#remains to be seen whether he can grow back body parts and organs but

[wheelercore]

Thought about it too hard and realized brenner does have crazy healing. Behind the curve but I got there.

[incorrecttowerofgodquotes]

Gundam: The Witch From Mercury Episode 5 Review

-Let’s get into the most important character this episode: Elan. He’s a genetically engineered clone created specifically to handle the strain of using Gundam technology. I always had a suspicion that he wasn’t fully organic due to the gloves he wears, but he’s a full test tube baby, not just part robot. I feel bad for him, all he wants is companionship and sought that in Suletta, but when he saw that she doesn’t struggle like him, he realized he’s truly alone. Of course, that doesn’t excuse making Suletta cry, but his feelings are understandable. I’m going to guess he’ll be a part one antagonist before either switching sides or dying.

-Now for the MVP, Guel! Immediately sliding into the rescue and defending his lady’s honor. But then he got his ass kicked lol. This might be a hot take, but personally, I think Guel is the best pilot we’ve seen so far. He piloted a mecha he wasn’t used to that was stuck in the ground and he still did a great job against Elan. Especially that scene of him dodging the lasers. Once he gets his Darilblade back and learns to control his anger, I expect him to be the Badass Normal of the group. Taking names while not piloting a Gundam.

-Another great thing about Guel is his attitude. It’s clear he’s still struggling with the misogynistic ideals planted in him, but he’s gone from looking down on Suletta to genuinely liking her. You can see his attitude change when he realizes she’s crying. He also went directly against his father once again, but since he lost, I don’t see him getting out unscathed. He’ll probably be disowned and kicked out of the Jeturk House. But then, maybe Suletta will take him into Earth House. It’d do wonders on his personality if he started working and living with more humble people and those willing to call him out. I see Mio and Guel being real frosty towards each other but after a deep talk they both work together to protect Suletta

-This episode really seems to be pushing the Eri=Aerial theory. Suletta apparently has a sibling, and she doesn’t remember her father which is weird since she was four years old when he died, not a baby. Elan also mentions that she might have somebody else’s face, and who else could it be but Eri. Finally, I think the reason Aerial doesn’t put a strain on the user is because it’s the one taking the strain, or more accurately, Eri is taking on all the pain so Suletta can pilot normally. Now of course there are problems with this theory, but I think this is the most probable explanation so far.

-Peil Technology seems to get pass the Gundam argument by making clones that can handle the mecha’s strain. Therefore you can’t say it’s damaging to the pilot and human rights if the pilot isn’t human. Of course I doubt Delling “I say it’s a Gundam” Rembraun would let this slide, but since they’re a big money maker, an under the table deal will get them out of hot water. Ah, the beauties of capitalism

-Finally, I want to talk about the male-centered dueling that this episode pushes. While Guel is trying to help Suletta, he undermines her own agency by creating a duel for her. The story seems to be pushing the same theme Utena did, that chauvinistic males take away a woman’s agency to her own body or soul. I expect Guel to grow out of these themes as the story goes on, but the society as a whole still remains locked in this male-centered combat. Hell, the only female in the dueling committee just sits around and paints her nails. I hope the series takes the route of allowing Suletta to make her own decisions without being pressured, just like what her mother is doing to her.

-I expect the next episode to be Elan and Suletta’s duel. With the title “A gloomy song” I’m going to guess it’ll reference back to the prologue when Eri’s dad sung Happy Birthday. Maybe Suletta will hear that song while she’s fighting and either she or Aerial will go berserk. As to whether she wins or loses, I think there’s a 50/50 chance of both options. If she does lose, I can see her only getting Aerial back on the part 1 finale, with the down time being used to strengthen her piloting skills with other mechas and to bolden her personality.

