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bjy-on-ao3 · 3 years ago

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Fic Friday: Respite

(As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

Been playing a lot of FFXIV lately, so of course all the handsome men from it are taking up space in my head. I’ve written for a couple before in short form for Kinktober, but this is my first official one-shot for anything FFXIV. Took a good deal of cutscene study to pick up proper word usage/speech patterns, but I also got to listen to Aymeric, so that’s a plus.

Summary The Warrior of Light looks forward to some relaxation of sorts with their favorite denizen of Ishgard upon returning from an adventure.

Tags/Warnings Consensual Sex, Creampie, Established Relationship, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Sex

Respite (F! WoL Reader/Aymeric de Borel)

Upon returning from yet another duty - the list of tasks both mundane and daunting assigned to you seemed insurmountable sometimes - you were looking forward to the hospitality oft afforded you in Ishgard. Hospitality likely borne from all the aid you had lent them and your standings with many prominent figures of Ishgardian society, but hospitality nonetheless. Of course, there was a particular hospitality you were most greatly anticipating, and it was that which you would tend to first.

You began by asking some of the stationed soldiers if the Lord Aymeric was in. Several of them had no clue, leaving you increasingly frustrated. Eventually though, you came across a man who could confirm that, yes, the Lord Commander had recently returned from some business and instructed you where you might find him.

So off you set, with a renewed spring in your step and a trembling anticipation that was a struggle to contain. It was obvious even to simple passersby how much more your mood had changed compared to when you had initially returned to the city, particularly brighter than after questioning the previous soldiers. Excitement overflowing or not, you tried to contain yourself, managing to not break out into a sprint through the stone cobbled streets and alarm the city folk.

At last, you pushed open the last doors you expected to separate you and your reunion with the Lord Commander. The sight of the man in all his armored elegance greeted you immediately, and you tried to the stifle a grin. For a split second, Aymeric de Borel remained unaware of your presence, engaged in conversation with an Ishgardian official you didn't recognize off the top of your head.

The sound of the doors and your boots on the ground though drew the attention of both elezen swiftly, however, and they glanced towards the interruption. You noticed a nearly imperceptible flicker in Aymeric's stunningly blue eyes as he saw who had arrived. But he was practiced in self-restraint, too, and the shift in his eyes had been all that spoke of his truest emotions. The smile that curled his lips, while pleasant, held the warmth acceptable of the standard pleasantries expected of him.

"Have I come at a bad time? I can return later, if must needs be," you said tentatively.

You knew Aymeric would be loath to turn you away - he hadn't seen you in several weeks thanks to various business that preoccupied either of you. Though you knew he took his responsibilities seriously, and you also didn't want to interrupt anything important.

Aymeric shook his head gently. "We were nearly done. You needn't go," Aymeric informed you, turning back to the other man. "Pray, keep me informed. I look forward to word of progress in the near future," he said with a respectful bow of his head.

With an agreeing nod and a few more words you didn’t bother to try to catch, the other man turned to take his leave. You moved aside courteously so as not to bar his way, and the pair of you exchanged cursory passing pleasantries. Then he was gone, leaving only you and Aymeric in the chamber.

Once Aymeric was certain you were alone, the initial spark of excitement you had spied in his eyes grew many fold, the blue tumultuous as stormy seas in his mirth. You hadn't doubted for a single ilm Aymeric would be happy to see you, but seeing the warmth and sparkle in his eyes was always reassuring. "I've news for you of my latest task," you started, tone level and business-like. A flash of disappointment darted across Aymeric's face at the prospect you had dropped by merely for the sake of business alone, as often the case unfortunately was.

"Though I find myself rather...tired from the trip. Would my Lord allow me a brief respite before my report?" you inquired, tone growing more coy. It was a bald-faced lie that you were tired, laced with an underlying subtle hint. A hint you doubted would go over Aymeric's head.

"Ah, of course. Come, come, allow me to escort you somewhere you might lie down for a time," he responded with a gentle sweep of one hand, moving closer to you. He lay a hand over your shoulder, as if to guide you in the right direction.

In the public eye, Aymeric might not even have laid that same light hand on you, appearances mattering as they did. You had shared many a more-than-pleasant private moment, yet still it seemed imperative that what you shared remained hidden from the rest of the world. And as much as a part of you would have loved to declare your affections for Aymeric to the very streets of Ishgard and all who might listen, you didn't mind keeping things quiet.

You fell in step with Aymeric, or as much as you could with his long strides, the featherlight touch on your shoulder settling just a bit heavier, slender fingers splaying more relaxed over you. As you went, you made a quip here or there, telling snippets of a story from one of your more fun adventures, knowing how well Aymeric enjoyed them. True be told, you did actually have business that required reporting at some point, but it wasn't urgent, so it could wait.

Several minutes whiled away as you spoke, taking in the subtle smile on Aymeric's lips that made your own grow with each moment and getting lost in the man before you, as you were wont to do in his presence. You came to another set of solid wooden doors and paused. Aymeric, gentleman as he was, quickly pushed them open before you, with a slight 'after you' motion. You took the invitation, walking into the room, certain to put a sway in your step, knowing he would watch all the way.

Following, Aymeric sealed the doors behind you, turning locks into place and double-checking they were secure. Too many close calls and interruptions had made the both of you wary of ensuring doors were actually locked. If an emergency occurred, they could very well tell either of you through the door - without catching you in a compromising position.

Satisfied the locks were secured tight, he turned to you, and the sparkling cheer in his vivid blue eyes darkened, pleasant still, but intense and a more raw. You made no move towards Aymeric, acting as if the act of fussing with various straps and buckles of your gear was far more interesting. Or mostly, at least. Aymeric seemed entertained enough watching you make slow progress, though wasn’t content only to watch for long.

"Might I lend a hand?" he asked, making his way toward you again. You huffed exaggeratedly and feigned ignoring the Lord Commander further. "Though perhaps you would rather struggle and do away with what little time we possess," he ribbed in a playful voice.

Arriving by your side, he didn't wait for your permission before he set to work assisting you, holding bits of leather or cloth or metal in place to make removing them easier or making quick work of various buckles and ties. With Aymeric's help it wasn't long before you were standing in the room - which you observed was a warmly decorated room appearing to be one of the more affluent guest rooms - hidden scarcely by your small clothes.

Aymeric didn't follow suit at first, instead reaching out toward you, while you, too, pressed yourself in closer, now free of your restrictive adventuring gear. Large hands spread across your back and over your rear, pulling you flush. The touch of his ornate armor plates here and there was cold, as if they had trapped the frigid air from outside, and you couldn't help but shudder. You quickly brushed off the sensation, in favor of leaning into Aymeric's embrace until your face hovered next to his.

There was a moment that internally went on forever until your lips met, in a way far more eager and passionate than before. It had been some time since you met the Lord Commander for a private moment, and all the pent-up desire came pouring out as soon as his fingers brushed over your skin and small clothes. Aymeric, too, seemed eager, but showed more restraint all the same. Sometimes his restraint was admirable, and you were jealous, though other times you wished, nay, longed for him to throw his restraint to the winds.

As you kissed, beginning mostly closed but fervent and a bit messy, Aymeric's hands stroked in light lines and circles over the skin and cloth they rested on, making you squirm impatiently. You grabbed handfuls of the cloth of his armor and tugged lightly, as if to convey your frustration at how he was still dressed head-to-toe.

A smile twisted your kiss, and he took the lead to deepen it, distracting your grasping hands. He relished your impatience and enthusiasm, even if he more oft than not didn't give into it immediately, even when your time together was fleeting. But it was always worth it in the end.

In an ardent rush of motion, you were suddenly beside the bed, with Aymeric urging you down to the sheets. He followed you down, though didn't immediately join you on the bed. You whined plaintively when he separated from the kiss and took a step back from the bedside, taking his warm touch with him. Your noise of complaint was silenced effectively though as he worked through discarding his own armor.

After a process that took far too long in your eyes and asked too much of your patience - or lack thereof - Aymeric had stripped away the pauldrons and plates and cloth, carefully setting it all aside. Left only in his own small clothes, through which you could easily see his arousal strain, he at last joined you on the sheets. You moved up and back until you lay more securely on the sheets. Meeting you at the head of the bed, Aymeric pressed himself over top of you, his lips crashing back to yours.

In that moment Aymeric's admirable restraint frayed somewhat, as if he had shucked it off along with his armor. His lips pushed against yours more fervidly, his tongue trailing your lips and slipping between them when given the chance. You groaned, more than pleased to meet him in a twisting, passionate dance. Strong hands clasped you by the wrists when you moved to wrap your arms around him and you whined again.

When Aymeric broke the kiss again, it was to tip his head up and laugh gently, a warm, soft sound that made you shiver and rub your thighs together. "My, what troubles you, my love?" he asked, pretending an innocence that was ruined by the low, sultry timbre of his voice.

Half-lidded eyes stared down at you with a burning, affectionate intensity you had seen before. Even before you had come together, you had caught glimpses of it in Aymeric's eyes, mistaking it at first for only the admiration between friends and warriors-at-arms. But you could see it now for what it truly was. Between it and the desire making Aymeric's eyes dark and stormy, your breath nearly caught in your throat. But you shook off the awed stupor, focus returning to Aymeric's question.

Your lips curled into a pout before you spoke. "However can I touch you like this?" you complained, pushing against his unyielding grasp as if to emphasize your words.

Another amused, rich laugh met your question. "Ah, but you well know how your touch affects me," Aymeric rumbled. He dipped down until his lips ghosted the shell of your ear. "Pray, grant me some dignity, won't you, my dearest?"

You shivered again, snaring your lower lip between your teeth and biting down as if it might quiet the heat and pulse growing in your underwear. You freed it quickly when the hot touch of his tongue curled over your ear, followed by a coy nip on the lobe that made you gasp.

"Aa-alright, fine," you groaned out, bowing up unbidden into his body still pressed snugly to yours.

Your fingers flexed greedily, itching to break free and and draw your nails along his shoulders and back, or tug his lips back to yours to entangle you both in another mind-numbing kiss. But you yielded, making no attempt to escape his hold, and his grip shifted. Gathering both of your wrists in one large hand, the other was left to trail down your skin. A light touch dancing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, before pausing at the top of your small clothes.

Pulling the fabric down to free your chest, he set to massaging each breast in slow, almost lazy motions, lingering to brush a teasing thumb over steadily standing nipples. You groaned his name softly, closing your eyes and basking in the sensation, letting your head fall back against the pillows and arching up into him once more. You whimpered when he pushed back, letting you feel each hot, hard inch of his body, the most intimidate parts of you hid away by scant scraps of thin fabric.

Your eyes had fluttered shut without meaning to, so keen you were on relishing the feeling. When they fluttered back open and you met his gaze, another roiling wave of desire hit you square in the gut. There was something more intent, sharp, primal, smoldering in the desire-deepened irises and wide blown pupils as he watched you lose yourself in the pleasure he provided. You swallowed hard, stifling another pleasured coo, and a mischief of sorts flashed through the swirl of emotions in Aymeric's expression.

His hand on your chest slowed until it was toying with each nipple frustratingly lightly, alternating between the two. You squirmed and whined, craving the more thorough touch from before. Aymeric's new touch was pleasant, but the bare brushes and strokes made you feel strangely over sensitive. You struggled reflexively against his grip again, not really trying to break free, whining his name in that same plaintive tone from before.

"Aymeric, was it not you who stated how short our time together is?" you tried to reason, knowing it was a wasted effort.

"Mm, it was, and I am enjoying such precious time to the utmost," he assured you. "Do you not share that sentiment, my dearest?" Aymeric added, as if daring you to speak otherwise.

Your face, already hot, flushed furiously further, equal parts flustered and frustrated from the game Aymeric was playing. He didn't enjoy teasing you quite so much, no, not so much as he enjoyed hearing how much you needed him in plain words. So he persuaded you to beg or demand of him what you wanted.

"Aymeric..." your tone was mock warning, serious but breathy, trying to deflect him half-heartedly, and hoping he would give you what he knew you wanted, but he wouldn't be so easily dissuaded.

He bent forward, continuing to teasingly massage your breasts, mouthing at the soft flesh of your throat and shoulders. "Tell me then what more you would ask of me?" he urged you. His teeth scraped against the column of your throat, and you groaned again.

By then, you were a ruin, skin abuzz with heat and desire and his fleeting touch. Your underwear felt damp and sticky, your arousal soaking it through, leaving an obvious wet spot on the cloth. Each little push sent you tumbling further and further, grinding down your resolve until you gave in at last.

"Pray, cease toying with me," you began to beg. "Fill me; I need to feel you inside of me, now. Nothing else will do," you finished, almost surprised at how thick the desire had made your voice. You tried to turn your head to reach Aymeric, to convince him more with what few kisses you could leave across his cheek and jaw despite being held down otherwise.You wriggled and ground your core against his needily, as if to prove your point. "Please, please."

"Who am to I deny you when you ask in a voice so divine?" Aymeric answered in a husky hush.

He released your wrists, though shot you a pinning stare that made you think twice about moving from your prostrate position. You settled for watching him sit up and move down your body, hooking his fingers beneath your underwear and dragging them down. You assisted as much as you could, and he discarded them to the side of the bed. Before removing his own underwear, he paused, dark eyes focusing on your newly revealed cunt, dripping and slick and inviting.

He drew one long finger up and down your slit until the digit was coated in your fluids. He withdrew it, raising it to his lips and somehow making a show of licking it clean seem refined. A deep, pleased hum rolled through him, and Aymeric turned to rid himself of the last article of clothing keeping him from you.

Just as your sopping cunt had drawn Aymeric's gaze, the sight of his erection, thick and hot and hard, crowned by a fat pearl of pre-cum. drew your attention. You licked your lips in anticipation, resisting with all you had to remain still and not sit up and reach for his cock. You wore that eagerness on your face readily, though, and another pleased laugh slipped from Aymeric's lips.

He shifted forward, covering your body with his again, though this time when his hips ground against yours, his erection slipped lewdly through your lips and you moaned; Half in the pleasure of feeling him so very close to the hottest part of you, half in anticipation, nearly shaking with it. But even though Aymeric had agreed to grant to your desires, his pace was leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world, rather than hardly a bell to spare. One hand reached up again to bind your wrists, despite how obedient you had thus far been.

Aymeric's other hand strayed to your face, cupping your jaw between his fingers. He tilted your head until it lay at the perfect angle for him to seal your lips together again and drink deep of the passion between you. Your eyes fluttered closed again as his tongue swept coyly across your lips, persuading you to let him in.You were all too glad to let him though, and as he slid his tongue into your mouth to explore and dance once more, he eased his hips forward, too, until his cock breached your folds and pressed into your awaiting entrance.

You would have moaned his name in gratitude for at last fulfilling your desires, in appreciation for the delicious way his cock sank deeper inside, but with your mouth preoccupied, you settled for a wordless groan smothered by his lips and tongue. Though the sensation of him stretching your walls was what you had craved, a sweetly maddening fullness that you would think about again when your duties took you far from Ishgard, it stung as well. Aymeric was no small man, and his thick cock filling you ached in a way that somehow melded exquisitely with the pleasure.

His tongue swept up yours, beginning to writhe and twist as he rocked his hips steadily against you, eliciting yet more muffled moans. You bucked up into his thrusts, longing for him to fill you up all over again each time his cock retreated, leaving so much of you feeling empty. The heat in your body had reached a fever pitch, breaking out on your skin in a slick sheen of sweat, and Aymeric, despite all his slow, precise actions, fared little better. His skin pressing into yours was just as slippery and hot, adding to the obscene sound of your bodies meeting.

The steady rhythm of Aymeric's thrusts, though increasing in force as time wore on and whatever willpower he had left dissolved, unwound you slowly, but surely. Your fingers and toes curled and flexed, and your chest rose and fell more quickly, breaths shallow. Around his cock your walls squeezed just as eagerly and as desperately. A familiar coil of pressure and heat in your belly was hard to ignore, blocking out all coherent thought, leaving you to worry only about chasing the high that was so close within your reach.

Throughput your coupling, Aymeric had spent much time matching the thrust and twirl of his tongue to his rocking hips, as if in imitation. The kiss had grown sloppy, wet, and hot, and when he tore his lips from yours eventually, his breath came in hot pants along with yours. He placed several more needy, desperate kisses on your jaw and your neck, the ragged sound of his breath informing you he was nearly as close to losing himself as you. Though he seemed determined not to do so before dragging you there first.

"Come now, my dearest, I want to feel you come to completion," he breathed huskily into your ear, finally releasing your jaw as one long arm trailed down between your bodies.

You whimpered and moaned aloud, barely having the sense to bite down on your lip and stifle the bawdy noise, lest someone in the corridors outside hear. "Oh, Aymeric, I-I..." you trailed off, mouth hanging open and forming a wordless 'oh' as all the pressure and heat came to a head when his fingers stroked through your folds and massaged your clit.

All you could do then was repeat his name, over and over, a ragged, breathy pray under your breath, as if you might completely drift away from the mounting bliss if you didn’t speak it. The build up reached its limit, and the coil snapped, and Aymeric's lips descended on yours again to quiet you as you cried out in earnest, unable to stop yourself. The rush that flowed through your body was liquid heat, searing and tingling. Your digits curled so tightly they ached, and your cunt fluttered frantically around Aymeric's cock. The pull of your body and the instinctive roll of your hips against him were Aymeric's siren song, luring him to the point of no return.

His moans, low and feral, rolled through him and died on your tongue in a reflection of your own. He drove himself harder forward, as if he might sink even deeper, fingers still dancing over your clit and dragging out your orgasm. After several desperate thrusts that filled the room with the obscene smack of sweat-slicked flesh colliding, Aymeric met his peak and tumbled over, each new pump into your heat filling you with ropes of cum. He pumped himself into your core through your orgasm and his, his grasp on your wrists tightening enough to make you gasp and wince through your pleasure.

His pace died away smoothly, each thrust weakening after he spent himself within you, until he lay still atop you, a heaving, sweaty mess. He lay his head in the crook of your throat, damp strands of ebony hair clinging to his forehead and tickling your skin. The startlingly cool touch of the earring he wore brushed your overheated skin, and you weren't sure if the sensation was pleasant or not. Even spent, his cock took a time to soften, occasionally twitching inside of you and making you start each time.

He withdrew gingerly, and a stray trickle of cum seeped down your thigh. Rolling over off you and onto his back, Aymeric pulled you along with him, urging you to settle yourself against him. Drained and sated, you rest your head in the same hollow of his throat as he had done to you moments before, placing tired, half-hearted kisses there. Splaying your arms across his chest, you were tempted to close your eyes and slip into a peaceful sleep. Someday there would be time to relax and laze for bells on ends, but wasn't one of those times and your fun had nearly reached its end.

Beside you, Aymeric seemed to be fighting off the same need, though was coming to the same conclusions as you, too. There was much to be done, and it didn’t matter how badly he wanted to remain in bed beside you. But he would ignore those duties for just a little longer. He sighed softly, curling an arm around you and pulling you a little tighter to him.

#writing #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #aymeric de borel #ao3 #archive of our own #fic friday #nsft #n/s/f/w #reader insert

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p-artsypants · 4 years ago

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I’ll Handle This (2)

OMG! Part 2 is here!!

I'm still finishing up two other fics, and this one's on the back burner for a little while. I apologize for pauses between uploads. I hope that makes it worth it!

Ao3 | FF.net

Plagg arrived at school on foot, which startled several people.

Of course, his choice of dress could have influenced that as well.

"Dude, what are you wearing? And…did you walk to school?"

Plagg held out a second coffee to Nino. "Yep. And as for what I'm wearing, I picked what I thought would make my father the angriest."

"Did it?"

Plagg turned around. "I'm not bleeding am I? I had to break a window to get out of the house."

"Dude!"

"So am I bleeding or what?"

"N-no, you're not. But what's gotten into you? You usually fold like a paper crane when it comes to your dad."

"Ooh, nice analogy. I'm usually pretty partial to Jello left out on the counter at room temperature, when it gets all melty and chunky."

Nino blinked. "I repeat, what's gotten into you?"

"Just tired of being a doormat."

Nino gave a little punch to his shoulder. "Hell yeah, stick it to the man!"

"But my dad's not the only problem I'm trying to fix."

"Oh?"

"You know Lila's a pathological liar, right? And that she's been sexually harassing me for the better part of a year?"

"WHAT?!" Nino shouted.

"Yeah, she's really good at manipulating people to get what she wants. Like how she got herself invited to my photoshoots. Don't know how that happened but it's super unprofessional. Also, she got Marinette expelled. Remember when she said Marinette pushed her down the stairs and garbage? Total lies. She only backed out of it when I threatened our 'friendship'."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?! Lila's been babysitting Chris! And Ella and Etta! She said she was a certified babysitter!"

"I mean, Marinette's been telling everyone she's a liar for a while. So…"

"Well…" Nino rubbed the back of his head.

"Well what? What reason did Marinette give you to doubt her?"

Nino winced. "…I can't really tell you…it's not my place, and Alya will kill me."

Plagg threw his arms up in the air with a groan, nearly splashing coffee on his crop top. "Is there no communication with you people!? Just talk! Enough with the secrets!"

Nino blinked. "Uh…what other secrets are you talking about?"

Plagg shook his head, realizing he'd spilt a few beans. And some things really did need to remain secret. "Ugh, whatever. Doesn't matter. You just…spill!"

"No way dude! Marinette's my friend, and I won't tell her secrets without her permission!"

Plagg rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good dude, you know?"

"Oh so now it's a good thing that I'm hiding stuff from you? Pick a mood."

Instead, Plagg took a sip from his coffee. Having a human tongue again was so weird. It was a complexed organ with equal taste buds, instead of the 'smelly savory' he was used to as a kwami.

And if Adrien didn't like cheese, it wouldn't be likely that Plagg would still enjoy it in his body. His eyes glanced around the entrance of the school, taking notice of all the people who were side-eyeing him. Nearly everyone had their attention on him and Nino, though they were trying to be sneaky about it.

Humans were so funny.

And then he noticed Marinette approaching. She looked awful. Big bags under her eyes, dragging her feet, slouched shoulders. The look of a guardian who was downtrodden and exhausted.

"Hey Nino, wanna see something hilarious?"

"Absolutely."

"Here, hold this." He handed him his coffee. Then he tighten the sleeves of the flannel around his waist and ran full speed at Marinette, his arms out at his sides. "MAAAARRRRIIIINNEEETTTEEE!" He shouted.

Hearing her name being shouted startled the poor girl, and she seized up, holding her arms to her chest. Plagg collided with her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug and lifting to spin her around several times.

"Ad-d-d-rrrriiieennn!" She exclaimed, as she was rag dolled around.

Finally, he set her back on her feet and patted her on the head. "Sorry, you looked like you needed an extreme hug."

A big smile emerged on her face, accompanied by a very endearing blush. "Thanks Adrien. I did! I feel better now!"

Plagg knew it would take more than an intense hug to fix everything on Marinette's plate. There was likely more bothering her than just the loss of Master Fu, too. But he was out to fix Adrien's problems, not hers. But hopefully, one of his problems would directly help her.

"Um…" Marinette started, looking him up and down. "Your father let you out of the house like that?"

"Oh, absolutely not. I snuck out."

"Adrien!" She gawked.

"It'll be fine." He waved her off.

Alya approached them, her jaw on the floor. "Adrien, what was that?"

Nino was just a step behind her, giggling.

"Have you never seen an epic hug before? Nino, you need to step up your game."

"I guess I do!" Nino chuckled. "Here's your coffee back, dude."

"Thanks." Plagg took the coffee with one hand while the other stayed firmly over Marinette's shoulder.

"You're being kind of friendly with Marinette this morning, aren't you?"

Plagg shrugged. "I just happen to think her shoulder is a really nice arm rest."

"Did you ask her permission?"

"Oh, you know, I didn't. Can I put my arm around you, Marinette?"

Marinette's giant panicked grin and a high pitch squeal was the only response he got.

"I'll take that as a yes." He squeezed her.

"Oh!" Alya chirped, taking out her phone. "Lila had an akuma in her room last night! Ladybug and Chat Noir stayed afterwards and hung out with her afterwards to make sure she was okay! She gave me this interview for my blog—"

"FAKE NEWS!" Plagg shouted, startling everyone around him. Alya almost dropped her phone.

"What?" She asked.

"I said, Fake News. There was no akuma last night."

"How do you know?" Alya got defensive. "The akuma alarm only goes off when someone sees the akuma. It happened so late last night, that no one was awake."

"I have an akuma sixth sense." Plagg explained, ignoring Adrien pinching his thigh inside his shirt. "But besides that, Lila is a big, bold-faced liar."

Alya sighed, rolling her eyes. "I expect that from Marinette, but you too now?"

"I've always known Lila was a liar, but I tried to play nice because she's super destructive when she wants to be. Just look at what she did to Marinette!"

Alya gave Marinette a once over, looking for injuries. "I don't follow."

Plagg huffed. "The expulsion? Surely you're not dumb enough to believe that Lila has some sort of disease that makes her…what did she say? Periodically lie? Misremember? I can't even remember what she said, but she revoked her evidence to get Marinette back into school."

Alya frowned. "She told me she was taking the heat for whoever this real person is. Someone wanted Marinette out of school, and Lila retracted her evidence because she knows Marinette wouldn't do that stuff."

Plagg blew a loud raspberry at her, making spittle fly into her face. "Of course she told you that, because she can't possibly be seen as the villain."

"What are you getting at, Adrien?"

"I'm the reason Lila retracted her evidence. She targeted Marinette. She's been targeting Marinette. I gave her an ultimatum. She could stop lying about Marinette, or I would retract our supposed 'friendship' and get her removed from modeling with me."

Alya and Nino just blinked at him several times, before Alya shouted, "WHAT?!"

"Yeah, like I said, I didn't say anything because I didn't want her to get akumatized, she may have turned on me, and I assumed eventually she'd lie herself into a hole and everyone would figure her out. But I guess everyone is denser than I expected."

"Harsh, bro."

"Nah. You'll thank me for this. Especially you, Alya. You want a reputable blog, right? What am I saying? You, of course, double check all of your sources! And if someone makes any outlandish claims that could get someone in trouble, you don't just post them willy-nilly. That's why I like you, Alya, you're discerning and thorough!"

Alya opened her mouth to retort, but shut it right after. "Yeah. Thanks." She finally said.

Marinette groaned. "Here comes the devil herself."

Lila sashayed up to the group, wrapping her arms around Plagg and yanking him free from Marinette. "Adrien! It's so good to see you this morning! I had such a fun time at the shoot—"

Plagg didn't let her finish before he forcefully ripped himself out of her grasp. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

His shout drew attention from everyone else around.

Lila laughed it off awkwardly. "Oh Adrien, you scared me! I'm not going to hurt you." And she reached for him again.

But Plagg danced away from her, behind Marinette and shouted. "HEY DON'T TOUCH ME THERE! THIS IS MY NO-NO SQUARE!"

Marinette was the only one that laughed, but it was mostly just a choked snort.

"What are you talking about?" Lila asked, pouting, "I wasn't touching you anywhere bad."

"R-A-P-E! GET YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM ME!"

"I think maybe you should keep your hands to yourself," Marinette said gently.

The flittering rage on Lila's face went ignored by Alya and Nino. "I'm not sure what's going on. Adrien's just being kind of goofy today."

"I agree," said Nino. "You break out of your house, now this? This is more than not being a doormat."

Plagg realized he may have taken things a bit too far too fast, and that his cover was in danger of being blown.

"Well! Would you look at the time! I gotta piss! See you in class!" And he took off running into the school.

Being inside a pocket meant that he didn't always see what direction Adrien went. But the bathroom was easy enough to find once he double backed on himself.

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty. And Adrien emerged the second the stall closed. "What did I say!? You wouldn't last five minutes! Everyone is suspicious of you! And what was that thing with Marinette? I thought you were going to fix my problems with Ladybug!"

Plagg held up his hands in defense. "Relax. I just got a little ahead of myself. You know, taking advantage of the situation?"

"What situation?"

"Alya brought up Lila, not me! I couldn't pretend to care! I can't even pretend to care about your problems and I love you!"

"Aw, Plagg. You love me?"

"That's what you got out of that?"

"I knew you were a big softy."

"You know who's actually soft? You." He poked his stomach. "That's what's got you in the situation in the first place!"

"Um, I'd argue it was your trickery."

"So you're soft and gullible. Got it."

"Hey!"

"Like I said last night, kid: You've only been on this planet for 15 years, and social for one. You're bound to be a little naïve. That's not necessarily a bad thing. Tikki would say it's honorable."

"And what would you call it?"

Plagg put a finger to his mouth in mock thought. "Unfortunate."

Adrien sighed, losing altitude. "You still didn't answer my question about Marinette."

"Trust me, getting cosy with Marinette is the key to solving your Ladybug trouble."

"You better not flirt with her! I don't like her that way, and I don't want to break her heart."

"You say that now…"

The bathroom door opened, so Plagg was quick to usher Adrien back into the pocket. "I'll roll it back a little, happy?"

"Not in the slightest."

—

Plagg appeared in the classroom just in time for class to start.

"YO, WHAT IS UP MY DUDES!?" He called, walking into the room with a beat in his step.

The scoff from his pocket went unnoticed by everyone else.

"Adrien, you know I'm not a fan of yelling in my classroom." Miss Bustier warned, patiently.

"Sorry Teach."

"And your outfit is outside of the dress code. Do you have something that covers your mid-drift?"

"No problems there, baby." He untied the flannel from around his waist, and slipped it over his shoulders, then buttoned the bottom few buttons, unaligned. "There, Gucci right?"

She raised an eyebrow, "And the sunglasses?"

