up how one of your trusted employees sabotaged that primitive drone you tested this morning.”

Sumdac’s eye twitched at the insult to his robotics, but he suppressed his anger and kept his face neutral. “Tell me more.”

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

Prometheurs sighed. cleaning back in his chair. It was still hours until he could call it a day and he steadily found himself more nervous. He’d had no time to remove what remained of the acid from the drone before it had been delivered to Sumdac’s private lab. There was nothing about it that could have linked him to the failed test, but he was still on edge.

Sumdac would find it, that was for certain. Meaning he’d have to think of another way to keep the new drone from release. Maybe he could plant a signal-disruptor on it, to mess up it’s recognition software? Behind him, the leftover acid dripped away into a chemical waste container. It would take some time until he’d be able to dispose of it safely.

A blip sounded from his computer. Prometheus frowned and turned to face the screen. On a normal Sumdac-device, the sound would have been a reminder to get his computer to maintenance. Prometheus had tweaked his a little. Now it was connected to a private encrypted channel that would allow him to safely contact the outside world and be contacted safely in turn.

He pressed a few buttons and a video chat opened, showing a frowning,rotund man in his fifties wearing blue sunglasses and a grey suit.

“I was just informed that the new Sumdac Police Drone failed it’s final test run,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Prometheus sighed, dragging his hands down his face. He should have anticipated a lecture, really. “Look Mr. Powell, if those new drones would have gotten released, we would have been in big trouble. Their recognition software-”

“Prometheus,” Powell interrupted. “I’m well aware you wouldn’t take such risks unprompted. But I need you to realize what’s at stake here. Currently you’re our only inside man. And we’re thinly staffed as it is. I think Sumdac’s been suspecting me as of late. If he gets wise to you, I won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?”

Promtheus gulped. “Yes, Mr. Powell.”

“Watch your back, Prometheus.” The video call ended before Prometheus could answer.

Only a second after, a blip on the official message channel for Sumdac-employees popped up. Prometheus stiffened, before forcing himself to relax. It was most likely nothing. Probably a subordinate asking for advice. He would get those every now and again. He had a reputation for being surprisingly lenient for one of Sumdac’s inner circle.

His hopes were dashed as soon as he opened the channel and was met with Sumdac’s grinning face.

“Professor Black,” Sumdac said, tone cordial enough to make the hairs on Prometheus neck stand up. “I am afraid some issues have come up with your personal file.”

“R-Really?” Prometheus gripped the arms rests of his chair to keep his hands from shaking.

“Indeed,” Sumdac nodded. “I will need you to report to my office.”

Prometheus knew an order when he heard one. His left hand wandered into his pocket, coiling around a small quadrangular device with a single button on it.

“Sir, I really think I should supervise the reconstruction of our new drone model-”

“I did not ask what you were thinking,” Sumdac cut him off waspishly. “And neither do I care. You will report to my office, now. Do not make me wait.”

The video feed was cut off. Prometheus wasted no time. He pressed the button. He had approximately a few minutes before Sumdac would send security drone to collect him. If he hurried, he’d be able to grab a few of his makeshift emergency weaponry and fend them off enough to escape.

Prometheus turned around, only to stop right in his tracks, eyes widened. Unnoticed by him, the acid had eaten itself through the container, to the point the ground was about to give in. And it did. Warning sirens flared up as the acid hit the ground, noxious gas rising into the air and engulfing the lab.

Prometheus coughed, feebly trying to close his nose and mouth with his hand at the same time. He felt the gas seeping into his skin. It burned, a thousand times worse than any of the burn- wounds he’d ever gotten while working on gadgets for Sumdac or the resistance. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming. Teeth clenched he frantically felt for the door, stumbling into the corridor, one hand still clasping the frame.

He couldn’t die yet. Who would supply Cyrus with the vitamins he needed to keep his body stable? Who would do maintenance of Aaron’s bow? Who would read stories to Penny? With newfound determination, Prometheus let go of the door and stumbled onward, unaware that the part of the frame he’d gripped had started dissolving.

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

Several miles away, in an abandoned mine in the woods, in the Decepticon’s medical bay, Aaron Archer looked at his communicator with a worried frown.

“Is something wrong?”

Aaron looked up at Megatron, who had made his way over upon seeing his on his human ally’s face.

“I feareth it is so, friend,” Aaron said gloomily. “Our scout stationed in the despot’s castle haseth send me a distress call on a secure channel. He would not doeth that, unless he was in dire peril.”

Cyrus gave an apprehensive grunt and looked over his partner’s shoulder. “If the prof’s in trouble, so are we. Our equipment’s been lagging behind for a while now. We’ll be hanging out dry if Sumdac get him into his hands.”

Blackarachnia, who until that point had been busy knocking a dent out of Lugnut’s leg, perked up at that. “You think he’s been compromised?”

“Optics on the repair-job, woman!” Lugnut snapped, nervously eyeing the small but solid hammer hovering over his leg.

“I should tell you that,” Blackarachnia fired back, turning back to him. “What kind of malfunction was your processor having for you to think exploring one of the oldest, most broken  tunnels would be a good idea? You’re lucky you’re heavily armored or you’d have been scrap-metal when it came down”

The bigger ‘Con huffed. “I was participating in an honorable organic ritual with the young organic, called ‘hide-and-seek’. That tunnel seemed like an ideal hiding place.”

Blackarachnia chose not to comment on that and went back to her work.

“What will you do now?” Megatron asked.

“Get him out, what else?” Cyrus growled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Won’t be easy though, ‘specially if Sumdac’s already gunning for him.”

Megatron nodded. “We will support you in any way we can. I will inform Blitzwing and  Starscream as soon as they and Penny return from their ‘hide-and-seek’-ritual in the woods.”

“The woods!” Lugnut shouted, smacking the medical berth with a servo. “Of course! Why did I not think of that? Truly, the small organic called Penny is a genius of strategy.”

“No, she’s just not a complete bolthead,” Blackarachnia mumbled, finishing up the repairs.

A few hours later, the Decepticons were standing outside the entrance to the mines, waiting for their two human companions to finish their preparations. Cyrus and Aaron had agreed to fly with Lugnut and Blitzwing respectively, instead of their own vehicle.

“He has no way to track us and we are sturdier than your glider,” Megatron had told them. “If we have to confront Sumdac’s forces in the air, you will be safer flying within one of us.”

Penny stood by the entrance, arms crossed and tapping her foot, Miles standing by her side quivering anxiously. He still didn’t fell safe around the Decepticons without her and even with her present he had a hard time keeping it together.

“Why can’t I come?” Penny questioned, pouting. “Miles and I can fight too!”

“We needeth you here to protect the metal knights’ base, Penelope,” Aaron said, giving her a smile. “Someone haseth to protect it from Sumdac’s metal fiends!” I wasn’t entirely a lie. In an emergency, Penny would have the skill needed to use the base’s defenses to their full effect. And she’d be as far away from Sumdac as possible.

“Transform and rise up!” Megatron called.

The Decepticons transformed, and the humans entered their partners’ vehicle mode, while Blackarachnia used a thread hold onto Lugnut. They took off Penny waving at them from the ground until she was out of sight.

After a few minutes of flying, the Sumdac Tower came into view.

“I say we break right through!” Lugnut shouted, immediately ramping up his thrusters.

Blackarachnia yelped, digging her legs into the metal to hang on.

“Lugnut, wait!” Megatron called.

Before he could react, Lugnut crashed into what seemed to be an invisible wall and slammed down on the ground, almost flattening Blackarachnia, who managed to jump off his back barely before he hit the ground.

Lugnut’s cockpit opened and Cyrus stumbled out, falling to his knees and taking deep breaths. “That’s it, I’m flying with the red one next time,” he wheezed.

“What the spark was that?” Lugnut complained, transforming back into robot-mode and rubbing his helm.

Blitzwing, who had touched down behind him and transformed as well after letting Aaron out, walked over to the sizzling blockade and laid a servo on it, frowning.

“It appears to be a force field. And it looks like it is going around the whole tower.”

“Pardon us, dear knights we shouldeth have told thee,” Aaron said sheepishly. “The tyrant possesseth an automatic shield that activates whenever his tower cometh under attack.”

“Great,” Blackarachnia grumbled, ambling to the group and rubbing her posterior. “Because we didn’t have enough trouble already.”

“Worry not! We hath prepared for just this instance!” With an elegant movement of his arm, Archer pulled out a small, rectangular card from his tunic. “Our noble scout hath given us this to trick the fiend’s foul, dark magic! It shouldeth allow us to break a hole int his shield and enter with nary a scratch!”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Starscream remarked. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is that it only works for maybe half an hour,” Cyrus replied, having mostly recovered from his nausea. “After that we’ll be trapped like rats, unless we can turn it off for good.”

“Then we should not waste time,” Megatron said. “We will look for your scout, collect him and evacuate immediately.”

Archer nodded, then walked towards the field, pressing the card against it. A small current of electricity sparked up from the area around it and in the next moment, a small hole began to expand from the card, growing bigger until it was about ten times the man’s size.

“Err, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that doesn’t look big enough for us,” Starscream pointed out.

Megatron frowned, kneeling down next to the opening. “It will have to do. Blackarachnia, you and the humans will enter first. The rest of us will transform into our vehicle modes and try to enter that way.”

“I think not,” a heavily accented voice said.

The group collectively jumped, before realizing it had come from a loudspeaker attached to the front of the building.

“Sumdac,” Cyrus snarled, clenching his fists.

“So this is the famous resistance I’ve heard so much about?” the voice said, sounding amused. “How disappointing. Though I would be lying if I said I’d ever had any interest in you. Humans, even insolent ones, are beneath my attention. Your companions, however, are another matter entirely. ‘Decepticons’. What a silly name for such an advanced species.”

The Decepticons stiffened. Blitzwing’s face shifted to Hothead who gave a menacing growl, Blackarachnia’s stingers twitched, Starscream readied his blasters and Lugnut’s optic narrowed.

“How do you know of us?” Megatron demanded, keeping a calm face, but reaching for his swords.

“Ah, let us just say I was ‘ahead’ of you this time,” Sumdac chuckled. “You will have ample time to figure it out - once I have you in my possession.”

“Thou wilst not lay a hand on the metal knights!” Archer shouted. “We shan’t allow it!”

“I thought so,” Sumdac said, voice taking on a disinterested tone. “Which is why I will have you disposed of first. And do not count on your little spy to save you. I have already send my drones to take car of him.”

With a crackle, the loudspeaker turned off, leaving the group to let Sumdac’s words sink in.

Archer turned to Cyrus, shaking slightly. “Cyrus, do you believeth-?”

Cyrus shook his head. “If the prof was dead, he would’ve lorded that over our heads. He said he send drones after him. That means he could still be alive. We’ve gotta get in there, now!”

With that he dashed through the hole in the shield, not waiting for any of them to follow. Blackarachnia groaned.

“What is it with my allies and running helm-first into danger?” With a bit of difficulty, she maneuvered her body through the opening.

Just as Archer was about to follow, the sound of screeching metal pulled everyone’s attention to another part of the tower. Another door had opened, admitting a swath of police drones to exit the building. The drones headed out of the force field and opened fire.

Blitzwing jumped forward, scooping Archer up in his servos and carrying him out of harms’ way.

Lugnut roared, bringing his explosive servo down on a cluster of drones. But he misjudged. The explosion destroyed the drones, but the recoil threw him backwards - right towards the hole. His body went half-way through, then stopped.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Lugnut snarled, trying and failing to pull himself out.

“Move your overgrown thrusters!” Hothead shouted, grabbing Lugnut’s arm and pulling. “You’re blocking our only way in!”

“What do you think I am trying to do here?” Lugnut snapped back.

“It’s no use, “Megatron shouted. “Blackarachnia, you will have to help Cyrus on your own.”