[pastelpaperplanes]

You mostly draw Megatron with Crusade in his Cybertronian look but in your canons it was said that while carrying the spark Megs wore his Marauder look. Did Megatron changed bodies or is the Canon changed?

yes! haha so hmm let’s see. So far up until A Little Too Familiar I have tossed Crusade into my Crackship AU—because with the Cybertron’s future AU with a whole lot of my other sparklings, ones that have considered backstories, they wouldn’t exist because of Shamus and Envoy!—and yes in the Crack AU, Megan does sport his Marauder Upgrade.

I’m still 1000% open to keeping Crusade as like,,a cameo for the Crack AU but I will say I’m getting far too attached to their character to better NOT explore them more in a more intricate backstory kind of sense! Many of the asks I’ve answered previously about Crusade’s personality and future are still canon—with the exemption that Crusade has a far more present/loving relationship with their Carrier, who as a literal helicopter parent is near suffocating in his protectiveness and efforts to keep his sparkling away from the hands and influence of the Autobots, even if that means locking them away on the Nemesis far too much to be healthy, and lying straight to their face, and others, about their origins.

Since the TFN 2021 S4 kickoff script reading I’ve been leaning towards guess what—a whole other AU that continues RIGHT after that point, much like where the CF AU would—only certain rescission within the timeline have been changed leading to, in some relationships, a vastly different setting for a next generation! (No, I don’t think I’d create a whole ton of other sparklings in place, for example a planned Strika/Lugnut kiddo wouldn’t happen for obvious reasons, nor would Shmaus or Envoy exist!! Who would remain, THAT I will figure out later down the line.) So Megatron is not in his Marauder form, Optimus is named Magnus, Jazz is with team Prime/Ninja Corps, Sentinel is still a dick figures, Prowl is still dead and so forth.

What I have planned is sort of like where the Deceptions sport a retreat after their bust on Earth when attempting to take over the central line of techno organic energon. The Cons faced losses, high command was scrambled and still very much injured from their cruel, and unusual keeping within Trypticon, heavy sacrifices turned out to NOT reap greater rewards, and the troops are still starving—and starving, scared mecha are far more dangerous than angry ones.

Optimus is still coming to terms that he is due to lead Cybertron, under the title of Optimus Magnus as soon as he’s back, whether he likes it or not as the front lines are still very much on edge with the evermore increasingly violent rouge Con raids.

I made some commentary on the reading as a whole which was PHENOMENAL and I’m still riding the high that is the fanTASTIC work that was put into is, like god. There was a brief but hilarious moment from Rattletrap where he attempted to sell off a crudely photoshopped Megop photograph as dirt—a part of me thought it would be even MORE hilarious if said photo was actually, used and Op was left sputtering after a double take going like how did they find that. HOW.

My poor, poor fanfic loving heart got going on of course the What if the Enemies Were Fraternizing Throughout the Whole of The Show, Morals be Damned in Those Stolen Moments Because I Like YOU For Some Reason trope. Wow is me, be still my beating HEART. It did not stop—so I made another AU :D yayyyyy

Basically the creation of Crusade follows along in this timeline in that sense. They were a product of one too many lonely nights in some far off abandoned cave that never could quite seem to end with a civil conversation, let alone spark apprehension from the other when it came to going toe to toe of the battlefield for the sake of their Causes. A Comfort without Strings relationship, even if they did come to grow fond of each other, not that they’d ever admit it—a confession, in a sense, would only hurt both parties knowing that the two would never give up their motivations in the ‘impossible ‘case that said feelings were mutual.

From the looks of it, the Autobots did not once tend to the Deceptions during their stay at Trypticon. Megs still sported bare struts and tattered armor up to his escape—it would be believable that medics never once ran scans, let alone were ordered to get anywhere near the high command. With already being in such poor shape, battered, humiliated, starved, violated (those minicons?? homage to Trepan??? yikessssss) and sedated—it would be believable that Megatron wouldn’t pay notice to a small flutter in his spark amongst all the pain and anxiety, at least until he finally could gather his bearings under the lockdown of his temporary fortress stuck on Earth.

Megatron, knowing he was alone, now extremely vulnerable, heavily outnumbered and out favored by his remaining struggling troops, called upon his definitely not most favorite sub team to cower behind—the DJD, to meet his blaring distress beacon.