"Sorry teach, I've got a major migraine and, low-key, kind of want to die. Glasses stay on, or I will cry."

Miss Bustier just sighed. "As long as you're not disrupting my class, I suppose that's fine."

"Sick." And he slid into his desk, propping his shoes up on the table.

"Sit in your chair like a normal person, please."

Plagg had to glance around to see how everyone else was sitting before he corrected his posture.

Now that he was wearing the flannel, it was a lot less comfortable for Adrien to be in the pocket. He poked and prodded at Plagg's chest to be moved. Thankfully, Plagg had mercy on him and scooped him from his pocket and deposited him into his bag.

From the bag, Adrien tried to watch Plagg, but he seemed to settle down once Miss Bustier started the lesson. Was he even taking notes?

"Plagg!" A sharp hiss came from his side, before a red kwami appeared.

"Tikki?" He choked.

"What the heck is going on with your holder?! He's acting really really weird!"

"Um…"

"My holder is worried about him!"

"She is? She saw all that?"

Tikki huffed. "How could she not?! She's right there!" And she made the fatal mistake of pointing at Marinette.

In hindsight, it was pretty obvious. He had guessed before, and he had hunches, but she had very cleverly removed herself from suspicion during Kwami Buster with Multimouse.

"Oh…that's why he said buttering up to Marinette would solve my Ladybug problem."

Tikki frowned. "What are you talking about? Who said what?"

Adrien awkwardly scratched his ear. "Heh…it seems there's been a tiny mix up. I'm not—" but a bunch of bubbles came out of his mouth. "Ugh. I'm Adrien."

Tikki's eyes grew impossibly large. "YOU'RE—" she grabbed him and yanked him down, phasing into the steps below.

It was an odd sensation, one that he didn't get to think about before Tikki was yelling at him. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU'RE ADRIEN?! You're supposed to be Plagg! And only Plagg!"

"I don't know! It all happened so fast! Last night we had an argument about my problems and he said it wasn't that big of a deal and I said he wouldn't be able to handle it and he said he'd fix it right away and then he made some pact and then I woke up like this and he was like that and I don't know what to do!"

"Okay, first, take a breath." She instructed, calmly.

He did so, taking another, and another, "okay...okay...I'm calm."

"Okay. Good. Now, what were the conditions of the pact?"

"I...I'm not sure? He said he was going to fix three big problems of mine."

"Which are?"

"Repairing my relationship with my father."

"Yikes. Okay, and?"

"Getting Lila to stop bothering me."

"Okay, what else?"

"And get Ladybug to love me back."

"That dirty rotten cheater!" She scowled.

"What?"

"Ugh," she rubbed her nubs over her head. "Promise you won't get mad?"

"Um...sure."

"Plagg and I both knew how you felt about..her. We had a running bet who would fall for who first, Adrien for Marinette, or Ladybug for Chat Noir."

He frowned at her. "I thought you were the mature one."

"I am. But I'm also thousands of years old. Teenager's love lives are like…corny TV shows for me. Besides, we're not supposed to meddle in the affairs of the human world." She glanced up towards the stairs, where Plagg was sitting on the other side.

"Does he do this a lot?"

"Not every wielder, but many."

"And…does it always work out?"

She was quiet a long time. "More often than not."

"But he has failed before?"

"There was one time where the contract was too difficult and he and his holder switched bodies until the holder's body died. At which point, Plagg's consciousness expelled the human's soul from the kwami's body and they perished."

"Jesus actual Christ."

"No, it wasn't him. Nice guy though! Very wise!"

"That's not what I—" He sighed. "Look, is there anyway to undo this? He's ruining so much!"

"I'm really sorry Adrien, but the only way to get switched back into your body is to complete the pact."

Adrien growled. "He could have at least given me a heads up! He just said he'd 'handle it'. I didn't know we'd switch bodies!" He slammed his paws into his face.

"Look, I'll tell Marinette as soon as possible, maybe she'll know what to do."

"No! Tikki you can't tell her!"

"I have too. As guardian, she must be aware of all the shenanigans that the Kwami's are getting into. She has to know about this."

"But she can't!" He begged. "This is all my fault! I was naïve and dumb and I didn't think things through—" He moaned. "She's going to be so disappointed with me!"

Tikki poked him hard. "Adrien. This is not your fault! This is Plagg's doing. He's tricky, and can be very selfish sometimes. She can't blame you."

"Please Tikki, I know she's going to figure me out sooner or later. Plagg's doing a really bad job."

"I'll say."

"But when that happens, I'll come clean and explain everything myself. But until then, can you just…pretend like nothing is wrong?"

Tikki sighed. "I hate keeping secrets from her. But, fine. Since you asked so nicely. Maybe you'll get your body switched back before she suspects."

He winced. "Ugh, except one of the conditions of the pact is to get Ladybug to fall in love with me. And if he's trying to get Lady-nette to fall in love with him, then if we switch back, she'll be in love with Plagg-me and not me-me!"

"Um…I don't think that's going to be a problem…"

"Wait, what?"

"You remember that TV show where they went into her room and your photos were everywhere?"

"She said she just liked fashion…and she promised she wasn't lying…"

"It was a half truth, at least. She does like fashion, and you are her favorite model. But…that other boy she keeps rejecting Chat for? That's you."

If a blush could be seen on black fur, he'd be the same color as Tikki. "What? Really? How come she never told me!?"

"Oh, she tried. Remember when you brought her medicine back from England?"

"Yeah?"

"That prescription she gave you was for Master Fu. She gave the pharmacist the love letter she was supposed to give you after you got on the train."

"Oh no!"

"The wax statue incident? That was her practicing. That beret from a 'brazilian fan'? That was from her. That blue scarf your father got you for your birthday? That was also from her. She's tried, Adrien. But she's either chickened out, or something's gone horrendously wrong."

"Oh Marinette…" His ears went flat, his heart breaking for her. "All this time?"

"Since you gave her your umbrella in the rain when you first met."

"Oh no! That long!? My poor lady!"

"And she's been trying to get over you since she thinks you're in love with Kagami. So I'm assuming Plagg's trying to convince her that you like her instead."

Since he awoke in this strange little useless body, Adrien was pissed at Plagg. But now he was beginning to realize how big of a favor this was. How close he had been to losing her, and hopefully it wasn't too late.

Still sucked though.

"Oh god…he's going to have to talk to Kagami too! I don't know if I can bear to watch this!"

"Well, you don't really have a choice. And you stand a pretty good chance of getting your body back soon. I…think Plagg knows what he's doing."

"You think?"

"I hope."

"Ugh…"

"Look, if you need help, you know where to find me. I'll be in my holder's bag here at school. Though, today, unless there's an akuma, I'll sit with you in your bag and tell you whatever you need to know about being a Kwami."

"Oh yeah! How is superheroing going to work? How do I transform?"

"It'll probably be the same. He'll say your name instead of his own. Then you'll get to see what he sees and hear what he hears. Cataclysm draws from this body's form, so he'll call on it when he needs it, as well as your other powers."

"Other powers?"

"Sure. There's more than just Cataclysm. But I'm sure he's waiting to teach you them until you're ready."

"To be honest...he never really taught me Cata—"

Tikki was quick to slap a paw over his mouth. "DON'T SAY IT!"

"Oh, is it like transformed rules? You say it, you activate it?"

"Yes, but in this form it's incredibly powerful, and you don't know how to dismiss it! You activate it and bump into something, and you nuke Paris! That is a forbidden word!"

"Okay! I'll take your word for it."

"We should probably get back up top, no telling what trouble Plagg's gotten into already."

"But we're in class. He should just be sitting there."

"You're underestimating Plagg's attention span."

Phasing back up through the floor and into Adrien's bag, they could hear Adrien's voice.

"...and of course you're not even going to talk about the ramifications of Phillip the V's denial of his niece on the throne."

"Louis X's daughter? She never took the french throne."

"Oh, yes she did! She held it for 6 years in 1316, Phillip only recanted her name after her rule was revoked. Furthermore, after she died, her legitimacy as Louis' blood relative was called into question. Her mother was branded as an adulterer."

Miss Bustier hummed. "I never heard of this. Where did you read this, Adrien?"

"Oh I didn't read it, I saw it—in a documentary! That's right! On the Hundred Year War! That's right!"

"You'll have to tell me what that documentary is, I'm very interested to see that! But you were saying something about Louis X's daughter on the throne?"

Adrien had to refrain from smacking himself in the face. Not 15 minutes into class, and Plagg was already rewriting history.

Had they even gotten to the Hundred Years War?

A knock saved Adrien from second hand embarrassment.

"Come in," called Miss Bustier.

Adrien couldn't see who was at the door, but they were being silent.

"Um…can I help you?"

There was a grunt.

"You're here for Adrien?"

Adrien, in kwami form, peered out ever so carefully from his bag, only to see the Gorilla standing in the front of the room.

Uh oh.

"...hey big guy..." Plagg tried to greet as enthusiastically as he could.

Another grunt, and the Gorilla motioned towards the door with his head.

"Sorry, but I'm in the middle of class. We were just discussing the conditions that led up to the Hundred Years War. I know dad's pissed that I left this morning, but I'll be home after school..."

The Gorilla shook his head and started to advance on him, his hands open and making to grab him.

Plagg however, was not above evasive maneuvers. He hopped up on the desk.

"You'll never take me alive!"

The Gorilla never stopped advancing and shot his arms out to grab Plagg by the waist.

But Plagg leapt from the table and landed on the Gorilla's shoulders, riding him like a bull.

The Gorilla swung around, flailing his arms trying to dislodge Plagg from where he was mounted, but Plagg dug his heels in and held fast.

"YEEEEEEEEEE—HAW!"

The Gorilla bucked and swung, making Plagg rag doll around, but he still would not let go!

Finally, starting to get dizzy, Plagg twisted in place and pinched the bodyguard in a particular place on the shoulder, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious, on the floor.

Plagg simply climbed off of him, dusted himself off, and took his seat. "Now...where were we?"

"Principal's office. Now."

@chaosace-e @horson @consumeconstantly @percabeth @th1s-1s-my-aesthet1c @ezio-demon @judyhopps934-mt-zd @wannajointhecrabcult @buggaboy27 @starpony999 @bevvydraws @lavenderjunes

#fanfiction #I'll handle this #miraculous ladybug #body swap #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #plagg is a little shit #ml

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silentauroriamthereal · 4 years ago

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So, I watched Happiest Season yesterday, and I have thoughts. A lot of thoughts. Spoilers abound and this is long, so I’ll put this under a cut.

Happiest Season: a review

You have to ask yourself how “happy” a happy ending really is when you glance down at the time bar on the film and see that there’s less than fifteen minutes left and none of the story’s problems have been even remotely resolved.

Skip to the closing credits, and I hadn’t changed my mind. This is a “happy” ending where a great deal of the problems in the plot were left either completely unresolved, or whose happiness wasn’t earned – wasn’t properly fleshed out, developed, supported, or in fact, even happy.

What an incredibly toxic family the Caldwells are. Let’s start with them: there are three daughters. Sloan has apparently cemented her parents’ permanent disappointment by having left a promising legal career in favour of raising a family. Side tangent: are we really still having this discussion, in 2020? This binary choice between family OR career? Besides, Sloan evidently developed a different, and very lucrative career. I also strongly dislike the way the perception of her marriage ending is portrayed as a failure. Her awful parents both resent her having left the legal field, yet have refused to now see her as anything other than a parent, ignoring her new career choice and, it seems, literally anything else about her. Then we have Jane, who is overtly abused. Treated as lesser than anyone else in the family apart from technical support with malfunctioning printers, Jane is constantly criticized, chastised, literally told to not put herself in the centre of the family for a holiday photo. I was horrified and devastated by the wanton destruction of her painting at the end, too. I’m happy for her that her book got published and that she found success there, but I hate that this brutal, completely unnecessary destruction of her art happened and was totally overlooked.

I’m going to come back to Harper, because there’s a LOT to say there.

The way the parents, Tipper and Ted, treated Abby, was appalling from start to finish. Leaving aside the ENTIRE question of the secret girlfriend thing, if my family ever treated a friend or even distant acquaintance the way the Caldwells treated Abby, I would be furious with them. I used to frequently bring friends who were international students or just on their own for the holidays to my parents’ place for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas festivities. These people were so, so, so incredibly rude to Abby, from ignoring her when she first arrived to giving her a terrible bedroom with a door that doesn’t lock, to walking in on her multiple times while she was changing or in bed – that level of complete disrespect infuriated me! Just allowing those awful kids to be in her private space without any sort of discipline, consequences, or apologies was unacceptable. The way they treated Abby after those same kids – which she was stuck with, without any sort of request to watch them – planted that necklace on her, was unacceptable. The utter lack of apology for having literally accused her of theft, for accusing her multiple times after that – WOW. Treating Abby as though she was the unexpected, extra guest at the restaurant that first night, and giving the ex-boyfriend the parents kept shoving on Harper the proper one was unacceptable.

Then there’s how Harper treated Abby. Let’s start with the restaurant: first of all, had my parents pulled that stunt on my friend/guest/secret girlfriend, I would have let them know then and there that it wasn’t okay. And then I would have, I don’t know, asked the staff to bring a proper chair, and if that turned out to be impossible, I would have insisted that she take mine instead, and sat on the little chair myself. Asking anyone to closet themselves is an act of violence, and watching that as a member of the LGBTQ2+ community was actively harmful to witness. Again, a lot of the crap that Harper subjected Abby to would have been awful no matter WHO Abby was: you don’t abandon your guest to hang out with old friends. If they’re ready to go home, then you go home with them. It’s basic hospitality. Considering that Abby was Harper’s partner, that’s a whole extra layer of harm. THEN add the ex-boyfriend, a horribly-treated ex-girlfriend, and toxic old friends to the mix, and you have something beyond appalling. Adding this stuff on top of not standing up for Abby to her family, not insisting that she be given somewhere proper to sleep during her time in her parents’ house, not insisting that she be treated with the most basic respect, not defending her during the whole jewellery theft situation, and even going along with the parents’ de-invitation to that dinner – that’s inexcusable. You don’t treat other people that way, much less your partner. Then add Harper calling Abby controlling, while simultaneously having the nerve to get angry about Abby spending time with Riley, which is possibly the only good thing that happened for Abby during that entire, awful trip – yeah. I was finished with Harper by that point.

Harper also actively participated in the way her sisters were constantly put down by their parents. The responsibility of being the privileged favourite is to use your status to bring others up. Harper doesn’t appear to have any sort of spine or courage whatsoever. It was only after she was forcibly outed by Sloan – and such was her privilege that the parents believed that it was a “malicious” lie rather than a “shocking” secret – that Harper even admitted the truth, and that was only after forcing Abby to watch her deny it yet it again. While I did love John (the gay best friend)’s entire speech about someone’s love not being the same thing as being ready to come out, there is nonetheless a ton of harm in forcing your partner watch that. It does affect them. It does disavow their identity at the same time, when they’re in a relationship with you. Her pattern of behaviour of throwing other people under the bus, like Riley, is very much intact.

I completely comprehend Harper’s fear of being rejected by her family. Apparently it was a well-founded fear, based on her awful, awful parents. That’s one of the reasons why the ending didn’t resonate for me at all: it wasn’t earned. Harper’s turn-around from being completely unwilling to have her parents know the truth to claiming that Abby was the only thing that mattered to her, came out of nowhere. It wasn’t a supported development. It happened too quickly. Similarly, the parents both going from being just about the worst parents on the planet to having a VERY sudden change of heart and behaviour, just happened unbelievably quickly. There was no questioning the entire history of their practises or what was wrong with them, no questioning how they’d treated any of their kids. The whole “consequence” for Ted was deciding, of his own accord, not to align himself with a politician who would force Harper to zip it – sorry, continue to zip it – about her identity. He shouldn’t have aligned himself with that woman in the first place. No one ever apologized to Abby about the way they treated her from start to finish, from patronizing her for being an orphan or the constant lack of respect shown her, to the false accusations of theft. Not a single part of it was atoned for at any point. Even Tipper being so disgusted with Abby’s ipad photography skills was disgusting. You just don’t talk to other human beings that way, and there was no resolution for me on any of this. There were also no consequences for Sloan’s horrific, SUPER-public outing of Harper, for Harper’s destruction of Jane’s painting, for the kids’ planting of the necklace on Abby, or for anyone’s horrendous treatment of Abby in general.

So yes: when you’re less than fifteen minutes out from the end of a supposed romantic comedy that was more upsetting to watch than entertaining or funny, and you’re actively rooting for the main character to walk away from her so-called partner and her toxic family, that’s not good. I’m not sold on the “romance” aspect, either. John (Dan Levy’s character) was the only good part of this movie, for me, and that’s overlooking his completely rude ignoring while on his phone at the beginning, or his negligent care of the animals he was supposed to be taking care of. (Gross, again – animals’ lives have value, too, and if my pet sitter killed my pet through negligence while I was away, I would be furious!) But his point about “sticking it to the patriarchy” in terms of Abby asking Ted for his permission/blessing to marry Harper was spot on. For all the hype about this being a progressive, lesbian, holiday rom-com, this film managed to perpetuate a lot of gross aspects of straight, white, misogynistic, heteronormative culture, like women being the property of their fathers and needing to obtain a male parent’s “permission” to marry another human being. The only person’s “permission” that was needed here was Harper’s, and then it’s not about permission – it’s about two adults making a consensual decision to commit themselves to each other. It’s great if you have the support of family – aka, BOTH parents, on BOTH sides – but that support is a bonus, not a prerequisite. Perpetuating the false dichotomy of family vs career for women only, is a harmful one to keep perpetuating. That question is never asked of men.

I was honestly kind of disgusted that Abby chose to stay with Harper by the end. I get it, but it definitely didn’t leave me with warm, romantic feelings. It left me with the deflated feeling I invariably experience whenever a woman makes the choice to be the bigger person and submit herself to a damaging situation or relationship. Mostly what I’m left with is anger that no one spoke up for Abby at any point, even John. That, and anger and sorrow over Jane’s painting. So yeah: it wasn’t as bad as bury your gays, but it also wasn’t really a happy ending for me, or super enjoyable to watch. Do better, Hollywood. Do a lot better.

#happiest season #reviews #lgbtq2+#bury your gays

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vvakarians · 4 years ago

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Ch. 5 of Wolves Without Teeth is now up!

Beginning | Update | Rating: 18+

Fic Summary:

Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.

Chapter Summary:

With Calliope mostly healed from the fight with the Pride demon, they think all will be well only to find out that their Mark has changed more than just their mindset, which comes at the worst possible time. But somehow they manage to meet with the advisors without too many ill effects.

V. It’s still days before Calliope is able to slip from their bed and manage to dredge up enough energy to put their armor on. Artemaeus is on his earlier rounds, though it won’t be long before he walks in. Solas has already done his rounds, he mostly comes by at night when he thinks Calliope is asleep. Not one word is ever uttered between the two of them and he seems content for that to continue, confusing as that is to Calliope. The whispers pick at that concept -- perhaps he is avoiding them somehow. Did they upset him that badly on the trail to the Temple? His behavior is puzzling to say the least. Solas appears to be protective of them --as if he knows them but they can’t ever place him-- but when they try to catch his attention, his interest vanishes.

They hum to themself as they slip on their tattered cloak, too deep in thought to notice the scurrying in the shadows of their quarters. Not until the sticky, wetness of something latching onto their wrist catches their attention. Pinpricks of terror make their hair stand on end and Calliope freezes, not daring to test the strength of whatever wrapped itself about them. Their heartbeat roars in their ears as they hazard a glance down, everything else forgotten but this. Though there is nothing to suggest anything ever touched them. Not a blemish, not even residue from what certainly was a slimy creature. When they push back the long sleeve of their tunic, there is nothing. Just their bare arm and--

What is that?

Ridges of their pale flesh seem to be jutting up slightly, creating a sort of ripple texture along the inside of their wrist. Welts the size of small coins dot along the back of their hand and palm, irritated and discolored. That terror turns into an icy panic as Calliope checks over the rest of their left hand, thrown from the need to stay frozen in place. A mirror was provided some time in the last several days so they could properly braid their hair back --something they had asked for to retain some form of control while regaining the use of their hand-- and they scramble over to it in a frenzy. There’s more than just the welts and ridges in their flesh; when they look into the glass their eyes are no longer a pale blue, they are a sickly, red rimmed green. Like the Breach. That damned thing that scars the sky and taunts them, speaks to them in their nightmares.

That sticky sensation returns, creeping up the back of their neck while they raise their left arm up to the mirror. In horror they watch as three of the innumerable welts slowly peel back the skin on heir hand, revealing demonic eyes that look back at them intelligently. Almost in a question. Throughout, the whispers have been silent; no buzz at the edges of their hearing. Now they rise to a scream that echoes and bounces off the inside of their skull. All nonsense, or perhaps every language on the material plane. Calliope does not know. Only that they feel the rush of being swallowed up by it, entirely consumed by whatever has trapped them here in this moment. Something that they can only later describe as other or eldrtich.

Minutes or seconds tick by --even hours, for all they can tell-- before the door opens and startles Calliope back from the mirror. They don’t register who enters, glancing wildly at the figure and then back into the glass. Yet the eyes are no longer there. The sickly green of their own irises are however, as are the ridges and welts. Confusion replaces Calliope’s anxiety while they stare and try hard to comprehend what the hell just happened.

“Ser Lavellan?”

Again, Calliope looks to the ill timed guest. There’s a face they recognize; chest length red hair that falls from beneath a deep purple hood, chainmail clinks on the outside of her robes. Leliana. It’s just Leliana.

“I-- yes? Apologies, I think I must have spooked myself,” they murmur, still distracted but not enough to ignore her presence.

“Do you need a healer? That arm doesn’t look good.”

Self conscious, Calliope slips the thick woolen sleeve back over their arm and they shake their head numbly, “No. I--will speak to someone later about it. There’s no pain. It--seems that the Mark has made changes without my permission.”

There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them. It’s obvious Leliana is at a loss for words and Calliope is too in shock to say much, not even as they move towards the door. Stiff and unsure of themself. Perhaps Solas or Artemaeus will know more. For now they need to not think of it and are grateful that the whispers fade to a soft white noise.

“I came to see if you wanted to meet with the others in the Chantry. Do you think you can manage that?” Leliana asks, stepping to the side briefly for Calliope.

“I will try. That is all I can do.”

At least the cold is a welcome distraction this time around. Soothes rather than stabs them, though Calliope is sure that will change if they spend too long outside. The sun is high and bright in the pale blue green sky, the rift sealed but still puffed and raw --like an infected wound. They merely glance at it before narrowing their eyes back down at the muddy ground, careful not to sink too deep into the muck. Suddenly they are very thankful for the boots they were encouraged to take with them. Nice and soft on the inside, perfect to combat the freezing temperatures; wrapped with some cords that jingle with wooden and bone charms. A bit of home to carry with them. The sound comforts Calliope while they follow Leliana off to the large building just beyond the trail.

It’s a short walk, just a few minutes up a long dirt path that winds around a fire pit and various tents. Calliope prepares themself for another round of vitriol, unable to forget the guard who threw that rock. But nothing comes. In fact the people that do gather whisper amongst themselves in awe, or perhaps even reverence. Though that unsettles Calliope as much --if not more-- than the hate spewed days before. Why the change in tone?

One of the group is another familiar face -- Varric. Laughter lines crease his cheeks as he watches Calliope approach; how he can be so jovial they’re not entirely sure. But it is a comfort to see, and even makes their mouth twitch into a small smile. Or a semblance of one. He doesn’t stop with the others and in fact begins walking in line with two of them; Leliana gives him a nod of recognition as he does so. It quickly crosses Calliope’s mind that he’s wearing a coat that seems much too large for him -- the puffs of dense wool obscures much of his face, and the blocky shape of the leather makes his movements stiff. A complete wonder how he can even walk in it.

“Spin a story that convinced them?” he asks with a wink.

“I think so. They found my tales of a nug tripping me and slaying a dragon in the process very compelling,” they respond tiredly, “I managed to slip in a bit about your gorgeous chest hair as well.”

Varric laughter is a deep, resounding bellow that brightens Calliope’s smile by a fraction. Though they note a slight change when he fully looks them over, his unobscured eyes taking in the changes from when they last saw each other.

“Kid, are you feeling alright?”

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Calliope sighs. Their breath comes in clouds before them, “The Mark has made changes. I wish I could say I knew what was happening, but for now I think I’ll be fine.”

“You should let Chuckles know, if he hasn’t found out already.”

That gives them pause, it’s a good suggestion and begs the question--does he? Why has he not alerted anyone if he does?

A frown spreads across Calliope’s face and they give a short nod, “I’ll let him know after the meeting. Though I’m not sure what can be done about it.”

“Who knows, but for all his oddness he’s pretty good at keeping it in check.”

Another comment that makes them think too hard. What does Solas know? If the Mark and the Voice are connected, he should know of that but has never said a word about them. Did he...know this would happen as well? Calliope swallows hard and pushes those thoughts out of their mind, thankful that the large doors of the Chantry have finally come into full view. It’s harder to worry about hypotheticals when something so big is looming over you.

“I’ll keep you posted, how does that sound?” Calliope asks, glancing his way.

“Yeah, sure. Long as you take care of yourself, kid, that’s all that matters.”

His voice is too soft when he responds, as if a great sadness has settled in his bones-- but Calliope doesn’t draw attention to it. Not yet. Instead they try on a bigger smile for him and gesture to his much too large coat. Throngs of people start to gather around them but Calliope is too busy with Varric, the others --and their growing anxiety-- can wait. He’s been nothing but kind to them.

“If you promise to find a better coat then I promise to do as you ask. How about that?”

Another bellowing laugh escapes Varric, so much so there’s a jingle from the golden ringed necklace that rests on his chest. Warmth floods Calliope when they hear that, their anxiety melts away for the moment. Though they can’t help but notice the large group around them in their periphery, ever whispering, looking.

“Does it really look that bad?”

“Oh yes, it makes you look like a walking box,” Leliana interjects with a smirk. Calliope startles when she speaks, having forgotten she was there. She’s always so quiet.

Calliope’s smile widens at her response, however, “Someone had to have given it to him as a joke, right?”

“I think it was a gift from Cassandra, so something like that.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

“Alright, alright! I’m sure there’s a tailor around here somewhere. You two do your important meeting and I’ll fix this disaster of a coat,” Varric snorts, rolling his eyes with affection. A welcome sight as the throng stares and Calliope’s anxiety spikes to another unimaginable height. Both Leliana and Varric take notice quickly; the one ushering Calliope into the warmer, darker Chantry, while the other bustles through the crowd, breaking some of it up.

Inside the old, creaking building there’s a sort of calm you only find among places of worship. Though it doesn’t feel nearly as ancient of a peace as Calliope is used to. It makes their chest ache, thinking back to the sprawling temple to Falon’Din that sat deep within the Graves. How much that single ruin felt like home. Here in the torchlight, hundreds of miles from their home, Calliope brushes their fingers along the stone walls of the Chantry and wishes to be back in that flooded sanctuary, surrounded by statues of their gods that have stood against the test of time.

The once rich but faded golds and reds of Andrastian tapestries feel familiar but foreign at the same time. Moldy furniture and dusty books surround them, old stained glass still shining brightly in the mid morning sun. Casting rays of colors all across the muddy floor. Their mother once spoke of these places, how they brought her comfort when the world was at its worst. Not because of the religion itself, but how gentle it was in those moments where no one noticed her and she could slip off without alerting anyone. There is a remnant of that here while Leliana and Calliope slowly walk across to another pair of large, ornate doors. Symbols of the religion embossed into the dark wood, a sunburst set into the seam where you would pull them open. Familiar but still foreign. They feel like they shouldn’t be here, even in the momentary peace.

That nasally voice from days before pierces right through the calm the moment the doors swing open and Calliope can’t help but make a face of disgust. This man again? Another shemlen who thinks he knows what is right and what is wrong, Creators forbid you tell him otherwise. Chancellor Roderick stands in his white, gold, and crimson red robes to the side of a large wooden table covered in maps, and what looks like small figurines. Curious, Calliope focuses on what that could possibly mean before looking around to the others flanking the Chantry man. All humans, it seems. Another man and two women, one of which is Cassandra.

The other man has curly blonde hair, in a slicked back style that interests Calliope --they wonder briefly how he can keep it so neat and tidy in this weather. His armor bears the many sunbursts that can be found through the building, a mix of gold and cold steel. Rich red fabric and dark furs hang around his tall, muscular form. Though his complexion and under eye bags speak of illness, sunken cheeks and a listless gaze. Perhaps he has the Blight?

“...Roderick, save your breath,” the man murmurs, catching Calliope staring as they enter the room.

“Why is the prisoner continuously not restrained?”

Roderick does not waste any time on saving his breath.

“I’m afraid chains would not do you any good, Chancellor. Has Cassandra not told you I practice magic? I could simply look at you and you’d be a crispy husk,” Calliope rolls their eyes, eliciting a snort from both the new man and the aforementioned Seeker. Though the latter seems to think that much funnier than the ill human.

“Andaran atish’an, Ser Lavellan,” another voice cuts through the Chancellors rebuttal.

This time it’s the new woman, dressed in swatches of golden fabric lined with thick, lightly colored and patterned furs. Necklaces hang from her soft, tan neck and glint just as her brilliant smile does. Long, dark hair frames her face in perfectly set curls that are then braided to be kept out of her eyes. Honestly, she seems much too warm and gentle to be in this situation at all, but that is exactly why Calliope assumes she is. Never underestimate the sweet ones.

They smile back at her when greeted in elven, and bow their head respectively, “Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances.”