“Lucky me,” Blackarachnia murmured. She turned around to Cyrus. “You heard him, it’s just you and-”

The human wasn’t there anymore. When she looked up she could see the entrance door was open.

Blackarachnia ex-vented. “This just isn’t my solar cycle.”

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

Cyrus ran through the halls, doing his best to blend out the blaring alarms and not sure where exactly he was going, but also to angry to stop. Every now and again he’d rip open a door, find the room behind either completely deserted or out of spare parts and then slam it closed again. He finally screeched to a halt in a circular room, a huge elevator in the middle. In front of the elevator stood a sleek, white reception desk, with, Cyrus noted with annoyance, a robot behind it.

“Identify yourself,” the machine said in a monotone voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Cyrus growled, approaching the desk and cracking his knuckles. “Lemme just hand you my calling card.”

The robot gave a peep. “Voice scan does not match up. Intruder identified. Calling security.”

Cyrus froze. “Aw, slag.”

Suddenly a stream of a dark green acid hit the robot, immediately melting it down to a clump of deformed metal.

“Have a nice daayyyy...,” the robot slurred, before it’s voice box liquefied as well.

Cyrus jumped back, eyes wide and slowly turned his head into the direction the attack had come from. In front of the now open elevator door stood a human-shaped.. thing.

It was smaller than Cyrus (then again, most of his allies were) and seemed to consist of a slimy green fluid. It was wearing t remained of a modified lab coat with a  ridiculously wide collar and a pair of goggles where Cyrus supposed it’s eyes were.

“I dunno what kind of sick Sumdac-goon you are,” he sneered, assuming a fighting stance. “But you picked the wrong day to mess with me, buddy.”

The thing took a step back, holding it’s palms up. “Cyrus, wait! It’s me!”

Cyrus eyes widened and he abandoned his stance. “Professor?”

Before either of them could say anything more, a white stream of web shot up from behind Cyrus, pinning the thing he now knew to be Professor Black to the wall.

“Do organics just have no survival instincts whatsoever?” Blackarachnia snapped at him, running into the room. “That thing would have slagged you, if I hadn’t found you in time! What were you thinking, running ahead?”

“Hey whoa, chill spider-lady,” Cyrus said, quickly positioning himself in fro of Professor Black. “Sorry for ditching you, but this guy’s on our side! He’s the spy we told you about!”

Blackarachnia gave Professor Black a skeptical look. “That’s him? No offense, but are humans supposed to look like that?”

“Normally not, no,” Cyrus admitted, turning around with a frown. “What’s the story behind that, Prof?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” Prometheus sheepishly. “But I think we should focus on getting out of here first. If you would please tell the nice lady to cut me down, then - oh, wait, I suppose that’ll take care of itself.”

While he was speaking, the acid that made up his body had managed to eat itself through Blackrachnia’s string, allowing him to drop down to the floor again.

Balckarachnia whistled, impressed. “That’s some pretty strong stuff.”

“I could do without it,” Prometheus replied sourly, making his way over to the reception desk. “Cyrus, come over. I’ll need you to press the buttons for me. We have to deactivate that force field, if we want to make it out.”

“U-Uh, yeah! Coming!” Cyrus stumbled after the professor, awkwardly standing beside him on the other side of the desk. A multitude of buttons, levers and dataports greeted him when he glanced at the desk’s surface. Professor Black already seemed to be searching for something in particular, though how he could make out any sense of coherence in this overly complicated device was beyond Cyrus.

Eventually, Professor Black pointed at a specific lever. “This one.”

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

Outside, the rest of the Decepticons and Archer were still fighting off the drones.

“They just keep coming,” Starscream shouted, blasting a drone that had just attempted to shock him to smithereens.

“Let them!” Hothead snarled. “I nee to let off some steam!”

A yelp came from behind them.

“Either I am growing bigger, or this shield is growing stronger,” Lugnut grunted.

Megatron hastily put a servo to his helm. “Blackarachnia, whatever you are doing in there, stop it! You are strengthening the l!”

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

“It’s not working,” Blackarachnia told Cyrus. “Try something else!”

Prometheus tsked impatiently. “He must have changed the layout.One moment, I’ll have this figured out...” He leaned over the panel, eyes scanning the different levers, until they landed on a specific one, a little to the left of the on he’d told Cyrus to pull. “This one! I’m sure this time!”

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

A slight buzzing noise was the only warning Lugnut got before the force field holding him up flickered and disappeared, letting him drop to the floor.

“It’s open! We should move!” Blitzwing called.

“No! These drones keep on coming,” Megatron answered, shooting a couple of drones attempting to surround him. “If we retreat inside, they’ll block the exit. Lugnut! Go and help Blackarachnia and the humans! We will hold Sumdac’s forced off here and secure our escape route!”

Lugnut gave a curt nod, then stomped into the building.

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

“That should have done it,” Prometheus said, satisfied. “Now we should be able to-”

The rattle of metal joints interrupted him mid-sentence. A swath of security drones spilled out of the adjacent halls.

“Aw, slag,” Cyrus cursed, instinctively putting himself in front of the professor.

“Guess I didn’t interrupt the call fast enough,” Prometheus said, awkwardly putting his hands up. “I don’t think I can melt them all.”

Blackarachnia’s optics flipped between the crones and the panel. Ina few seconds, she made a decision. “You won’t have to.”

The drones got into position. Blackarachnia jumped forward and planted her servos on the panel. Her upper arms sprouted devices reminiscent of magnets. She lifted her arms towards the drones and just as they started to fire, a barrier closed around her and the two humans.

“Fascinating!”Prometheus exclaimed, watching her with awe. “You duplicated that advanced technology in less than a second? Just by touching it?”

“It’s kind of my thing,” Blackarachnia replied. “Any idea how we get out of here?”

Before Prometheus could answer, loud thundering footsteps rang down the hall and in the next moment, Lugnut entered the room, clearly in a bad mood and smashing every unfortunate drone in his way.

“Well that takes care of that,” Cyrus remarked.

Balckarachnia lowered the shield and Lugnut came to a halt in front of them. When he noticed Prometheus, his optic narrowed. “What is that?”

“The spy,” Blackarachnia cut in, before Cyrus or Prometheus could answer. “No time to explain, I bet there’s more of those things-” she pointed at the smashed drones on the floor,”-already on the way.”

Lugnut nodded. The four quickly made their way through the hall and back outside. The other Decepticons moved out of the way a Blackarachnia’s urging and she erected a barrier similar to the one she’d use inside, protecting them from the drones’ gunfire. Now in a safer environment, Megatron, Lugnut, Starscream and Blitzwing transformed into their vehicle modes, with Cyrus and Archer entering their previous rides.

Prometheus hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll be able to board any of you in my current-”

He felt a light buzzing under his feet and yelped when he was lifted up in a bubble consisting of the same material as the force field in the next moment.

“Already thought of that,” Blackarachnia called, steering the bubble on top of Lugnut and positioning herself beside it. “Can’t melt what you can’t touch!” She wasn’t looking forward to making the ride back in robot-mode, but in this case she’d just have to bear it. She knocked on Lugnut’s armor-plating. “Hurry up! I don’t know how long my download’s gonna last!”

The Decepticons took off, leaving the tower and the drones behind them.

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

Sumdac watched his foes slip from his grasp on the monitors, shaking with rage.

How? How could this be??? He’d had the advantage this time! Victory should have been his! The resistance should have been crushed then and there! And yet they had again managed to elude him!

Snarling, he wiped the documents from his desk. For a moment, he considered activating the canons on top of his tower to try and shoot them down. But they were already too far away and he didn’t want to waste ammunition. Besides... he was not completely beaten yet.

Sumdac smirked. he still had an ace up his sleeve. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, calling upa  few cleaning bots and then making his way to his personal labortatory.

Optimus Prime was following him with his eyes as he entered the room. Sumdac tried not to let him see how much he still unnerved him.

“The information I gave you turned out to be correct,” Optimus said. It wasn’t a question. “So? Do we have a deal?”

Sumdac didn’t answer immediately. He took his time comfortably settling himself in his chair, before looking up at Optimus with a sinister smile on his face. “Yes. Yes we have.”

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Mind of Misery: Reflections, Part 4

[Forward:  Since the end of “In Depths Below” the Nine have been busy trying to reclaim Lazarius’ family fortune, rebuilding, and forging new allies.  We are current in the WoW Timeline with this entry, NZoth has risen, the world is in chaos, and now, the Council of Nine are at a disadvantage.  New Readers, please note each of the roleplayers as the following...

[ L.K ] - Lazarius Kashebahl,  Algus Kross, Doctor Whistletorque, Marseille

[ V.D ]  Verzatea Duskflame , Pame

[ S.K ] Siida-Ray Kashebahl

[ K.A ] Koltun Ancientveil

[ J ] Jursol (AND JIMBA!)

And as always, thank you so much for continued support, posting, reblogs, likes and friendly messages!  Please enjoy! ]

[ V.D ]   The rush of emotionally provoking events had been lost upon the Confessor. True, she'd admire the affection shared between old friends - a welcome moment of serenity and wholesomeness - but there was the weight of Lazarius's original decree. Temporary leave? Loss of precious lives, of the Nines council no less, on top of the sense of hopelessness that awaited the world.

Rather than stand and fight, they had to thin out to ensure longevity of their people? War was afoot. A raging war of titans beyond mortal knowledge come to wreak havoc in ways few were prepared to fight. And the Nine were meant to hide in their underground layer and... Wait? The structure could very well become their tomb if they weren't careful.

But in Teas heart, while she wanted to remain and protect the last of her family... She also wanted to protect them in ways that meant directly fighting the enemies threatening their world, outside of the Bastille, in the battle fields. It wasn't long before the confusion became an expression of determination, her eyes flickering down toward her wand briefly before tucking it away.

If magic was out of question for the time being, then perhaps she'd have to touch up on her skills. The art of the sword had been a passion before the wand became a new challenge for her to perfect. But of course this entire monologue went along in the span of a minute, filled with silence from the shifty eyed Confessor who'd return to writing in her journal.

This would be timed perfectly with Lazarius's quiet plea for validation of Varis safety-- it'd surely mask Teas plotting with a look of discomfort over the possibility of Varis fate that lay in the unspoken sight... Koltun walked in alone.

Pames silence could easily be written off as the kaldorei doing what she did best. Quietly lurking in the solitude of being the wallflower, her arms remaining firmly crossed over her chest whilst observing. Soaking in the whims and words of those inhabiting the library. Though it was clear in Pames eyes, similar to Tea, she had a distant reflection in them. What the world was coming to made right and wrong a difficult game to play.

[ K.A ]  Vari wasnt here... The line of Koltun's back stiffened beneath Lazarius' question, his expression darkening. She should be here. There were no other places she would go, would even WANT to go after everything in Silithus. He couldn't look at Laz or the others, dipping his head down and to the side to avoid their looks and nearly smacking Laz on the head with a horn.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid. She should BE HERE!! fury welled within the pit of his stomach, coiling about the ball of fear that forced his gaze away and burned it's way up into his chest.

Felfire seared dark circles through the worn fabric of his bandana wrapped about his head, covering the empty sockets of his eyes.

"We got separated." The hunter practically growled, inhaling deeply to try to calm the building storm within him.

“There was, an attack.  Not just our operation, but the Alliance and Horde.  Silithid swarmed from the gates, overran everything.  We fought as long as we could. . .Loki, Krazzlowe. . .everyone that was there, gone.  If we weren’t fighting or killed, they were rounding up anyone who was alive.  We had to abandon the site. . .”

The demon would slam his fist into the table as he snarled.

"I searched for her and her forces in Silithis with my elite, but their trail was lost within a storm of sand."

He licked his lips, taking another calming breath.