Tarn and his crew, with the help of the rest of high command’s signal dampeners, are able to as covertly as possible—minus the world sweeper size of the Peaceful Tyranny and the paralyzing droning on of the Empyrean Suite that Tarn just loves so dearly—made it off planet save for a few bumps and bruises from the small force of Team Prime. The High & Mighty Megatron was no where to be seen in the action. Probably off in a hurry to lick his wounds in retreat after getting his ass handed to him, many assumed, but Nickel knew better. Tarn knew better. Something was terribly wrong in order to resort to a ‘cowardly’ extraction and evasion mission.

You can see where I’m going w this—so anyways YES that is the general gist of where this AU kicks off!!! Megs and Op, particularly Megs, got unlucky on their last night together—eventually all leading to the introduction of the previously secretive back up weapon that was the DJD. Coming to the rescue of their Fearless, All Powerful, and Resilient Leader?? A strange, but instantly understandable measure to resort to once Megatron reveals himself as a carrying mech, the beholder of a true heir and a testament to the resilience that is the Deceptions though the terrible reign the Autobots have held against them through the eons.

I’ll go into why he keeps Crusade on a tight leash and Op out of the loop entirely for as long as he possibly could—and how the rest of Megaton’s troops behaved around this clearly, half blooded Con sparkling their leader doted on— later!

Needless to say, Crusade’s reputation from the moment they were born was tottering on a fine line between that of pitiable condolences for their leader, and that of true Decepticon pride knowing that the one to lead them to glory some day is none other than one of the Autobots’ very own descendants.

Hope that kinda better explains things! I like Meg’s Cybertronian design, it’s sleek, it’s sexy, it’s easier to draw, and since S4 gave us a fresher design to admire of Optimus, why not have the same for his other half!

YEAHH. so new AU :D AYOOOO I’ll tag this timeline/future mentionings of Crusade and their journey as Cybertron’s Legacy AU

extremely stupid doodle under the cut! I can’t get over the duality of Old Written vs New Written Crusade ahhh 💀💀

I found a horrifically perfect tik tok audio for these two oml

Swapping Megatron stories!

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: iii

(Mostly SFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii​​ (epilogue)

word count: ~2.2k

Nothing ever really ends. It just grows in different ways with different parts. 

warnings: description of post-injury, reader and hawks being traumatized but coping, a soft epilogue

the ending folks :’^) thank you for reading this far. here is something gentle for all of us, with some future, past, and the present for sweet starshine and keigo :’^)

enjoy loves 💞!!

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

Keigo doesn’t break promises. 

He loves white lies, the silly kind where he can rib you for a minute or two before soothing any ruffled feathers with quick kisses. He never leaves big wounds, nothing gaping or jagged, just loving pokes in your sides to get you to laugh and quip back at him.

He never goes back on his words that count.

His journeys out of the house remain short and rarely surprising. He never leaves without a goodbye, whether that’s a sleepy fuck or two, or a hand-written, tooth-rotting note on a scrap of paper next to a steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen island.

Keigo’s used to the open skies, rolling forever. The curve of the horizon is his primordial friend that he never got to say goodbye to, but he still chases it a few times a week. Little drives he takes by himself, hikes, and things that he let him feel a bit of that free wind in his shaggy hair. 

It takes you a while, but you don’t look forlornly at the door anymore.

The awareness that of his absence from your little bastion lingers as you move throughout your day, but you know he’s good for his word. He always returns, bearing a toothy grin, and usually an armload of snacks or takeout. 

It’s better, and you’re both a bit more alive. 

...

Spring in the mountains reminds you of something you can’t place. 

The memory of it is foggy, far-off and untouched. Probably a bit dampened from, you know, a year of trauma, but the feeling of it makes your quirk burst to light without fail.

It comes when you notice the little patches of wildflowers that spring up in new grass that rings around the porch. Heat flares in your eyes when you see the little seedlings you and Keigo planted into the window boxes begin to bud and flower. 