There is a sound of derision from Roderick that has both Calliope and Cassandra looking his way with annoyance, the former feeling a coil of anger build in their chest.

“What, do I offend you?” Calliope asks, raising a pale eyebrow at him.

“These circumstances are of your own doing, of course you have offended me! The Divine is dead and here you stand, still alive.”

“Shocking as it may seem, Chancellor, I did not kill your Divine. In fact I have been exonerated of all charges. Cassandra told me as much several days ago as I was recovering. While I don’t remember what made her change her mind, I’m inclined to think it was compelling evidence.”

This time there’s another amused snort from the ill man and he looks up at Calliope, dark eyes sparkling a bit in the lamp light.

“Careful, you keep prodding him and he might explode.”

Roderick once again opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it when Cassandra steps in with a scowl his way and a glance at Calliope. There is a brief moment where her expression turns from irritation to concern when she makes note of the change of Calliope’s eye color, which does make them wonder if they should wander about with their eyes shut from now on.

“I believe we have some introductions to get out of the way,” the Seeker says, shaking the worry off expertly, “You know Sister Leliana, our Spymaster.”

Leliana bows her head at the mention, smiling just a touch for Calliope who manages one in return. It’s the least they can do after her friendliness towards them.

“Our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. She is an expert in keeping the peace,” Cassandra gestures to the woman full of warmth, and then finally at the ill seeming man, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, you would have met him at the Temple but we know how that went.”

“I was nearly decapitated, apparently. Which I’m sure Roderick would have been pleased by,” they scoff, glancing away from Cassandra to watch the priest. He does nothing but stare right back, wrinkling his nose.

“We are lucky you weren’t, otherwise we would not be able to do what we’re doing now,” Cassandra responds, cutting in before Roderick can get a word out.

Something about that comment unsettles Calliope, makes them seriously consider the Seeker. She had said something about wanting them to stay, that there was danger following them possibly and they didn’t have anything on the Mark yet. Yet this doesn’t seem to be what she’s talking about.

“I’m assuming we found something when we closed the Breach? What are we doing now?”

A heavy silence descends upon the room like a thick blanket, extinguishing all sound so much so that the whispers come in loud bursts and Calliope’s pointed ears flutter uncomfortably. They wait for someone to say something, anything at all; nerves standing on end.

“We saw a vision in the middle of a field of red lyrium that was at the center of the Temple,” Leliana finally speaks, looking from Cassandra to Calliope with a sharp gaze, “Someone or something was there doing a ritual, said that the Divine was meant as a sacrifice. Then you came out of the shadows to ask what was going on. That was when the Rift broke open.”

A chill runs down Calliope’s spine, that familiar build up of anxious energy. Their eyes dart to the candles flickering just beyond the table, and one of them forms a tall pillar of fire before simmering back down again. No one seems to notice, not even Roderick who is barely paying attention to anything at all.

“That’s good to know but that doesn’t answer my question. What are we doing now?” Calliope repeats, their gaze hardening. The whispers buzz in anticipation, shadows dancing in their peripheral vision. Once again there’s silence but it’s short lived.

“The Divine created a writ in case her plan failed to restore peace between the mages and the templars,” Cassandra responds quietly, and taps a book on the table with a gloved hand. It is thick and old, filled with secrets Calliope assumes.

“What does that mean?” they ask, shifting their weight nervously.

“We are going to rebuild a group called the Inquisition, to find the Divine’s killer and end the conflict that led to her death. We could also use it to clean up after what happened with the Breach,” the Commander answers for her, and Calliope raises an eyebrow at those gathered around the table.

“It must be invoked by both of the Divine’s Hands, and will be with or without Chantry approval,” Cassandra says, shooting a withering glance at Roderick who sighs.

“You know how I feel about this Seeker-”

“And I don’t care. This is the only way, you know that!”

“We need to find a replacement for the Divine and quickly! None of this Inquisition nonsense will help us now.” The room descends into arguments and raised voices as everyone attempts to speak over the priest, who in turn raises his whine of a voice to disgustingly new levels. Anxiety and rage make the air thick, too hard to breathe, too hard to move in. From their spot at the other side of the space, Calliope watches that candle flicker once, twice, three times before it erupts into a roaring fire. All of their despair and nervousness centered on one singular wick that burns so brightly it lights up the entire room, banishing the shadows back to where they came. It’s certainly one way to get everyone’s attention.

Their arguments dwindle into nothing as they scramble to get away from the fire just as it starts to fizzle out and become a smoking ember. Consumed, wax and all, by Calliope’s magical presence. Embarrassment washes over them at the sight but they manage to hold it together while each pair of eyes comes back to settle on them. Calliope finally breaks the silence, that slimy sensation threading through their skin as they say in almost a snarl, pointedly at Roderick --who had decided to argue.

“Create your Inquisition, we replace the Divine and find her Killer. Maybe get answers about what the fuck happened to my hand. Does that sound good?”

There’s only a beat of silence before Roderick mumbles what could be a ‘yes’, easing Calliope’s volatile mood but not that horrific feeling of otherness wrapped around their wrist.

“We--should get you in touch with a proper Enchanter, I think,” Cullen comments in shock. A blurting out of words, really.

“There are mages here I can learn from, if it will soothe your fears, Commander Rutherford.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess? Cool down before we talk about our next steps.”

It’s Josephine who speaks, light and airy. Unperturbed on the outside by what just happened but the tremble in her hands as she grips her important parchments says otherwise. Calliope doesn’t blame her.

There’s a note of tiredness and defeat to their tone when they speak again, “I will get my magic under control, it’s been harder since the Mark. I’m sorry for scaring anyone. A recess would be good.”

#solavellan #dragon age #dai #pavellan #calliope lavellan #eventual pavellan at least LOL #mal writes #wolves without teeth

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subject-v · 3 years ago

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Hand Speak (whumptober 4)

Five learns to communicate after being punished for speaking.

TW: dehumanization

1600 words

“You want to eat with us?”

Cassian asks this everyday, sometimes more than once a day, when the servants bring him something to eat, even though looking at me, he should know I don’t want anything. I try to avoid his eyes.

“Suit yourself.” He puts a plate on the ground near me, careful not to move too fast or let it make too loud a noise. He doesn’t need to be careful around me, I won’t break, and I don’t mind fast movement or loud noises. I don’t care about them. They’re nothing to me. “Livia and I are going to eat together.” So saying, he flops into a chair and unclips his cape, letting it fall to the ground behind him.

For a while, he and Livia chat about things that don’t matter. I don’t need to listen, if it’s not required of me, so I stare at my serving, steaming meat and a side of bread, as it cools in the evening air. He hasn’t given me permission to eat so I make no move to touch it. I’ve passed tests like this before, even as my tongue waters and the smell almost brings me to tears.

“Not hungry?” wonders Cassian when he and Livia finish.

“Did she eat breakfast?”

“You know we discussed not talking about people like they aren’t there, Livia.”

“She may as well not be. She hasn’t made a sound since we got her out.”

“You can take as much time as you want,” Cassian says, trying to meet my eyes while I try just as hard to avoid his. “If you don’t like this sort of food, I can ask the cook for something else.”

My stomach hurts so much, I’d rather cut it out than let him take the plate away, but that makes things worse. Resisting makes things worse. I can take it, I can survive, I did before, I can now, and so I say nothing.

“Wait.” Livia speaks before Cassian can take a bite of my bread. “Look at me.” She snaps her fingers, but I’ve already obeyed. “Eat the food. All of it.”

If I move too quickly, she’ll see how much I wanted it, she’ll see that weakness, so I force myself to move slowly and place a morsel of meat in my mouth. It’s only salted, almost burnt, and I want to cry as I chew it.

“You don’t have to follow orders, if you don’t want.”

I ignore Cassian—the more food I eat before they change their minds, the better.

“We’re going about it wrong,” says Livia, slipping off her feet to join Cassian in my corner. They’re cutting off both my escape routes now, but I wouldn’t try to run anyway. “She’s spent gods know how long doing everything Iovita told her. You saw the same demonstration I did. She tied herself to the whipping post without hesitation. She’s not right in the head.”

“She’s a human, just like you and me.”

“Yes, but clearly she’s not allowed to eat unless someone tells her to.”

I can feel my cheeks go red as they both stare at me. That’s not right—Iovita doesn’t like any physical sign that I’m not her perfect subject five. I shake my head so hair mostly covers the color.

“It’s like when soldiers come back from battle and lash out at people around them. You can’t take her from an environment where obeying without question was the only method of survival and expect her to recover immediately. Isn’t that right? Can you let me know you heard me?”

I nod.

“Speak.”

I need to listen to her but when I open my mouth to make a noise, nothing comes out. I duck my head, expecting a slap, but instead, Cassian grabs Livia’s arm.

“You don’t need to talk if you don’t want,” he says. “You may have a point, but she’s still a human.”

I’m not, but I can’t correct him.

The next evening, when Cassian returns, he’s alone. I’m crouched in the far corner of the room where he left me. Even though he hasn’t tied me to anything like Iovita usually does, I assume he doesn’t want me wandering about. Iovita once left me outside overnight, curious to see whether I’d try to flee, and delighted the next morning when she found me waiting for her. Cassian looks less excited, but he approaches slowly, both hands visible.

“Nice day?” he wonders, stopping at a safe distance. “You don’t have to respond, but I’d love it if you did.”

I nod.

“Good.” He takes a step closer. “Do you trust me?”

What kind of question is that? I nod because obviously he wants me to say yes but it’s ludicrous. My trust doesn’t matter—I’ll do what he wants me to do and he’ll do what he wants to do to me and no action on my part can change that.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” One hand finds my neck. I don’t flinch, don’t react at all. If he wants to choke me, wants to slam my head against the wall behind me, wants to kiss me until I can’t breathe, I’ll let him. I don’t care what he does to me. “Here.” With gentle fingers, he finds the strap on my collar and takes it off. “You’re okay,” he promises. “I’m going to put it here”—he places the collar on a side table—“and you can put it back on whenever you like, but you don’t have to wear it. Now, let’s go to the table.”

I follow him, eyes on my collar. Air feels strange, cold, on my bare neck, but I don’t cry. Cassian doesn’t like crying.

“Can you sit at the table?”

I obey.

“You can have as much food as you’d like. Please, I want you to eat.”

I wait for him to serve himself, but he’s just staring at me. Hesitant, I snag an egg.

“Good. I hope you enjoy the egg.”

I don’t enjoy anything. It’s all the same, at the end of the day, but it tastes good.

“I would really like it if you could try to communicate. You don’t need to talk,” he adds quickly. “Can you read?”

I shake my head.

“I guess shaking and nodding will have to do then. If you ever feel like speaking, or making a noise at all, I won’t mind. I won’t punish you for it.”

Iovita played that game sometimes too—‘put my candles away, subject five,’ and then a moment later, ‘how dare you touch my things, subject five, pour the candle wax on your hand in punishment.’ I put the collar back on as soon as Cassian goes to bed, and make sure to take it off before he wakes up.

The next day, two guests join us for dinner, Livia and someone with the same curly blond hair as she has, but who is about foot taller. “Antioc,” Cassian says, and then he does something incredible: he makes some motions with his hands.

Antioc responds in kind, not the same motions, but the same sort of motions.

They’re talking with their hands! I didn’t know humans could do that! Visual communication, like proper communication ought to be—before I can stop myself, I’m at Cassian’s side, pointing at Antioc’s hands with wide-eyed wonder.

“Are you Deaf?” wonders Cassian. “Is that why you don’t talk?”

I don’t understand him but nod anyway. The next thing I know, Antioc is sitting across from me, pointing to every object in the room and giving them a corresponding sign, and it’s all I can do not to cry, but I remember Cassian doesn’t like it and sign along.

They talk with their hands!

Iovita had no such rule against moving my hands without permission since she usually tied them down anyway and it doesn’t bother me to respond to questions that way. At first, I assume I’ll use the signs to answer questions alone, but communicating makes me realize how much more I have to say.

“I should wear the collar around you,” I tell Cassian a decan later.

He frowns. “You don’t have to.”

“It feels safer.”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says at last. “I don’t get to decide what you wear so you can do what you want.”

Now it’s my turn to frown. “If you tell me not to, I won’t.”

“I’m not going to tell you either way.”

I scratch my head. What am I supposed to do with that? “How will I know then?”

“You can pick. If you want to wear it, wear it.”

“I will do whatever you want.”

He sighs, sees my expression, and calms himself. “I’m not mad at you. I’ll never be mad at you.”

I itch to just grab the collar and put it on but instinct holds me back. What a cruel trick, to make me think I’m safe and then snap when I step out of line. Better to continue letting him decide what I do.

Cassian runs a hand through his hair. “Put the collar back on, please. I want you to wear it again.”

Grinning, I snatch it off his table and wrap it around my neck. Maybe it isn’t a trick. Maybe I really am free. Whatever it is, I prefer this prison to the old one, even as Cassian takes a deep breath and lets his head fall into his hands.

#whumptober2021 #no.4 #do you trust me?#oc #fic #dehumanization #comfort fic #recovery fic #whump writing #whump community #five #cassian #lady whumpee #immortal whumpee

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hypnoticwinter · 4 years ago

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Down the Rabbit Hole part 31

Fumi hauls me to my feet and I cry out as I put my leg wrong. He glares back at me as I cling onto him. The boot’s come loose and I kneel down quickly and tug at the straps.

“Goddam it!” he cries. “We have to go,” he tells me, tugging again at my shoulder, and I bat at him.

“Give me a fucking second!”

“We don’t have a second!”

The metal groans again and there are more screams from outside in the main control room. The man I’ve clobbered is trying to get to his feet but he seems terribly dazed. There’s blood all down his front from where I’ve hit him and his nose is crooked now. He glares at me with watery eyes full of fear.

“You broke my nose,” he moans. I ignore him, ignore the pang of guilt and fear wealing my stomach, force my hands to stop shaking and grab the tabs of the Velcro straps and pull them tight. Snap, snap. There. I wiggle my foot experimentally before Fumi yanks at me again and tugs me out into the control room.

“Watch it!” I tell him, but he shakes his head brusquely. His eyes are very dark. “Wait,” I say, glancing backwards. “The guy…”

The ceiling of the control room is crunched inwards like an enormous tooth has dug against it. There’s a tear in the metal and past the sparking wires and torn, serrated edges, I can see the wet, glistening throat of the Pit staring back at me.

Everyone has rushed outside, left the door hanging open. I can hear yells and cries from the stairs leading back the way we came. There’s the sound of movement in the conference room and then the man I punched comes rushing out and sprints past us, heading for the door. He slams into it and then flings it open and vanishes downwards, rushing like the devil were chasing him.

“Do you have the key?” Fumi asks me, and I shut my mouth and nod.

“Yes, right here.”

He tugs me away from the control room and down the staircase on the other side. We go down three flights, Fumi waiting impatiently at each landing, glaring back up at me as I hobble down as quickly as I can, and then we come to a door marked ‘Armory’ that my key fits into. Fumi pushes past me roughly and I smack him.

“What the fuck is your problem –“ I start, but Fumi rounds on me. Although he isn’t tall he’s still taller than I am and when he puts his finger in my face I feel a little tremble of fear rumble somewhere deep down inside me. I can’t piss him off, I can’t ruin this, I can’t do this on my own…

“Merriweather,” he says, and my mouth drops open. I never told him, I realize, I never told him I wasn’t from Admin, he doesn’t know…

“I’m warning you,” he continues, “the only reason I agreed to do this was because nobody else was going to go down and get Elena out, and no matter what my personal opinion of her is, I’m not about to leave her behind down there. I don’t know who you are or where you came from or what the hell they were teaching you in Admin, but if you’re going to pretend to be a fucking commando down here and deck people whenever the hell you feel like it you’re going to be walking home, because I am not about to get any more people hurt because of a goddam loose cannon like you.”

While he was chewing me out my emotions had shifted from shame and embarrassment to something approaching rage. I clench my fist hard enough that I can feel my nails dig into the soft part of my palm. “Fumi,” I hiss, “how the fuck did you want to get that key? You asking politely didn’t work. Makado wouldn’t give you permission, especially if she knew you were with me. What were we supposed to do?”

“Did you ever think I don’t want to be in trouble?” he snarls, shoving a bulky shotgun into my hands. “Did you ever think that maybe I was putting my own neck on the line getting you out of those cuffs? And now if they think I’m helping a fucking criminal escape from FBI custody -” I pull the pump back and peer into the chamber and then notice that he’s giving me an appraising frown.

“What?” I ask. “I’m listening.”

“How come you know so much about guns?” he asks me, and I roll my eyes.

“What, just because I’m a girl means I can’t know anything about firearms?”

“I saw your qualifications at the pistol range,” he tells me. “You were shit, you couldn’t hit a damn thing.”

“I’m not good with pistols,” I tell him primly. “Pass the .45 ammo, please.”

Before I can grab it from him there’s another groan of metal and the Control Center lurches below us. I fall against a rack of slug rifles and the little .45 cartridges rain down on me like marbles. “Ow, fuck.”

“Sorry,” he says, grabbing another box and tossing it to me.

“Did you see any magazines? I’ve only got two,” I say, patting my belt.

“Just grab all the shit you can carry and scram,” he tells me. “We’ve only got so much time before –“

I don’t get to hear the end of the sentence. There is another sickening lurch and then my stomach drifts up into my throat. We’re in freefall. I have just enough time to throw myself over to Fumi and grab onto the equipment rack behind him before the metal puck of the Control Center lands hard enough to force the breath out of me, to force a scream from between my lips, to force the light out of my eyes.

* * *

I wake quickly, or at least it seems like I do. I push myself up off of Fumi and glare around at the inside of the armory, pitch black now that the lights have gone out, even the red emergency lights, flickering ominously in the dingy stairwell before. I open my mouth, lick my lips.

“Fumi?” I whisper.

We seem to have come to a stop at this point. I recall a sensation of sliding or slipping, like my insides were moving and sort of dragging the rest of me along behind them, but now it’s stopped. I feel a little scared to stand up and start moving around, like if I do I’ll untip some sort of delicate balance the Control Center has struck with whatever it’s resting on and send it careening off into the abyss. What’s even below here, anyway? What have we landed on? I guess I sort of assumed the Pit’s gullet was an analogue for a throat and that if you go down far enough there’s some kind of stomach or something, but if that’s true then what the hell have we landed on…

Fumi grunts next to me and I reach down and after some fumbling unclip the flashlight from my belt and click it on.”Fumi,” I whisper again. “Fumi, wake up.”

“Fuck,” he groans, sitting up slowly, and I feel the relief pour into me.

“Oh, thank god,” I murmur. I feel a sudden urge to hug him but stuff it back down. “Are you okay?” I ask instead. “We landed pretty hard, but I’m not sure what on…”

“I don’t know either,” he says. “Maybe the wreck of the old Lower Visitor Center, bits of it are still lodged deeper in the gullet, it’s possible the Control Center could have landed on top of it, but I don’t know if that might knock the LVC loose itself.”

I get to my feet. It seems like we’ve leveled out again, one way or another, but the feeling makes me uneasy now, like we might slip off of whatever ledge we’re resting on. “Well, we seem stable enough,” I say, hoping that by saying it it’ll make it true. “How can we get out of here?”

Fumi sighs heavily, taking my proffered hand. The man is heavy in his suit – hell, he’d be heavy without the suit – but I manage to get him to his feet and he nods to the door.

I follow Fumi wordlessly down the stairs, the few utility pockets on my suit filled with pistol rounds and a couple of spare magazines I managed to grab. I’ll load them later, we’ll have time later. Right now just being in this – in this tomb is making me feel antsy.

“I hope everyone got out,” I murmur. Fumi snorts.

“What do you care?” he asks. My mouth drops open in shock but I bite back the angry reply rising to my lips.

“Look,” I tell him as he motions me forward to help him with a particularly recalcitrant door, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t break my nose,” he points out, and I roll my eyes. I yank again at the door but it refuses to budge.

“I’m not apologizing for that,” I tell him. “I’m apologizing for dragging you into this.”

Fumi leans up against the door, inclines his head my way. His eyes are dark but less so than before, I think. “I could make excuses,” I continue, gesturing. “I could tell you that I didn’t have any place left to go, I didn’t know what else to do, that I was terrified that I’d lose Elena…shit, that I still am terrified that I will lose Elena. I told you that Makado was setting me up but there’s a lot that you still don’t know, and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you everything back up on the surface before letting you decide if you wanted to help me out on my damn-fool errand down here. I was scared and I made a stupid decision and I’m sorry. If you want to leave me down here I won’t blame you. I don’t know if I have time to help you get back to the surface but I’ll –“

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells me. “And you don’t have to be sorry. I got angry back there because I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, that’s all. I’m glad we got the armory key. Now let’s just keep moving.”

I can sense that there’s more lurking beneath the surface but I don’t press it. After five minutes or so of strenuous pulling we finally unstick the door and stumble outside onto a torn gantry leading to nowhere and there just below is the stained and pitted remains of the Lower Visitor Center, dented and scraped and masticated but still mostly intact, lodged sideways in the Pit’s throat. Fumi gives me a significant glance.

“I think we just found our way out of here,” he says, pointing to a shattered window up ahead. Something about it makes me shudder, the fact that it’s still here, the fact that even though all this happened four years ago nothing’s been done to clean it up, nothing’s changed, it’s just lodged here slowly slipping down and down and down…

Fumi helps me through the window, carefully and slowly so that I don’t catch my suit and tear it on any of the jagged edges of the reinforced glass still lodged in the windowframe. It’s a short drop and I take it hard, but only because I try to land on my good left leg, keeping the right tucked up beneath me. I wobble but don’t fall. There’s all kinds of crap on the floor – dirt, debris, glass, cracked tiles, papers, everything. I don’t have time to take a good look around before I turn back around and help Fumi through the window as well, and then once we’ve inspected each other’s suits for tears I finally get a chance to inspect the scenery, my horribly inadequate flashlight playing over the surfaces of the ruined concourse, giving me tiny snapshots of long-faded glory days. I see posters showing smiling people eating and shopping, I see rows and rows of merchandise still in shelves, flipped over and disheveled but perfectly good. Everything is stained and dirty and covered in what I think is rust but upon closer inspection is a kind of filmy dried ichor.

I look out over the balcony which I can see now opens over a yawning hole in the floor, the ropy flesh of the Pit’s gullet clenching together beneath it, pale and sluglike and sickening, and try to imagine what it must have looked like back in its heyday.

“This must really have been something,” I murmur, glancing over at Fumi. Even he looks a little awed at our surroundings. “Did you ever come here while it was still up and running?”

“When I was a kid,” he says. “I only joined after the disaster. 2008, to be specific.”

I offer a grunted acknowledgement but I’m too busy gawking to give him anything more substantial than that.

A horrible thought occurs to me as I edge a little closer to the bannister, lean out over it and glare down at the murky darkness below, swallowing up the light like it were hungry for it. “Fumi, are we…trapped in here now?”

He shrugs. “Probably not. I mean, it was easy enough to get in, wasn’t it? If we felt like it we could go right back out again the same way and walk around up on the roof of this place for a while and see if there was somewhere we could climb to.”

“But there isn’t, I don’t know, a passageway that leads down here? Something they put in after 2007?”

“No, there’s nothing like that. They haven’t done any major construction in the Pit after the disaster. Probably the biggest thing of that nature that’s been done is what Makado did with that Tunneler earlier today.”

I shudder to think about it. “Seemed like the Pit didn’t like it very much.”

Fumi shrugs. “Those are the things they used back in the day. If it pitched this much of a fit every time they used them I think they probably wouldn’t have gotten so much done with them. Maybe Makado’s right and the Pit is starting to wake up. She did say back in Oyster’s shame that that’s what the science department thought, anyway.”

“I just didn’t know that the Pit could move,” I say. “I didn’t know it had fucking tentacles.”

“They came out in 2007,” Fumi starts, leaning on the bannister next to me. It groans under the extra weight and we both back away hurriedly and look for someplace a little safer to rest. “They came out in 2007. Miles away in some places, just giant masses of flesh bursting out of the ground. Nowhere civilized, thank goodness.”

“I’d never heard of that,” I murmur. “I wonder if they were trying to hush it up.”

“I don’t know,” Fumi shrugs. “Maybe. In Ranger training they show you videos of some of them, sort of like a ‘this-is-why-this-is-so-important’ type thing. They had this CGI mockup of Lubbock and showed the devastation if a tentacle like that were to sprout up there and go nuts.”

“It reaches as far as Lubbock?”

“I don’t think so,” Fumi says. “But who knows. Maybe if you go deep enough down…”

The thought makes me shudder. We sit there for another five minutes or so, breathing the musty Pit air flowing through the ruined Visitor Center and imagining what might be lurking further in waiting for us. Anything nasty hiding down there in the dark? Possibly. I ask Fumi about it but he just shrugs. He was never much of a biologist, he says, but he thinks there probably isn’t enough to eat, not enough food. Little stuff, maybe, but nothing big, nothing like the copepod we met on the way in.

It reassures me a little. Not a ton, but a little. I get up; Fumi rises and offers to help me but I wave him away. If I can’t at least stand up by myself, even with the boot on, I shouldn’t be down here.

“We need a plan,” I tell him, and Fumi nods.

Together, over about fifteen minutes or so, we go through a list of abandoned ranger stations and listening posts Elena could have reached from the bottom of the Cord near Oyster’s Shame. Some Fumi dismisses as being in too dangerous territory for Elena to have risked it, others Fumi suggests would have had no medical supplies or are too derelict to be attractive. We go through this on the little map on his wristpad, huddled together, sweat pouring down my back in the hot suit. I could snap the helmet down and have the climate control start up automatically but I don’t want to waste the battery. Something is niggling at me as Fumi runs down the list of stations, eliminating one or two more but leaving them sidelined as possibilities, to potentially check after we’ve gone through everywhere else. I bite my lip and then reluctantly force myself to ask:

“Fumi, it’s been almost two days now since I saw her. Are any of these stations going to have medical supplies that would help her deal with a hole through her abdomen for that long?”

Fumi is silent for a long while and then, finally, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so, no.”

It’s what a horrible little part of me expected to hear, I guess, but it doesn’t stop the bottom of my stomach falling out when he says it. “God damn it,” I mutter.

“It doesn’t mean she’s dead,” Fumi says, quickly. “She could have –“

“What do you need to treat a gunshot wound like that, Fumi?” I ask, gesticulating. “You need sutures, you need to poke around in there and make sure little parts of the bullet aren’t left inside, you need actual surgery. Maybe some gauze and painkillers and adrenaline would keep her going for a while but for this long? If she isn’t dead then she has an infection that’s going to kill her in –“

“Roan, stop.”

I wipe at my eyes, furious with myself for crying, furious for letting her –

“Stop.”

“I’ve dragged you into this too,” I murmur, glaring at him. “I just ruin – I ruin everything I touch, everything just turns to shit, it’s like I can’t –“

“You’re spiraling right now. You know that, right?”

“I’m not spiraling.”

Fumi crosses his arms. Behind him the shattered glass of a storefront shows a poster of a plush…thing, looking like a frilly folded stingray, with a long proboscis. “’Mini Daves,’ 50% off,” the poster reads. I frown at it and then tear my eyes away, drag them back to Fumi. I’m not getting distracted, I want to be mad, I want to be furious, at myself, at Fumi, at Elena and Erica and Makado, at something. Fumi sees the look in my eyes and puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “I want to fucking punch something,” I tell him, very seriously, and he at least has the good grace not to laugh at me and my little noodly arms punching something. Although, to be fair, I did just break a man’s nose maybe about twenty minutes ago, so there’s that.

I can still feel his nose breaking beneath my fist, can still feel the imprint of it, can still feel the bone-deep ache of it. Punching someone isn’t like in the movies, it hurts. Stand a cinderblock up on a tree stump and punch it. Hitting someone in the face is easier on your knuckles but just as hard on your joints and bones. The skull is solid.

“What am I going to do if she’s dead?” I ask Fumi.

“Roan,” he says, putting his arm around me with a slow gesture like he’s afraid I might hiss at him like a cat and scratch his eyes out, “even if she’s dead we can still get her body. We can show her the respect she deserves. That at the very least is worth going on for.”

I swallow hard and then reluctantly lean into him. It feels nice, having an arm around me and a warm body nearby. I take a deep breath and then let it out again. “Okay,” I murmur. Ahead of us, in a little free-standing pylon, is a poster advertising the ballast bulbs. “Healing waters!” it says. “Adult fun!” it proclaims. I look at the wide grins of the people in the photos, notice how a couple of them are twisted lasciviously, how in one of the photos, one of the women’s bikini tops is a little askew, at how the man standing next to her very clearly has his hand on her ass and squeezing tightly. I –

My mouth drops open. Fumi glances over at me curiously. “Fumi,” I mutter. “Would Elena have been able to reach the ballast bulbs from the Cord?”

He thinks about it for a moment “I think so, maybe.”

“Then she must have gone there,” I tell him. I can feel an idiot grin spreading across my cheeks. “She just must have. She would have known none of the other ranger stations nearby would have had anything to keep her going, the ballast, wouldn’t it have – wouldn’t it have healed her?”

“I don’t know,” Fumi says. “Maybe. There were never any tests done on major trauma like that. It might have, but…”

“Think about it,” I tell him. “It would have been her only shot. Right?”

He sighs. “Roan, I don’t know…”

“Fuck it,” I blurt. “Even if it’s a long shot it’s the only thing we’ve got to go off of. It’s either she’s maybe alive in the Domes right now or she’s dead in a ranger station someplace deeper, right? So it’s worth checking.”

“Okay, fine. It’s worth checking.”

“So how do we get there from here?” I ask. “You’re the ranger, you’re going to know this place better than I do.”