"I broadened my search the next day but all my men and I could find were strange, mutated Silithids... they wreaked of the old God... "

Whatever happened after that seemed to pain the Bladewarden, clawed hands clenching into fists until the leather wraps around his fingers creaked.

"Vari and I had decided should we become compromised or separated, we would rendezvous here... after I salvaged what I could and helped whoever was still alive. . .I buried my men and returned here as we had planned..."

“By the sunwell... dont let me lose her again..” he thought.

[ S.K ]  Hearing what had happened to her sister, after trying so hard and spending so much time attempting to bond with her; the young heiress would calmly stand from the table and walking out the back door.

 She needed to center herself, find calm, and hopefully make things right here.  If she had lost her elder sister; it would not be because she failed, nor would she allow anyone else to falter because she was not upholding her duty as Matron of this order.

[ L.K ]  Lazarius would not let the man who had come to be his brother suffer in his rage.  Nor would he allow him to blame himself. “Koltun...”. Lazarius exclaimed; rather direct and form.

“You saved innocents by doing what you did.”. He placed his wrapped mummified hand against the chest of his brother. “Vari too.  None of us could have prepared for this . . .”.

Lazarius was partially gripping Kolts shoulder and squeezed, it was enough to give him that reassurance. “We WILL find her.”.

“If I may...”

Suddenly from the back of the room came a voice that split the hardness of the reality.

“...I will find Lady Kashebahl, walking death myself I am much closer to the realm she suffers.” Kross was not wrong, and Lazarius knew this when he peered over at the families eldest; the old steward who had cared for their family for so long.

“You would venture out? Alone? Find her?” “Lazarius peered toward the old Gilnean.

“Should I fall in my quest my phylactery remains hidden; it will take time for me to be restored but as endless as my service to you; so too will be my determination to find Pyravari.”

Lazarius would look toward Siida first; he knew she would approve, but his eyes fell on Koltun.

“You need rest, and to see the doctor.  Hydrate and get well.  I will need you to help us...will you allow Kross to go in your stead?”

[ V.D ]   There was a pause for a moment, one filled with Verzatea watching quietly before finally putting herself to action. She moves across the small area, walking on the outside of their gathered circle to touch and brush her fingers across surfaces, her fingers swirling with a pale purple magic. As she walks the magic could be visibly connecting each surface she touches with a thin solid purple line (as thin as twine, surrounded by a pale haze).

In the end, after completing the circle, those physically outside of the drawn circle would hear muffled voices speaking utter nonsense. In other words... She sought to offer them privacy.

"Surely the spectral alone is not all to be sent for our Harbinger?"

Verzatea weighs in then, confident to speak with added privacy, concern evident in her golden irises.

"The prospect of Old God soldiers having been so close--," Tea sighs softly, shaking her head before remarking,

"There’s a chance great peril is at hand. Too much for a one man rescue team. I'd recommend more going with Kross to scout the area; Defenses are sparse with lack of bodies to fill the guard roles, but the Bastille will protect it's patrons. We can spare the expense of lacking bodies for these two missions-- Both the issue of Raelyndias magic. . .,"

Teas eyes review Lazarius before eyeing Koltun,

"And locating Pyravari."

[ L.K ] “As you say the world is falling into chaos and You would risk the lives of our own in a time of great peril, than allow me to do my job.  I cannot die again Confessor.” Kross stated as he peered between the other members of the acting council.  

“Any additional aid will not only slow me down but get in the way.  If NZoths forces kill me I will return to my phylactery.  If they capture me; they will be in desperate need of aid...” Kross remained firm in his stance.

“I can do this...it is my duty to this family...and to someone I am especially fond of.  Please...”

[ K.A ] None of what was occurring around him helped his anger. It bubbled violently, rumbling up through his chest and out into the thunder of an agitated growl. Such were the issues that arose with the particular brand of demon Koltun had; out of hatred and despair, chosen to bind himself too. He had gained a temper. Felfire eyes darted between Laz, Kross and Tea, chest rising and falling with each desperate inhale of fury.

They each quarrel over what is mine to find, and seek to ground me! his thoughts rampaged. weak, in need of rest? Stay and do nothing? Break the promise? NO!! "Enough!!"

The hunter suddenly bellowed, large, leathery wings snapping out in dramatic emphasis to his command. His inner self fought to reign in his anger, cracking his voice when next he spoke, sweeping the others with his glowing gaze.

"Kross is right. But I will not be grounded here. I'm going with him."

Koltun looked to Lazarius, regarding the man briefly before covering his bandaged hand with the clawed one of his own and squeezing.

"I am fine. Give me supplies. It's my duty as much as Kross'. I failed her once, Lazarius. Please don't make me fail her again. I can keep up with Kross, and should Vari's mental stability be lost to us, I can bring her back. What is left of my elite will stay here with you and set up defenses. I cant take them with me anyways. Few can fly and to become what we are, you have to lose a part of your mind. They would be a liability... I've already witnessed it."

He sighed, anger leaking away to leave his shoulders slumped slightly.

"I lucked out. I got the broken piece back, and  that piece is out there now. Besides... Kross loves my company, right old man?"

[ V.D ]   There was genuinely nothing that had encouraged a reaction from Pame throughout the conversations besides the roused aggression of the demon hunter. The Kaldorei stiffened, her eyes fixated solely on the side of Kolts head whilst a single hand dropped to grip the handle of her blade. Yah know... Just in case. She wasn't terribly familiar with the being, though he certainly made her feel .. On edge.

Verzatea's narrowed gold eyes soaked in the hypocrisy that was the senile old ghost, deeply offended at the prospect of him accusing her to be... Stupid? Naive? How fucking dare! The grip she held her journal and quill with tightened greatly in an effort to ground herself before her lips part to defend her position.

Though it was Koltuns timely flare of anger that roused the Confessor. She'd instead stare at Koltun, brows furrowed now whilst glancing around for other reactions. Surely no one else thought his behavior normal and acceptable? Well, when ever had Tea been one to quietly abide the recklessness of others without challenging them. Thus, with as level a voice she could manage, Verzatea appeals toward Koltun,

"I'd recommend against you aiding the spectral. Rest assured, its not a matter of you cannot help, but rather your affections for the missing in action could cloud your judgement. Perhaps your... Anger," she carefully jots down something as she speaks,

"Is better spent on another job to distract you; Otherwise, in certain scenarios that are probable, your anger and gung-ho attitude could be a liability."

With that concern raised, Tea interjects secondly.

"Though if you genuinely will entertain his request, Lazarius, Id recommend that before the mission starts you should have Whitsletorque give Koltun a mental and physical health check before sending him back into the field."

To Be Continued: In Mind of Misery: Reflections, Part 5

@pyravari-kashebahl

@miss-irascible

@thebladeitself

@whatadarkbitch

@siidaraykashebahl

@zandalaridruidofgonk

@frompage112

[maybeformepersonally]

fics i probably will never write #2

the umbrella academy au where dan was one of the 43 special babies but his mother refused to give him up when reginald hargreeves tried to bribe her for him, so he grew up with her and her boyfriend (later husband) until they were in an accident when he'd just turned 17. 

dan was left alone, as his mum had no family and her husband’s (dan’s dad in all but blood) family never accepted him, so old man hargreeves appeared out of nowhere with an offer he couldn’t refuse: basically to legally adopt him so that dan can join the rest of the gang (at this point they’ve been presented publicly as a superhero team). dan accepts because he doesn’t want to have to go into the system, and while old man hargreeves is weird and suspicious, the other teens seem to be well cared for. hell, worst case scenario he can run away.

there’s also another reason why dan accepts, and that is because he’s desperate to get his power under control, and the old man has publicly alluded to helping the others develop and control their powers, and as supportive as dan’s parents had always been, they hadn’t known how to help him. dan has tried to shut it down, but that never worked, and he’s tried to wield it, with limited success, but maybe the man who’s made it his life mission to develop others’ powers can help him overcome his once and for all.

dan has power over the dead. he can see them, he can speak to them, he can even touch them if he concentrates real hard, but he cannot shut them out. it is often gory and terrifying, and almost always sad and overwhelming, and it has led him to see the world through red tinted glasses as it were. he’s a hopeless pessimist, always seeing the glass half empty, and he was diagnosed with depression at age 13 (though he knows it started earlier).

so dan joins old man hargreeves’ little band of misfits at age 17, full of apprehension and (despite himself) a cautious bit of hope, and it’s weird (completely fucking bizarre, let’s be real), but not bad. 

allison is the first to welcome him, a warm friendly smile on her face and answers to all the questions he can come up with while he’s still mostly in shock (there aren’t all that many that first day, but they’ll come with a bit of time, and she keeps answering whenever she can). she’s sweet, and charismatic, and dan is grateful she’s taking the plunge for him, because all of the others seem rattled by dan’s addition to the team (and the family, although dan is pretty sure that’s more a formality than anything real).

luther introduces himself as the leader and he does some passive aggressive posturing that dan would have zero patience for even on a good day, so he mostly ignores him. (it takes him a few weeks to figure out the reason for this was that luther was jealous that allison was being so friendly to him. luther is a disaster, but things go along more smoothly once he realises there’s nothing there other than a budding friendship.)

phil is the only one other than allison that doesn’t look mad or upset that dan’s joining them, just a bit awkward. but he’s every bit as nice as allison, and dan notes every time he makes an effort to make conversation with him or to diffuse uncomfortable silences and the less than welcoming attitude of his siblings, and dan is glad to have him as a buffer when luther awkwardly tries to establish social dominance or when diego makes smartass remarks.

diego is huffy and confrontational, but he’s also incredibly kind when he runs into dan in the middle of that first night when the anxiety rocketed up and prevented him from getting any sleep. dan thinks he’s going to make fun of him, because dan has been here before: antsy and prickly and vulnerable, and struggling to breathe in the midst of an uncaring and cold universe, and whenever blokes who acted like diego had seen him bleed, they’d only strived to drive the knife deeper, and twist. but diego doesn’t. instead, he offers to show him some basic moves dan will be learning in training, nonchalant, as if it’s nothing. diego talks to fill the silence dan still can’t bring himself to breach, haunted by too many spectres, both real and figurative. and it only takes dan a few minutes of careful instruction and gentle conversation for dan to realise diego was not at all what he first thought.

vanya is... different. she’s quiet and unobstrusive. subdued. dan doesn’t quite know what to make of her. he doesn’t pick up on how weird (and fucked up) it is that she’s always excluded from everything on his first day, but when he does, the house dynamics take a slightly more sinister tint to his eyes. 

he really tries with her, because he knows what it’s like to be different, to be excluded by peers, to be considered subpar, less than, a freak, and dan knows that look, dan knows that sallow, withdrawn, desperate look in her eyes, he knows the lethargy, and the apathy, and the pain. he knows, intimately, because that’s what he looks like on his bad days, on the days when he wakes up in a hole, when reality doesn’t feel real and all the colour in the world has been sucked out, when no one can’t break through it to reach him, and getting out of bed feels every bit as impossible as it is useless, he knows, and he wouldn’t wish that on anyone. 

and so he tries, and he tries, and it’s like trying to run underwater at first, but he’s never felt so accomplished as the first time he makes her laugh, not smile or chuckle but laugh, full and bright and free, and it’s like her face transforms with it. she’s beautiful like that, and dan can’t understand why no one else is trying to bring that out in her, why no one else even seems to notice.

he’d asked allison about it, and it’s one of those times when she doesn’t have an answer for him, but he didn’t mind that because he sees the wheels turning in her head afterwards, he sees her start to pay attention, a cute little frown in her face when vanya is purposefully excluded from activities that don’t even require the use of their powers, and he sees her try to reach out to her sister, and he feels a little better, like he actually made a difference for once, like he did some good. dan is new, is still an outsider (and nevermind that he’s included in the family’s activities more often than vanya herself, who grew up in this house, and how awful is that?), but allison is family, and dan can see how much it means to vanya that she’s trying.