The days get longer, sweeter, and the summer comes easily.

...

The bad days never cease, but you both learn to cope to some degree.

Your scar... cracks one day. You’re doing some half-assed stretches in the living room (mostly arching your back so Keigo gets a good peek of your ass) when it happens. Your right leg bends at the knee, and a resounding ‘crack’ and shatter echo off the walls of the cabin. 

You both panic. 

Keigo instantly urges you on the couch, trying to soothe your own panic with little coos from the back of his throat. You feel numb as Keigo shoves up your pant leg, looking for any damage.

The scar looks relatively unchanged. It hasn’t writhed since your days at the hospital, and its edges have only faded a shade or two with time. It’s long, obtrusive, and something you still avoid looking at.

All the same, Keigo traces the gnarly flesh, nimble fingers searching for the source of the sound. Any bit of pain he can identify and soothe, ideally, remove. The pads of his fingers drift to the crook of your knee, pressing against the shiny, black seam of the scar.

His eyes go wide before awe shines through, without a lick of fear. 

He warns you to take a deep breath, ‘breath with him’, before pinching at the glassy center and pulling. There’s a bit of resistance as he pulls, you’re not sure what he’s doing, and you see ‘it’ before you really put it together.

Keigo holds ‘it’ up for you to see.

The inky glass of the scar.

Literal rock. Inky obsidian pulled from your flesh, about the size of your pinky and painfully jagged. 

“W-what is that?” You asked, grabbing his wrist to examine the bit. “That’s... the scar?”

Keigo nods his head, scrutinizing it with you, pinching at it, “Weirdest scab I’ve ever seen.”

Scab.

You have never thought about calling the ugly root of the scar a ‘scab’ but looking at the way it so easily was pulled away, it makes sense. After a bit of examination and tender prodding, the tissue around it looks healthy, albeit thick and burned. The scar goes deep into your flesh, feels raw to the touch, but the skin that’s beneath it is somewhat alive. Maybe too alive, given how sensitive it is.

Nonetheless, you marvel at the little piece of volcanic glass that Keigo had pulled from you like it’s the most precious stone in the world. 

...

It takes a long time to convince both of you.

Keigo never receives another call from Suits, ‘president’, what the fuck her name is. Thank fucking god. His snap seemed to have scared her and her crumbling organization away. You can only hope that it was for good.

The potential return comes from kindness rather than demands. 

Calls from both Endeavor and Miruko, ‘Enji’ and ‘Rumi’ as they insist you call them. Rumi chatters on the phone for hours with Keigo every few weeks, puts the phone on speaker, and has you give your piece as well. You like her, she’s funny and loud and Keigo smiles when he talks to her.

Enji actually visits. 

Once or twice, maybe more. You stop counting when the extra bodies in the cabin don’t have you breaking into a cold sweat anymore. It had taken a great bit of coaxing, but you opened your cabin up for the former pro and his entourage. 

He brings along his daughter and the ‘Three Musketeers,’ as the media calls them. The boys train in the mountains nearby, never lingering too far based on the shouting from the blond one that echoes against the hills. 

The rest of you settle into the walls of the cabin whenever they come to visit. It feels warmer than normal; it makes sweat gather under your arms and in droplets on your forehead. Even if you wanted to attribute the heat to the old flame hero’s presence, it wouldn’t account entirely for your thumping heart. 

You work through it, slowly. 

You like watching Keigo and Enji. They both look worn. Keigo’s a bit too young for grey hair, but Enji has more than his fair share around his temples. The beard around his jaw glints silver in the lowlight of the cabin whenever he tilts his head to sip at his tea.

They smile like old friends, talk like it too. 

You end up in the kitchen a lot during their talks, distantly cooking and observing. You’re always listening to their stories, the banter. It’s hard to keep up with, a lingering vestige of Keigo’s old persona that clings to him and his mannerisms.

You don’t mind it, even if it feels foreign.

...

“Can you pass me that honey, dear?” Fuyumi asks, voice sweet and close.