We spend the next thirty minutes or so poring over the little 3-D maps stored in our suits’ computer drives. It’s limited and sketchy in places – a result, Fumi says, of the Pit’s movements and shifts slowly making the maps inadequate and out of date. The area around the wrecked LVC is the sketchiest of all, just because it’s a no-go zone for Company personnel, orders passed down from high up, making sure nobody disturbs the wreckage or manages to dislodge it and let it slip further down the gullet. He sees my worried look and waves it aside. Two people moving around inside aren’t going to cause any trouble.

Eventually we have a plan, although not, in my opinion, a particularly good one. There’s a way to get to the passage to the ballast bulbs, Fumi thinks, through a puckered dent in the side of the LVC, but after that it’ll be an eight-foot drop onto a metal gantry that may or may not be still intact or still walkable that should then lead us downwards into a esophageal opening that will let us detour back around to the ballast bulbs, although there’s a chance we might instead slip into a digestion sink and die a horrible death over a course of several hours.

No matter how unlikely Fumi assures me that last part is, just him saying it makes me worry. I remember the first time I watched Return of the Jedi I had nightmares for a week straight about that horrible mouth thing in the ground. I’d wake up with all my covers thrown off and covered in sweat with a terrible, suffocating dream retreating from my waking mind like a puff of smoke. I was eight or so, so maybe it was excusable, but I remember it striking some as-yet-unplucked string of horror somewhere deep in me, which looking back on it is a little strange as I’ve never been incredibly claustrophobic. Maybe it’s the concept of being eaten that does it, I remember feeling the same horrible tingling cringe aching its way up my back and setting my nerves on edge while I watched that bird thing wing away into the darkness with Marcus’ limp body in its claws.

We’ve rested long enough. It might not be a good plan but it’s a plan, and I’ll take it.

But before we can get moving, the radios at our waists crackle into life, and I hear Makado’s clipped, angry voice calling my name.

* * *

“Roan Dzilenski,” Makado says, then repeats it again. “Roan Dzilenski, come in. Roan, come in, over.”

I reach down for the radio but Fumi grabs my wrist and shakes his head. He’s looking at me differently and I realize that he still thinks my name is Merriweather. I open my mouth to explain but before I can Makado interrupts again.

“Alright Roan,” she says. “I guess you aren’t going to answer. That’s fine. I’m using the low-band in the Tunneler so I know you can hear me. I got a call from the boys in the Control Center. One of them made it up to the surface and called down to warn me. Could barely understand him over the broken nose. Heard that was your doing.”

Despite myself, I can feel a little bead of fear trickling down and sinking into the pit of my stomach. She knows I’m down here.

As though she’s reading my mind, Makado declares that she knows I’m down here. “You too, Fumi,” she says. “I know what you’re up to. And I’m warning you,” she growls, her voice barely distinguishable from the static wreathing it, “if you try to fuck this up for me, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur.

“She does sound a little unhinged, doesn’t she?” Fumi observes.

“Does she think we’re trying to stop her from getting the crystal?”

“I guess so,” he shrugs. “So, uh –“

“Should I say something back?”

“No, don’t. There’s a chance she’s trying to bait us into replying so that they can triangulate our position. Every radio signal in here goes through a number of repeaters and they keep logs of everything.”

“Right,” I say. “Of course.”

We’re silent for a little while, waiting to see if Makado says anything else, but she’s gone again. I shudder to myself, even amid the body-temp heat and the drooling humidity.

Fumi breaks the silence finally. “I thought your name was Merriweather?” he asks, glancing at me, and I blow out a sigh.

“It’s a long, long story,” I tell him, and Fumi shrugs.

“We’ve got a while to go to get to the Domes,” he says. “I don’t mind listening.”

And so with nothing better to do, I tell him. I nods along, giving me a little encouraging grunt when I flag. The whole story comes spilling out of me and I feel a little bit better having told it. We walk through dusty concourse after dusty concourse, here and there circumnavigating debris and rubble, great swathes of concrete wreckage blocking our paths, here and there gawking at relatively ancient displays and signage and froufrou and bricabrac. The floor doesn’t collapse on us, something horrible and fleshy doesn’t reach out and grab me and spew acid into my face, it’s quiet and dead and a little creepy, really, but having Fumi there makes me feel a little better about it.

At the end of it I glance over at Fumi. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” I tell him. “Or at least mislead you. Withheld information.”

“It’s okay,” he says.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re not –“

“Look, don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Okay,” I tell him. I feel as though whatever might have been building between us, whatever kind of rapport I could have cooked up has shattered now. “I just –“

“Do you really love Elena?” he asks me, and I blush. I’d thought about lying and saying that I hadn’t said it but when I got that part of the story it had just come bursting out of me. I’d wanted to tell someone.

“I don’t – I think I do,” I offer, knowing it sounds lame even as I say it. “I don’t have a lot of experience,” I confess. “I feel very strongly for her but I don’t know if it really is…love. Whatever that is.“

Fumi thinks about that for a while, his boots crunching in the dusty remains of a storefront window. We pass the wreckage of something called a Chili’s Too, whatever that is, and my stomach growls.

“I think that if that’s how you feel, even if it was just for that moment, even if nothing comes of it, it was good to tell her.”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

For a long while there is nothing to say. It’s slow work picking our way through the LVC. The bit we need to get to is on the opposite side of the structure entirely and it seems every few minutes we come to wreckage we have to detour around or traverse somehow.

It happens after one of these, where a chunk of cement and rebar has fallen from the ceiling and I climb up and over it to try and see if there’s a decent way around, while Fumi waits, hands on his hips, watching me try and climb up with my bum leg. He offered to go instead but the gap I want to get at is too small for him, he wouldn’t be able to fit through it. When I get to the other side I come down heavy on the cracked tiled floor and I feel it shift beneath me, instantly sending a tremor of worry scurrying up my legs. I put my hands out to the sides as though I’m trying to balance myself, as though that could possibly help, but before I can scramble back to safety the floor cracks beneath me and a whole segment of the walkway ahead drops downwards, landing with an absolutely cacophonous crash that seems like it shakes the entire LVC. I lose my balance and splat headfirst onto the makeshift slide that’s formed in front of me and find myself slipping downwards at an alarming velocity. I try to roll, to put my hands out to stop myself, but I still end up ramming shoulder-first into a collection of tables and chairs, sending them flying. The impact knocks the wind out of me and for a moment I lie there on my back wheezing before I have the wherewithal to pop my helmet and suck in grateful gulps of the stale, humid air. There’s a creaking sound behind me and I see the rest of the floor finally give up the ghost and fall as well. I can hear Fumi scrabbling in the wreckage and then I think I see his silhouette pop up over the bannister.

“Are you okay?” Fumi calls down to me, and I haul myself to my feet and dust myself off.

“Yeah,” I yell back up once I’ve recovered my breath. “I think I’m okay, I haven’t broken anything. I don’t think I can get back up, though.”

“Just sit tight,” Fumi tells me. “I’ll find a way to get down to you, just give me a minute.”

“Wait, are we still going to be able to get where we need to go from down here?”

“Look, we’ll figure it out, don’t worry. Just sit tight.”

I can hear his footsteps move away and then I am alone, here at the bottom of the concourse, surrounded by chunks of tile that fell with me. I guess it was just luck that we hadn’t come to a weak spot like this in the floor up until this point, and then bad luck that I was the one to tread on it first. Plus, of course, if I hadn’t twisted so I wasn’t going legs-first, and if the drop had been a little deeper…still knocked the wind out of me, though, and my shoulder is going to be aching for a while.

My leg is okay and that’s all that matters at this point. If I re-break my already abused shin I’m going to be up you-know-which creek with zero paddles, especially down here, and I don’t much like the idea of having to beg Makado or the FBI to come get me so they can lock me up for forever.

The fall knocked out my flashlight. I’m praying it isn’t broken but it seems like the bulb is alright, I can’t see anything wrong with that. Maybe it’s gotten loose? No, that’s not it, I unscrew the top and check it but the bulb’s in firmly. When I click the button it winks on and then winks out again.

I utter a muffled curse and shake the damn thing, then smack it hard with my free hand. I’m beginning to get a little paranoid, standing here alone in the dark, especially now that Fumi’s footsteps have faded away.

I click the flashlight on again and this time it finally stays lit, although it flickers a little. I’m in sort of a lower concourse, some place that might have once been a food court judging by the tables and chairs strewn all over the place. I turn slowly, sweeping the light around me, getting a sense of it. Over there a maintenance corridor, over there a wrecked and disfigured self-serve stroller rental kiosk, over there someone’s purse, abandoned for four long years. I wonder what I’d find if I looked inside it, what I’d learn about the woman who’d dropped it in a panic when the LVC started to lurch.

I continue my slow spin and then pause; the light is catching on something that doesn’t look man-made at all, a sort of plated shell made from something like enamel. I think to begin with that it might be the remains of a fallen light fixture but it’s much too large for that. I sweep the flashlight further over it and then when my sluggish brain finally catches up with what I’m seeing and interprets it I jump so hard I nearly drop the flashlight. A shriek boils up my throat and I leap backwards, bowling over a couple of tables and falling to the floor in the process, landing hard enough on my forearms that I can hear the bone creak.

There, lurking in the darkness with its outstretched hand lying spiderlike on the floor just a few feet away from me, its armored, bulldoggish head glaring beadily at me, is an enormous, pale-white abyssal copepod.

I try to get to my feet and sprint away but my right leg buckles when I put weight on it, and I end up collapsing there, trying to scurry away like a rat, cringing in anticipation for the thing’s enormous hand to fix around my leg or my arm and drag me like a morsel to its waiting mouth.

Continue with Part 32

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#mystery flesh pit #writing #writeblr #alt lit #original writing #mystery #thriller #disaster #caving #romance #Michael Crichton

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mischiefandspirits · 3 years ago

Text

Bloodlines (2 of 3)

After receiving a vague warning from his mother about his cousin and Richard, Damian goes looking for his runaway ward.

Part of Batkid and Robin

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Someone’s in the house.”

Damian paused, one foot out the door of the car. He turned to Jon to study him.

If it was a Bat, Jon wouldn’t have said anything so he could see how long it took Damian to notice. If it was Kon or Lara, he’d already be telling them off for breaking into their house. No one else in his family would have broken in and neither would most of their friends. If Jon didn’t recognize the person or considered the person a threat, he’d be worried. For most anyone else, he’d be annoyed.

He wasn’t worried or annoyed though, which only left one person.

“Stay here,” Damian sighed and got out.

Jon grunted, still staring at the house with enough fury that Damian was surprised his heat vision hadn’t activated.

Once inside, Damian dropped his keys into a dish on the entryway table then hung his jacket on the coat rack. “You know Jonathan doesn’t like it when you show up unannounced.”

“With your alien’s powers, I never should have made it inside without his knowledge.”

He came into the living room to see his mother sitting in an armchair, a pair of teacups waiting on the table next to her. “I asked you not to call him that. And it’s about being polite, Mother.”

She hummed and grabbed her cup. She tilted her head towards the chair next to her as she said, “He is never going to approve of me and I am never going to approve of him. This is something I have come to terms with so I wish you would as well.”

He ignored the invitation, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. “You only don’t approve because he doesn’t have any more interest in providing me -- and therefore you -- with an heir than I have in obtaining one so he won’t help you convince me to allow your scientists our DNA. You should just come to terms with the fact you’ll never have a grandkid.”

“But I already have one,” she said into her drink.

“What are you talking about?” he growled, marching into the room to loom over her. “What did you do?”

“Calm down, my Baby Bird, I haven’t done anything. You know I wouldn’t do that without your permission.”

“After what you did to Jason, how can I be sure?”

She sighed and placed her drink back on the dish. “This isn’t what I came here to talk to you about and, unfortunately, I don’t have time to debate with you as I have to cull another uprising of the Council of Demons. When was the last time you spoke to Richard?”

Damian frowned at the change in subject. “Why do you care?”

“The Demon’s Followers are gathering.”

“Have they joined forces with the Council?” That didn’t make sense. Mara was all about gathering power for herself and she wasn’t foolish enough to think she could use them for her own gain then betray them without facing serious consequences. “And what does this have to do with Richard?”

“So you really haven’t been paying attention to the boy’s antics.”

Damian bristled. He’d been watching as closely as was possible without risking Richard discovering the invasion of privacy, something he knew would surely drive the boy away forever. “I ask again, why do you care?”

His mother stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her pants. “I suggest you look into what the boy has been up to. Perhaps ask your pet, I know he’s been hounding Richard.”

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but his mother just pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping into the hall. “And tell your cousin that should my grandson face significant harm, the League will wipe her little organization from existence.”

“Mother!” He followed her into the hall, but she was already gone. He didn’t bother to give chase, knowing she wouldn’t tell him any more than she already had.

“What was that all about?” Jon asked, coming through the front door.

“I’m not sure.”

Oh, he could certainly put the pieces together.

Mara was up to something, something that could put Richard in danger, but what could she be up to that would put her on the Teen Titans’ radar? His team was efficient, but they didn’t handle the type of secretive things the League of Shadows or Outsiders dealt with. The kind of things the Demon’s Followers dealt in.

There was also his mother’s descriptor for Richard. Saying that his mother wasn’t fond of his family was an understatement. She absolutely loathed Tim and Duke, more than even Damian had during those first few months after he’d been brought back to life, and the Council’s interest in Tim had only aggravated her feelings for him. She was more neutral about Cass and Jason, but she saw his sister as a stand-in child that his father should have rid himself of when his true child arrived and she saw Jason as his and his father’s pet street trash. For her to not only claim his ward as her grandson, but to also place him under her protection was… out of character. They had never spoken about Richard before, what with her going dark due to the Council’s actions during his father’s absence followed by his feelings towards Jason’s death and resurrection, but Damian had assumed she’d feel no different for him than Jason given his circus heritage.

“Are you going to go talk to Richie?”

Damian shot his partner a look.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re giving him space. It’s been over a year, though, D. I think that’s enough space.”

“He has to come to me. If I force myself into his life -”

“He’ll resent you,” Jon finished. “Okay, but he’s got that Bat stubbornness you’ve all somehow managed to inherit from Bruce despite the fact most of you aren’t actually related to him. Richie’s not going to make the first move. So if neither of you reaches out…”

“I don’t have time for this,” Damian muttered, heading for the door to the basement. “I need to figure out what Mara is up to and if the Teen Titans can handle it on their own.”

“Bats,” Jon huffed and followed him down. He stayed on the stairs, though, as Damian opened the secret door that led down to the Perch. “Do you want any help?”

Damian paused. “… Not at this time. Somerset will need your focus while I’m distracted. If anything changes, I will let you know.”

“Alright.” Jon drifted up behind him to wrap his arms around Damian’s waist. “Just know I’m here if you need anything. And be careful.”

“I will.” He leaned back into his partner for a moment before pulling away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red Hood was watching a factory burn when Flamebird found him. The teen had a gun pointed at his head before he could even speak. “Come for the fireworks, Boss-Bird.”

“I don’t want to fight. I need to talk to you. It’s about Robin,” Flamebird said, holding up his hands. He quickly ducked to the side when Red Hood shot at him.

“Yeah, no, you lost your chance to talk about him when you let Bitch-man kick him out.”

“That’s not what happened,” Flamebird said and threw a feather, lodging it in the gun’s barrel. “And it’s not the point. Mother came asking after him.”

That made Red Hood’s anger spike into fury, but at least he paused his attack. “She has even less of a right to talk about Red Bird.”

“Agreed, but I’m not about to ignore a warning about Robin’s safety, no matter who it came from.”

“So now you care?”

Flamebird sighed. “Hood, please, can we at least agree to put this aside for Robin’s sake?”

Hood threw the plugged gun at him. “You’ve got ninety seconds. This better be good.”

“Have you heard of the Demon’s Followers?” Flamebird asked as he grabbed the gun and slowly approached his brother.

“No. They related to your dear grandpa's cult?”

“Sort of. Like the Council, the Followers were a faction of the League that left when Mother took power. Instead of worshiping Ra’s, though, they follow my cousin.”

“You have a cousin?”

“Mara al Ghul, the daughter of one of Mother’s elder brothers. She resents me for leaving the League. She came after me when I was just forming the League of Shadows, but we took her down. The Followers have mostly operated as an organized band of mercenaries since, though Mara’s always looking for a way to gain power or spite me.”

“And you didn’t tell us about this because…?”

“I told Father, and I’m sure Barbara knows, but Mara shares Mother’s opinion of you all -”

“Meaning she thinks we’re trash.”

“- so there was never any reason to involve you.”

“Right,” Red Hood snipped. “And why does this matter?”

“Mother insinuated the Teen Titans have gotten or will get involved with the Followers, specifically with Mara putting Robin in harm’s way. When I asked for more information she acted surprised that I wasn’t already aware and suggested I speak to you. I looked into it and found evidence of the Followers in California, but nothing focused on Jump or the Teen Titans. So here I am.”

Red Hood crossed his arms and turned to leave. “Well, I haven’t heard about any Mara or her Followers so you’re out of luck. I’ll let Red Bird know to keep an eye out, though.”

Flamebird nodded, knowing he wouldn’t get any more out of his wayward brother. “Let him know she might use an alias as well. She has used Maria, Miranda, and Mariam for given names and Raatko, Tate, and Šabaḥ for surnames.”

“Sh-Shabac?” Red Hood said, looking over his shoulder.

“Šabaḥ,” Flamebird repeated slowly. “It means ghost in Arabic. She chose it to pay homage to her father, who went by White Ghost.”

Red Hood stared at him for a moment then pulled a communicator out of one of the pockets on his belt. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“What?”

“Shut up!” He brought one of his hands to his helmet and the red color leached away until only an X remained, the drain revealing a white skull on black. Similarly, glowing red X’s appeared on the back of his gloves and across his chest.

Red X flipped open the communicator and pressed a button on the side.

“What’s going on?”

“I swear, if they lost him again…” Red X muttered as the communicator rang.

“X -”

“Who is this?” a voice said from the communicator and Flamebird looked over to see Nightstar’s face staring back.

“Take a guess, Princess. Where’s Red Bird? And if you tell me you lost him to that stalker bitch again, I’m going to wreak bloody vengeance on the lot of you.”

Nightstar scowled, but was knocked out of view before she could say anything by Impulse. “What stalker? Do you know something about Robin’s disappearance? Howdidyoucallus? WhydoyouhaveaT-Comm?”

“Bloody. Vengeance,” Red X growled and Flamebird grabbed the communicator before he could destroy it.

Impulse gasped as he came into view, but he ignored her. “What do you mean Robin disappeared?”

“I, uh…” Impulse glanced between him and someone offscreen. She mouthed, Help!

The screen’s view expanded to show the rest of Robin’s team.

Virus was vibrating, the edges of their body going to static. Nightstar was glaring up at him, eyes glowing. Impulse was still gaping and Wonder Girl looked startled as well, but was working to hide it as she stepped forward.

“Flamebird, this is unexpected. What are you doing with Red X?”

“We’re looking for my baby brother!” Red X growled.

“X, calm down,” Flambird said and the boy flipped him off. “What can you tell me about Robin’s disappearance?”

“Why do you care?” Nightstar asked, eyes narrowing further.

Flamebird breathed out through his nose as Red X snorted. “Knew I liked you, Princess. I’ll make your death quick.”

“I received information about a dangerous group of mercenaries in your area. There may be a connection. What happened?”

Virus leaned towards Impulse and whispered, “Are the Teen Titans going to work with the Flamebird?”

“I think so. This is so cool! Do you think Batgirl will be there?”

“Or Nightwing!?”

“We can hear you, dorks,” Red X huffed and the two flinched, Virus ducking behind Nightstar and Impulse blushing. “Just tell us what happened to Robin!”

Wonder Girl cleared her throat. “Well, last night Impulse and Robin were on a date at the boardwalk.”

Flamebird blinked.

Red X snorted. “What? Didn’t know your kid had a girlfriend?”

“His kid?” Impulse squeaked.

“Flamebird is Robin’s father?” Virus asked.

Wonder Girl looked at her team, uncertain, and Nightstar sighed.

“Short answer: No, he isn’t. It’s complicated and not important right now,” she said with finality. “Robin and Impulse were at the boardwalk. They got separated in the mirror maze and no one’s seen him since. We searched the entire area, but couldn’t find any evidence of where he could have gone.”

“Virus scanned the maze,” Virus said. “Impulse was worried Robin’s disappearance was the work of Mirror Master or Reflek, but Virus didn't find any energy anomalies, not even any that would suggest teleportation. Robin just vanished.”

“You didn’t even find evidence of a fight?” Flamebird asked and the teens shook their heads. “Have you faced anyone recently who could have taken out Robin without leaving evidence?”

Wonder Girl shook her head. “We’ve considered that, but there aren’t many of our villains that could who aren’t locked up right now. The only one we considered was, well,” she gestured vaguely, “X. But Nightstar said she had evidence he wasn’t in Jump City at the time.”

Flamebird nodded, well aware that his youngest brother had been taking down a warehouse of drug dealers in Gotham the night before.

“Did you consider White when you went through your list?” Red X asked pointedly.

The teens shared a look.

“White hasn’t bothered any of us since she came back to life,” Impulse said.

“Maybe because she’s been reconnecting with all her minions,” he snorted. “I thought Red Bird said he was trying to track her progress.”

The teens looked uncomfortable.

“Which none of you knew because you all get mad when he investigates her. Of course.”

Nightstar crossed her arms. “He’s obsessed. We -”

“News flash, your teammate is a Bat. Any of your relatives who’ve worked with one of us could tell you that obsession and Paranoia come with the gig. And that’s, you know, ignoring the fact that that psycho is stalking him.”

“Stalking?” Flamebird asked.

“You better hope he’s fine when I rescue him or I'll raze that tower to the ground,” Red X said then snapped the communicator closed.

“What’s going on? Who’s White?” Flamebird asked as Red X grabbed the communicator and shoved it into his belt.

The boy stared him down for a moment then groaned and switched his suit back to Red Hood. “Follow me.”

His brother led him to a dilapidated apartment building. As he perched on a ledge to open a window, he muttered, “I’ll have to burn this safehouse now.”

The apartment was sparsely furnished, just a small card table with two folding chairs on either side and a couch in front of a book-covered coffee table. It was tidy, though. The books on the table were in neat, organized stacks. The kitchen counters were wiped clean and the only dishes that were out were the ones drying on the rack. The mattress that could be seen through the half-open bedroom door was also made to Alfred’s exacting standards despite its lack of frame or box spring.

Red Hood stomped across the living room to a closet door, opening it with a keycode to reveal weapons and ammunition arranged on shelves. He grabbed a tablet off a lower shelf and pulled up a file.

“She’s called the White Woman,” he said, opening an image for Flamebird to see.

The woman was covered from head to toe in a white suit styled after a Komon. The skirt only went halfway down her knees, though, revealing grey leggings that matched the obi around her waist and the hood that hid her hair and neck by connecting the suit to her hannya mask. Like the suit, the mask was primarily white, just with silver teeth, horns, and eyes. She also wore silver boots and gloves along with a matching utility belt over the obi that was designed to look like an obijime. A sword was strapped to her back, though he couldn’t see what kind from the angle.

“She started setting up shop in Jump City around a year ago. Her motivations weren’t very clear at first. Her lackeys stole and she set other villains loose on the city, but there didn’t really seem to be any goal in mind.”

“But she did have a goal.”

Red Hood nodded. “Dick realized she’d been testing the Titans, toying with them. He thought she was planning something for them, like trying to figure out how to take them down so she could take over. He… miscalculated.” He closed the picture and opened a new one from the file. “She was only after one of them.”

The image appeared to have been captured by a security camera. Richard was clearly the focal point, but he wasn’t Robin. The suit he was wearing almost seemed to be mocking the Robin suit. The tunic was still red, but a darker blood-like color that had also replaced the green on his boots and gloves. His belt, cape lining, and tunic’s trim were a dull silver instead of bright yellow and his sleeves, pants, and cape had inverted from black to stark white. His domino mask has similarly flipped colors, going from a black mask with white lenses to a white mask with black lenses. The R logo on his chest was replaced by a silver and black bird’s claw.

“Don’t know a lot of what went down since Red Bird did a hell of a job burying everything, but Robin went renegade for a week or two and started working with White. I thought he had just been undercover, but one of the few things Dick would tell me about his renegade act was that he wasn’t doing it by choice. She forced him to become her apprentice somehow, the creepy bitch. She’s obsessed with him, and would probably still be after him if she hadn’t died about six months back after one of her schemes backfired on her.”

Flamebird frowned as he switched the picture back to White.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where Talia is,” Nyssa had said when Damian had contacted her after he’d found out about Red Hood. “She cut contact with me two weeks ago. Apparently, she objected to my use of the pits. If only you had called earlier so I could have called out the hypocrisy. Healing my niece is a far better use of the pits than fixing your pet.”

At the time, Damian had been so focused on arguing that Jason wasn’t a pet, he hadn’t questioned why Mara had needed to be healed in the pit. Especially one of Nyssa’s, which rarely saw use as his aunt was far warier of the effects of the pits than his mother or grandfather.

“Mara’s the White Woman,” Flamebird said, eyes tracing her mask. It reminded him of the Oni mask she’d worn thirteen years earlier, when she’d first attacked his team. “But why would she suddenly target Jump City?”

“Specifically Dick,” Red Hood corrected. “And beats me. Like we established, none of you al Ghuls give a crap about us.”

Flamebird opened his mouth, to argue that he did care. He cared about his Robin and he cared about his Batkid, no matter what either boy might think.

Then he froze.

“Grandson.”

“What?”

“When she came to warn me, Mother called Richard her grandson,” Flamebird said, turning towards the window. “I don’t know why she’d claim him as family, let alone acknowledging him as my heir, but if she was willing to overlook our lack of blood relation -”

“White could too,” Red Hood finished, tossing the tablet back into the closet and slamming the door closed. It locked automatically as the anti-hero raced after his elder brother. “She’s been targeting Dick to get at you, and you didn’t. Even. Notice!”

“I need to find Robin.” Flamebird pulled out his grapple gun, but Red Hood grabbed his arm before he could fire.

“I’ll find him. You’ve done enough.”

“I have a list of places where Mara might be.”

“And I have a list of places where White might be.”

Flamebird pulled his arm away, but turned to the boy. “Then we can compare our lists and narrow it down.”

“Not happening,” Red Hood growled.

“Ho-Jason,” Flamebird said, setting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is about Richard, remember. Our focus right now should be locating him as fast as possible. You can be as mad at me as you want later.”

Red Hood slapped the hand away. “I’m going to shoot you in the kneecaps when this is over.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For clarification:

League of Assassins: The normal LoA in the comics, ran by Talia (with Nyssa as an advisor when they aren't fighting)

League of Shadows: Dami's team (Flamebird, Nightwing, Abuse, Beacon, Flyway, Nobody, Quick)

Council of Demons: A cult that worships Ra's and seeks to bring him back to life

Demon's Followers: Mara's criminal organization

#damian wayne #Jason Todd #red x #red hood #mara al ghul #fanfiction #batkid and robin

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goblinconceivable · 3 years ago

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oh ffs, i have feels but also head exploded

So basically someone liked a story I wrote a million years ago and mostly forgotten about, and when that happens I often reread the thing. (I can’t be the only one who does that...) Can’t say I’ve thought about Alex/Izzie since I wrote it, couldn’t even tell you when I stopped watching the show, though I think it was before her cancer.

Anyway I infected myself with feels for them again. And I dig the style I was using, 1+1 started a third chapter for funsies and should have stopped there. Because I did some reading and watched some clips and it’s all too much and when that happens I meta.

Usual mishmash, structure desired but no work put into achieving it. Classic brain dump.

Okay, fundamentals first. I am for now ignoring how Izzie/KH left the show. Because they had to exit her somehow and I’m sure Shonda was pissed at her, (or was leaving the door open for her return but I doubt it.) Haven’t seen it, if I needed to I could work it into my conception of their whole arc, but since I’m more critically hung up before that point, not worrying about it.

What’s got me messed up is that RIGHT AFTER Izzie promised to not go crazy, she... went crazy. Like, WTF was that about? I get that GA is all about the soapy drama, that is why I stopped watching. First couple seasons: brilliant. Downhill from there. But two things:

1) We never get to see these two happily together. One hot second and bam.*** Every. Time. Shonda allowed it for Meredith and Derek, but in my brain other couples got it for periods of time at the least. But these two, nope. And know what? THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN FASCINATING TO WATCH. I could delve into this and might swing back around but trying to hit highlights.

2) It set them on two different storylines instead of one. And Izzie got the short stick. Yes I can see how it works on paper, but not on screen. There are limits to the visual medium and limits to how much screen time they were given, which pretty much destroy the ability to nuance something this complex.

a) Izzie’s in her own world dealing with a ghost and is basically in two relationships at once (mental note to look for parallels with Alex’s exit and Jo v Izzie.) Except one’s a dream and the other is a reality that is still developing, yet she can’t give attention to. She has to fight every time to be there for Alex in the real world, and we don’t really get to explore her struggle. It often just looks like distraction and distance and him being second right after she firmly laid out that she cares about him.

b) Alex is in a relationship and is super happy and excited and wants the perfection he’s dreamed about to be real so much he’s overlooking everything that’s off. In his own little dream world I guess, but like, the whole thing skews into this being the story of Alex while Izzie is wandering in circles somewhere over in that direction, all serving the purpose of advancing exploration and development of Alex’s character. When did KH ask to be let out? If it was after this point, Shonda svcks. I mean, it is cool to watch him really blossom, but since he’s doing it under his own steam I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth. Because he’s not really in a real relationship. I want to see him get that, I want to see it for real.