(and why wasn’t vanya trained in physical combat like the rest of them when that has nothing to do with having or using their powers? allison hadn’t had an answer for that one either.)

they don’t talk about five, but there’s a huge portrait of him in the parlour that’s taller than dan, which is saying something.

pogo, despite being the most unusual member of the household, turns out to be the most sensible one of them all, dan himself included.

dan starts training the day after he arrives, which is fine for the first month or so, but then old man hargreeves decides to lock him into his fucking mausoleum (and why the hell does he have a fucking mausoleum on his property, in the middle of the city??) because he’s a fucking lunatic apparently, and dan is so mad he not only has one of the ghosts open the door for him from the outside, but he also offers any of the few dozen spirits lingering there that he’ll lend them his strength so that they can terrorize the bastard. he can only have them interact physically with their surroundings for short bursts of time, and he explains that they’ll have to take turns for this reason, but they seem happy enough with it. it’s not like any living being has been able to see and hear them before, waiting a few days or weeks for the chance to manifest and move things and spook the eccentric millionaire that bought their estate is frankly more than they could have hoped for.

and so, dan declares war. of a sort.

he didn’t tell the old man that he’d freed himself, just went back to his room after a long planning session with the intrigued spirits right there in the garden. reginald was pleasantly surprised when dan turned up for dinner, realising he must have used his power to set himself free.

reginald is a lot less happy when things start to move around unexpectedly in his office, in his bedroom, in his private bathroom, everywhere he goes really (dan’s favourite is matya, the no nonsense old jewish woman that moves reginald’s chair straight from under him so he ends up on the floor. even vanya had cracked a little smile at that.)

in the end, dan ends up building up his stamina and his power gets stronger even as he learns to control it better for mischief-making purposes. before he realises it, he’s spend half a year with the hargreeves, and the odd ensemble had become, if not like a family, then at least familiar. some of them, he’d venture, were even good friends.

first on that list was phil, who turned out to have a wicked sense of humour and a wonderful imagination, as well as being possibly the kindest person dan had ever met in his short but eventful life. he also had the prettiest eyes dan had ever seen. dan had jokingly asked him if they were part of whatever this mutation was that had given them powers, and for the first time dan had seen, phil had laughed at a joke about his powers.

phil’s power was... violent. destructive. eldritch-abominations-levels of terrifying, literally. phil hated it. 

phil was the opposite of all of that, he wished he’d been saddled with anyone else’s powers, even dan’s, even after dan had opened up to him about how being surrounded by dead people who more often than not were fixated on their horrible deaths all the time had been so traumatic for him that he’d developed complex PTSD and depression before he even fully understood what those words meant. phil had apologised about saying he’d trade for his powers in a heartbeat, but dan hadn’t been bothered by it, just sad. because he was pretty sure that if phil could have exchanged the power to destroy others for a power that only brought suffering onto himself, he’d have chosen to hurt himself over being in a position where he might hurt others. and dan also felt guilty, because he knew he wouldn’t be that selfless.

[lettersofsky]

DistantPastZine - The Summoner - Names Die While Legends Linger

So I was given the amazing opportunity to write on the recently released @distantpastzine and now I get to post the pieces I wrote for it here ^_^

Rating:Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning:Major Character Death Fandom:Homestuck Characters:The Summoner (Homestuck) | Darkleer (Homestuck) | Grand Highblood (Homestuck) | Spinneret Mindfang Additional Tags:A Dash of Depersonalization | Implied Pale Summleer Language:English

` A bit of an introspection into what it becomes to stop truly being someone and become something before the end. `

~

You are The Summoner.

That’s the only name that really matters anymore.

Your true name, your first name, the name you chose for yourself upon your first pupation trying to make sense of what your lusus called you, and carried with you for most of your life, it’s lost to you now. Far too long since you’ve used it for yourself, since anyone else’s used it in reference to you. Mindfang had preferred your title, most everyone preferred the name you fashioned for yourself at the beginning of your rebellion. Except for… but he’d left long before the end of things, running when it had all started to take a turn for the worst for all of you; the number of trolls that returned from missions grew lesser and lesser, supplies started to dry up, allies disappeared and turned against you. You hadn’t blamed him, couldn’t blame him for it because maybe… maybe Rufioh Nitram would have done the same thing, at one point in time.

But that didn’t really matter did it? It didn’t matter that ‘Summoner’ wasn’t your true name. Rufioh Nitram wasn’t important in this story, he’d already departed this world, had left when Mindfang had urged him to drive his lance clean through her torso, words honeyed sweet and comforting in his skull even as her breath grew wet and horrid with the blood in her lungs, urging him forward, onwards, you can do it I want you too…

Rufioh Nitram had perished then, with his matesprits body cradled in his arms, bleeding out from the merciful blow of his lance.

It was The Summoner’s turn today.

The Summoner’s battle was lost. Your war, your rebellion, over and the Highbloods all the more enraged for your part in it, for the lives of their that you brought to a sudden and abrupt end with all of the care they had ever shown you and yours. They were demanding your execution now and the most care you could give that notion was relief in that it wouldn’t be… wouldn’t be Darkleer firing the arrow at you, you’d had enough of quadmates culling each other for the perigee. You would consider it a small kindness from the cruel world you existed in, but one you were glad for all the same.

Currently, you were awaiting your escorts, alone in your dark cell, no window to allow in light or fresh air, leaving you cut off from the world but for the barest hint of light that crept under the door that allowed you to just barely be able to see the details of the room around you with your warm-blooded eyes. It’s nothing impressive, the only thing of interest around you the markings left by prior occupants; claw marks of varying lengths and desperation, some steady and deliberate in the walls as trolls attempted to guess at the passing of time and others messy and frantic on the floor, marking the final desperate struggle to deny, to escape the fate that was awaiting them at the hands of the Highbloods dragging them from the safety of the cut off isolated room. You swear you could smell where terror and hopeless resignation had sunken so deep into the walls it’s permanently stained the still, stale air around you.

You have nothing to do in here, nothing to keep your hands or thoughts busy so you can allow yourself to think, to think and dwell on things for longer than you’d ever let yourself at any other time. You don’t know when the Highbloods will come to drag you out of your room before the infestation your army hadn’t culled from the face of Alternia.

So you have the time to do it, you have the time, the opportunity, to think.

…

You can’t recall a time Mindfang ever used your true name, at least not before she’d been guiding you through the motions that would finally release her from her mortal coil, which is more the pity because you would have liked to hear it in her voice, in her actual voice and not the echoing, all-consuming facsimile of it in your skull. It would have sent you spiralling, free-falling into the reddest pity for her, her finally seeing you as more than The Summoner, more than the image of a general, more than the matesprit that would take her life from her.

You think, you would have liked if she saw Rufioh. Maybe you could have come to know her underneath Mindfang’s smooth talking and weaving web of influence.

… But maybe that was just the fantasy of a wriggler that still wanted so much to be wholly seen and not found lacking despite his… abnormalities.

It didn’t matter, the past was dead and gone and Mindfang had only cared for Summoner, Rufioh hadn’t even been a blip on her radar.

But Darkleer… he’d given a damn about Rufioh. He’d taken your name and kept it close to his pumper, breathed it from his lip like it was something important, something deserving to be spoken into the air and allowed to hold attention and regard in their lives. Darkleer… he’d ensured that you knew that there would always be time to just be Rufioh when the expectations of The Summoner grew too much from your ill-prepared shoulders to handle, he gave you time and a place where you could put aside the clown’s movements, the mounting body count of your army, the looming knowledge that this was useless, futile, doomed, and you could just be Rufioh for a few minutes. Rufioh who loved the lusus that taught him to fly, Rufioh who had hid his mutation even though his shoulder’s and wing stubs ached from being bound so tightly and so long, Rufioh who’d worked endlessly, tirelessly just to make things the tiniest bit easier for whoever came in after he left.

He’d let you be a troll when you’d started to forget what that was like, you were so grateful for that. So very grateful to have had that for the brief period of time he’d stopped being terrified of stepping out of place and earning your culling ire and you’d let yourself trust the turncoat’s traitorous heart long enough to relax into his regard. Darkleer had liked your name, had liked speaking it, saying it when nobody else did and keeping it like it was something precious that was wholly his and wasn’t that such a pitiful thing? To hold so much pride in being given something so small, so minute and insignificant?

But then you’d… you’d felt the same at being given his name in return. A name kept by monsters and stripped away from him so that he’d be nothing more than another cog into the Empire’s spiralling machinery.

Which was a shame because Horuss was such a good name.

You’d used it when he’d left, just like he’d used Rufioh when he’d requested forgiveness, soft and quiet directed towards the earth with a difference that turned your stomach and made you all too aware of where you both started out. But you’d already forgiven him, forgiven him when his brows refused to unfurrow and he started to walk like a hunted creature at the edges of camp again, forgiven when you’d found his makeshift hive dark and abandoned like he’d only been a ghost you’d been imaging to help you deal with everything and…

Horuss had tried, had tried to make you understand, stuttering and stammering, losing his words amongst sharp clicks and noises of panic and distress you hadn’t been able to ease, you hadn’t wanted to… to touch him, to shush and calm him and reassure him that he could get out the words that would tear apart your trust in him would only shatter you both and you had wanted… You’d wanted to protect that bit of you that was still Rufioh and not The Summoner so you didn’t, you held yourself still and waited as he petered off, Horuss’ voice dying in the space between you both as you did your best to hold both Rufioh and Summoner in your head at once.

The Summoner’s decision should have been to put an end to the turncoat, to stop him from leaving and potentially leading the Highbloods back to them in order to garter favour or forgiveness or any other logical reason that would have made him well-justified  in his actions. But Rufioh…

You’d let him go, you couldn’t ask him to stay with you, couldn’t ask him to potentially watch you die even if it would have soothed something in you to have him there to watch your back and potentially die for you but… but he deserved more than that.

You wanted more for him than that, he deserved to have his ending separated from the Highbloods that had controlled his life and while The Summoner should have brought the Expatriate to heel and finished him for his desertion, Rufioh couldn’t do that to Horuss.

You hadn’t asked him to stay. You hadn’t impaled him for daring to leave.

No.

Instead you’d reached out and up, not too much he was still directing his whole form towards the dirt beneath your feet in a futile hope to disappear into it you knew, to touch him, to bring his forehead to yours and in the light of moons not yet risen you’d wished him the best of luck and a kind death when it eventually came for him. You’d thought yourself strong, you’d believed that you’d be able to bare this with all of The Summoner’s fortitude but then he’d slumped against you with a noise that sounded so much like physical pain that Rufioh was brought low by it. You had a stray, wild thought that perhaps he’d falter, that Horuss’ resolve would shatter like the windows of cathedrals but he hadn’t, far stronger, far weaker, than that and oh how you had pitied him then.

He’d left you standing there, alone and overlooking an army preparing for what was more than likely gearing up to be their final few nights of existing and you… you hadn’t been able to watch him go, you couldn’t bring yourself to do that to yourself. You’d tucked Rufioh away then, he wasn’t needed with the Highbloods drawing closer and an army looking to him for guidance. Rufioh may have been the one to scale the hill to confront Horuss for his decision to leave, but it was The Summoner and Expatriate that took their separate ways down.

The Highbloods had descended upon the camp within the few nights, meeting an army prepared for them and with nothing to lose but the very breath in their lungs and the very rights to existence they were all fighting so desperately for, freedom and equality and right that should have been theirs as much as it was the Highbloods despite how much warmer they were than the others. The Highbloods may have been the ones to emerge victorious from the battle, but there was no denying the blood it had cost them, a small victory hollow and spiteful amidst a tremendous loss, but one you were going to keep close and warm in your pumper up until they stole the life from you. It was nothing and it was petty but it was wholly yours in this story, an achievement you would be proud to carry to your grave.