You nod, sliding her the jar across the corner top. She carefully spoons a glob of the thick liquid into the four waiting mugs, humming just under her breath. 

The cabin feels warm, and it’s not just the ambient heat Enji gives off. 

The ‘three musketeers’ plan to camp in the mountainside and ‘rough it’. You couldn’t imagine the freshly-greened hills giving them too much trouble. They bicker, you have found, constantly. Blunt jabs from Enji’s son, met by explosive remarks from the blond one (why is his hero name so long? You can never remember it well.) Consider your growing aversion to loud noise, you like Deku the best. He seems like the peacekeeper (and peacemaker) of the trio and compliments your cooking. What a gem.

The guest room has been polished into an actual guest room. Fuyumi takes it, and Enji, bless his heart, takes the creaky fold-out couch. He doesn’t mind, he tells you, something about enjoying tending to the hearth at night.

Keigo calls the nights where they fill the house ‘sleepovers’, and he adores them.

They’re a bit overwhelming for you if you’re being honest. But Enji is far less intimidating now that you’ve seen him nodding off and slack-faced on your couch. Fuyumi has patience you’ll never fully understand, and babies you a bit, which you don’t welcome but don’t refuse either. 

She does just that, scooping up three mugs after pushing your own toward you. You regather and sit next to Keigo at the kotatsu, slipping your legs under the thick blanket and sagging with the heat. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he presses you into his side, pressing a few kisses to the top of your head. It’s an idle action, habitual and welcomed as the conversation flows.

(Something about one of Keigo’s old sidekicks. Another about Endeavor’s agency, still chugging along with him at the helm, albeit not as an active hero. The new hero charts, the new rules established, legislation. Things are getting... safer, a semblance of order being re-established now that much of the League has been apprehended.)

(Things are settling, as horrifying as the change is.) 

The thought of so much makes you sleepy, long-standing exhaustion heavy in your bones. You nod off at some point to the kind, safe voices. 

Keigo coaxes you awake once the conversation dies down.

“Love,” he purrs, rubbing your side, “let’s get up now and get you to bed.”

You follow him, the way he rises and guides you to the bathroom to help you ready for bed. Enji is settling on the couch, tugging a few throws over himself on the futon. You give him a shallow wave with half-lidded eyes, meeting his own.

Eye contact feels hard, but you manage to hold it for a few seconds.

In the bathroom, you pop onto the counter and slowly brush your teeth. Sleep clings to you, and you know it’ll return quickly, but the process of moving and interacting wears you down so easily. Your toothbrush almost slips from your grip.

“Just a little more, and then you can rest, dove,” Keigo urges, reverent as he finishes his own routine in tandem. You watch as he splashes water on his face, wetting the tufts of hair that fall around his face.

The cabin feels warmer. 

You notice it as you enter the bedroom, Keigo already hopping into bed to assemble the ‘nest’ as both affectionately refer to it. The old throw, a few extra soft blankets, and a buttery soft duvet must be arranged just right before he is satisfied. 

 Keigo knows it’s a remnant.

He carries plenty of them, little chunks of him that are old and worn, old and unused. He can shake them, can’t bury them, they just simply are.

The birdish ones are nice, he thinks. He likes that he can preen you. He loves that you can preen him. That you’ll indulge him in that way, running your hands through his overgrown hair. You detangle any knots, soothe the snarls and rub at his neck until he’s liquid in your lap. 

He likes nesting. The cold of the cabin can be almost forgotten in the little nests he makes. The mountains of bedding and pillows that you both can settle in. It’s peaceful, and it's shared, and things are okay. 

It’s all slow, and a bit tedious, things that the remnants of ‘Hawks’ scream and thrash at. But, really? Keigo has no reason to listen to a ghost. He tries not to let himself be haunted. 

He indulges himself for the first time in his life, probably.

As Keigo nestles you into the sheets beside him, he gives you a bit of room to get comfortable. Adjusts your pillows how you like, tangle your legs together in the comfiest way. Your own version of nesting that makes his palms sweat and his words turn to mush.