***What IS interesting, I’ll admit, is that when they’re not together, they’re beautiful. Which is most of the time, so they gave me that. I’m a massive fan of the bittersweet, the star crossed, the never-quite-on-the-same-page, the nuance, the “it’s a deeper connection, a deeper love than just romance.” Thank gosh, it is time for excited thoughts. Because there is a strong friendship and mutual reliance and helping each other grow, pushing and giving hard truths and encouragement, and yes romance is woven through this but not the genesis and used more in terms of nudging everything along the path.

I love that Alex basically imprints on Izzie. I love that he loves her the whole time. But he’s willing to step back. He may get jealous and resentful and petty and scared and mean. But those are natural human emotions, Izzie gets them too, and they’re fundamental to his character and through those things he learns and grows. Izzie doesn’t make him. She entices him. Yeah, often directs him, especially at first. But at some point he’s growing on his own, in fits and starts, in reaction to his own emotions.

For example, when Izzie tells him she slept with George, he gets pissed, but also admits why pretty readily. And he tells her the truth, remarkably straightforwards. He reaches out to her a lot. And she turns him aside a lot. And he keeps loving. Even if romance is off the table. He runs after her a lot. Sits next to her when she’s upset a lot. Is understanding a lot. He’s different with her, and look I’m a fangirl, it’s a trope, I swallow bait line and hook. Which should be bait hook and line if my vague understanding of fishing is correct. I fished once, with safety implements, and still cried even as they removed the fish and popped it back into the water. (Okay I just reread to sort out where I’d gotten too and it’s hook line and sinker. Statistically someone will probably read this someday, you have my full permission to laugh at me. Anyway...)

The quintessential moment, the revved to 100, of course being when Izzie is clinging to a dead Denny. They’re all standing around. No one even looks surprised with jilted Alex talks to her. In a really caring way. And this is still fairly early on, wasn’t watching anything but their scenes but this had to be rare sight eh? (Mebbe?) And then he picks her up and sits down holding her and she clings and cries and like symbolism and could essay that but not going to right now because the broad relevant stroke is that Alex loves Izzie selflessly. And this is the pinpoint core of why I can buy his ending, because he can’t NOT love Izzie. I don’t think he even wants to stop. Though he can set it down in his heart and let her go and doesn’t pine. But he never stops loving her and it’s so many kinds of love imperfectly yet perfecly forged.

Forged. But also born. Stars uncrossed. I have emotions without words and if I try I’ll never get out of it to move on, so moving on.

(Oh, George telling Alex to talk to Izzie because she won’t talk to him about whatever it was. Isn’t is crazy that Izzie’s emotional squishy bestie goes to the emotionally stunted bad boy to help her because... it’s an understanding of the two-way Izzie/Alex bond, but also this crazy trust that Alex will show up.)

I love that Izzie isn’t blind to his faults, truly doesn’t like his faults, but has eternal faith for who he is and can be. She always saw him as someone with walls, once she stumbled on a lose stone and got a glimpse inside. She knows. She doesn’t always understand, but she knows.

Slight divergence from that line of thought, but its a great moment when they get together and he’s fairly transparently trying to make sure they’re in a committed relationship by dangling other women in front of her, and she’s a little ticked that he seems to be taking it rudely casually. Probably a bit of insecurity, but I’d say more that she has a long history of not reading him from the perspective of him loving her. Ie, 100% not recognizing that telling him about sleeping with George would hurt him. And doesn’t get it until he comes in and he’s dropped the swagger and it’s a “I know I’m doing something wrong and I don’t know how to do it right so help me” thing.

(Random memories of Sloan/Don from The Newsroom when she’s crying on the floor and Don comes in a sits next to her. I wuvs them too.)

I love that she openly leans on him, when he offers support she takes it. She doesn’t ask why, she accepts it and leans into it and is open to it because she trusts him because she knows him. The bits where she hates him tend to fall out of romantic issues, but when that’s removed from the equation they’re in sync. And the thing is, just as caring is fundamental to Alex’s nature, trust is fundamental to Izzie’s. And those two things weave into each other. Kinda like rats and the food button. When Alex reaches out Izzie she honestly accepts it, a “reward.” So he’s comfortable doing it again, and again. And when she does rebuff him he’s seen rewards come out enough that he doesn’t just scatter. And when Izzie trusts him, he rewards her with gentleness and care. She has the rougher time of it overall, because Alex is more screwed up emotionally, and breaks her trust more often than she rebuffs him, but that’s where Alex’s constant love comes in. But I cannot recall enough critical moments to have a cohesive proof, so I could be a little off base.

In my head Alex has always loved Izzie more than Izzie loves him, but I think my memory was unfair. There is a real constancy to Izzie’s affection, though I don’t think she imprinted on Alex as he did on her. She’s a different person, loves differently, has different issues. But my longstanding impression is mostly because of Denny. Who she truly did love, though the qualities of that love deserve exploration which I will not at this time attempt. And Denny loved her. The whole “side loves along the way” being a trope. Though usually “it ended in death/deathlike state” is given to the man and so THANK YOU SHONDA. Thinking of classics like Jane Eyre and Rebecca though I think both were actually crazypants first wives. And I do think female character’s side guys have a habit of dying, but it tends to feel more like a plot point to shut the door on continued love, whereas Denny remains a part of Izzie’s life.

At any rate, despite superficial similarities, Alex doesn’t hit the trope because his crazypants relationship wasn’t ever really about the woman: yep Alex got Rebecca, and Rebecca was crazypants, and it was a plot point to get him to the crying. Rebecca wasn’t love. It was never love. BUT

She DID, in every way, highlight what needed to be highlighted. 1) That he desperately wants a family. 2) that caring for someone, not just about them, is fundamental to him, (and ties neatly into him caring for Izzie all those sitting on the floor conversations.) and c) it’s not entirely healthy. Which is ALSO why thrusting his new happy relationship with Izzie into caregiver role is insensitive and undermines the relationship because it only makes sense if we got to see them both happy in the relationship first. And then we can see the quality of his caregiving change. But we didn’t. So bugger it.

I do LOVE how they let almost the whole next season play out he fallout of all that. Something taken slowly! We got to explore it. Did feel a bit drawn out tbh. But it just emphasizes the weight of it, I guess. Especially as it was a subplot amongst 100 others. This was their development for the season. Which was mostly Alex. But Izzie’s reactions revealed some things about her as well. Majorly dancing around laying it out for a close look and I don’t know why.

Favourite moment? Maybe Izzie putting her hand on Alex’s chest when he’s freaking out and telling him to stop, he doesn’t need to say any more. Because he’s trying to convince her of something, and she understands. And the trying to convince is shredding him, and she knows that. It’s a very loving and accepting “stop.” She’d already taken charge of the situation, for the good of the patient. She’d already taken charge because she knew Alex couldn’t handle it, he was too deep in something to see clearly. And she’s still in charge. She doesn’t break down and cry for him, or try to comfort him, he’s been thrown back into childhood and PTSD might literally be at play and what he needs, and she understands, is someone he can trust, who’s calm and gentle but strong and solid, to say it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to carry this on your own. We have it now. Because when we’re little and in over our heads what we want and what we need is an adult to take the burden. And still the physical contact is comforting, her tone of voice reassuring. She creates a space where he can feel safe and heard.

Ugh, rewatching, and we’re watching him literally devolve. Stages of grief ya’ll. He’s using every tactic to try and get what he thinks he needs: being able to take care of Rebecca. He’s in denial that anything is wrong. He gets angry when Izzie grabs him, to the point of threatening to hit her (though it’s fighting words and not real threat, and Izzie totally knows that.) He dives into bargaining. She’ll be okay if he can take care of her. He can do it. He tries to convince her it’s true.

By the time he gets home it’s depression. Not just Rebecca, but about his mom. And Izzie approaches him differently. In the hospital it was immediate and she was “in charge,” and needed to be in all facets, but at home, with the situation taken care of, she’s a friend. An equal. Which is what he needs right now. His sticking point later is the crying, so I kinda wonder how he’d react just to having told her about taking care of his mom as a kid. Right at the start he told that kid about his dad, (dad beating up his mom and him beating up his dad) while Izzie was within listening distance and didn’t seem fussed. But it’s ultimately a story about him being manly and protecting his mom physically. Which would be why it’s several seasons in before this crops up - waaay more intimate information. Probably all lumped into one, with the crying as shorthand. And mostly that his past is a fact, it’s his emotions he wants to keep private and deny.

He clearly did try to drown his emotions with sex. I’m not sure it would have worked with a random girl because he’s way too close to crying to do much of anything. And obviously doesn’t work with Izzie because sex is apparently emotional intimacy and I guess comfort for men moreso than women, but it plays out as a desperate attempt to get comfort in a safer way. Bargaining again, I suppose. “Have sex and will be fine tomorrow.” But, as noted, he doesn’t get that far because it’s too heavy and he rather quickly is just sobbing.

Which is a lovely parallel to holding Izzie while she cried on him after Denny died. Though Izzie had no qualms and no massive emotional recoil because emotions and vulnerability are normalized for females Izzie is a particularly emotional person. And an inverse of all the times Izzie is an emotional wreck and Alex sits down besides her and offers her support and understanding.

Could also argue that Izzie just saying “I’m sorry... About Rebecca. And your mom” - it’s an emotionally intimate moment. Of understanding. She’s acknowledging the two situations, and isn’t trying to do anything about them, explain or push or anything else. Just make him feel understood and not alone and sex is the way he can respond to that. How to process that in a way that feels manly to him? Also notably Izzie does seem to be going with it, and it’s aborted because he starts sobbing. And is still saying “Please” which is amazing, because he totally was never asking Izzie to just sleep with him. He wants to make it stop - the pain, emotions, probably reliving memories. But also... stages of grief. He needs to feel it, so he can accept it. He really just needs to cry, and grieve, and not be alone.

And it’s like... this is where their love story feels epic because it would look so different if they didn’t have all the levels and layers of love. Take out the romantic/sexual aspect. Take out the friendship. The trust. The family. Take out anything and this can’t play out.

Who didn’t love moments like Alex explaining to Bernedette Peters that men sometimes need to protect their manliness in the eyes of the woman they love. And they’ll do shit things to protect that manliness, but it’s because they care. Which is obviously idiotic and while romantic on screen is very much not so in real life, but this is fiction so hey ho. It’s such a wonderful foil. Because the situation here was not that Alex took his pain elsewhere to protect Izzie’s opinion, but that Alex completely and for a long time shut Izzie out to protect his manliness, which is entirely counterproductive but the only option he could see. He minimizes his experience as a “bad night.” (I mean, if you remove all the adjectives, he’s not wrong.) He’s protecting his own sense of manliness to himself. He doesn’t like feeling that vulnerable. He let Izzie get too close. He’s afraid. It’s all a tangle. And it pays off when they come back together and he’s willing to be more vulnerable, almost, and then enthusiastically, happy to be.

*But it does reference when he slept with Olivia when he failed his boards. So yeah, he’s done it literally too.

Backing up a step to revisit season 5. And actually they start out close. They’re all out in the cold waiting to greet patients and Alex grabs a blanket for her. He’s not irritated that Izzie keeps asking how he’s doing, just obviously in a bit of personal denial. And they’re totally messing around and lighthearted and look at each other with their heads really close and it begs some questions about the interim, though I guess they just haven’t talked about it deeper than “are you okay.” And per the Izzie/Meredith convo I guess they didn’t continue having sex (probably didn’t have sex that night either). Though the way Izzie looks at him as he leaves, she’s totally concerned that he’s not dealing with it.

Ah yes, forgot - so they just kept his breakdown unremarked upon, the superficial checking in is situational because Rebecca is a fact. They don’t talk about it, it’s fine. Pretending it did not happen. But it’s as soon as Alex thinks Izzie told Meredith about it that it goes pear shaped. It’s funny that his issue is the crying and he’s the one that told Meredith, but thematically Izzie saying “he’s opening up to me” is sorta the same. Also awww that even as she labels them friends, there’s this little glow inside her that they got closer. Emotional intimacy, what’s life without it eh?

So also 100% it’s high on Alex’s mind. That he did it, and so too that Izzie could betray him and tell others. Their relationship is so beautifully fragile in that short interim. It’s this little bubble where he’s okay that he was vulnerable with Izzie because she accepted it and isn’t making a big deal about it. And he does feel super close to her. But he can’t take anyone else seeing him in a non-manly light. For himself, and it works in terms of Izzie too if it’s an inside/outside situation. I’m a bit stuck and going in circles. If Izzie tells, then Izzie isn’t taking it seriously? Doesn’t understand him? I don’t think he’s even angry at her, if he looks weak to others then she’ll come to see him as weak? Halp, stuck.

Also so, I’ve seen it remarked upon that Izzie tends to forgive Alex when she maybe shouldn’t. But part of forgiveness can come from understanding the other person. Doesn’t have to be, especially for little stuff. But for big stuff?

Oh, and so weird but kinda cool that right after that rather self-aware conversation with Peters, he specifically lets Izzy see him with another woman. Were those scenes meant to be inverted? Or is he going into this eyes wide open? Trying to prove something? He’s hurting her though, is it intentional? Because cheating, by nature, is secretive, your person doesn’t know so you’re not hurting them directly, though of course when they find out it blows up. But the intention to wound is not there, it’s an escape. Proving that he’s really fine and back to his old self? They are not sleeping together so this isn’t cheating.

And even after that Izzy just shrugged it off. Popped in to tell him they maybe are getting kicked out, tries to get an apartment with him. She’s holding on to their closeness and friendship, despite him being prickly. And then... he smacks her or whatever they were doing which is back to flirty, and not meaningful but notably guides her out of the elevator before him. Though her barb about STD did hit him. Maybe he was trying to figure out how to stop being rude at her, and her continued friendliness was bufffer space until he could? He does say hello at the end, but who was she talking to about having no one?

It does bring up an interesting insight. It is true bout not something I thought about, that Izzie could be lonely, and actually does get as much out of their relationship as Alex ever did. They are incredibly close. And I think George might be married at this point, and thus no longer her “person”?

And then into the cryptic speak about them, while the father/son organ musical chair thing was happening. He’s looking over his shoulder at her, glances up, unspoken words yadda yadda. Follows her out into the hall when she leaves. The freeze out is shorter than I remember, but look, they kinda always keep communicating because freeze outs do not feel right. And I’ve moved to a blow by blow but Alex is trying to talk profession, and Izzie doublespeaks the “emotionally stunted” and he physically recoils and stutters like “yeah but no, that’s not what we’re talking about” and yet is now there and talking about them too. “Okay, ... I”m trying to be- I am, but this” WHAT is he trying to be/is??? Trying to not be emotionally stunted. Is emotionally stunted (or doubling down on trying?)

This is just such a beautiful conversation. Because Izzie IS emotional and caring but she has a mean backhand. Pettiness, ultimatum, she can smack back as hard as anyone smacks her. And she’s coming from a totally reasonable place, because he’s going hot and cold on her. And you can see that it affects him, and that falls out from that same pattern where he’s trying to tell her somehing and she’s not putting in a ton of effort to figure out what he’s saying, but is focused on her own needs and thoughts. ‘Cuz she’s hearing something like “give it up, you’re not going to get what you want out of me.” And he’s trying to say “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need, because I svck, please don’t make me try and fail.”

And they’re convo through parallels continues, Izzie calls Alex broken and is like “okay I do it your way my caring for you is pointless and it’s all fine.” Dad calls for son while kinda dying. I know they claimed different thought process but didn’t Alex call for Izzie when he was shot? And the payout from the series of exchanges: Alex is yelling at his standin to just step up and show he cares. With a hefty does of potential regret. It’s a 180, hoping that the kid does love his day, as well as getting emotionally invested. His relationship with his father isn’t mentioned, not sure if it’s meant to play into this, because he has previously acknowledged that he regrets losing his father completely.

(But then 10 seconds later she’s going to go crazy and by avoiding treatment it’s kinda like trying to kill herself and just... poor taste writers, poor taste.)

Cue a moment where Izzie knows what he’s trying to say and rewards it.

Enter Izzie being a little obtuse, I know I covered this but ending my personal cannon with them getting together - Alex literally says “are we going steady.” He’s literally saying “you tell me yes or no, and I will do that.” Of course he’s trying to say “I don’t know if you’re serious and I want to be please clarify and reassure” but one of those literal ones should have been enough. But then Izzie does always push him, not always intentionally, to be a little more direct, a little more vulnerable, trust her a little more. And the result is sooooo adorable!

And brings to mind when Izzie was trying to ask him out for the first time. And it went a tiny bit screwy and Alex flips it and asks her out.

There’s just so much awesome. *sobs* And there’s probably awesome in the cancer storyline too but I do not feel I can trust it and also it’s going to run full into Izzie being lame and leaving and all character development out the window? And I DO NOT want to see her trying to come back and Alex saying No. Because what will I see in the middle that gets them there? They always say yes. Eventually. And season 16 when JC is leaving the show is a bit on the long side, even if I ignore the details of the intervening years.

Throwing everything at the wall and maybe I’ll be done with dumping or can at least refine things. It’s the little speech I’ve only read and don’t want to hear bcause not sure how he did his line-read, but when he describes how he imagines Izzie’s life. In how much detail, how much he wants for her, what he knows she’s capable of building. He’s saying it to Jo and I’m uncomfortable with the idea he loves her, even if the letter to her does leak a “love you, in love with Izzie,” and I’m fine with Izzie loving Denny and don’t find it a problem Jo is still alive because I don’t see Alex going back but the thing where if he looks her in the eye he won’t return to Izzie and the kids is upsetting. And it’s just the kids and insta-family which is enticing. I mean, he’s not going to tell wife he’s leaving that he’s always loved his ex in a different way or anything. But he’s also not lying. He does mention to Meredith that he can’t go back to Seattle. He’d stay with Jo then out of... ? Halp. The best I got is he’s currently in a dream and if he goes back to his life, where he was happy, then he’ll lose the dream and it will disappear on him?

Slightly nicer is the elsewhere expressed (Meredith) idea that he’d set Izzie as unreachable. Thus, in line with what he told Jo, he didn’t want to contact her because he didn’t want to make it worse for himself, and his happiness comparison was completely excluding himself from the possibility of being part of Izzie’s life. It’s all happiness of them individually, not together. But yes, he always wanted to reach out, wanted to hear her voice and he never had an excuse? No excuse but curiousity, and that wasn’t enough to take a chance, but this was an excuse and he took it.

And the idea that he knows the right thing is to stay in Seattle, and being with Izzie and the kids is crazy, but it’s what makes him happiest, where he belongs. Meredith’s letter read first, so in that light, he’s overexplaining to Jo. Also exposition. References that conversation about his mental picture of Izzie, which I think was in the context of Jo questioning his feelings for Izzie. It scared him because... ? He focuses on the kids. It’s a little at odds with doing this for him, and a little suddenly ignoring the fact that he’s In Love with Izzie and I guess his mental image for Izzie was also his dream life and he gave it to her. Though where he thought her kids came from is possibly an oversight. Adoption?

Because it makes it sound like he’s torn between new and old love but the old love has is kids and wins. It’s a free pass to perfection. But he imagined a “whole life” for her, which is a massive investment opf time and emotional energy on someone he hasn’t seen in forever. I mean thinking well for an ex is al well and good but this sounds a bit beyond that, where she’s not a part of his life but a part of HIS life, believing she’s okay makes everything okay.

I am also willing to take up arms and claim that “I can’t look you in the eye because I wouldt be able to walk away...” doesn’t mean walk away from Jo, but walk away from Izzie. But that’s kinda tenuous. It just... it sounds like if he sees Jo he won’t be able to leave her, which puts her above Izzie (and even the kids, though he can still be in their lives) and that contradicts other statements, or at least their implications .

Though fair point that there’s a metric of who you’ll give up everything for. Izzie would for Denny. In a sense, I hear Meredith got her back in the Seattle hospital and she declined out of respect for Alex’s feelings. So in a way she gave up her life for Alex. And never reached out to him but did respond when he did. She picked up the phone. Maybe not knowing who it was, or they all kept their own phones. And Alex gave it all up for Izzie+kids. I want to know he’d give it all up for Izzie alone, and the life they could have had.

Or is it that he wouldn’t be able to leave Jo because, as noted to Meredith, it’s the right thing to stay in Seattle. And he’s become a man who does the right thing. And sometimes the right thing isn’t what we truly want, and to get that we have to be selfish. He one perfect thing is in Kansas. And it’s the family. It’s a family with Izzie. And his kids. It’s the whole package. If it wasn’t Izzie, the kids wouldn’t be enough? Also indicates that even with Jo was not exactly where he should be.

I’m also going with “some clues in various directions to satisfy various viewers but really offending most of them because this is all 10 years ago and people are newer viewers or forgot or hated Izzie when she left etc.” But preponderance of evidence leans in favour of this choosing what makes him happiest over what makes him happy.

ETA: he has a life for Izzie in his head because if she’s not happy, he can’t leave her where she is. He sees her as an optimist, the opposite of him and good things happen when you lean in that direction. He imagines her somewhere woody because that’s where they lived when they were married.

ETA2: Izzie didn’t notice Alex wanted to be exclusive. Because Izzie sees the good in him, but she doesn’t try to justify or explain things. She takes him at face value (mostly, she knows superficial crabbiness is just an unpleasant personality trait.) Until/unless she has very good evidence to he contrary. And THAT is why he has to take an active role and go to her. He does have to work for the relationship.

(Briefly skipped to a scene in season 6 (avoiding that season) and he actually says “I can’t be your nurse” which is so much character growth. Because I was afraid he’d gone full out into caregiver mode, which is not healthy for either of them. He’s protecting himself, but also pushing her to face up.)

CODAS

Watched Alex calling for/hallucinating Izzie when shot. Maybe it’s a Miranda thing? After freaking out right after she died, about how he can’t live without her, his breakup speech was essentially about how he realized he could survive without her. He doesn’t need her like that. And he was really hurt by the really shitty thing she did, leaving him. Thus valid conclusion that they should part ways and he’s not caught in the love/hate. But at some point after that, per hallucination conversation, he really wants her to... come back for him. To love him enough to not be able to stay away and come back for him it’s funny because the best way for her to love him was the respect his wishes and not come back. I mean she doesn’t even say anything after he asks that.

Interesting point “we married...” It’s a promise. He starts with “I’m sorry.” His breakup speech to her - rehearsed? He’s speaking from love and hate all blended and I think he’s a lot more honest and self aware, and he’s almost always been honest with Izzie. So his dying speech was also fear based? He’s scared, he’s in shock, like, physical shock. To when is his mind taking him? It’s natural to have regrets after a painful but necessary breakup. It’s been months but that’s still recent enough. So on the whole, inconclusive except yeah, he isn’t over her, but he admits during their breakup that he loves her “so much.”

Also love his “frozen together in time... and now we’re not.” They’ve both grown and changed, and so has their relationship, but there connection hasn’t. That hasn’t changed.

So back to his Izzie speech, which is meaningful intentionally as in 300th episode, where years later he was wondering still about her, enough to create a good life for her. A happy, rich and full life. He imagines it clearly and deeply enough to add smell to it. Smell is heavily linked to memory and emotion.

As happy as he is with Jo. Maybe it’s contentment? Something missing for each of them but not something he consciously knows? Meh. Back to frozen. He has an image, a full rich image of her and her life. It’s immersive but static, a snapshot. And the him who looks at that snapshot is the same him over time.

Letter to Meredith. “It’s about me.” Which is sorta back to breakup speech. It was about him, ending the relationship. He didn’t deserve to be left. And this is about him, not leaving Izzie+kids. There’s movement and beauty in this.

Meredith/Alex talking true love. So I’m torn. Jo refused his proposal, and the question is if you only get one true love. Did he think Jo was a true love, and if she refuses him it’s not? Or is he hoping that true love happens after they’re married? Given the constancy of his love for Izzie, from fairly early on, even if he didn’t call it that at the time I’m pretty sure it’s indisputedly much earlier than marriage, and she turned him down all the time, which would forestall true love worse, right? Can’t say as I’m not watching any Jo/Alex, cannot will not no need don’t gotta.

#alex x izzie #grey's anatomy #brain dump #meta #why couldn't i just leave well enough alone #and mess around with a vignette for funsies and a writing exercise #and not actually look at canon #because now i have feels #and am confused #and there are barriers to my feels #but it's okay i will live in my own little AU #and remember and know more than i did #given it was many many many years ago #i mean over 13 #right after season 4 started #izzex

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yugyummygot7reactions · 4 years ago

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Into the Night - 6

Prelude | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

Finale tomorrow!!!! 8pm!!!

Pairing: Youngjae x You

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 1819

Warnings: Solo Play

And just like that he was gone. As you drifted to sleep, you thought you felt someone still watching you, but you didn’t think Jinyoung would have stayed around for a round two.

You looked around and saw no one there, but what you didn’t know is that when the clock struck midnight there would be someone standing in the corner, ready for his own fun with you.

As midnight passed, a young man appeared in the room next to the bed, inches from your sleeping face. “I hope you don’t sleep as long as last time,” he said as he tried to brush your hair from your eyes, his hand instead gliding through your skin, “I only have one day a year to be seen and heard safely and I don’t want to waste it alone. Why do ghosts have to only have Devil’s Night to wander? Wouldn’t it make more sense for a demon to have that restriction?” The voice woke you up. It was smooth and gave you goosebumps. You slowly looked around and saw the faint image of a young man next to your bed. A transparent man. “You’re awake!” he loudly exclaimed, shocking you off of the opposite side of the bed. “Sorry,” he immediately apologized before floating towards you. “Who-“ You started, “I’m Youngjae,” He smiled and held out his hand. You reached out to shake it and your hand went right through his. “Well…I was Youngjae when I was living. Now I’m just your other world boy next door.” You stared dumbfounded. “You’re one of the monsters?” You asked as you approached him, looking at all of his features as closely as you could. “Monster? Sure, I guess. I’m not from here if that’s what you mean…well…this world…now…I used to be from this world. This was actually my old house before I died.” “How did you…” You didn’t know how to politely ask the question. “Die?” he laughed at your concern for his feelings, “Jaebeom.” He shrugged like that was normal. “Did you meet him yet? He’s actually quite cool. We crossed the threshold to this realm together during the portal opening.” “He killed you and you’re friends with him?” You looked at him confused as you adjusted the sheets that were acting as your only cover from the attractive man in front of you. “I mean…killing me was an accident and sort of my fault…so yea!” “How is him killing you your fault?” You were so confused. “He turned me into a vampire, with my permission, but then I freaked out when I had to drink blood from a living person to make the whole eternal life thing stick. I felt too guilty hurting someone else. So I just didn’t do it…and I died…” He looked so nonchalant, like he was telling you what he had for dinner last night. “You asked for eternal life in the living realm and ended up cutting your life short in the process?” “Yup,” He smiled, “I still have eternal life, but I can’t touch anyone. It’s annoying.” He pouted. “I did it to myself though. I didn’t think the whole vampire thing through before telling Jaebeom I wanted it.” You were astounded at his childishness. “So you can’t even touch other ghosts?” You put your hand through his chest. “Nope, but I do have a fun trick that lets me touch people for a while.” Before you knew it, the whisp of a man flew towards you at alarming speed. The next thing you knew, you had a voice in your head and no control of your body. “Cool, right?” He asked as he held your hands up in front of you. “Possession is fun in the right person. You smell like lemons. Jinyoung smells like amber, Jaebeom smells like old spice.” You laughed at his comments, but this was freaky. You had zero control. “Very funny, now get out. We can hang, but I want control of my body back.” “Mmmmmm…not quite yet.” He said with a hint of mischief, “I can only do this once a year and I think some fun is in order.” He made you tap your lips while he thought. “Jinyoung got to have some special fun with you, and now I want to too.” Within seconds the sheets were on the floor and you were back in bed. Your actions were not your own, but you could still feel all the movements and sensations from what Youngjae was doing to you. Your heart was pounding, breath racing, legs quaking. You were tingling all over, and a pleasant shiver going down your spine as Youngjae roamed your hands across your body. You realized you feel something else too; a dampness between your legs that was not there before. “I’ve never possessed a woman before,” Youngjae notified you, “Apparently me getting a ghostly boner gives you the female equivalent. Your hands dip down to your core and rub your slick for a moment before Youngjae brings your fingers up to your mouth. “Let’s both have a taste.” He hummed in delight as he tasted you. “I wish I could be down there tasting this with my own tongue.” He breathlessly said as his hands began to roam your body again. You blushed deep and your face goes hot as the thought of Youngjae not only controlling you, but feeling, seeing, and tasting what you were crossed your mind. You were being pleasured by a ghost. It was the young brunette with the beauty mark by his eye, the one who seemed the most innocent of all the monsters thus far. Your arousal was stronger this time than it had been with the others and you cannot just simply ignore and will it away. After a moment of trying to find a way to get Youngjae out of you, you decided to just cave in and let him help you pleasure yourself. Your hands were gliding over your body, enjoying the pleasant tingle it provides. Youngjae brings your hands up to your breasts and plays with your nipples, which have become hard and raised with the arousal from the both of you. He rubs and pinches them, the sensations traveling straight to your core. You can hear Youngjae shudder with pleasure. He keeps one hand there as he brings the other one down between your legs. Youngjae rubs a finger up and down your seam, collecting moisture, before rubbing the small bud of flesh and sensitive nerves that has become slightly engorged with your arousal. Youngjae gasps at the feeling, as it has been quite some time since he pleasured himself or anyone else. He rubs slow and steady circles with your finger while your other hand still pinches and rubs your nipple, slowly building your collective pleasure. Youngjae releases your nipple and brings your hand down to join the other one, only with this hand, he presses one of your long and slender fingers inside. Youngjae bites your lips at the slightly foreign action. He gives you a moment to adjust, bending your finger and thrusting lightly before he slides another finger inside, rubbing you a bit faster. He scissors your fingers open for a few minutes then adds a third. Despite the events of this week, you are tight, clamping down on your own fingers instinctively, but continues to rub your sensitive spot more firmly. Youngjae was coaxing you to relax. Speaking sweet nothings in your mind and trying to get you to imagine that it’s two of his fingers inside of you. It doesn’t take long before your muscles relax and Youngjae begins thrusting your fingers in and out of you slowly, enjoying the slide and pleasant feeling it provides. He twists your fingers and feels a slightly rough and bumpy patch at the front of your walls. He massages there gently and moans at the wonderful pleasure it causes you both.