The Summoner – Rebel Scum and Culler of Clowns

You’d been captured at that battle, captured instead of killed there as a warrior amongst your comrades and companions, brought hundreds of miles in order to be made an example of like The Sufferer before you. A warning to the rest of your kin on the lowest, warmest, most fragile and cruelly treated side of the hemospectrum so that they would not attempt to fight against the ways of The Empire again.

There was no place for Rufioh Nitram amongst that.

You were The Summoner now and you were about to be executed for daring to want something more for, not even for yourself really (it was hard to want anything for yourself when you could barely settle on a ‘yourself’ to want for) but for those of yours that weren’t in any place to want or hope for better themselves, for those who’d been told from the moment they could comprehend it that they’d never be anything more than tools to be used and thrown away once they were deemed ‘broken’ by those who thought themselves so much better than them simply because of the colder, bluer blood than ran through them.

The door to your cell opens and it is a sudden burst of agony to your senses.

The slow grinding of moving rusted metal pierces ears adjusted to silence and you vainly attempt to cast your eyes away from the dramatic increase of light as it’s finally allowed inside, it’s too different, too sudden a change after spending however long you had in the dark, it takes you longer than you want it to for your ears to stop ringing in the renewed quiet, still echoing with the sounds of metal slowly grinding against metal and for your eyes to clear of the igure shaped-shadow amongst a door way of burning light imprinted upon them.

You hate that you have to wait to see the faces of whoever it is that’ll be escorting you to your ending, it’s a good tactic you’ll admit but you hate it all the same. You blink as things click back into processing the world around you as they’re supposed to and you feel your pumper free in your chest at the image being fed into your brain.

Where you’d expected to see faceless nobodies, unimportant and uncaring there to complete their task and nothing more, instead you lock gazes with the Grand Highblood himself, leader of the Clown Church, main authority of the land and all around complete and utter bastard.

The very same troll who’s orders you’d defied all that time ago at the start of this whole endeavour.

You can… barely even recall back to that point in time, it feels like so, so long ago, like a whole other life and maybe it was because it had been before you were The Summoner, something a lot of trolls just liked to gloss over and pretend never existed.

But you think… you think he might have been ordering you and your squad off on some mission, run of the mill what with the Alternian Military all falling under the Clown’s orders at some point or another with the Empress spreading her Tyranny through the stars. But it’d been different because, because it’d been impossible, you’d known it was an impossible endeavour he had been trying to sent you all off you but he hadn’t cared to listen to you, hadn’t given a single solitary fuck that he’d wanted you and yours to just throw your lives away for nothing when there was a hundred other, better, solutions if he had just let go of his pride long enough to just listen, admit to the fact he didn’t know everything about everything.

And you’d just… you’d had enough.

You hadn’t walked into his throne room with the intention of revealing your mutation, not even in your most horrific sleeping-terrors had the thought even crossed your mind, and you certainly hadn’t expected to be able to just escape him and his mirthful pack of rabid attack dogs. The dragon had been a neat bonus though, even if more than a handful of trolls insisted she was very haunted by the recently deceased Neophyte, you would allow that is was a neat haunted bonus.

And from there? It had only escalated and you’d never even had the tiniest want to consider stopping any of it.

You hadn’t even been expecting to see the Grand Highblood again, or at least you’d hoped you wouldn’t ever see him again, not in this life or whatever counted as the next one, but there he was in all his… questionable glory.

You lift your chin and bare your blunt, Lowblood teeth at him, wings flaring out as much as they’re able with how they were restrained and you make it clear to him that as much as you’d bound and at every possible disadvantage you will not go down easy if he’s planning to just kill you here and now. You’re not going to fight the fate you’ve been handed in life, you’re not that stupid and there’s nothing left for you anymore, but there’s no way on Alternia that you’re just going to let him put an end to you where no one could see without so much as a fight.

A name’s breathed into the tense air of the tiny room and you feel yourself freeze; breath stolen your lungs being squeezed tight in your chest.

The Grand Highblood just said your true name.

You don’t… don’t know how he knows that name, you don’t get it there’s just no possible way he could have remembered it after all this time, you’d been a nobody then there’s no reason for him to have known it in the first place let alone remember it up to now.

Rufioh hadn’t been worth remembering, not until after he’d become The Summoner.

Your pumper’s frozen, still and aching in the hollow of your chest, throat tight and a chill stiffening your spine that you know has nothing to do with whatever chucklevoodoos he may be using to put the fear of him into you. You’re left just staring up at the giant, hulking form of the Highblood as he steps further into the room, taking up all the free space of it and not even bothering to give you the dignity of pretending he has to worry about you attacking him or, even more unlikely, escaping, which is more than enough to make you snap back into focus because fuck that.

You snarl at him, lips pulling back over your teeth even as your wings attempt to spread further in a display made ineffective by heavy, piercing chains. He doesn’t react at all to your threat, he just rolls his eyes and scoffs at you like you’re some wriggler trying to stand up to a troll fresh from their second adult moult and continues to draw closer and closer still until you have nowhere else to go, nowhere to retreat to with how tightly you’re pressing your back against the wall. He kneels in front of you, giving no thought to the fact that he’s putting himself so close to your teeth and fangs, like you’ve never been a threat to him, reaching out to grasp your chin in a single, blood-stained giant, clawed hand and holding you in place despite your struggles to free yourself of the grip.

You’re trapped now, the wall’s at your back pressing your wings uncomfortably close to your body and his hand is a freezing iron vice holding you in place and you hate it. You try to snap your teeth, growl as much as you’re able to in your position, well aware that it holds absolutely nothing to the noises Highbloods are able to create but unwilling to be caught not trying to all the same. You will not let him look down upon you more than he already is, you won’t.

He opens his mouth and his words are low, slow and coiling in your think pan and it makes you flinch back as much as you can.

He wants you to repent, to beg and plead his forgiveness, the Empire’s forgiveness, for going against the Empire in the way you had, to the extent you had. He wants you to play into his sick amusements by turning traitorous and turncoat yourself to all you’ve worked and strode towards to get to this point in time at your inevitable end, to cast aside The Sufferer and his teachings from your pan and pumper so that you may be spared and allowed to continue to draw breath into your lungs.

Save your own filthy, mutant hide.

Escape the execution block and the mass hollering for your blood to paint the walls of the very church he disgraced so long ago.

Become nothing more than a doll he can claim to have re-attached the strings to and become Rufioh Nitram again, loyal worker, subordinate, his play-thing in all the ways someone like you should be.

It’d be so easy, he promises you, soft and quiet and so very persuasive. So easy to just fall into place like you should.

But…

Rufioh Nitram had been the one who started all of this.

You were Rufioh Nitram when you cast aside your position and told him that you were not going to throw away your life or the life of any of your squad for something so incredibly stupid as a troll who wouldn’t listen to reason and you were the same troll now. The same troll and more besides, no matter what this clown thought of you.

You are no doll, no clown’s play thing.

You are Rufioh Nitram.

You are The Summoner and yours is not a story that continues past tonight. Yours is not one of great importance or regard, not meant to continue past it’s point, not meant to linger and over-stay the welcome you were so graciously given.

No.

No, yours is nothing but a steppingstone, a secondary chapter to what was already started by The Sufferer, The Signless, before you. A precursor to what the generations to come will continue with pride in their pumpers and fire in their eyes and you are not going to let this clown ruin any of that. It is not his place any more than it is yours.

You are The Summoner and you spit in the face of the Grand Highblood for his offer, proud and defiant as you ever were in life, yours might be nothing more than part of a bigger story but you decide how your life draws to its close.

And when you are taken to meet your ending point, bruise blossoming large and bronze on your face, you have eyes only for the highest of purples trained upon you. You don’t look to the crowd of ravenous, cull-thirsty faithful around you, only him.

Your story ends here, but with your death the Signless’ message lives on.

You are just the first of the rebellions he will influence and nowhere near the last.

You go to meet the Handmaid with the certainty of that seared into the very core of you.

[eryiss]

Freed Justine Weekend - Day 2

Day Two of the Freed Justine Weekend, hosted by @freedjustineappreciation. As I said in yesterday’s post, these drabbles are going to show the darker side of the charatcer. Becuase of this, there’s some minor body horror and gore. So, if that;s not your thing, maybe give these a miss. But if not, enjoy ^.^

Écriture of Darkness

Burning. All he felt was burning. Throughout every inch of his body, every cell and every synapse, there was nothing but burning pain. His lips were parted by a guttural, agonised roar; though he felt a scream was more appropriate given the torture he was undergoing.

Stay Strong…

His muscles began to mutate, growing larger and stronger at a pace not safe. He was forced to drop to the ground where he stood, his body unable to withstand the sensation of extreme growth that he was enduring. He dug his hands into the dirt below him, his back arching as it expanded and grew at an accelerated rate, the roar growing louder and echoing throughout the forest, disrupting the birds and creatures nearby.

Forcing his eyes open, he could see an ink-like substance crawling up his arms, replacing his skin with light-grey scales. Small feathers began to sprout from the scales, coated in a deep black ink that seemed to ooze across him. Still, he roared.

Stay Strong!

His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Every aspect of his body was overwhelmed, worked harder than it ever had before. He dug his hands further into the dirt, eyes clenching shut in a hopeless attempt to negate the pain. It didn’t work.

Back arching further, he felt his torso expand into a new level of strength. He recognised the sound of tearing clothes, and immediately realised that his clothing wasn’t yet large enough to fit his new strength. The tatters of cloth ripped from his body, and he noted the singes surrounding them as they dropped to the ground, burned.

His roar grew louder and louder, and his head felt as though it had been cut open. He felt the sensation of grown appearing from the side of his head in two places, contorting and manipulating into what he deemed would be horns. A shiver sent across his new flesh, the same shiver that crossed him when the scales appeared across him. The wind that had tickled his new skin vanished immediately, blocked by the scales.

Stay Strong, Dammit!

He felt the skin of his face ice over, and agony accompanied it. The eye containing his magic burned as if combatting this new form, but the scales fought back. His roar grew louder as the skin cracked, tearing apart and leaving small fragments of grey plastered across his face.

All his limbs burned with the magic energy filling them, growing hotter and hotter with every second as his body compensated for the deficit of power needed for his transformation. The burning was getting too much. Too overwhelming. He knew that he could only last so long before the heat would take him, but he needed to see this through.

And then, mercifully, the burning stopped.

Finally!

Every aspect of pain was gone within an instant. It was replaced by power. An abnormal power. A new level of power that crackled beneath the surface of the man’s soul. Instinct accompanied it, telling him how best to harness this magic, to bend his new power to his whim and do whatever he wished with it.

He stood up, standing tall and proud. The difference to his figure was almost unnoticeable as he moved, not affecting his dexterity nor his finesse. Taking a few steps, his feet entered the shallow shore of the lake before him, and he looked as his reflection was cast across the still water.

It was demonic.

The inky black feathers covered his arms, scales covering both his chest, hands and face. Purple horns twisted from his head, framing his elevated hair. His muscles bulges against the remains of his trousers, and his boots had been replaced by an almost armour like coating that he suspected covered his legs also.

Across his chest, an insignia had been etched into his skin. The same insignia he had used to combine the spells that had created this form. The insignia of his transformation: Darkness.

Raising a hand and swiping it to the side, a blade like construct of pure darkness shot out, his hand burning fantastically with the new power. The attack slid across the lake, causing ripple upon ripple of water on the surface before embedding into multiple trees on the other shore. The cut was deep, and the cloud of smoke caused was almighty.

He smirked slightly.