You settle together, chest to chest, Keigo’s chin hooked over the top of your head. 

“Did you have a good day?” You ask, soft and sleepy.

Keigo nods easily, “I did. Enji doesn’t seem to quite as much of a square as he was a few years ago.”

You snort, muffling a giggle into his chest, “He’s definitely a little bit of a square. But I like him.”

“He offered to host us at the estate if we ever want to go back.”

You swallow, thick and slow, and try to bury yourself deeper in him, “... Do you want to go back?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. Not yet, and not anytime soon. But the offer is on the table. It’s nice to have, even if we don’t take it.”

It’s insurance, somewhere else to tuck yourselves away if the mountains stop favoring you. 

The thought of the future makes your head spin, as it tends to. The scar aches, but maybe it’s a tad duller than it was a few months ago. The pains only last a few moments, only stab so deeply. The place where the little chunk of obsidian fell out doesn’t feel quite as tender. 

You lay your cheek on Keigo’s chest, your breath coming in time with his. 

“‘M tired,” You murmur into his chest. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, starshine.” He pushes back your hair, clears your forehead to press his lips to the skin, lightly. Little kisses piling up on top of each other. “Get some rest.”

“You too, pretty eyes.”

You both need it. For more than just a day with the folks who stuck around. You and Keigo need more rest than a being can responsibly accumulate during a human life. There are things to be stitched, worn parts of you that need tending to, and burns that’ll need salve until the day you die. It’s not any less than it was in the month’s past.

But it’s easier to manage. 

You snuggle into Keigo’s chest, drifting off to the thought of fresh coffee and crackling heat.

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

thank you for reading!!💞

ko-fi

[archonssun]

Uhm.....Hello!i love your writes,can i request little sister headcanons for Childe, Xiao, Noelle, and Mona....?

Of course! 

Little Sister HCs

characters: Childe, Xiao, Noelle, Mona

notes: oh. my. god. I got so carried away with Childe’s and Xiao’s, then Noelle’s and Mona’s are so short 😭😭😭  again, I AM SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TT^TT I’m worried I didn’t write Noelle or Mona well, so I’d appreciate it if you guys would let me know what you thought about their parts 👉👈

CHILDE:

Ajax is the Shit-head Elder Brother, but everyone knows it’s all done with love is it tho

He spoils you

archons does he spoil you

like him, you’re the middle child (only two years younger than Ajax himself), and in his mind you two have to stick together against your older and younger siblings

And with your Cryo vision ...

well, let’s just say that when the two of you are fighting, Ajax ends up frozen more than once

as your older brother, he has a knack for pushing your buttons, inciting violence in his sister that is usually the most passive of people -- and he lived for it

On more than one occasion he would scare away potential lovers -- they all knew what that red mask meant and chose to stay away as soon as they saw it

You were his only younger sibling that knew of his Harbinger status, and for good reason -- having been blessed with a vision from the Tsaritsa herself, you had been recruited into the Fatui around the same time as your brother

Surprisingly, it was the Tsaritsa herself that taught you how to utilize your vision, showing you how best to call forth ice and snow and testing you with various weapons before you ultimately chose to fight with a bow like brother like sister kajslhdfs

As soon as Ajax rose to Harbinger status, you were placed under his watch more like you had to watch him, and had even traveled to Liyue with him

and when the whole Golden House incident happened?

You had never wanted to kick his ass so much

which is exactly what you did after he failed to summon Osial: you took him to a field far from the harbor and thoroughly handed him his ass

"Slow down, would ya?!” Your brother parried every strike you sent his way, which only proved to enrage you further. You scowled at the man, picking up the pace and striking him faster than he could counter or dodge.

“You are a verifiable dumbass! Did you really think that the Qixing and the Adepti would forsake the city they pledged their lives to protect?!” Your scowl deepened into a snarl as your fist connected with Ajax’s cheek, sending him tumbling to the dirt. “Or were you so blinded by your loss to the Traveler that you weren’t thinking?”