You and he realize that your hand outside has stopped and he resumes pleasuring you there while also doing so from within. It doesn’t take long before you feel your climax approaching. Youngjae lifts your hips up as your legs tense, your back arching and your breath hitching as your minds go completely blank, your climax crashing down as wave upon wave of pleasure washes over the both of you. Your body quakes as your muscles clench and pulse around your fingers, which are still buried deep inside. "Oh Youngjae!" You regain control for a split second to call out on pure instinct, riding out your orgasm until your muscles relax again and you collapse back onto the mattress. Youngjae slowly pulls his fingers from your core. You were a bit oversensitive and twitching after experiencing your own pleasure as both yours and his. You both lie there for a few moments until your breathing and heart rate return to a more normal pace. As you both regain your senses and normal thought processes, you realize what you just let Youngjae do and flush red and hot color running across your chest and face, up to the tips of your ears. When Youngjae feels your body is able to stand without your legs giving out from under the both of you, he gets you up and goes to the bathroom to rinse off your fingers and wipe you clean. He even started a bath for you and made sure you were safely in the water relaxing before he pulled himself out of you and hovered near the tub. You instinctively go to cover up, but realize he has done so much more than just seen you naked and you settling for crossing your arms and legs for a little protection. Youngjae’s hair was still perfect, clothes nicely unwrinkled, skin pale as ever, the only change was that you could see his chest heaving. “That was wonderful,” he said as he floated over and settled himself into the tub so you were both sitting facing each other. “Thank you.” He smiled as he looked deep into your eyes. “To repay you for this wonderful time, other than providing you with a full day with me, totally PG rated mind you…well…mostly…” he laughed, “I’m going to help you catch the other monsters.” “I appreciate it, but you can’t grab them and the possession could be dangerous and you can’t possess all of them at once. I just don’t see how you can help.” “Mark Tuan,” He said with a smile. “Who?” You asked, confused. “Mark Tuan,” He said like this man was the most famous human on earth. “There is always a price to pay for his help, but if you need to catch all of them by tomorrow night without any hiccups or brushes with death, you go to Mark.” “How do I find him?” You asked, eager to get this over with. “You find out after a day of Netflix and chill with me.” He smiled, “No exceptions.” You nod in agreement and sigh. If he didn’t only get one day a year to communicate with other people, you would have told him to fuck off. “Who is he?” You ask, curious about how Youngjae might know of someone in the land of the living. “The seventh monster…and your only hope.”

#got7 #got7 smut #choi youngjae #kpop #kpop smut #youngjae #youngjae smut #into the night #yugyummygot7reactions

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comfy-whumpee · 4 years ago

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Ellis AU: Dark? Timeline

@whumpiary @ashintheairlikesnow @wildfaewhump @lektricwhump

You asked and I delivered.

CN: still got a ltitle bit of pet whump in this, also some intimate whumper / potentially spicy undertones. Harvey’s in it.

Someone liking him too much had never been a problem before.

Too little, yes. Frequently. It was impossible to be loved by everyone, but Ellis wasn’t a perfectionist. People could be sorted into the categories of salvageable and lost causes. Those who wouldn’t like him and would never like him were cast off like plucked petals from a flower. Those who could like him, would like him. It was easy, when he knew exactly what they thought of him.

But this was an entirely different issue. A man had seen him, and decided to take him. Someone with an ego – well, that was fine, he had tangled with egos before. But not just an ego. Someone with resources, a large, private house, clear wealth shining through his possessions, and physical strength that outmatched Ellis’s willowy prettiness.

Having spent most of his life as a chameleon, ensuring he would be loved and therefore safe from the dangers of socialisation, Ellis was...at somewhat of a loss.

The man’s name was Alistair Engels, and he lived alone at 4 Wicker Road, a sprawling house at the end of a long drive in the countryside outside of town. He spent most of his time working in his office, researching and compiling information about organisations. Ellis hadn’t yet pieced together what those were, but he would get there. He could see the man’s every move and hear his every word. His secrets would fall.

He’d never done this before, used his power in this way. Mostly it just greased the wheels among his friends, let him head off criticisms and – work on his flaws before they became problems. It was an ideal system. He always knew what they were really thinking about him.

But that wasn’t the secret here. He was the secret here. A stranger had locked him in a cupboard and tied him down to a chair, and seemed intent on...

He wasn’t sure of that, either. Yet.

Alistair Engels enjoyed reading historical and military fiction, watching action movies, and working out. He was a boxer, and the eldest son of three. He financially supported his parents, and had two sisters, a nurse and a banking clerk. He went out once a week with friends, and usually ended the night fighting, beating up someone his friends wanted roughed up for some reason. Alistair never asked questions, so Ellis never heard the answers.

All the while, Ellis was in his cupboard at home, blindfolded, gagged, bound and waiting.

It was probably supposed to be scarier than it was.

Ellis sat perfectly attentive in his chair, head raised towards Alistair, expression smooth and open. “...must treasure Master’s touch,” he said, soft and sincere. “I must treasure Master’s marks. I must love Master as he loves me. I am Master’s pet and I need to be kept.”

He had put up a token resistance, just enough to make it seem realistic. Then, he had given in, and the man’s ego explained the swiftness as evidence of his manipulative skill. Funny, really.

“Good, sweetheart, very good,” Alistair crooned, moving his hand to slide down Ellis’s cheek. Ellis, watching through Alistair’s own eyes, was prepared not to flinch, to lean into the touch as the rules demanded. “Let’s get you out of this cupboard, hm? You’ve been such a quick learner, darling.”

Ellis smiled, measuring the strength of it carefully, watching as it lifted the fading bruise on his cheek. “Thank you, Master.”

“Shh, shh.” The hands moved to undo his restraints, arms and then legs. “Here, poor thing. You must be stiff.”

He was. The relief of being helped to his feet was real. The panic at his legs collapsing was instinctive. He grabbed onto Alistair, and felt strong arms loop around him, catching him partway down and then hoisting him up into a carry.

The man was a good hugger, Ellis had to give him that. He settled into the hold, tucking his face into the crook of Alistair’s neck, and thought about where in the house he could go, to escape.

The keys to the doors and windows were kept in Alistair’s trouser pocket. At night, the keys were locked inside his wardrobe. The key to that went under Alistair’s pillow. Alistair was a light sleeper.

There were knives in the kitchen, and the drawer they were kept in was also locked. The key to that was kept with the door and window keys.

The windows were screened almost all over by lace privacy curtains. Even if he moved those, the street at the front of the house was rarely passed, and nobody would worry about a face in a high window looking out.

When Alistair went out in the daytime, he took the keys with him. When he went out at night, leaving his sweet pet on the bedroom rug to sleep, Ellis was locked in the bedroom, and the keys were taken out.

There were phones in the hallway and the office. He was never allowed into the office. The key to the office was on the ring too.

The hallway phone had a pass code. Alistair never used it, and Ellis never found the pass code. He tried to reset the phone, but that didn’t work either. It was connected to the one in the office, and he couldn’t reset both.

That was his first mistake. He didn’t find out until later, when Alistair came home and rang the little bell he had taught Ellis to respond to. Ellis arrived in the living room to see him smoking, and looking displeased, and went to his knees at the man’s feet and waited.

This was going to hurt.

Alistair enjoyed his smoke for a little longer, and then leaned down, and pulled Ellis’s left hand up onto his lap. Along his wrist and spiralling down were cigarette burns from violations of the twelve rules he’d demanded of his captive. Ellis was good at ignoring pain even without his power to take him out of his body, but these moments were difficult for another reason. He had to pretend.

“Rule seven,” Alistair said, pressing the tip into Ellis’s inner forearm, searing the thin skin with an audible hiss. His voice was always calm.

Pain bludgeoned against his nerves. He didn’t have to fake the tremble in his voice. “I-I must always ask Master for permission. Thank you, Master.”

The cigarette was put aside. Ellis looked up, searching for the warmth that always came after the disappointment, that told him he was forgiven.

Nothing. A hard stare. Ellis dropped his gaze and watched himself through Alistair’s eyes, making sure he looked sad and scared and sweet.

The moment dragged on, as pain beat at his focus. The heat in his arm spread all the way to his fingertips, and throbbed in time with his pulse, a drum against his skull. Ellis waited, listening to his breathing, the man’s breathing, and the heartbeat in his ears.

“You don’t touch the phone,” Alistair said.

Cameras. Of course there were cameras. How could he have missed it? “Yes, Master.”

“Perhaps I got ahead of myself,” Alistair murmured, slipping a hand through Ellis’s hair. Ellis leaned into the touch immediately, knowing it was what he had to do. “I wanted you to be good, darling. I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

He didn’t speak. Rule five. If Alistair didn’t like him, he would know what to do to fix it. But Alistair did, liked him so much he wanted to keep Ellis in his house like a goldfish in a bowl. Ellis didn’t know how to fix that. Yet.

“No matter,” Alistair sighed. “I’m sure you’ve worked out by now that there is no way out of here. You’re mine, precious thing. And believe me, you’ll learn. In time.”

When Ellis finally met Harvey, he was ready.

You should see him, Harv. He’s just precious. Took to it like a fish to water, adores me, does everything I tell him. He only tried to escape once.

Really? Well, you really know how to pick ‘em.

He was wearing pyjamas. Nothing special, he was always wearing pyjamas. But today he had the sleeves down over his hands, the collar askew to show his marks, and a little hair over his face to complete the picture. Shy, sweet, pretty thing.

What a pretty picture. Those marks, you made them?

Of course.

Sick bastard, you are, Harvey had commented, intrigue hanging on his words.

He knocked lightly on the door, leaning into the doorframe as though he were nervous. He had every right to be, really, given what he’d seen of Harvey through his captor’s eyes. The nerves were as easy to ignore as everything else, though. Ellis had spent months here, playing the part required of him, waiting for his chance. His pain, his fear, his shame, his devotion – all were held under the water.

He had a new part to play.

I’d like a little fun with him. You owe me.

...Just don’t break him, Harvey.

He opened the door, five foot nine of muscle and smile. Ellis had never seen Harvey without a smile, through all of his observation. Green eyes looked up to his, and then raked down again, and Harvey stepped back.

Ellis peeled away from the doorframe and moved inside. There would be no cameras here.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Harvey’s arms were around him. Ellis leaned into it absently, letting his tailored instincts take over, leaving his mind free to work. He made the connection to Harvey’s senses instinctively, and allowed the man’s vision to layer over his own.

As he watched, Harvey looked at his scars. He lifted Ellis’s wrist with a hand to stretch them into the light. Ellis stayed lax, pressed against him, head resting on his shoulder as though he were submitting to whatever looks and touches Harvey desired.

“Well now, pretty thing,” Harvey murmured, head tilted down, voice close to Ellis’s ear. “Aren’t you his perfect empty doll?”

Good. There were few people who could see through Ellis, but it had been a long time since he’d had to fool anyone but Alistair. He tipped his head further back, looking up to Harvey’s face so that his wide eyes could be appreciated. Harvey obliged, gaze moving from his scars. “What do you want, Master?” he asked, in a voice as airy and sweet as whipped cream. Delectable. Consumable.

In his second vision, Harvey’s eyes moved to his lips and throat and back to his eyes. Ellis heard his cheeks move into a wider smile. “I like someone who can entertain me.”

It was easy to be inviting, when he knew what Harvey liked. Ellis dragged himself away from the body at his back, and Harvey allowed him to slip free of his arms. He moved slowly towards the bed, hands locked together with the sleeves still hanging low, head dipping to move his hair forwards again. Shyly alluring. Easy to pin and hurt, as Harvey planned.

He turned his back, deliberately. He watched as Harvey darted forwards, sensing a blind spot and seizing the chance.

Ellis sidestepped his arms a fraction before they closed around him. He turned as he did so, facing Harvey again, and smiling for the first time since he’d entered the room.

One eyebrow raised, Harvey looked back with interest bright in his eyes. Ellis smiled at him directly, meeting his gaze, and then stepped forwards again, arms going around Harvey’s neck. He allowed himself to be pulled against the man, and rested his chin on that broad shoulder.

“What do you want, Harvey Crossland?”

There was a brief pause in the hand stroking over his hair. Then it resumed. “You don’t need to worry yourself with that. I’ll take care of getting it.”

“And the feud with Armand?”

Ellis felt muscles tense against him. The stroking stopped. Harvey’s voice softened menacingly, hand rested on the small of his back, holding him in place. “What do you know about that, little one?”

Ellis nuzzled against Harvey’s neck, the way Alistair liked. “I know how to find things out. Even with the way he keeps me here. I know Armand wanted to take over your money laundering. I know he has a history of theft. You hired your oldest friend to investigate whether he was trustworthy, and found that he wasn’t. Now he’s claiming persecution, and you can’t get him to quiet down.”

“He tells you everything.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything.” Ellis smiled, and his expression washed out of feeling on cue: “I’m his perfect empty doll.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to be yours,” he said simply. “I want to do more. I’m a researcher. I want to help.”

“Your Master does his job perfectly well,” Harvey stated, but it wasn’t in a tone to shut him down. There was a spark in his voice. There was desire.

Ellis hummed, tilting his head so his words ghosted against Harvey’s ear. “But I can do it better.”

#whump #whumpee turned whumper #manipulative whumpee #roleswap au #whumper turned whumpee #pet whump #pet whumpee #revenge whump #betrayal #manipulation #intimate whumper #psychological whump #ellis: a whumper #my fic #ellis #harvey #alistair #dissociated #conditioning

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏;

pairing: higgs monaghan x f!reader

word count: 3.7k+

summary: “The storm will always reach the shore. Such is the nature of storms. They destroy.”

warnings: mentions of child abuse, DOOMS side effects, swearing, major DT spoilers obviously.

notes: So I’m playing hard and loose with canon here. Personally, I much prefer the idea of Higgs being this nihilist who is so powerful it's almost like he's a mischievous demi-god wrecking the world simply because he CAN. Because it’s his idea of kindness to end it all now. We’re just, uh, gonna mostly ignore EE here.

There’s a girl here.

There should be no girl here.

He doesn’t visit often—not anymore, at least. Not since his Beach has started giving him an odd, haunting sort of feeling.

The marvel of being able to see his own most private space struck a sense of awe in him once. Fragile jumped him here the first time.

And oh how he remembers that trip. The sensation of being here. The feeling of the sea breeze, the potent charge and heaviness that hung in the air like it was seconds away from storming.

The sea is restless now too, waves beating angrily against the shore as he stands there watching. Storm clouds boil ominous and dark in the distance, hanging over the distant horizon like a shroud.

His Beach is a rather desolate place. But it’s his and his alone.

That’s why an idea of someone else being here, in his space, rattles him.

For the first time in a long time, he feels unnerved.

Not even Fragile came that time.

No one, not even Amelie, has seen his Beach.

But the intruder stands knee-deep in the swirling water, gaze focused on the far distance. If Higgs had to take a guess, he thinks that you, too, are watching the clouds. Perhaps you’re wondering if the storm is going to reach the shore.

The storm will always reach the shore. Such is the nature of storms. They destroy.

The intruder suddenly tenses, turns, as if sensing that something is not right, but Higgs is faster. Between one breath and the next, he jumps right in front of you. He stands on top of the water, towering over you, and tilts his head in an open display of curiosity.

He catches a glimpse of your face. The parting of lips, the widening of your eyes, a startled gasp.

He reaches for you, ready to get his answers, but his hand sails through thin air instead.

He leans back, startled, and watches the dark remains of chiral matter tickle his gloved fingers.

Well, well, how interesting.

He knows you’ll be back.

There is no real way for him to know for sure, but he does.

He considers it a gut feeling and it has rarely failed him in the past.

Of course, just like expected, he’s right.

He’s made a habit of keeping a more careful vigil over his Beach ever since the little run-in, and he finds you once again breaching his space only three days later.

This time, he can sense you clearer, sharper.

The fact that you’re able to jump from his Beach at will suggest your DOOMS level is high. The tickle of curiosity makes him focus, inhale deeply, sensing and considering you as he watches. He wonders what’s your reason for coming here.

Why would you return if you know someone else is possibly occupying this space?

This time, instead of standing still you’re walking, your head tilted towards the sky in wide-eyed wonder.

He tears through the Beach, appearing right in front of you.

You stagger to a stop, instinctively shrinking back from his dark get up and golden skull mask. He cuts an imposing figure, he knows that. It still doesn’t stop him from smiling smugly beneath his masks though.

He knows you’re going to jump even before your fight or flight response kicks in, and he twists his arm, the black coil of BT energy wrapping around your arm like a rope.

You jump anyway and drag him with you like an unruly dog with an unassuming owner.

The jump only takes you about a hundred meters before you stumble to a stop, turning frantically to stare at your arm. You shake it frantically, trying to loosen the tight grip but Higgs clenches his fingers further and the black mass connecting you together contracts further.

He feels a pang of vague disappointment and annoyance. Are you not as powerful as he first suspected? He waits for you to use your DOOMS to break free but instead, you stagger forward, jumping again.

And again.

Again.

Irritation prickles his nerves as you drag him through half the Beach with stubbornness alone. Still, this is what he wants in a sense; for you to tire yourself out, to show just how powerful you truly are. You can’t keep this up forever.

“Let me go!”

“You’re free to go,” he drawls, mockery clear in his voice. “Go on then.”

Your eyes rage like the storm on the horizon and Higgs chuckles under his breath. The sound gets cut off almost immediately when he feels a swell of energy from his intruder. An arm pulsing with pure darkness and silver explodes from thin air, ripping the rope he’s fashioned between you.

The hand disappears the moment the action is done, leaving the air thick with chiralium, and you swaying on your feet. Higgs doesn’t waste time, he appears behind you, wrapping his arm around your neck as he presses you flush against him.

“Hmm, dear me,” he hums cheerfully against your ear, and you squirm desperately in his arms, panting. Exhausted. “Someone went ahead and got themselves into a predicament, didn’t we? You jump now, you take me with you.”

“Let go of me!”

“I don’t think so,” he says, his voice dipping into something colder. “Fool me once shame on me, fool me twice…well, there is no second time.”

He doesn’t see the headbutt coming till it connects with his face. The impact rattles his masks—barely a tickle, really—and he suspects you did more damage to yourself than him.

He laughs. He can’t quite help it.

Snapping his fingers, he steps back, gathering the already thick output of chiralium from you earlier performance to give life to the black tar that crawls up your body like shackles, bringing you to your knees.

“You’re an interesting little thing, ain’t ya?” he quips with a smile, tilting his head to get a better look at your face. Your expression is sallow and twisted with concentration as you breathe heavily. “So, you’re able to summon Gazers, huh? Or part summon at least. Ooh, but you don’t look so good,” he mocks, bending down to your level.

You trash, glaring, but have clearly exhausted yourself too much with you earlier performance. Tears roll down your cheeks and he tsks, leaning back before standing to circle you.

“Who are you?” you demand but it’s a winded and exhausted attempt to appear strong.

Still, brownie points for effort.

“Oh me? I’m nobody,” he answers and leans closer, putting his fingers under your chin so he can meet your stare head-on. “And I’m everybody.”

He jumps behind you and observes with mild interest as you fight…so hard to get loose.

For a moment it takes him back to the shelter. It revives memories of his Daddy, of those powerful arms dragging him back—

“How did you find this place?”

Silence answers him, and in the far distance thunder rumbles.

He leans over you from behind, the coldness of his mask brushing against your warm cheek. “Didn’t your mama teach you that it’s rude to trespass, hm?”

“I’m not trespassing,” you snap, sounding as frustrated as he feels. “I’ve always been able to come here.”

Implying that the last two times have clearly not been the first. Underneath his mask, Higgs frowns in thought. Something like that shouldn’t be possible.

Some freak bleed-through effect as the network grows more powerful, perhaps? Or maybe your DOOMS level is powerful enough to give you access without you even realising it?

He could ask Amelie but, well, it seems like he’ll have to do some old-fashioned digging. The thought of just anyone being able to come here without his permission makes an angry growl bubble at the back of his throat.

“Then I suggest you forget the path to this place real quick, honey.”

A sigh of indisputable frustration. “I’ve tried.”

“Try harder,” he insists, and this time the jovial undertone is completely absent. “Or the next time I find you here, I will scatter your remains across my Beach.”

With that, he turns to go.

“W-Wait! I can’t get out.”

He doesn’t bother turning around. “That’s not my problem.”

And then he’s gone.

Beach Log #1

There’s a girl in my Beach.

The Beach.

The one place where no one should be able to gain access some stranger apparently can just wander in whenever she pleases.

If I applied my Daddy’s logic to this, I should have just “encouraged” the truth out of her. I could have. And it would have been easy, too, with how exhausted she was. But I didn’t want to because where’s the fun in that? Maybe it’s because she almost reminded me—

No. There’s no point in even allowing myself to think about such bullshit. The past is the past.

The girl is powerful though. Being able to even partially summon a Grazer is…something.

Regardless, I’ve never seen her before, have no attachment to her whatsoever, nor she with me. Which then raises a rather interesting question for the class: how was she able to find my Beach? How is she able to come and go as she pleases?

I will find out. I always do.

It’s only a matter of time before she’s back again.

I don’t know how I know, but I do.

What a goddamn mess.

He finds you crying.

Normally, he loves it when people start sobbing in his presence, except this time he knows the tears have little to do with him. Or at least, he assumes so, considering you still haven’t spotted him.

He approaches deliberately, power sizzling between his fingers. He told you what will happen if you wander in here again, and while admittedly he’s become rather interested in learning more, it still irks him to see you back.

Waves beat against you as you kneel in the dark sand, the distant rumble of thunder the only sound between you. You know he’s here. He stands before you and waits.

He’s not sure what for, exactly, perhaps for you to plead for your life. To fight, which would be preferable. A challenge is always welcomed.

“Do you have a death wish, girl?” he speaks, at last, having grown bored of waiting.

By this point, your sobbing has subsided into an occasional sniffle and he watches with a degree of interest as your head rises. A large wave washes over your body, making you shiver, and your teeth clench when your eyes meet.

They’re bloodshot but furious and sad too.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper but it’s a dead and hollow thing.

He knows that look. Has seen it plenty of times staring back at him in every reflective surface when he was still a brat. Trapped and unable to leave, wasting away with his stomach in knots and nursing dark bruises. He knows what a wild, trapped thing looks like. He’s spent years being one of them.

He escaped when his Daddy died. He imagines you haven’t been quite so lucky.

He wonders, then, if that’s why you find your way here. If perhaps his Beach recognises that frantic hurt, the restless longing for freedom in you as well.

“Oh, I’ve heard that plenty of times in the past,” he remarks scornfully, raising his arm and watches how power curls through his fingers with that effortless ease he now treasures so fiercely. “Can you guess where they all ended up?”

“I don’t know how I get here,” you mutter instead, but your gaze is cautious, wary. Smart girl. “I’m not doing anything wrong either. I just…come here. It’s peaceful. It’s—”

“An escape?”

Your eyes jump to him in surprise. Teardrops still cling to your lashes, clumping them together. You look like a mess, and he’s inclined to tell you so but before he can, you stagger to your feet. Unsteady but determined.

“I won’t bother you, I promise,” you explain hurriedly, and look like you’re about to take a step towards him but think better of it. “Just—can I please continue coming here?”

Your hopeful eyes try to find his own beneath the mask and he chuckles. It’s a scathing sound and he jumps behind you, making you flinch.

“Let me think about that one,” he drawls lazily, “Hm. Nope. No can do. Go to your own Beach.”

Recoiling, you turn around to stare up at him with a mix of bitter disappointment. Your drenched appearance isn’t doing you any favours in helping you appear more menacing either. Just more miserable.

“I—I can’t.”

“Sweet thing, you’re saying that with a tone that implies I should give a damn, and, uh,” he says, nodding his head from side to side as if in deep thought. “I really don’t. But I’ll bite. Why can’t you go?”

You wring your hands together but halt when you notice his attention drift towards the restless motion. “I…it makes me feel…unwell.”

Oh?

“What’s your DOOMS level?” is his sharp and immediate response.

Your eyes fly up to him and you visibly swallow.

Sore question, huh? He figured it had something to do with your DOOMS level from the start but this as good as confirms it.

“That’s private,” you respond firmly, your eyes regaining some of that sheen from your second meeting, from your fight. “I don’t even know who you are.”

Higgs sighs loudly, spreading his arms to either side of him like he looks forward to welcoming you into his embrace. “I am the owner of this Beach. Which means my rules are at play right now,” he explains and wags his finger at you like you’re a naughty child. In some sense, you are. “And don’t try to lie to me, either. I can sense it. The power that simmers under your skin. Hmm, oh yes. I do believe that I know exactly what ails you.”

Your eyes widen, your lips part in wonder, and it’s almost miserable how full of hope you look in that moment. “You—you do? Tell me.”

“Tsk, tsk, what do I look like to you?” he wonders, gesturing at himself, but doesn’t wait for your reply. “A charitable man? Sorry to disappoint but no dice. Your DOOMS level first.”

The hesitation marring your face is understandable. This world is cruel with those without power, and it is—perhaps—even crueller to those with power. Higgs is starting to piece together a murky image when it comes to you. An image that tells him that you have no idea how to harness that great power lurking deep down. It tells him that DOOMS is eating you from inside out and you have no idea how to cope because no one has shown you how.

Once—no, more than once—he’s been in a similar position. A position of no power, no resources, no future. Of course, that’s before he realised how idiotic it is to hope for a better world. Before he freed himself of the shackles holding him down, binding him to this endless struggle till he eventually dies.

Better raze everything in existence to nothing before he goes out.

“It was Level Six but—”

A whistle slips free and filters through his mask, echoing across the otherwise empty Beach as your eyes narrow. He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh loudly. He jumps to your side and leans closer towards your face.

“My, my,” he coos softly, his words taunting as he ghosts his fingers over your chin. “You’ve grown stronger, haven’t you? Just like me.”

You pull back, a step at the time only, and he can at least respect the fact that you don’t scurry away like a spooked animal. You shouldn’t either. In real life, outside this Beach at least, he imagines you’re powerful enough to cause all sorts of trouble.

Something tells him that others know it too. That’s why his Beach is an escape. Why you’re so desperate to stay.

But why him? And why now?

He turns away from you, dismissive, and steps onto the water. He stays on top of the restless surface and lowers his head to look at his blurred reflection beneath. The golden mask gleams even in the murky mirror.

A mask not for death, he swore to himself once, but for ruling. For life.

He glances back at you. You stand shivering and wary on the shore, and he snorts under his breath. Miserable, but powerful little thing. Alone too.

Wild and trapped.

“Stay if you will, but I promise you this: you will find no peace here.”

Higgs can tell you’re about to appear approximately five seconds before you actually bloom into existence.

It’s a tickle of power, almost like a hand reaching out and grasping onto him, before you appear in a swirl of black and silver. Your knees fold and you sink onto them, your lips cracked and mouth twisted into an unhappy line.

“You look like shit.”

You don’t say anything in reply to that. You simply breathe. In fact, you inhale so deeply, he reckons your lungs expand to their full capacity. It’s like you haven’t drawn a single breath since the last time he saw you here.

Higgs watches the storm in the distance, his elbows resting on his raised knees as he waits for the swelling waves to finally reach you both.

Your hands drop to either side of you, and your fingers dig into the dark sand desperately. Your relief at being here is palpable, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he finds it as irritating as he does fascinating.

His eyes slide unhurriedly across the landscape.

It’s a miserable fucking place.

Dark sand, dark sky, dark water.

Dark as far as the eye can see.

There is nothing about this place that should make you think of safety, of comfort.

The expression on your face says otherwise though.

Your eyes are closed, head tilted upwards, and your inhales and exhales are slow, rhythmical. Peaceful.

“What’s your name?”

When you finally do decide to speak, it’s hardly what he expects or wants. He’s here to observe you only until he can find a way to forcefully expel you from here. He’s already tried last time but failed.

It seems like you’ve lodged yourself into his Beach like a splinter. For now.

“That’s a rather shitty attempt to distract yourself, sweetheart.”

Because that’s exactly what you’re doing. Except he’s not here to give you free therapy for whatever issues you have going on. He has his own shit to handle.

“If you have nothing to hide then why wear a mask?” you wonder instead, and sound genuinely curious. “Does it mean anything?”

“It’s a symbol,” he replies and honestly doesn’t know why. Boredom, probably. “A face is not necessary for my plans. But, oh how humanity will know my name before they’re complete.”

He’s still staring towards the horizon but feels and hears your head turn in his direction. “What plans?”

A chuckle rumbles from deep inside his chest. “The type to give a little girl like you nightmares.”

“I already have nightmares,” you shoot back, and there’s a sliver of ice in your voice that makes his lips curl in amusement beneath the mask. “I told you. You don’t frighten me.”

Of course. He bets your nightmares are almost as bad as his own.

He teleports in front of you, crouching till you’re both facing each other, and his amusement only increases with your shallow—startled—exhale. “Oh yeah? And what haunts your nightmares, girl?”