Cracked eye glowing, purple wings of runic energy formed behind him and lifted him high into the air. Shadow crackled around his hands like lightening, filling him with exhilaration and adrenaline. He placed his hands together, a large pulsating sphere of shadows forming between them.

Slamming the new attack down into the centre of the lake, an explosion of shadows, wind and magic energy formed. The water shot up like a geyser, the peaks of which reached high above the forest canopy. As stray droplets of water fell back to the ground, and birds flew to safety, the man found himself grinning almost manically as he realised the power he now had at his disposal.

He was a demon. Capable of destruction and carnage whenever needed. Released from the bondage of humanity.

Perfect.

Fight You Wish Happened in Canon

A fist slammed against a fist; a gauntlet against a scaled hand. Freed gritted his teeth as he dug his heals into the ground, pushing against his opponent to block the punch that was aimed towards him. His eye pulsated with a cloudy purple energy and his mouth was contorted into a sneer, a testament to the hatred he felt for his opponent.

For Ivan Dreyar.

The man who tormented one of his closest allies and friends, who tried to manipulate his guild into following his twisted views on power, who had tried to turn allies against each other and ruin Fairy Tail out of petty vengeance. A man Freed hated.

Freed jumped back, making his opponent stumble slightly. The two men stood alone in a dirt track, the location of Ivan’s failed ambush. He had placed a job offer in the guildhall under a false name, requesting a high-level rune-mage’s as a way to lure him into a vulnerable position. He claimed, after showing who he was, that he would get revenge on his son for ‘humiliating’ him during the Grand Magic Game by taking the people closest to him; he then stated that Evergreen and Bickslow would be next.

That was when Freed had pounced.

Ivan was well prepared, his armour being enchanted to stop Freed’s magic from affecting him, but Ivan had underestimated him if he thought that would render him helpless. The swordsman had been unrelenting in his attacks, first using his sword to make as many cracks in the armour as possible. It had worked, to an extent, but one look into the man’s eyes and the rune-mage decided he didn’t need mercy. He hadn’t earned it.

Evidently, despite all his preparation, he wasn’t aware of how Freed treated the people he truly detested. Seeing Ivan’s eyes widen with pure fear through his cracked helmet as he turned into his demonic form was practically orgasmic.

The fight had turned within an instant.

Any bravado or illusions of having an upper hand fell the moment the transformation was completed. Freed was vicious, channelling all the anger he felt for how the man treated his family into a barrage of punches that, to Ivan, were seemingly endless. The armour of his Alexei persona had been all but destroyed, showing how pitiful he really was. A weak little man with the personality and ideals of a rat. A rat that needed to be dealt with.

The contrast between the men was stark. Freed was on an adrenaline high, showing no sign of stopping as he looked down at his opponent, whereas Ivan was clearly moments away from falling unconscious, taking the brunt of the fight. 

He still hadn’t given up yet. It suited Freed fine; it was good to see him struggle.

A wave of Ivan’s shikigami’s started to form, swirling in a large sphere in front of the man. Freed’s eyes narrowed, recognising the attack; Ivan was desperate if he was resulting to using his most draining spells. A moment later, the spell came into effect and a large wave of magic energy burst from the man’s hands.

Freed decided to taunt him, standing strong and taking the full brunt of the attack. It was powerful, admittedly, but not enough to knock the demon off his feet or back any noticeable distance. From Ivan’s perceptive, the spell had done nothing at all.

His eyes widened, and he took a step back.

Advancing, Freed smirked. Ivan’s backtracking was cut short when Freed quick-casted a rune around them both, leaving Ivan no room for escape. As his back hit the constructed wall, lettering wrapped around his arms and legs, keeping him in place. Freed walked towards the now bound man, demonic face contorted with sadism.

Everything this man had done entered his mind. Every cruel act Freed had witnessed, every twisted story he had been told, it was all screaming at him. This man was unforgivable.

Without speaking, he lunged forward. The long claws of his from slammed into Ivan’s partially exposed stomach, breaking the skin. The attack cut through the flesh and left large wounds visible, though hadn’t cut anything vital. Freed couldn’t claim that had been a conscious choice.

“You do not touch my family,” Freed growled, voice distorted by his form.

“Family,” Ivan gasped slightly, the pain evident in his tone. “You bastards act so high and mighty, but you’re not like them. You have power beyond that friendship crap, and if you harnessed it properly, and unleashed it, you would be unstoppable. A perfect weapon for my cause.”

“And you, Ivan Dreyar,” Freed snarled. “Would make a perfect fucking corpse.”

He pushed his claws in deeper, revelling in the scream it caused. The man had caused so much pain to so many people, seeing him enduring some of it himself was more than gratifying.

“My friends and my family are off limits,” He growled, voice dangerously low. “If you hurt them, if you touch them, if you even think about pulling this crap on them, you might not live to regret it. I swear I will make sure every last fraction of my power which you seem to admire is used in bringing hell to you.”

His claws retracted, his from shifted and his boots turned. He let his enemy fall to the ground, slumped over and bleeding. He picked up his sword and walked away, his runes disappearing as he left the man alone. Perhaps someone would find him before he bled out; if so, Freed hoped the person had a strong stomach. But that wasn’t his problem. Ivan was dealt with, and perhaps dealing with the Raijinshuu’s resident demon would finally get the message across.

He was not welcome near Fairy Tail, nor its members, again.

Angry Eyebrows/Smirk

This was torture. Alone with four walls, a small window of metal bars, and his thoughts. It was torture.

The cultist had been an inmate in Fiore’s largest prison for just short of a week, and the reality of it had just settled in. There was no escaping this – after the previous prison’s destruction, this one had been covered in more enchantments than any mage could break through – so these four walls were to be his home until his eyes closed for the final time.

He wouldn’t repent. He wouldn’t feel guilty. His cause was right, it was the destiny of the world and would happen eventually. But the time alone in the near darkness, with nothing to keep his mind occupied, left him with a lot of time to think.

Think about him.

During a ritual, the church that his cult had taken as its base of operation had been stormed. It was a large attack on them, consisting of multiple teams from multiple guilds, and it had been catastrophic for them. The members of their cult were taken, the leaders hauled off with more guards surrounding them than there were links in the chains that held them down. Few had managed to escape, and the encaged cultist had nearly been one of them, until he laid eyes on the man who captured him.

He was engraved onto the cultist’s mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see him.

The cultist had retreated into the ritual room, aiming to use the same teleportation rune that he had seen others retreat using. The moment he entered the rune, the door to the room opened and his capture presented himself.

A Fairy Tail mage, with long green hair and a coat the colour of blood covering him. He scanned the room with a single glance, seemingly understanding the complex runes that covered it. He’d removed his sword from a scabbard, tapped it against the floor and cast a spell, a blinding light enveloping the room that forced the cultist to look away.

When the light had died down, all runes in the room had vanished. The teleportation rune, the enchantment holding the unconscious sacrifice lifted above the alter, the barrier that kept the side door locked; all traced of magic in the room had disappeared without a trace. The Fairy-Tail mage claimed that no self-respecting jutsu shiki mage should be without a spell that would instantly cancel all runes in a confined area.

The arrogance of the man was palpable.

Running towards the side door, the cultist found himself desperate. He needed to get away – needed to keep the cause going so that the work they had done was not in vein. But the moment he threw open the old wooden door, he was met with a wall of glowing lettering unlike those cast by the cult leader. They belonged to the Fairy Mage.

Now trapped in the small arching doorway, the cultist could do nothing as the mage walked towards him with his sword extended and his eye glowing with magic. He didn’t say anything, simply swiping his sword across the air and casting a spell.

The same runic lettering flew onto the cultist’s chest. Agony followed a moment later.

Clutching at his chest, trying to cope with the pain he was going through, the cultist slumped to the ground. It felt as though his magic had been weaponised against him, and was burning his insisted upon the other mages command. It was hell, and the cultist couldn’t help but wonder if this was how the successful sacrifices had felt.

That thought quickly died. They were unimportant.

Breathing heavily in an attempt to deal with the pain filling him, he looked towards the caster of the spell. Blinked to counteract his blurred eyes, he was met with an unsympathetic expression from an obviously angered mage. An expression that wouldn’t leave him.

His pupils were dilated, even through the haze of magic and power the cultists could see the hatred that was aimed towards him.

His eyebrows were narrowed, in sharp angles that contorted his face with anger. Anger that had been caused directly by the cultist.

His lips were lifted slightly with a smirk. The cultist felt a chill run down his spine; the mage was enjoying his pain. Relishing in it even.

With a roar, the cultist tried to distract himself from the memories of his capture. He slammed his fist into the stone wall, ignoring the roaring pain that sent through his body because of it. He did it again, and again; a desperate attempt to remove the vivid images from his mind. The attempt did nothing. He could still see the man vividly, his expression taunting his thoughts every time his eyes closed or his mind strayed.

The rest of his life would be like this, haunted by this man. Death couldn’t come soon enough.

[chaniters]

Cracked Candy

Sidestep is captured by Vitruvian’s minions and left under the care of the sadistic Candymaster, while Ortega and the Rangers race to save him. 

Enjoy!

You cant' scream. You can't complain. Your mouth is sealed by the sweet substance. All you can do is watch helplessly as CandyMaster keeps torturing you.

When you woke up, you were are dangling from a pipe on the ceiling of the cell, your hands handcuffed together and held by a chain. Your arms still feel like hell, they kept you suspended for hours up there while the Candmyaster beat you. You are still held up by the cuffs and chain, but your feet aren’t dangling anymore. You are standing, now, but of course,   the freak took care of it, making it a thousand times worse.

"So delicious! You're almost ready!" he cackles.

Ready for what, is the question you don't want to answer.

Your lower body is now almost completely encased inside a growing sugary crystal casing that's slowly rising from the floor, already covering part of your chest. IT's getting increasingly hard to breathe under its pressure.

"GHMHMMM!" you try to yell, to no avail, the candy crystals completely blocking your mouth.  

The crystal growth stops. He's doing it slowly. Wants to see you suffer.

"What?" he asks bending an ear your way. "I didn't quite get that"

"HMMGGF!" you're not faking it right now...

"Oh, you want more? I'm glad to oblige!" he cracks in laughter again, the crystals covering up more of your body.

Tears begin to fall off your eyes, It's clear you might actually not survive this. You've only just begun untangling the seals of his strange mind. You might not be done in time to actually stop him.

The screens in front of you come to life, startling you, as well as CandyMaster. You look up... a figure inside an impressive green tech armor suit.

Vitruvian

"Aww.. we can't play anymore, Sidestep Darling. I need to speak with my sugar daddy" he adds, giving you his white smile.

You keep up your hopeless fight against the bonds.

"I am not. Your fucking. Sugardaddy" Vitruvian speaks with cold annoyance.

"Oh, sure you are! You appreciate me and pay for all my toys!"

"Just... put him on screen already... " Vitruvian seems exasperated.  

"Coming through!" The CandyMaster adjusts the camera to focus on you. "Ta-da!"

"GMHEMHHT THFIGMS FGMUKCHINHMG THMING OFFHMM MMHMY MOhMHMMUHMTH!"

"What the FUCK did you do to him?

"Just a few games! Games games games, I like games!"

"FUCKING LUNATIC! I NEED HIM ALIVE!"

"OH don't worry, I'm careful with my toys... I wasn't going to break him... YET!"

"Shut ... up... Just remove that thing of his mouth"

"Aww... I liked it... can't we keep it on?"

Vitruvian simply stares at him.

Candymaster taps your sealed mouth and the crystal cracks in pieces. You spit candy stones all over the place as the thing falls apart.  

"FUCK...  YOU!" you scream at CandyMaster

"See? It helps keep him well behaved."

"Leave us," Vitruvian says, furious.

The monster finally leaves the room, leaving you alone with the screens.