“Now that’s a little much, dontcha think, sis?” Ajax smiled. It was a smile you had seen thousands of times before, and it took you no time to know it was fake.

You leveled him with an icy glare, and he actually felt his body grow cold.

Oh wait, that was the ice you were currently encasing him in.

“You will be stuck here, frozen, until I deem you have learned your lesson,” you said simply, stuffing a hand in your pants pocket as you slipped on your Fatui mask and turned your back to your brother.

“Aw, come on, lil’ sis! That’s so cold!” Ajax whined, and you had to take a few deep breaths before you looked at him over your shoulder.

“That’s the idea, dipshit,” you growled, reveling in the fact that he flinched at your tone. With that, you turned back around to head back to the harbor when your brother’s whispered words drifted to your ears.

“You’re just as cold as Signora. How could I have let this happen?!”

Ajax yelped as a shard of ice thwacked him in the forehead, blood trickling down into his eye. He managed to catch the dangerous look on your face before you disappeared from view, and he swallowed past the fear he felt rising in his throat.

Uh oh. Think I might have teased her too much.

XIAO:

he is the Over-Protective Elder Brother

he is immensely bitter that he missed such a substantial portion of your life, losing the chance to watch you grow up into a strong warrior

Xiao was taken from you when you were barely old enough to wield a weapon properly, so you grew up without him, until Morax had liberated your brother

before that point, you had survived under Morax’s watchful eyes, and the god was the one to teach you how to fight, even gifting you a Geo vision to wield as your own

when Morax freed your brother, you were the first person Xiao asked about. It had been many years since he had been taken from you, and he could only hope you were still alive.

“Xiao.” The sound of your voice had the Yaksha jumping to his feet, wide amber eyes meeting your own. Although you hadn’t grown up with him, you knew he wasn’t one to let emotions get the better of him. And yet, you noticed the tears welling in his eyes as you stood before him.

You approached him slowly, as if he were a scared animal, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. You stopped just a few feet in front of him, about to speak when your brother’s body barreled into you. His arms wrapped tightly around your back, the fingers gripping the back of your shirt trembling.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, the two of you sinking to the floor, just holding one another. You could feel his tears soaking into your shirt and you lifted a hand, running your fingers through his hair. It was something Guizhong would do to calm you when you were a child, and you r actions had Xiao sobbing even harder.

Xiao rarely let you leave his sight after the two of you were reunited

he was adamant that he go with you, no matter where you were going or what you were going to do

he knew you were a capable fighter, wielding a pole arm and a Geo vision much like your teacher

but he had already lost so much time with you

he didn’t want to lose any more time

Xiao would train with you, fight by your side, would listen raptly to all the stories you had been a part of while he was gone

he made promises a lot: promises to protect you, to stay with you no matter what

you were the only one other than the Traveler that he willingly stayed around

when you would wake from nightmares, Xiao was there to help chase them away

but when your older brother was the one suffering from nightmares, it was always you that helped ease the pain, whether it be by singing a soft tune or training with him to get his mind off of the nightmare

when Rex Lapis, ahem ... “died”, it had fallen to you to make sure Xiao didn’t completely shut himself off from others

and suffice it to say that when the mortal Zhongli appeared at Wangshu Inn three weeks later, you had immediately recognized your teacher.

“Xiao!” You beamed, tugging at your brother’s sleeve as a wide smile split your face. “Xiao!”

“What?” he growled, sharp amber eyes flitting to you. But your gaze was set on something else, something in front of the both of you, and when Xiao looked he felt his breath catch. Standing before you was a man Xiao would recognize even in death.

“It is good to see the both of you doing well.” Morax gave the both of you a delighted smile, resting a hand on your head. You were vibrating from the excitement that seeing your teacher -- alive -- brought, an excitement that, for once, was reflected in your brother’s smile.