You stare at him for a long moment, tight-lipped and stubborn, and he wonders if you think he’s buying into your little act. A valiant effort, but redundant.

“You.”

He laughs at that; a dry, unfriendly sound as he pats your cheek in a shallow display of mocking affection. “Good,” he mutters and rises to his feet. “I can live with that.”

Higgs does feel some semblance of surprise when you rise to your feet right after him though. “Why won’t you tell me your name? I’m (Name).”

Because he doesn’t want to.

Because you’re wary but brave too.

Because you don’t trust him—perhaps even fear him, despite how you keep insisting otherwise—but not for the reasons everyone else does.

To you, he’s just a man in a mask whose Beach you’ve decided to hijack.

There is, admittedly, a certain degree of freedom when it comes to that ignorance on your part.

The less you know, the better. It’s not like you will be coming here for much longer anyway. He will make sure of it.

Perhaps, he can indulge in that ignorance for a little bit longer in the meantime.

“I don’t care.”

Before he disappears, he could swear he hears a chime of weak laughter follow, but the sound is ripped away from him by the jump.

Beach Log #2

Maybe I should have killed her when I first saw her intruding.

Of course, that thought crossed my mind. I’m me.

Truth be told—and ain’t that a kicker—I’m not sure why I didn’t when I had the chance. Now the girl has gone ahead and made herself interesting. Just peachy.

She is powerful though. And she could be useful.

If the Last Stranding is to pass as I hope, I may need some triumph cards at my disposal. The girl—(Name)—is untapped power potential. I wager she’s even more powerful than Fragile. Ha. Just my luck.

She has that look in her eyes that I like too. A wild thing ready to break free.

Her body is weak though. Power always comes at a price, I would know. DOOMS is a poison she has no idea how to deal with, and I have a feeling someone is purposely keeping her crippled, dependant. Disgusting. But with the right encouragement…

She might become mighty yet.

If not, I will kill her. She knows too much and has access to my Beach. I can’t have loose ends. Fragile is bad enough.

She reminds me of myself though. It almost makes me hope she doesn’t disappoint.

. . .

an: I’m trash and I will never change. I do have plans for more (since this is only a small part of the longer narrative I planned to write) so if you guys would like to see more, let me know! We’re all thirsty for goth Troy Baker and honestly who can blame us? Thank you for reading!

#higgs x reader #death stranding #higgs monaghan x reader #death stranding fic #higgs monaghan #troy baker #death stranding higgs #fic: distant shores series

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songfell-ut · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 12 does stuff

Still not to the Underground because Frisk is that lady at the office who gets everything done for everyone and then if she ever gets sick of takes a vacation everyone is like “OMFG WHERE IS SHE” amirite @lostmypotatoes

Chapter can be found here.

She had never been so tall before! She could see the top of everyone’s heads! “Look at me!” she crowed as the others came in the door.

“Hello, dear,” King Asgore said sheepishly as Toriel froze on the threshold, arms full of groceries. “Er…do you need any help?”

Frisk was standing on the King’s shoulders, clinging to his horns. “Asgoooooore,” his wife intoned, starting low and sliding up to a very warning note.

“Yes, dearest?” He beamed at her. “Do you like my new hat?”

Asriel laughed, taking the sacks from his mother’s arms to set them on the table. “I remember doing that when we were little,” he remarked.

“And I remember how your father turned his head too fast and nearly took your eye out,” retorted the Queen.

Frisk gripped the horns a little tighter, hoping Toriel wasn’t going to make her get down. “Oh, it’s fine, pumpkin,” Asgore said. Nevertheless, he tapped the human’s shoe. “Perhaps you could sit down, child. It may be—”

The moment Frisk moved her foot, it slipped. Down she went—

—into the King’s arms as he caught her, swung her around in a wide arc, and hitched her up to sit on his shoulder. “Ta-daaa!” he boomed over the child’s shrieking laughter. “You see, Tori? No problem whatsoever!”

Toriel’s face was such a picture that Asriel gave a quiet “Pfffft” and had to hurry out of the room under her glare. “Of course not,” she said tartly. “You do realize we have to give him back in one piece, don’t you, sweetie pie?” Ignoring their complaints, the Queen reached up to set Frisk on the floor. “Now, Gorey, you put these things away, and I will put Kris to bed. Say good night, my child.”

“G’night, Your Majesty,” the human said forlornly.

“Good night, little one.” Asgore’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. “Sleep well.”

Frisk trotted to the bedroom ahead of Toriel, bouncing a little. Even if it was bedtime, this was the best thing that had ever happened: not only did she get to spend the night here, the other humans wanted the monsters to keep thinking she was a boy, so they’d asked Toriel not to give her a bath. It was just pie, playtime, and a bed all to herself! Why couldn’t Asgore and Toriel be her real parents? Why couldn’t—

The bedroom door opened, and the dream suddenly changed. This was the right room, but it was cold and smelled dusty, as if it’d been abandoned for a long time. Asgore was standing in the middle of it, huge and silent, shoulders bowed; the King seemed older, angrier, his features drawn tight with grief. He looked up at her as if she was a stranger. His eyes shifted downward, and narrowed.

The priestess raised her hands as he gripped his trident. “Your Majesty, wait,” she tried to say, but he was slashing at her and—

Frisk woke up in her own bedroom. Muzzy with sleep, she had no idea why her blanket was so huge, or heavy, or why it smelled like leather. No matter: it felt so safe that the fear ebbed away as she lay buried in its folds, and so comfortable that she turned over and nearly went back to sleep.

The door was ajar. Smells crept in, and voices, but mostly smells. Her stomach growled, and Frisk reluctantly had to struggle her way out of the—coat? It was Sans’ new overcoat, wrapped around her several times, more like a tarp than a blanket. Her head was almost a foot away from the nearest opening, and she didn’t even know where the foot of it was. She slithered up through the neck, played with the fur around the collar for a moment, then adjusted her robe and climbed out of bed.

The voices turned out to be Sans, who was drying his face with a napkin, and Dr. Gaster, who was seated at the table in his own form, almost as eerie by daylight as he had been in her barrier’s glow. “Good morning, Your Eminence,” he said serenely.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she responded in kind. “If you’ll excuse me a moment…”

“Of course.” The monster sipped his coffee as she went to her dressing room and mostly shut the door.

Sans was tapping his phalanges on the tabletop. “So, it looks like we’re—” He broke off, looking from the undisguised skeleton to the dressing room. “Wait. What the crap?”

“The lady and I became more intimately acquainted in your absence,” said Gaster.

“Doctor,” Frisk called warningly.

Gaster chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady. I couldn’t resist. What I mean,” he said to Sans, who was fully bristling, “is that she caught me trying to steal her box the first night you were away. She trapped me until I explained myself, and I learned that when an angry High Priestess puts you inside a barrier, none of your magic is effective, especially not a human disguise.”

“You did what?!” Sans’ fist came within millimeters of the tabletop, but the dressing-room door opened, and he stopped exactly in time. He gave the table a little pat instead, dropping his hand into his lap as Frisk came to sit next to him. “Ya broke in here while I was gone?” he demanded.

“He did indeed.” Frisk glared at the doctor for a moment, then turned her attention to breakfast. “What has Sans told you, Dr. Gaster?”

“I explained our deal to him, and he has related a remarkable story about your trip to the Underground as a child.” Gaster drained his coffee and set it on a tray. “Please forgive me, but I must know: do you recall anything about the day of the accident?”

Sans sat up straighter. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him to ask her that yet; she didn’t blame him, after all the emotional turmoil of the previous night, and she couldn’t blame him for waiting so intently for her answer.

But she was finding it a little difficult to focus. It was finally sinking in that she had told Sans everything, that he knew she was Kris and had agreed to take her to the Underground. She’d really get to see everyone again, and she could talk to Asgore as an old friend; maybe the jolly King she’d known as a little girl was still in there somewhere, ready to be brought back…

Frisk finished chewing and swallowed as both skeletons waited for her response. She had to remind herself that Gaster had only agreed to help her mislead everyone – including Sans – in exchange for information, and that it was a very valid question. “I don’t know what happened, no,” she said slowly, to their disappointment. “I remember getting permission to go to Chara’s performance with Sans and Papyrus, and I know I was supposed to do something, but that was it. The next thing I knew, I was in a stagecoach, and Rosa was telling me I’d be going to school.”

Sans’ brows rose a little, and Gaster said, “A pity, but understandable. Many people who survived the event have little to no memory of it, given the amount and violence of the magic involved. Sans tells me you were brought along in the first place as a sort of test?”

Frisk made a face. “I was told that monsters were unpredictable and we needed to know how they’d behave under different circumstances, including whether they’d treat a child as well as a human would. They made me pretend to be a boy ‘for safety.’”

“Yeah, like humans treated you that fuckin’ well,” Sans muttered, ignoring Gaster’s not-very-hard smack on the head.

The High Priestess took as dignified a bite of sausage as she could. “I always had a feeling that my missing memories were linked to the Underground,” she said around it, “and now I know it for a fact. I have a more solid connection with monsters than any other human alive. If I were to go with Sans to reestablish diplomatic relations, Asgore might just hear me out. When I was there as Kris…” She swallowed around a lump in her throat. “He and Asriel played with me for hours.” Thinking of Asriel hurt too much. Frisk said, just to be saying something else, “I know he’s changed, and so have I, but...”

“Nah, ya haven’t,” Sans mumbled, making her go bright red.

Gaster glanced back and forth between them, but merely said, “Persuading King Stephin to allow it may be difficult. The last time he and King Asgore spoke, it was not on the most amiable terms.”

“So I hear.” Frisk pressed her lips together. “We need to convince him, and everyone else, that it’s necessary. Based on Sans’ knowledge of solar arrays and your own work, Doctor, how soon could you make a prototype to demonstrate to the public?”

“It depends how large and how strong a model you’d require,” admitted the doctor. “Is speed more important, or impressiveness?”

“I’d like something before we leave, please, even if it’s only large enough to power a witchlight. Now that Sans has been here for two weeks without incident, people are starting to get curious, and let’s be honest: if we can get people used to you, Sans, they can get used to any monster.” Frisk poured herself more milk. “We need to pair that with the idea that we don’t have to steal magic anymore, and it will help immensely if everyone is talking about solar power while we’re gone.”

The boss monster shrugged agreement. The priestess toyed with a fork, steeling herself. “Another thing. This sounds exploitative, but I’ve had copies made of the reports on each monster confiscated the other night. I sent them to as many different administrative offices as I could think of. Each report had my confidential seal on it, so I’m sure people have read them. I want to see if anyone is talking about it.”

The men were quiet. Sans was clearly displeased, but he was listening. “Believe me, I hate to use their suffering as a political prop. I really do,” she said, half stern and half apologetic. “But as things stand, monsters being enslaved is a fact of life to the average human. We can’t let it be an abstract concept anymore. Most people don’t know the kind of conditions monsters are kept in, and the time is right to make them care about it.”

Gaster inclined his head, and they both looked at Sans. He took such a long, deep breath that Frisk wondered how there was any air left in the room afterward. “Ya really think so?” He glanced at the royal sorcerer. “You know humans pretty well. There’s no other way ta do this?”

“Nothing as effective, long-lasting, or nonviolent, no.” Gaster leaned his head on his hand, and the extras with the pen and notepad materialized, scribbling away. Frisk wished he wouldn’t do that. “Humans do not like change, or being inconvenienced, and they cannot stand to be told they are wrong,” explained the doctor, “especially when presented with clear evidence that they have been wrong for a very long time. Letting them pretend that this is a new issue they can feel strongly about without having to do much of anything themselves…I’m afraid it is the ideal path to social change.”

“Wow. Humans suck,” Sans observed. He glanced at Frisk, who couldn’t hide her apprehension. “Don’t gimme that look, kiddo. If you ‘n the doc say it’s the best way to get monsters free, I’m not gonna fight ya.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, and his answering grumble was much quieter than usual.

“The second fortune,” Gaster mused, and they both looked askance at him. He gave her a rare smile. “You’ve chosen to set monsters free. You will have to work very hard, my dear lady, but your life will be quite interesting. May I ask how you are feeling?”

Frisk thought of Asriel again, of being taken from the Underground. She rubbed her forehead as Sans glared at the other skeleton. “It hurts very much, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to lie. But…” She gave him a watery smile. “Once I get through this, I’ll have the other things, too, the joy and love.” Something occurred to her, and she smiled wider this time. “And my ‘innumerable’ family. I hope the monsters will fit that description.”

“Damn straight,” commented Sans, which made her flush again.

Gaster nodded, and she was almost certain that he waited for her to take a sip of milk before he asked, “Have you selected a father for your child?”

The priestess choked mid-swallow and had to push away from the table to double over, coughing, while Sans checked her for immediate danger and then snarled at Gaster, “What the hell kinda thing is that ta ask a lady, y’old perv?!”

“What indeed.” The royal sorcerer folded all of his hands, looking back and forth between the red-faced sorceress and the redder-faced skeleton. “Forgive my impertinence. I’m sure it will happen quite naturally. For now, Your Eminence, you need only concern yourself with your apprenticeship, and with furthering the cause of monster freedom.”

Frisk climbed to her feet, waving away Sans’ offer of assistance. “One moment,” she croaked. She would have loved to know what exactly he was saying to Gaster as the bathroom door closed behind her, but it was all she could do to breathe normally. What did the doctor think he was doing, besides embarrassing her and Sans most of the way to death?

“Whaddya think yer doin’?!” Sans leaned forward, but had to sit back as Gaster’s extra hands reappeared, wagging their fingers in sync. “What happened to not interferin’? It’s none’a yer damn business what she does!”

“I am acting purely to further Her Eminence’s goal of peace between the human and monster races,” Gaster lied with his stupid lying face. At least, that was what it looked like to Sans. “However strict a schedule she may be on to fulfill her maternal destiny, it would not behoove her to be encumbered too soon. You have thirteen days left of your tenure here, during which she will want to accomplish as much as possible, and after which you will hopefully be able to escort her to the Underground for a successful diplomatic mission.”

“I know that.” Sans rubbed the back of his skull. The workroom floor hadn’t been that comfortable, but it hadn’t exactly been a comfortable night, so whatever. “That doesn’t give you any right to bug her about somethin’ so personal,” he snapped.

Gaster sighed, laced his all fingers together, and pushed them outward to crack every joint at once, making the boss monster twitch. “Enough beating around the bush, Sans. Frisk is not the sort of woman who forms intimate attachments quickly or easily, and out of the very many men who would be glad to have her, she has not found one who suits her. Even without the timeline imposed by her fortune, based on what I have seen and heard, you are by far the likeliest—”

Wham.

Sans did not dent the table this time. He nearly broke it in half.

Gaster blinked at the crater in the wood surface as its dust settled. “I thought you would be at least somewhat ambivalent by this point,” the doctor remarked, and raised his voice as the bathroom door creaked: “Please give us another moment, my lady.”

The door closed. Sans flexed his hand, ignoring the splinters and bits of shattered china lodged in his metacarpals. “I was up all night thinkin’ about it,” he growled. “Doesn’t really matter how I feel, does it? Facts are facts. ’m three or four times bigger’n her, I’m a boss monster, an’ even if I never touched her, I’d ruin ‘er whole life. What would the other humans say? Ya think they’d ever listen to her again if they thought she was screwin’ around with a magic skeleton?” Snort. “Even if we could do it, ’m still basically poison. Ya know exactly what I mean.” He peeled a long curl of wood from the table’s surface. “This is all assumin’ she’d be okay with me in the first place. I mean…look at me.”

Gaster peered at Sans’ SOUL, and his expression said it all. “The darkness intertwined with your magic could potentially be damaging,” he conceded. “As we discussed, you need to decide whether it’s worth holding on to the anger dragging you down, for your sake and hers.”

“Who says I’m holdin’ on to anythin’? ‘s more like bein’ stuck in a tar pit. She’s helped me get my head out, ‘n that’s about it.” Sans jerked his thumb at the table. “Be honest. Would you wanna have a kid with someone who does stuff like this?”

The older skeleton was silent. Sans waited, half hoping he would say something witty or insightful that would solve everything, but Gaster just shook his head. “That’s what I thought. Time fer you to go,” said the boss monster.

The royal sorcerer grimaced. “Sans, please. Are you even going to try?”

The table itself started shaking, a film of red creeping over the books and dishes. Dr. Gaster stood and tugged on the chain to become human, then strode out of the room and slammed the doors behind him without another word.

Sans glared at the table. It was pretty damn broken, all right. Good job, asshole, he congratulated himself. How was Frisk going to get anything done now?

…Welp. He’d repaired the table before, hadn’t he? Why not try it again? Might as well prove to himself that he could do better for her sake, or prove to the doctor that he couldn’t—either way, he had to give it a shot.

The boss monster took a deep breath, imagined the broken wood and china all coming back together as they’d been, and flicked his left hand. His magic slowly lifted the table, pushing from beneath till its overall surface was mostly sort of level again, then straightened out the legs and settled it back to the floor.

So far, so good. Next, he smoothed the jagged, splintered ends jutting out of the crater into a nearly unbroken surface, separating the smaller pieces of wood from the broken china. With a supreme effort, he directed the wood to fill in the remaining gaps, and imagined the china re-forming into plates and cups.

To his elation, there was a flurry of movement, leaving the wooden surface scarred but whole and the dishes looking like dishes again…which, as he released the spell, tumbled apart into broken heaps, the wood poofing back out where it’d started.

He scowled and gestured again, but the same thing happened again, and again: the stuff mashed together well enough, but wouldn’t stay that way. God damn it, why wasn’t it working? Was he trying to do too much at once? No, that wasn’t the problem; he had more than enough power, and he was focusing properly. He was using the exact same magic as before, and he sure as hell intended it to work, so…did he need to get madder at himself for ruining her workspace? Or…

Sans thought it over, then got off his stool and went to rap on the bathroom door. “C’mon out, kitten,” he said. “I need a favor.”

Frisk emerged as he backed up and sat down facing the broken table. She looked at the wreckage, then at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I will be in a sec. C’mere.” He extended an arm.

She was a little doubtful, but came to him readily and let him tuck her against his ribcage. “Um,” she said into his wrinkled shirt.

He stroked her hair with one phalange, focusing on her warmth, and her smell – which now included a hint of leather from his coat – and how big a pain in the ass it’d be if she had to replace the table. She was busy enough, she didn’t need this crap! Besides, what would his past self say if he knew he’d screwed things up for Kris?

Frisk turned to see what he was doing, absently twining her fingers around one of

his, and Sans suddenly knew exactly what to do. There was a boom and a crackling like wood being broken, but in reverse: her mouth hung open as the cloud of red magic dispersed, leaving the table in nearly the same shape as before, perhaps a little bent in the middle. The breakfast dishes were intact, though they looked as if someone had glued them back together in a hurry. “Ha! There we go,” Sans said triumphantly. “Good as…used. Not bad, eh?”

The priestess leaned back against his clavicle. “I suppose it’s the next best thing to not breaking it in the first place,” she murmured.

Ouch. And speaking of which… He grimaced. “Hey. Frisk?”

“Hm?” She was still holding the lowest phalange of his right forefinger, examining the relatively-smaller bones of his hand.

As always, Sans scanned her face for signs of distaste or nervousness. He never could find any, or understand why not. “Uh. I’m…’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Ya shouldn’a had to show me all that.” The boss monster played with one of her wavier locks of hair. He liked it better when she didn’t put any stuff on to straighten it. “’m sorry you spent all that time scared ta talk about it.” He exhaled, ruffling her hair. “’m sorry you were right t’be scared.”

Frisk let go of his hand. She didn’t say anything, just laid her head on his clavicle, face turned from his.

Sans sighed, and dropped his arm. “Yeah. So,” he mumbled.

She shrugged, so slight a motion that he could barely feel it. He was about to reach for her again when she stepped away. “It’s all right.” Frisk went to the repaired table and stacked up the partly-broken dishes. “I don’t know if I would believe me, either,” she said over her shoulder.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. The silence felt…complicated. “So,” he said. “What’re we doin’ today? Ya want people ta not be scared of me. Should we go rescue kittens outta trees, maybe bring some orphans candy or somethin’?”

Frisk paused, as if shaking herself, and suddenly smiled, in a way that made him nervous. “Now that you mention it—”

It was thus his own fault that, within ten minutes, Sans found himself accompanying her back into the castle town. On their recent excursions, Sans had been using his disguise, and Frisk dressed as plainly as possible, keeping her hood up; this time, not only was she in her High Priestess gown – though she’d omitted the headdress in favor of her red-lined cloak – Sans stayed beside her as his own giant self. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was that she insisted on walking the whole way in order to be visible and gauge people’s reactions. Oh, well. At least they matched again.

Their destination today was the group home where Frisk had stayed as a very small girl. It was a long walk to the poorer part of town, but the visit itself was brief enough; they were admitted in the middle of the children’s morning break, so they had a head start to the long dining-room table before someone spotted the bakery boxes they’d picked up on their way over. Sans ended up having to lift Frisk the rest of the way before she was lost under a surging tide of greedy little hands.

Of course, the magic demonstration turned out to be the ideal icebreaker. To his disgruntlement, Sans was conscripted to make toys fly around – though he drew the line at the actual children begging to be flung across the room – while Frisk distributed the pastries they’d brought and the boss monster contemplated his life choices. He’d enjoyed playing with Kris back in the day, but he never signed up to perform for a bunch of literally snot-nosed brats!

But he had to admit that it was working: after a few minutes, only the most timid children were still hanging back, and by the time the priestess was done telling them about the different kinds of monsters she knew, almost all of the kids had crept up for a closer look. He contented himself with the fact that Frisk seemed pretty happy, though he wasn’t a big fan of how many kids were coughing on her.

In fact, some of them got a little too comfortable with him, and Frisk had to cut the visit short when they started crawling into his huge slippers and lifting his shirt to poke between his ribs. The priestess and boss monster waded out amid cries of disappointment, closing the door with some difficulty.

“Damn, that was intense,” said Sans on their walk back to the castle. “So, ya lived there till you were…?”

“Eight. Then Rosa found a job for me in the castle kitchens scrubbing pots. I’ve had better experiences.”

He thought again of Kris’ scars and protruding ribs. “Permission to go up there ‘n bust some heads?”

“Denied,” she said. “I started collecting affidavits about the old cook the moment I came back here as High Priestess, and she’s been in jail for over two years now. She won’t get out for a good while.”

Sans still would’ve liked to find the bitch and see how she liked someone bigger hurting her, but it probably wasn’t something Frisk would want to hear. Instead, he asked, “D’you always call yer mom by ‘er first name?”

Frisk returned a passerby’s smile and nod, and said, “I often have because I wasn’t very attached to her, and it turns out I was right. Rosa isn’t my mother.”

The boss monster nearly stopped in the middle of the busy street. “Say what?”

“I found out around the time I went to the Underground, so I forgot it along with everything else. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I was put in Rosa’s care when I was a baby, and she pawned me off wherever she could until my father stepped in.” Frisk smoothed her hair behind her ears as the wind whistled around them. “Rosa did check in on me periodically to be sure I was alive, which is more than I could say for anyone else before I met you all.”

Sans had to jam his hands in his pockets to keep from hugging her right there. “So…”

“My real mother is dead. I’ll tell you more later.” To his surprise, Frisk fell in step beside him and reached up, and he obligingly leaned down for her to take his elbow. He thought of Kris again as she smiled up at him. “Let’s go back now. We have a lot of work to do.”

Sans did not forget about that conversation, but he never quite managed to bring it up again: they were so busy preparing for the trip Underground that, before he knew it, only ten days remained of his visit.

For one thing, three of the mixtures he had formulated were not working much better than the control she’d set up, but one was doing well, and another was so promising that Frisk ordered more of its components and some additional seedlings. He had finalized his list of food items to bring back with them and eventually persuaded the priestess to stop buying more gifts, after the final two novels in a series Alphys had been reading and a set of children’s puzzles for Papyrus.

They didn’t really discuss what had happened the other night, but they were comfortable around each other again. At her request, they had resumed their “slumber parties,” trading jokes later into the night than they probably should have and falling asleep on opposite sides of the huge bed. Sans found he could now keep himself in check by thinking of Kris: though most of his feelings were as strong as ever, or stronger, it felt a little creepy to lust after her, which was…better, he guessed.

It also helped, in a weird way, that she tended to be upset after whatever dreams she’d been having of the Underground. Two of the past three mornings, he’d woken up with her curled up in her blanket against his side, and his SOUL had damn near melted.

Her sudden proximity could have been a problem, but on close self-examination, Sans found he’d rather punch himself in the spectral junk than take advantage of her emotional vulnerability. That was a huge relief; it meant he could turn and drape his arm over her or pet her hair in fairly good conscience. A little part of him knew that this probably wouldn’t last forever, and he’d be back in trouble once Frisk finished working through everything, but, eh. That was a later problem. Right now, things were almost perfect, and he wasn’t going to ruin it.

…Was it his imagination being mushy, or did his SOUL feel a little lighter? He never could remember to have Gaster check for him when the doctor was there.

That morning, on his tenth-to-last day in the castle, Sans didn’t wear his device when he accompanied her to matins. He’d stopped using it entirely on their trips into town or walks around the castle. Frisk used the cold as an excuse to wear her cloak outside instead of the circlet or veil; as she’d predicted, people were now curious enough to stop to speak with her and gawk at the ten-foot skeleton. Though they got their fair share of fearful whispers and angry looks, no one had the courage to say anything with Sans right there, which was good enough for Frisk.

The boss monster understood what she was doing, and tried to behave himself on these social forays, but he hated every second of it. Frisk had a knack for keeping an eye on him and walking away when he started getting agitated by too many stares or stupid questions, but he hated that she had to worry about him hating it. More than ever, he wished she’d found a smaller, cuter monster to show off.

It was also strange that, in spite of her increased accessibility, there had been no signs of anyone else plotting anything, much less attacking her. Frisk checked in regularly with the palace guards, who still hadn’t found whoever generated that huge burst of magic at the All Souls service; anyone clever enough to have planned the operation had obviously been capable of covering their tracks, a prospect that didn’t sit well with either of them.

There was, however, a single incident that nearly made it all worthwhile: one day, an elderly woman came up to tug on Sans’ trousers as they stood outside a bookstore. When he glanced down, the lady demanded up at him, “What time is it?”

Sans looked at Frisk, and at the equally nonplussed bystanders. Luckily, far over the humans’ heads, he could see a clock in the distance. “Uh…couple minutes after noon.”

The old lady frowned and nodded, as though a great truth had been revealed unto her. “I see. Yes, thank you.” She hobbled back the way she’d came, and they heard her say to no one in particular, “What a nice skeleton.”

For some reason, the way she said it was so funny that he instinctively caught Frisk’s eye and found she was trying to suppress a grin. When she motioned for him to follow her, they made it as far as a little side street before she started giggling, flapping her hand for him to take them back. It was time for lunch, but more importantly, it was time to sit down in the stairwell outside her rooms and howl with laughter for no reason that either could have explained to anyone else, except perhaps that each of them had been tense and ready to laugh at almost anything, and was glad that the other was laughing too.

As usual, every time he started to recover, she snrrked and got him going again. When the priestess had almost caught her breath, Sans retaliated with “What a nice skeleton” in his best old-lady voice and nearly killed her.

Unfortunately, it was the only bright spot in several days of not much fun. At least they were productive, especially her tactic of “accidentally” leaking the confiscation reports; on their afternoon walks, several of the people stopping them to chat specifically wanted to know if the terrible things they had heard were true, and what would happen to the monsters in question.

Frisk hid her elation that people did care enough to ask her about it, and developed a rote response that it was true, and terrible, and she would push for harsher punishments of mistreated monsters. That was when she also mentioned that the illustrious Dr. Serif was working on an alternative source of magic, and when it was perfected, monsters could be freed entirely.

That statement always got a reaction, and she was almost relieved when one person finally came right out and said, “How on earth are we supposed to get that much magic without them?” It gave her the chance to explain how the Underground used the sun’s light to generate power, and when the man smirked at such a ridiculous lie, the High Priestess had to step on Sans’ foot to keep him in check; Frisk was irritated enough herself to tell the man and the rest of their impromptu audience that Dr. Serif had been working with her emissary to prepare a public demonstration next week.

“That sounds neat. You should probably tell the doc about it,” Sans grumbled as the little crowd dispersed to spread the news.

Frisk did indeed have some explaining to do. The upper classes of the court and Church were not supposed to care about idle gossip, but by the afternoon of the following day, after their studies were done, she found she was not only obligated to lend Sans to Dr. Serif and the other sorcerers to go over their plans, but “invited” to chat with the King before dinner.

By that point, Frisk was not in the mood to dress things up. “I’m going to free the monsters we took from their owners,” she told King Stephin behind a soundproof barrier. “I will hire guards if I have to, and send Sans along regardless, but as soon as they’ve recovered enough to travel, they are going back to the Underground to stay. His Holiness can double the deposits, or jail me, for all I care. Those monsters have suffered enough.”

“My dear, that is not going to work,” the King said, just as bluntly. “Every owner in this kingdom will fear that you are plotting to take their property from them, and like it or not, monsters are still classified as such.”

“I am ‘plotting’ exactly that, Your Majesty. I’ll do it safely, peacefully, and legally, but I will do it.” When the old man looked ready to argue, she added, “I’ve learned a great deal recently about a boy named Kris who became attached to several monsters on the last visit to the Underground. A very great deal, and it’s had quite an impact on me. Do you understand, Majesty?”

The King of the human realm regarded her for almost ten full seconds. Frisk would sooner have carved her eyes out than look away first, and he eventually sighed a long, long sigh. “You wish to return, then?”