"Well well... Welcome, Sidestep. I'm sorry for the delay. I was.. occupied."

"And fuck you too," you say to the screen.

"Again, apologies... CandyMaster clearly went a bit Overboard. But that can't be helped now..."

"What the fuck do you want from me?"

"Ah.. straight to the point. Very well, let me show you..." The armored figure turns to another console "Doctor M., please send the sample inside the cell"

Shortly after, the door opens, and a pair of HIVE androids enter, pushing a metal tray with a glass box inside. A black residue is at the bottom of the box.

"What... is that?" you can't help ask.

"That, Sidestep... are dormant Nanovores. Relics of the Gulf war."

Nanovores. The terrifying word resonates in your mind.  You've heard the accounts. They can cover entire areas eliminating all life, stopping at nothing. Devouring people on the spot.  

"You stole them from that ship!"

"I see you're keeping up, good for you. Yes, I got them out of the ship before you and your friends came in to send Jupiter to the bottom of the sea. You spared me having to pay him for his services too, so I thank you once more."

"I wish you had been there too, you sick monster!"

He simply ignores you, and goes on "Now, what I need is for you to help me activate the nanovore's control software"

"Fuck that...! I'm not... helping... you!" You struggle trying to break free. You don't like where this is going... but you only manage to get the crystals to dig deeper into your suit. It hurts horribly, until you stop, exhausted.

Vitruvian simply stares at your futile attempts before speaking again.

"Are you satisfied? Is it over? Did you get it all out of your system?"

You look down, exhausted and weak.

"How do you even want me to help you? I'm not a scientist"

"Oh, I know. And I also know you're not a martial artist either. You are a telepath. And a very strong one. Which is exactly what I need to unlock the nanovores".

"W... what?"

"You will do this for me. Or else, I will release the nanovores in the cell you're in right now."

The screens show a graphic of the nanovores spreading through the room leaving nothing behind... and then spreading through a large circular area of square kilometers before dying off. Spreading so fast...

"It will take them around 9 minutes to break the glass. If you haven't unlocked their software by then, they will devour you. According to the gulf war accounts, if you believe those, it's worse than being flayed alive."

"I'm not... a telepath"   His image is replaced on screen by past footage of you striking Eldritch's behemoth form's head, sending the whole monster down. Then the screen returns to him. "That is not the work of martial arts. If you're not a telepath, I'm afraid you'll die here, Sidestep, and our business will be concluded."

Fuck.

"Are you insane? Even If I was...  How am I going to control machines?"

"It's in their design. Dr. M and I have studied this technology."

Dr. M., You remember the name... a powerful villain relying on advanced tech.

"You are strong enough to do this. The machinery in this room will record your efforts so it can be reproduced."

"I won't!" you defy him. "I won't help a freak like you get hold of a weapon of mass destruction".

"Pitty," He says. "But I haven't finished" he continues. He is replaced once more by... security cameras? There seems to be a battle outside... you see energy weapons fire and...

"You are watching the exterior of this complex. Your friends are coming to rescue you"

Anathema is facing off against the HIVE robots in one screen. Steel and Sentinel are creating a distraction on another sector, fighting off another squad of HIVE.

"I'm sure they are all here somewhere, even if the cameras haven't picked up all of them. If you won't do it, then not only will you die, but them as well once they come looking for you. Their lives, are in your hands Sidestep. So do it, and save them, save yourself. Or don't... and you can all die together."

The screens turn black.

As she speaks, the black residue inside the box comes to life, spinning and turning into a cloud of black smoke.

You hear a harsh sound coming off the box. The nanovores are eating it's walls as Vitruvian said they would.

The screens show the Rangers battling their way inside.

There is no way to warn them.

If you do nothing, then you, and all your friends will die. But if you do, you'd be handing over a weapon of mass destruction for him to use.

"FUCK!" you scream. You struggle once more, but it's completely useless. The handcuffs above are firm, and the crystal below is like an anchor, constricting you.

He's left you no choice. No fucking choice. You can't let them die.

You try to concentrate. Your body is in a tremendous amount of stress. But you try again... and again...

The sound from the box becomes louder.

You start feeling them. They have a presence to them... You keep attempting to connect, but each time's a new failure.

Is that a crack on the box? Or your mind playing tricks...

"GHAA!" you scream as you manage to make contact for a brief second. You have to keep trying... you have to...

The screens outside show Balrog joining the fight... he and Steel are going hand to hand. They will be distracted... they won't have time to flee.

You focus once more. You can't fail. You can't fail them.

~Contact~

The strange language inside the Nanites floods your brain... you realize it's some sort of computer language.

You focus even harder...

The residue stops spinning and focuses on your side of the box.

Fuck... you're leading them to you.

It begins to crack...

"Stop! Stop!" you yell at them... until something clicks. You've managed to do something... unlocked something...   And then they freeze... and fall back into the box's bottom, lifeless once more.

You take a deep breath. You did it... whatever happens next... you saved them.

A screen flashed on the device on the wall on the left. "Package sent" it flashes. Vitruvian won. He got what he wanted. Fuck.

You hear footsteps... and a mind approaching... it's...

Oh no...

The door opens and CandyMaster barges in.

"My precious young man, it seems your friends found us! I'm not sure how they did it, but it seems they want to rescue you... We can have that!" he says forcing you to look at him, taking your chin with his sharp crystal fingers.

"I'm afraid this is goodbye for us! I enjoyed you very much!" he giggles, as he commands the crystal to grow once more.

"Hm... bas... tard!" you scream in terror feeling the crystals pressure increasing. You are about to die. It's over... The pain is unbearable. You try to scream... but it's hard to even breath. 

You don’t want to die.

Not like this. 

"S...to..p!"  

And then the air vent on the ceiling behind him opens up as someone kicks it open.

CandyMaster turns to see Ortega jump down through it.

"Oh... I didn't know there was another dessert coming up!" he starts laughing, raising his hands to use his powers...

Only this time you get him.

He is distracted, and you get inside his mind. You don't know how his mutated brain works, but you're in, so you simply start pulling and breaking everything you see. You've' learned to fear him, but right now It's either you or him.

"Aaargh... " the CandyMaster holds his head, in pain... and then it explodes in pieces, being replaced by Ortega's Electrical fist. His body continues to move, but Ortega strikes once more, the thing cracking up and falling apart in a thousand pieces.

"H...el.. p"  

"Fuck! Cyrus, I'm here!" he runs to you

"Can't... br..ea...th"

"Hang on, let me break this shit!"

He starts pulling the crystal pieces apart. You struggle to remain conscious... until you finally sense your lungs released from the pressure.

"Mierda..." he says, still working on releasing you. "What did that monster do to you?"

"Thank... you... Ricardo" Is all you can think of. You are tearing up. "Thank... you" He continues breaking down crystals, releasing your legs. The thing is stuck to your suit, and you have some cuts. Fortunately, your nanomesh seals your skin once they are removed...

"Elyise called us... her precognition told her where they took you... Fuck... I'm sorry. If I hadn't..."

He breaks the chain to which your handcuffs are attached, and you fall down. He catches you. Your legs are completely numb from the crystal's pressure. You can't even stand. And the handcuffs are still there.

"Fuck.. let's.. take you out of here," he says with concern, carrying with both arms. Elyise comes inside as well Oh there you are! "The HIVES are fleeing... And  Sentinel sent Balrog down with a wind gust while Steel broke down one of wings. They've captured him... and... What the... Cyrus are you ok?" she says approaching.

No, you're NOT OK you want to scream. You’ve been tortured for hours and you thought you were going to die. You were sure of it. But you just don’t have the strength to do it.

"Let's get him out," Ortega says.

A piece of the CandyMan's face lies on the floor, it's dead eye staring at you, hauntingly. 

You bury your face in Ortega’s chest as he walks out. "Thank you" You keep repeating, in tears.

_________________________________

My fanfiction: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

[cuteeiji]

abscond

summary: Their ultimatums were empty promises. Relief wasn’t coming no matter what he did. [an interpretations of events preceding @the-wonder-duo blog] pairing: slight bakudeku word count: 3121 warnings: torture, body horror, explicit language.

He can’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

Probably because of the gash on his temple, blood streaking down his face and onto his lips. His head hangs low, chin pressed to the taper of his sternum. Blood smears there, too. He’s getting sick of all the red coating his skin, drying cold and dark.

Katsuki would like to say he doesn’t know where things went wrong, but it was probably when he and Deku decided to split up. He had just peered into the abandoned warehouse, taking a tentative step across the threshold when he heard a branch snap behind him. He turned around to a sharp crack and a white-hot pain slamming into his head.

He had woken up here, gauntlets stripped from his arms and thoughtfully replaced with shackles.

Katsuki shudders, the movement sending a jolt of pain down his spine. They keep it cold in the basement, and they stripped him down to his pants—he assumes it’s an added precaution; hindering his abilities as much as possible.

Not that they needed it anymore.

Unbidden, his eyes flick down to the burnt, bloody edges of his wrists, empty air filling the space where his hands would be. A few meters away, they sit on a table, almost unassuming with how casually they were placed. From here, he can see the scar on his thumb from when he slashed it open with a kitchen knife. The chewed nails. The slightly bent pinky finger. He had broken it when he was seventeen. Didn’t bother to get it fixed.

Bile rises in his throat, and he leans over to spit it onto the damp floor.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mouth soured, “fuck fuck fuck.”

He’s going to die here. Not yet, not now, or else they wouldn’t have cauterized his wounds—but they don’t want his quirk. They don’t want his allegiance. They’re waiting for information to spill from his lips, and then they’ll kill him.

He heaves out a humorless laugh. Those bastards have another thing coming if they think he’s going to tell them anything. All he has to do is hold out for as long as he can. Make sure they stay in place.

Deku would find them soon enough, regardless of whether he’s alive or not.

Deku.

Katsuki closes his eyes, feeling the nausea rear its head again. Deku would have to work alone now, or find another teammate. The thought bothers him more than it should—Deku working with someone else. He quickly stores that feeling away, alongside the other pile of emotions involving Deku that he doesn’t want to unpackage.

Besides, Deku would have a hard time finding someone better than him to work with. They were the best team out there. 

When—if—he dies, the Wonder Duo would die with him. 

Despite himself, he indulges in his dark train of thought and imagines his funeral. His old classmates would be there, his teachers, his parents. His mother would be so pissed that he’d gotten himself killed. His father would cry. He was a quiet crier; he hid his face in his hands so no one could see the tears fall or hear the little hitches in his breath. And of course Deku would cry too—loudly, unreserved, shoulders trembling with his sobs.

Katsuki grits his teeth. He fucking hated it when the nerd cried, and it was even worse when it was because of some stupid shit he did. Like dying.

Deku didn’t deal well with losing people. He had hugged him after All Might had passed. His fingers had curled into his clothes, face pressed heavily into the crook of his neck, and Katsuki had felt him exhale shakily, as if that embrace was the only thing letting him breathe. He had allowed himself to melt and hold him for a few minutes, stroking his hair, feeling the crook of his chin nudge his collarbone, hot tears dropping onto his skin.

Who would Deku hug when Katsuki was gone?

Light spills down the stairs as the door slams open. He starts, groaning as he scrapes the stump of his wrist against the ground.

“Wakey wakey,” says the rat-faced bastard from above him, probably fully aware that he wasn’t sleeping. He was the one that seemed to like it the most when Katsuki screamed, his beady little eyes lighting up with glee and a wicked smile curling on his face. His favorite pastime seemed to be pressing his fingers against the cuts on his skin, digging in until the scab broke and blood ran fresh. Either that or cutting him open like a piece of meat.

“Fuck off, you sadistic piece of shit,” Katsuki mutters, turning his head away.

“Aw,” he says, and Katsuki can hear the pout in his voice. The stairs creak as he descends. “You’re too mean, Kacchan.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he snarls, even though he knows its useless. They had done this little dance a thousand times, and it usually ended with a ragged knife slicing over Katsuki’s skin, the man’s hot breath in his ear, whispering “do you like that, Kacchan?” again and again until Katsuki finally fell into the relief of unconsciousness.

He swallows the vomit that pools into his mouth. Don’t let them see you be afraid. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t say anything. Hold out for Deku. Hold out for Deku.

He’s lost track of the time that he’s been in here, but it had to have been at least a couple days. He can feel his head pound from dehydration. Hunger was a thing that he had lost a while ago. His wrists feel like they’ve been burning for centuries, but he knows it had only been a few hours since they had pinned his arm to the table and—

He clenches his teeth. Don’t let them get to you.

It was a hopeless litany. He had repeated it to himself time and time again, even as he screamed in agony, begging for them, Deku, anyone to help him. Ratface would laugh at his breathless pleas and keep on carving.

Most of the bastards that had taken him were all business. It was a simple equation for them: They would stop as soon as he gave them what he wanted. Ratface was the lone exception; Katsuki had a feeling that he wouldn’t halt the fun just because the rest of them did. Funnily enough, it made it easier for him not to break. Their ultimatums were empty promises. Relief wasn’t coming no matter what he did.

Ratface, as if to reaffirm his depressing realization, grips his shoulder, nails ramming into his still-weeping wounds. Katsuki stiffens, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Did that hurt, Kacchan?” He asked, face the picture of innocence. “I’m sorry.” He presses harder.

“Fuck you,” Katsuki groans, pulling his knees to his chest. Fear, hot and trembling, rolls down his body. He feels it burn on his soles, alongside the jagged rims of his wrists, the back of his neck. He shivers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hm,” Ratface says. He can hear the hush of moving fabric as the man stands up. “I guess we should get the boring part outta the way first.”

He turns to the closet across the room. “So, Kacchan,” he says casually, walking over and opening it. “Spill your guts or I’ll do it for you.”

“I told you, don’t call me that,” he says unsteadily. Something feels off, like every atom in his body is vibrating, like he’s being unmade and roughly pieced back together again. He retches a little, and distantly, he can hear Ratface laugh.

“I can do whatever I want, Kacchan,” He says, rummaging through the closet. “Ain’t nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Die, scum,” Katsuki mutters, skidding his feet against the ground in a poor attempt to kick dirt at the man.

He sees a flash of light and heat skittering around his ankles, and he stops breathing.

Ratface is still looking for the tool he wants. It’s part of the act—the anticipation, the edginess building up until he was bursting at the seams with fear. That’s when he always liked to start cutting.

For once, Katsuki is grateful for his deliberate sluggishness in choosing a weapon. He kicks out again, and there it is: the unmistakable sparks of his quirk, bursting from his soles like little fireworks.

He remembers Deku reading up on quirk mutation, his face lighting up talking about the epigenetic implications regarding how they could be expressed.

“There are only fifty two cases of quirk mutation in adults in the entire world,” Deku had said excitedly, pointing at the article. He had snorted, called him a nerd. Read the entire thing later that night.

Katsuki scrapes his heels against the floor, pinpricks of light dancing across his skin. “Guess I’m lucky number fifty three, huh?” He whispers, low enough for the rat-faced bastard not to hear him.

“Kacchan,” he calls from across the room, “I think I found the perfect thing for today.”

Katsuki looks up and feels the blood drain from his face.

Ratface is holding a chainsaw.

“Get the hell away from me,” he says, scooting until his back is pressed flat against the wall.

Ratface strolls over, swinging the chainsaw at his ankles. “Aw, don’t be like that,” he croons. “We’ve had so much fun these past three days.”

Katsuki’s pulse hammers against his throat, a cold sweat trickling down his cheek. The man draws closer, his smile getting wider at the naked fear on his face.

He feels like Deku, thought after thought pinballing into his skull. Would his feet even be effective at this point? All he had done was make harmless little sparks. Should he attack? Should he wait until Ratface was gone to try and escape? What was he going to do to him? Would the damage he took today hinder him?

He looks up at the man standing over him, face contorted with a terrible glee.

“I’ve been waiting for this since you got here, Kacchan,” He whispers, turning the motor on, and Katsuki’s mind goes blank.

He screams, kicking out at him, and the room lights up in a glorious blaze as his soles detonate. Ratface flies back, hitting the wall with a sickening crack. The chainsaw lands beside him, still whirring.

He hears footsteps upstairs, voices murmuring. What was that?

Panicked, he looks at the shackles cuffed around his ankles. He can’t move in these, not fast enough to escape. He’d have to break them.

He nudges his heel against the metal band encircling his left leg, and closes his eyes as he lets an explosion off against it. It burns, agonizing pain shooting up his leg, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins numbs it almost as quickly as it came.

He lurches up, legs unsteady.

Go. Run.

He glances at his severed hands, lying neatly on the table.

No time. Go.

He turns away and stumbles up the stairs, chest heaving. The door opens, and the bright light is almost blinding. A figure stands at the top, gun drawn and aimed between his eyes.

Fight. Run.

Katsuki ducks just as he shoots, blasting himself up by his feet and slamming his head into the man’s stomach. He doesn’t pause to see him land, sprinting through the cabin. He hears guns being cocked and he jumps, firing explosions in the direction of the noise.

There’s yelling, and he feels hands on him, and he shrieks out a curse, letting his feet discharge and carry him through a window, glass shattering around him. He lands on soft grass, every single cut on his body screaming.

Hurry, run!

Panting, he rolls onto his knees, his feet scrambling under him. Distantly, he hears them yelling.

“He’s getting away!”

“Follow him, for fuck’s sake!”

Katsuki runs. They’d taken him to a forest, somewhere secluded, no doubt. It doesn’t surprise him—they would’ve gagged him if they were worried about someone hearing him scream.

He doesn’t feel the brambles tearing at his skin, or the graze of the underbrush on his feet. The wind streaks through his hair, against his eyes, and he feels cold tears trickle down his cheeks. If he pretended hard enough, he could be in the woods training with Deku, watching the breeze play with his hair as he ran, eyes wide, an exhilarated smile on his face.

“Catch me if you can, Kacchan.”

Katsuki runs faster.

Eventually, dirt and plant gives way to road. He could’ve collapsed in relief, but his legs keep carrying him on, bloody and bruised, pounding against the asphalt to the time of his heartbeat. It’s not until he sees a light in the distance that he starts to sprint in earnest, breath coming ragged and hopeful.

It’s a house. A neighborhood. He stumbles to the nearest door and bangs his head against it, sliding down until his knees hit the concrete porch.

The door opens, warm light shining out into the darkness.

“Hel—oh my God, sir, are you alright?”

“Deku,” he says, dazed, glancing up at the horrified-looking woman. “I…I need Deku.”

The woman drops to her knees, taking his face in her hands. “Oh my God—honey, come here—You’re Ground Zero, right? We’re going to get you help. We’ll get you to a hospital, okay?”

The lady has nice eyes. Freckles. Deku.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to his hands?” Someone else asks. A man. Katsuki stiffens, but he doesn’t sound like the others. No malice. He sounds like his dad, almost.

“Deku…” he says again.

“Mr. Zero, we’ll make sure that he gets to you,” the lady says. He hears someone dialing, talking, using his name.

“Need…’Zuku,” he pleas, vision going blurry. “S’probably been lookin’ for me. Need ta tell’m I’m okay. No cryin’ allowed.”

“He’ll be here soon,” the lady says consolingly, stroking his hair. He collapses against her shoulder, feeling his consciousness slip away from him. “He’ll meet you at the hospital. The ambulance is on it’s way.”

“Hate it when he cries,” he mumbles softly, and lets himself fall into a deep and comforting darkness.

He wakes up to the smell of antiseptic and a monotonous, clinical beeping.

Hospital, he thinks hazily, and glances down. Deku is slumped over his lap, head perched on his folded arms. His eyes are red-rimmed and dark, eyelashes fluttering in an uneasy rest.

Katsuki feels a jolt of guilt. It looks like he hadn’t slept in days. He reaches out to touch Deku’s face, or stroke his hair, or something— and stops short.

He stares at the heavily bandaged stump for a moment, and lets it drop to his side silently. He drags his gaze back up to the ceiling, ignoring the blurry fragments of memory stirring in his mind.

“Deku,” he says, voice raspy, and he feels the mass on his lap jump.

“Oh my God, Kacchan, are you awake?” He asks frantically, leaning over him.

“What does it look like, shitnerd?” He replies, but there’s no heat in his voice.

He can see tears well up in Deku’s eyes, and he groans. “No, stop that, shitty Deku.”

“I—I’m just so glad you’re okay,” Deku says shakily, tears dripping down his face. “I thought—When I saw you laying so still—”

“It’d take more than a couple of thugs to kill me,” Katsuki says, but he looks away as the words leave his lips.

“Kacchan,” Deku says, so gently it hurts, “It’s okay to be upset by what happened.”

“Does it look like I’m not?” he says, laughing hollowly. “My goddamn hands got chopped off. They cut me up and laughed at me. I woke up every day wondering if I was gonna die.”

His voice drops. “God…I was so scared, Deku.”

“Me too,” Deku admits. “I was—I was so, so worried. One moment you were there and the next… I couldn’t find you. And there was blood spattered on the ground. God, Kacchan, I thought you’d been—” He cuts himself off. “How did…how did you escape?”

Katsuki sits up, and Deku’s hands immediately come to steady him. “What are you doing?”

“It’s better if I just show you,” he grunts, swinging his legs off the hospital bed.

“Kacchan, you should wait for a…doctor…” Deku trails off, staring wide-eyed at his feet, little sparks fizzling out like fireworks along his heels. “Oh my God.”

“You mentioned quirk mutations a few weeks ago, right?” Katsuki says, kicking off a reasonably-sized explosion in the air. “And how they usually show up when the user is in distress?”

“Oh…oh God, Kacchan,” Deku whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Katsuki lies. He can tell by the look on Deku’s face that he doesn’t believe it. “At least I’m not totally useless. Can probably find some prosthetics that’ll let me keep working. Incorporate my legs more. Sorta like your shoot style.”

“No,” Deku says.

Katsuki glares at him. “What do you mean, dumbass? Don’t wanna work with an amputee?”

“God, no, that’s not—of course I’d work with you,” Deku says, looking horrified. “We’re a team no matter what. What I meant is that…I might have a way to get your hands back.”

“Wait,” Katsuki says, squinting at him. “You don’t mean…”

Deku nods, and takes a step closer. His knees bump against his shins. “Yeah. We’d have to keep it pretty private. You know what could happen—the repercussions that would ensue if it got out to the public.”

He nods grimly. “How long… how long would it take?”

Deku’s mouth flattens. “I don’t know. A couple weeks, maybe a month?”

Katsuki inhales, the air rattling in his lungs. He looks down at the empty space beyond his wrists, imagines it being there forever. His stomach turns, and he exhales. “God. Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki says, leaning his forehead against Deku’s. Maybe it’s the morphine, maybe it’s all the shit that he’d gone through, but he’s craving contact that wasn’t the sharp cut of a knife, the ache of hammers beating against his bones, of fingers around his throat.

Deku delivers, his hands cupping his face, smoothing over the scar under his eye. It’s moments like this—when Deku’s looking at him like he’s something precious—that Katsuki wonders if he also feels the buzz under his skin when they touch, feels the swelling in his heart and the fluttering in his stomach. He never allows himself to wonder for long, but just this once, he pretends, lets himself be selfish.

“We’re in this together,” Deku says softly, but Katsuki can see the heat in his eyes. His determination. His resolve. “For better or for worse.”

“Yeah,” he echoes. “For better or for worse.”

And maybe, for now, that’s all he needs.