“I am going to the Underground with Sans in nine days, Your Majesty,” she informed him, “and I would much rather have your permission than not. If all goes well, I intend to stay for five to ten days before I return here.”

He gave her a sharp appraisal that she didn’t understand till he said, “Will that be enough time to prepare your apprentice to serve the Underground single-handed?”

Frisk had long since made up her mind how to “prepare” her apprentice, but she had no intention to discuss it with the King yet. “I believe so,” she replied.

He closed his eyes. “Have you heard recently from Lord Owen and his lady sister?” he asked, much too casually.

“Yes, sire,” she said calmly. “They will both be here for a visit in roughly three weeks.”

“Wonderful.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I am glad you’ve made up your mind regarding these matters. May I ask—”

The High Priestess had been resisting the urge to cough for over an hour, and so it wasn’t really dishonest to interrupt him that way. The problem was that once she started, she couldn’t stop, and had to accept his injunction to go back to her rooms.

“I knew it” was the first thing out of Sans’ mouth when he got back. She was in bed, in her nightgown and robe, huddled under the covers with the fireplace lit. “Told ya those little pukes were gonna get ya sick.”

Frisk gave him the stink-eye, coughing for emphasis. His expression softened at the sound. “Okay, okay. Can I getcha anythin’?”

“Sleep,” she croaked.

Sans couldn’t do that, but he could and did tell the guards that Her Eminence needed to be left alone because she’d caught some kind of crud. When he went back into the bedroom, she was already dozing. Good—maybe she’d be having better dreams soon.

One week left.

Frisk had slept through the previous day – guarded from interruption by her massive apprentice – and part of this one, waking up to eat dinner in bed. Afterward, she was busy catching up on mail, including a reply from the Owens’ land broker.

As High Priestess, her wealth was such that the broker was happy to offer her only ten percent down, with interest much higher than Frisk intended to pay. The priestess had to write three replies for that one: an answer referring the broker to the real estate agent who would negotiate the rest of the transaction on her behalf, a letter informing her agent that he was about to get a very large commission, and a note to Lord Owen updating him on the whole business and greeting his family. She might be planning to reject him in the most overt way possible and embarrass him in front of the entire kingdom, but that was no reason to be impolite, was it?

Sans was stretched out on the other side of the bed, eyes closed. It was easier to let him stay there than trying to make him work and having him stick his head in the door every ten minutes to fret about whether she was still alive. “Tell me again why ya won’t get a secretary,” he said as she massaged her hand.

“I told you, I don’t trust anyone with all this.” Frisk patted the mattress between them, which was his cue to wriggle a finger and waft her cup of tea over from the side table. She took a sip, murmured her thanks, and let him put it back without opening his eyes. “I wish I could do that,” she remarked, putting the three envelopes aside. “There we are. I’m feeling much better, Sans. Will you please let me get up now?”

Several minutes of negotiation later, with the massive skeleton hovering as though she was seventy years old, Frisk was out in the workroom to check the seedlings’ progress. “This is amazing,” she said, looking over the three tiny plants growing from his latest mixture. “If you keep this up, we could think about converting some of your existing cropland to pasture and eventually getting some sheep. You could probably also use some chickens, couldn’t you?”

“Yeah, we ate all ours a few years back. Tori would love to have some more,” Sans remarked. “Meat, eggs, and somethin’ ta fuss over.”

Frisk smiled a little. She’d avoided asking too many questions about her old friends, as it was clear the news was largely not good. She glanced around, and Sans proffered her tea, unasked. “You know…” This took some courage, but it was such an obvious thing, and they hadn’t discussed it: “We don’t have to leave in exactly seven more days.” She checked her calendar. “It’ll be four more days till they demonstrate your prototype. I’d like to be there for that, and I haven’t had a chance to talk with His Majesty again, and I’d like to have a letter from him or something official to give to Asgore so he doesn’t have to take my word for—”

Sans chuckled. That rumbling sound had always raised the hairs on the back of her neck, but lately, it did it in a good way. “Stop babblin’, kitten. D’ya want me ta stay longer?”

Her hands trembled as she set the cup down. “If…” The priestess swallowed. “If we leave a couple of days sooner, I could stay in the Underground longer, assuming everyone would be all right with it.”

The skeleton scowled at her. “Why the crap wouldn’t they be? Are ya scared they’ll be like, ‘Yeah, we loved you as a kid, now go to hell?’”

Frisk’s fidgety silence said it all. Sans drew a deep breath, but saw her flinch, and released it slowly. “Okay,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I know ya haven’t had a lotta luck with people, but this’s different. I’m not sayin’ there won’t be any problems with anyone, ‘specially the ones who didn’t know ya that well. Some of us might be dicks about it an’ not believe ya right at first. But…” He also fidgeted, various colors sweeping over his skull. “Ya look different, ‘n that’s it. We all liked ya ‘cause you’re…you. Hasn’t changed.” Fidget. Scowl. “If anyone tells ya to get lost, I’ll—” He caught her expression and said with fake cheer, “—give them a biiiig hug and tell ‘em ta be nice.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Frisk took his hand, or at least a couple of his fingers. “Really, thank you,” she said, softer. “I hope you’re right.”

His fingers closed around hers. The bones were always warmer than she expected, no matter how many times she touched them. “Let’s try this,” he said quietly. “Take off the barrier when we go t’sleep and lemme see if I can reach Papyrus. It might work better to have him spread the word first that Kris is comin’ back with Sans in a few days, as opposed t’just showin’ up as a total surprise.”

The priestess couldn’t help smiling self-consciously. “I’d like to surprise everyone,” she confessed, and he chuckled again. “But I know it might not be the best option. Honestly, it depends how everyone there is feeling about humans after Snowdrake returned safely.”

“Yeah…traumatized an’ thinkin’ someone workin’ for ya was strong enough ta steal my magic,” said the skeleton. He squeezed her hand very gently and let go. “But he might also have spread the word that yer the one who set ‘im loose. We’ve gotta talk to Pap ‘n find out.”

Frisk thought about it, and the prospect of removing the barrier did not appeal to her whatsoever. The demon-child hadn’t showed up again for either of them, even when she’d left the barrier down and Sans had spent two nights outside it; she knew better than to assume it had gone away entirely, so where was it?

…But it did make sense to try to contact Papyrus, and she didn’t have any better ideas. “All right,” she said, and coughed into the bend of her elbow. “I’m going to take it down now and get back to sleep. Will you be in soon?”

“Sure.” Sans gave her a little salute. “Night, kitten. Get better so I don’t hafta listen to er hackin’ anymore.”

That nickname should’ve annoyed her, but Frisk liked it better each time. The inner glow lasted until she was in bed and had to remove the barrier, which she found she did not want to do. Maybe it would be all right; maybe the child was busy wreaking havoc somewhere else tonight and wouldn’t check her room? It…could be all right. There was only one way to find out, she told herself, not believing a word of it.

It was the same dream as before, but more intense: her husband crept into bed and tricked her into turning over so that he could roll her onto her back and slip his hands under her nightshirt. When she tried to mumble in self-defense, his mouth was suddenly against her lips; he tangled his fingers through hers, his slight weight pressing her into the mattress as he pulled the nightshirt up over her ribs.

A tiny pause, waiting to see if she’d stop him. She sighed, then relaxed as his head dipped to lick her neck, fingers winding in her hair to pull her chin up and nip at her throat. His other hand trailed down her side to her hip; he made an approving noise as he encountered bare skin.

Her underwear was missing solely because she’d forgotten to put a second load in the dryer that afternoon, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, especially now that his mouth had moved up to her cheek, then back to her lips. Her arms circled his shoulders as he began to kiss her in earnest, their teeth clicking gently, though he always led with his tongue to avoid biting her.

She’d long since stopped thinking about how weird it was to make out with a skeleton, and she never got tired of his bones’ smooth texture against her skin, or of feeling him shudder as she ran her hands over his skull. He pulled his head away, panting, and sat up to move his shorts aside—she’d told him several times to just leave them off in bed, but he was still curiously shy about letting her see him without clothes, especially when he had what they called his “extras” out.

Usually, by this point, he would have attended to her for a few minutes – or more! – to be sure she was ready, but this time, he clearly couldn’t wait. Well, that was fine. She was more than happy to let him hook his forearms under her knees and lean forward; he wasn’t that much shorter than she was, but it was the best way to—

Something was wrong, something much worse than sexual frustration or an intruder in her office.

She was still dreaming, but in a too-real way that she instantly recognized. Frisk was back in the castle, standing beside the huge bed, with her own Sans sitting squarely in the middle of the mattress; his head was in his hands, his whole body hunched up and shaking. Frisk tried to ask him what was wrong, but the words died as she spotted the thing standing over him—it was the child, the demon from the other world.

The child didn’t have its knife out, but it didn’t need to. It was smiling in vile satisfaction as Sans’ shoulders shook. Her stomach clenched as she saw red droplets trickling over the bones of his hands and wrists. “What did you do to him?” Frisk snarled. The air surged as she raised a hand, golden sparks flying. “Get out of here before I put a barrier around this whole damned kingdom! You know I could!”

The child stopped smiling and looked at her. For the first time, it spoke: “Ask him what he could do to you.”

Its voice felt like a nail being dragged down her eardrum. Sans must have heard it, too, because he curled in on himself harder, and Frisk’s heart broke into a few more pieces. That little—why wouldn’t it leave him alone?!

Frisk gathered all of her willpower and gave a sharp, high whistle, snapping the barrier back into place and jerking herself and Sans awake. She sat bolt upright and glanced around in the dimness, throat itching and adrenaline pumping, only to see that it was early morning and the child was gone.

The priestess coughed. With a sigh of relief, she climbed over the foot of the bed to tap the witchlight on, then turned to say, “Are you all right, S—”

Dear Lord. Frisk had assumed the blood was part of Sans’ nightmare, but to her horror, he was sitting up again and staring down at his hands, which were absolutely coated in dark, slick red. Fresh crimson drops were still sliding down his face, splashing onto his metacarpals and dripping through the gaps to soak into the mattress. “Sans!” she cried. The priestess gathered up her robe and leapt onto the bed, kneeling beside him. “What in God’s name happened? Where are you hurt?”

To her bewilderment, the enormous skeleton shook his head and waved her off. “Go ‘way,” he moaned.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she snapped. “Whatever happened, whatever it told you, it wasn’t real!” The young woman tried to peer into his face, but he turned away. “Sans, look at me!”

He shook his head harder and tried to shuffle away from her, his arm coming up to scrub his sockets with his sleeve and smear more red across his brow. It finally hit her that he wasn’t injured, he was crying—

It was all Frisk could do not to break down, too. Why had she ever agreed to take down the barrier? But much more importantly, why wouldn’t the child leave him alone? Why did Sans have to be so miserable? She could remember standing by his house in Snowdin as a child, holding his hand and smiling up at him, sensing how unhappy he was behind his lackadaisical exterior and how hard he was working to hide it. He hadn’t deserved to feel that way back then, and he didn’t need a demon to help him torment himself now!

Where had that misery even come from? Was it from witnessing the child’s genocide in his own world? From what Gaster had said, that sense of powerlessness and futility was still echoing somewhere in the back of his mind, waiting to resurface in his nightmares. And what about becoming a boss monster, knowing he no longer fit in with the other monsters – literally – and would live forever as a complete anomaly? Or his efforts to keep his brother happy by absorbing the Underground’s distilled misery, working it out the only way he knew how, till he believed that darkness and violence were naturals part of himself—when was it all going to stop?

Sans jumped as the priestess stood up and grabbed the back of his head, tipping him forward till his forehead was resting on her sternum. “Stop,” he muttered into the thick folds of her robe, trying to pull away.

Frisk’s arms shifted. They could barely fit around his skull, but she had a strong enough hold that he’d have to hurt her to get free. Sans shook his head, carrying her back and forth. “Would ya fuckin’ stop already?” he demanded, more desperate than angry.

“Why,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

No answer. Frisk drew breath to hum at him, but he shook his head again so violently that she almost fell over. “Don’t pull that crap on me now! Quit wastin’ yer damn magic and go away!”

What in the world? “All right, and no,” she retorted.

He growled, but for all his vehemence, he hadn’t so much as raised his arms. His next attempt to dislodge her was so half-hearted that Frisk barely moved. She didn’t need to make any sounds beside the steady, thrumming rhythm of her heartbeat; as she held on, his breathing started to slow down, and he was soon resting so heavily against her that she had to brace herself to hold him up. “We’re both fine,” the priestess said over his head. “All right?”

Sans nodded faintly. One arm looped around her, and most of his palm rested on her back. She felt more red soaking into her robe as she let him nuzzle the downy material over her heart, or SOUL, as he’d call it. It was more than a bit embarrassing to have his face right there, but he’d been through so much that this seemed like the very least she could do.

Besides, said a wry, far-off corner of her mind, if I’m going to conceive in the next month or two at the latest, this will be the least of my worries.

Dirt. Now it was impossible not to think of her twice-interrupted dream with a Sans much closer to her size, and impossible to ignore the question of whether her larger, angrier skeleton had enough magic – and creativity – to love a human without hurting her, physically speaking. Being determined to find out didn’t make her any less apprehensive about it.

Then there was the question she was afraid to even look at too closely: if a boss monster was able to give her his magic the way a regular skeleton apparently could, did she have enough magic – and determination – to give him a child and some semblance of a happy or normal life?

“’m fine now,” Sans eventually mumbled. “Leggo.”

Frisk made a disbelieving noise. “’m fine,” the skeleton said stubbornly.

“Mm-hmm.” Frisk let go and reached behind her to take his stained hand. “Come here.”

Sans obediently got up and followed her into the bathroom, wiping his eyes again as he sat down where she pointed. She washed her hands, then moved aside for him to wash his; as always, it took forever because his hands were too big for the sink, forcing him to work in sections. Once he’d gotten the majority of the red off, Frisk grabbed a black washcloth and some soap to help work the last bits out of the gaps in his metacarpals. Strange: they’d spent enough time together to be used to platonic physical contact, but it felt so intimate for him to let her touch him between the bones of his hands that she didn’t know what to do with herself.

When those were done, Frisk rinsed the washcloth out, patted her face to cool it, and had him sit down again. He held still as she started cleaning off the blood – or tears, or whatever it was, exactly – but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. A little more red oozed from the corner of one socket as she worked, and without thinking, Frisk placed her palm high on his cheekbone to wipe it off with her thumb. “What happened?” she asked softly.

Sans looked at the floor, then at her, reaching up. For a second, she thought he was going to push her hand away; instead, he curled his forefinger around her wrist and turned her palm over, looking at it as though he’d never seen a human this close before. “I couldn’t find Pap,” he mumbled. “Had a dream where…” His entire skull turned a spectrum of colors again, and he released her, closing his eyes as she eased the cloth around the edges of his sockets. “…stuff happened, then I thought I was awake, and…” He shivered, hunching his shoulders again. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“That’s fine,” she assured him, turning to wring out the washcloth and dab more soap on it, wondering what exactly he’d seen. Her heart was starting to feel quivery again. “Look up, please,” she said, trying to feel maternal.

The skeleton remained docile through several more scrubbings and a final once-over. He had recovered enough by now to towel himself dry, but as he handed it back, he absently wiped his face one more time on his sleeve. “Sans,” she scolded him, pointing in the mirror to yet another red streak on his jaw, this one transferred from his shirt. Frisk picked up the washcloth with a sigh. “We’re going to have to send that to the laundry.” She swiped the last bit off. “I won’t blame you for getting upset after whatever that thing did to you, but…”

“I wasn’t—” There was a slightly stupid pause as he tried to formulate a denial of having been upset. She just looked at him, and he switched tactics, protesting, “Hey, you got messy, too. ’s yer own fault. Next time, don’ grab me like that.”

Frisk wouldn’t dignify that with a response, though he was correct that her robe had dark splotches on the front and back. As Sans poked at his sleeves to check if they really had to be washed, the priestess leaned toward the mirror and opened her robe, seeing where his tears had soaked through and left rusty spots on her cleavage. “Dirt. You’re right, I need a bath.” The young woman sighed and rubbed her eyes, unaware that Sans had looked up, or that his entire world had instantly become fixated on the front of her robe. “Maybe after breakfast.”

Sans didn’t answer, but the silence felt different this time. Frisk stopped as she heard how heavily he was breathing. Funny, she remembered that sound from…from her dream. She swallowed hard, and without thinking, she turned to face him.

Sans moved very deliberately, kneeling in front of the priestess with his arms outstretched on either side of the sink and his face looming above hers. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes burning, breath hitting her like steam. When she tried to speak, he leaned closer. “Don’t move,” he rasped in her ear.

“Okay,” said Frisk, sounding much calmer than she felt. Despite his injunction, she glanced down and realized she’d forgotten to cover herself.

Damn, damn, damn! She’d never heard him like this before! What was wrong with—

Frisk stopped and gave herself a mental smack in the face, because she knew exactly what was wrong with him. “Sans, please,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

A soft growl. “Seriously, Frisk. ‘m tryin’ not ta lose it here. Just…just gimme a minute.”

The young woman nodded. Should she try to calm him down, or put him to sleep? Whistling usually worked fast. She swallowed again, and licked her lips.

Wrong move: Sans leaned down and nudged her hard with his cheek. “Hey.” His voice gave her chills, mostly not good ones. “Ya do that again, and…” He inhaled so hard that she felt a rush of cold against her scalp. She tried not to wince or make a sound as he exhaled. “I already said no more noises. ‘Kay? They’re not gonna work on me right now,” he warned.

Think. Think, think. He was playing with her hair, one phalange trailing down her neck to her collarbone and her partly open robe. And a small part of her, an urge that steadily grew as his breath washed over her and his fingers brushed her cheek, actually wondered what would happen if she didn’t stop him. Hadn’t she wanted this for a long time, no matter how much she enjoyed his friendship?

No. Not like this, pinned against the bathroom sink, with him so worked up that one slip of his hand or teeth could do irreparable damage. “Sans,” Frisk said, loud enough to divert his attention. “I have two things to say. Can you listen to me for fifteen seconds?”

“…Good question.”

At least his hand had stopped moving. Before it could start again, Frisk said, “The first thing is that you have to stop. I am not ready for this, Sans, and neither are you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He was shaking again, the bones of his wrist rattling against the sink. She didn’t know whether to let him speak or keep him distracted, and quickly chose the latter: “The second thing is…why did the monster eat the tightrope walker?”

The trembling stopped. “Hm?” Sans paused, and she prayed that it’d be enough to shift his mental gears. “I…I dunno. Why?”

“Because,” Frisk said, “he wanted to have a balanced meal.”

Pause. “Heh,” Sans mumbled. “I thought it was ‘cause he wanted ta learn the ropes.”

He wasn’t moving. It hadn’t worked. Think think— “Come on,” she said, trying to sound old. “Be a nice skeleton.”

“…That.” Sans made a slight sound, and she almost wept with relief as his shoulders twitched. “That…” He started snickering, and put a hand to his forehead, allowing her to scramble away, yanking her robe shut. “Oh, man!” The skeleton leaned against the wall. “Why the hell—”

Frisk managed a smile. He glanced at her in the mirror, sobering. “Goddammit. …Sorry. I mean, dirt.” Sans got up and moved back against the wall. “Want me ta go away forever?” he asked, not very jokingly.

She shook her head. “No, but I think we’re long overdue for a talk about this.”

He flinched as though she’d poked him in the eye socket. Frisk waited for him to say something, anything, only to be interrupted by a knock on the outside doors.

Goddammit, indeed. The priestess allowed him to go welcome the distraction while she retrieved the washcloth to scrub the nearly-dry gunk off her breasts, thence to her dressing room to change into the most boring dress she owned and think things over.

On sober reflection, she mostly couldn’t believe that she’d been so determined to stay so stupid. Gaster had said to her face, under a truth spell, that Sans was “deeply in love” with her, direct quote. And what did she do? She’d actually checked a magic textbook to see if he could’ve possibly meant something else! How idiotic was she? Lust and love were not the same thing, but she knew Sans, and he wouldn’t be feeling one without the other. If both were in play now thanks to heightened emotions from those dreams, and then seeing her robe open…

Damnation. Now all she could think about was how she’d shown her scars the other night and let him touch her, and—oh, God, what about the time she lured him into the bathroom? The sleepovers? Dragging him along to tea and making him watch Luke flirt with her? The full-body hugs? If he’d actually felt this way the whole time, or even just part of it, what had she been doing to him?

Even worse was the realization that she hadn’t really believed it, and yet was operating on the half-conscious assumption that he was hers if she wanted him—stupid and presumptuous, not a good combination.

Well, no more. It was time to stop pretending her hopes for him were just going to work themselves out at some point, and to stop wasting her energy on endless what-ifs about physical or magical possibilities. None of it meant anything until she actually talked to him.

…At least she understood another aspect of her fortune now. She doubted if Sans knew that it was a crime for a human to have physical relations of any kind with a monster—Gaster might not even know. It very rarely came up, as monsters were primarily viewed as utilities, but miscegenation was a serious offense. It had been easy to avoid thinking about it or dismiss it as something she could get around via political influence, but going forward, she had to be realistic.

So. Realistically speaking, her good reputation – and Sans being a skeleton – had protected her from any real suspicion, but if he did somehow become her child’s father, she had no intention of trying to hide their relationship. Not only would she be unable to legally marry him, she’d have to call in some very sizable favors to avoid prison time or worse. Who knew? Maybe that was how she could get out of being High Priestess…

She was still deep in thought when she left the safety of her dressing room, not looking at Sans, who was devouring his breakfast as fast as he could. She decided to let him finish while she went through her morning mail, a task so boring that it was guaranteed to calm her down.

The skeleton gulped down the rest of his food in record time, but couldn’t help peeking at her as he got up, trying to gauge her mood. Nope, she didn’t look mad, so—

He stopped, looked again, and frowned. Her expression was utterly blank, her hands gripping the paper so hard that the edges were digging into her skin. “Hey, hey,” Sans chided her, taking the note and setting it down on the table. “What’s wrong?”

He could barely hear her response: “We’re leaving.”

Blink. “Wha?”

Frisk didn’t move, except to stab a finger at the note. Sans picked it back up and felt his brows rise as he read aloud, “‘Greetings. His Grace the blah blah Duke Archibald blah blah Duke Archiblah requests the assistance of the exalted Thea in arbitrating the matter of eight monsters to be placed with new owners in—’ What the fuck does he mean, ‘new owners’?! I thought you—”

“I did!” Frisk’s face was white. “I can’t believe it. He’s doing this on purpose! He…”

Sans stared at the Duke’s crest on the little square of paper. “Yer dad?” he muttered.

“He knows, and I know that I did everything exactly right, and he still—” The High Priestess didn’t brush a tear away so much as slap it off her face. Sans watched helplessly as she closed her eyes and got her breathing under control. “Start packing, Sans. We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” she said, very cold and precise. “We’re going to bring those monsters back to the Underground ourselves, and I will stay for ten days as their first official human visitor in thirteen years, and if my father doesn’t like it, I will cordially invite him to go fuck himself. He’s certainly had enough practice.”

The boss monster’s jaw hung open. “I—”

“We’ll pack up everything today and commandeer two wagons tomorrow morning. I’ll take the monsters and say they’re going to my house in Riverside. We can stop there overnight.” She took the note back and began crumpling it into a tiny ball. “We are not going to tell anyone anything before we leave, including Dr. Gaster. If anyone else tries to tell me what I can’t do…” The High Priestess unfolded the ball and ripped it into halves, quarters, and tiny shreds before scattering the pieces.

Thus began one of the most hectic, stressful, yet anticlimatic days he’d ever had. Plans were discussed, or dictated to him; many many items were put into boxes or bags; and the little mental counter he’d had going of his days remaining in the castle was tossed out the mental window. He should’ve been glad that he was going to get her to the Underground so much sooner than expected, or at least somewhat grateful that the note had completely overshadowed the morning’s events, but frankly, he didn’t have the time.

…Until now, right after dinner, when they finished wrapping the last of the empty glass vials in some of the furs for Mettaton and stuffed it into the last empty satchel. Frisk glanced at him and bit her lip, and before she even spoke, Sans hopped up and retreated to the bedroom.

Sure as Fate, Frisk got up, too, and she followed him in before he could shut the door. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring at the rust-brown spots on the white sheets. “I hope they can get those out,” he mumbled.

“Sit down,” she said.

Sans turned to stare at her. “What—”

“Sit down, Sans.”

Something in her tone sent prickles up his spine and down his limbs. He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze. “I think I’ll sleep out there. We’ve got a hell of a lot of—”

“Sit down on the floor right now.”

Her voice was low and perfectly gentle, but it made him fold his legs and settle his coccyx on the floor, and all he wanted was to leave the room. “Frisk,” he pleaded.

“Keep your hands where they are.” The boss monster shut his eyes as she came close enough for him to feel her body heat and smell the wine she’d had after dinner. It hadn’t been that much, had it?

Now her arms were around his shoulders, hanging most of her weight and all of her softness against him like a necklace. Sans went rigid, his breath coming quick and harsh. Not again!

Frisk rested her head on his jawbone. “What did you dream about, Sans?”

Whatever she was doing, he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t lie to her. “I…was the way I used ta be, my old size. I was gettin’ in bed with you, and ya let me…” What the hell was she doing to him? “…ya let me do everythin’ I wanted. Then I woke up, ‘n you were dead. I bit yer neck clean through, you were all twisted up, blood everywhere—”

“It was a lie, Sans. You didn’t kill me.”

“‘Course it was a lie! It was a fuckin’ dream!” He laughed shakily. “Pun intended, I guess. Point is—”

“The second part was a lie. The first part really happened, just not here or now.”

Sans snorted. “I don’ even know what that means. It was just a dream, Frisk. Hate ta break it to you, but they’ve got lotsa stuff in ‘em that doesn’t actually happen.”

“Really. Like this?” She ran her hands over her skull, and Sans’ whole body shuddered. Her voice dropped. “Should I demonstrate anything else we did?”

He was panting again, jaws hanging slightly open. If she wanted to talk about this— “D’you know what’d happen if I fucked you for real?” he snarled, and it was her turn to flinch. “Even if I squashed myself down to my human size, an’ I made sure everything else fit,” he said scathingly, “’m not a human, an’ I’d still be pumpin’ ya full of magic. And guess what? I’ve been stewin’ in all this hate and the shit I absorbed from the Underground over…what, ten, twelve years?” He snorted. “Ya still won’t let me infuse anything ‘cause my magic sucks. Givin’ it to you would be the same thing, but a million times worse.” His hands flexed inside his pockets. It was almost a relief to be getting all of this out…almost. “Yer magic’s pretty damn strong, ‘specially for a human, an’ you could maybe handle a little of mine, but I’m a boss monster, remember? I dunno exactly how high my power’s scaled up compared to a regular monster, but it’s way the hell too much. I’d kill ya one way or another.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the priestess said. “I’m going to have a child by next All Souls Day and bring it to the festival, remember? I can’t do that if I’m dead.” Something very soft brushed the side of his head. “I understand what you’re saying, and I know you’re worried about me. But it’s not impossible. Gaster said you’ve been sloughing off whatever’s built up around your SOUL. You can do it, Sans.” The soft touch was her hand; she was petting him like…not like a dog, more like a mother with an upset child.

…Right. That was how she’d pacified him the very first time they met, when he was going to obliterate her and steal her SOUL. She’d petted his blaster until he just stopped being angry. Fucking hell, what if he’d really done it?

Just like before, he couldn’t dwell on it, couldn’t stay mad. He hadn’t blasted her. She was fine. Sans breathed in, and out. He felt her shifting along his ribs, and his mind jumped back to what he’d seen in the mirror when she forgot to close the robe. She could’ve obliterated him with a barrier at that range, but she never did what any sane woman would do. Telling him that joke about the tightrope walker, saying they weren’t ready yet—

Click, click, click. Sans could actually feel things settling into place, realization crashing through the wall of anger and self-pity. “We’re not ready yet? Meaning…”

If that seemed to come out of nowhere, Frisk didn’t show it. “No, we’re not. At the very least, I want to be back safe in the Underground and have things straightened out with Asgore before I think about that,” she said. “And you need to practice…sizing.” Squirm. “But mostly, stop hating yourself so much. Please.”

A long pause, and one bewildered, honest question: “Why?”

Frisk sighed in patient exasperation. “Think about it,” she said into what would’ve been a human ear. “Meanwhile, you’re right. We need to get some sleep.”

“Seriously?!” Sans struggled to get his hands out of his pockets as she stepped away. “Ya can’t say all that an’ expect me to just—”

Frisk was back in front of him, and before he could blink, her hand went to the side of his face, resting on his cheekbone. “I know that was a lot to take in, but the point is that I want to help you, Sans,” she said. “Right now, that means sleep. Can I sing something for you?”

The last of Sans’ resistance crumbled as he placed his massive hand on hers, trapping it against his cheek. She’d won. If she wanted him to think he was great and not a giant, psychotic, poisonous piece of shit, he’d do it. If she wanted to wait till they were Underground and then let him have her, he wasn’t going to argue anymore. If she wanted him to tear his own head off and eat it…

Frisk indicated the bed with a motion of her head. As he stretched out and closed his eyes, still disbelieving, she cleared her throat. Out came that glorious sound he remembered, the same song: “May all your dreams be sweet tonight, safe upon your bed of moonlight. And know not of sadness, pain, or care…”

He didn’t care anymore about dreams, or his crappy magic, or what a pain tomorrow was going to be. I’m goin’ home, he thought. Goin’ home with her. For now, that was good enough.

#songfell #guess i'll put the announcement/request separately

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