NOELLE:

you were just a few years younger than your sister, and just like her you had been blessed with a vision

you couldn’t remember your parents; for as long as you could remember, it has just been you and Noelle

you worked with Lisa in the library, mostly organizing and reorganizing books and papers, as well as practicing using your Electro vision with the librarian

but every day, without fail, you and Noelle would meet for lunch. sometimes you had to drag your older sister away from work, but it was the one thing that never changed as you grew older.

you would help her get into the Knights of Favonious after all you had a few connections ;)

it wouldn’t happen right away nothing ever does :( but you wouldn’t give up until Noelle had a place with the Knights as something more than a maid

the two of you would be fiercely protective of one another, and would gladly maim someone if they were to endanger you

more often than not, it is Noelle’s Geo shield that protects your team from your haywire Electro manipulation

“Noelle!” You shouted over the thrum of battle, and in an instant everyone on the team had been shielded by your sister. Just as quickly, a wicked smile adorned your face and you coated your pole arm in Electro as you charged the gang of slimes.

In the time it takes someone to blink, you traversed the entirety of the battlefield, striking every enemy as you went. That is, until you hit one of the Pyro slimes, the resulting explosion knocking you from your feet. 

You cursed yourself, readying your weapon just as Noelle’s shield disappeared and the slimes that hadn’t been culled attacked you. You locked eyes with your sister, giving her a nod as she shielded herself and your teammates. You breathed a sigh of relief before steeling your nerves, coating your weapon in Electro once more.

Electro crackled in the air around you, bolts of it arcing off of you and your polearm and traveling to the ground. You didn’t have long, and so you struck the remaining enemies quickly.

As soon as the tip of your weapon touched the first slime, Electro energy exploded forth from your body and touched every slime surrounding you. You willed the energy to keep shocking the slimes until they had disappeared, and by then you could feel your skin prickling; could see the jagged markings appearing on your hands -- no doubt they were present on your legs, as well, but you didn’t have near enough energy to keep yourself standing.

Noelle was the first to reach you, one hand grasping your shoulder and helping you sit up. She frowned at the dazed look on your face, and immediately pulled you onto her back as she and the rest of the team made their way back to Mondstadt.

“You did amazing, (Y/n).”

Your eyes struggled to stay open, your brain fried from using too much Electro, and so you barely heard the praise fall from your sister’s lips. But it had a small smile tugging at your lips before you drifted into darkness.

MONA:

Oh boy...

Okay, so: both you and Mona were taken in by her master, but only Mona decided to learn under them. you were content as you were

you weren’t blessed with a vision like your older sister, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t fight: you had learned how to wield a blade by watching others around you

You would frequently travel with Mona when her master sent her on errands, chattering and laughing with her without a care in the world

but every time the two of you would run into trouble, the both of you would fall silent as you battled

There was only one time in all of your travels where you had come close to death

You had elected to jump between Mona and a Cryo slime, taking a hit to your side that momentarily made you freeze, and the slime had taken that opportunity to charge into you, sending you flying backwards into a tree

“(Y/n)! Are you alright?!” Mona was at your side in an instant, her gray eyes wide with worry. You tried to laugh, to alleviate her worries, only to fall into a coughing fit.

Your sister became increasingly worried as her eyes drifted down to the ice covering your wound. Just as she reached to touch it, something caught the sun and blinded her for a split second.

“(Y/n), what is that?” As your sister pointed towards your closed hand, you finally registered the cool feel of metal on your palm, and as you unfurled your fingers you were greeted by a Dendro vision.

A tired smile tugged at your lips as you looked down at the pulsating vision, a wry laugh falling from your mouth.

“Huh, guess nearly dying does have it’s perks,” you chuckled, delirious from both the cold and the hit to your head. You heard Mona screech at your words, and you could only chuckle as you turned to meet her eyes. “Don’t worry, Mona. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t joke about dying, you stupid little sister!”

-----

Masterlist

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Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list for Genshin Impact!!

@anatthesavage

[skellebonez]

Hear me out: Spider Macaque in the Spider Monkie AU with prompts 14 and 35?

I hear you and oh this was way too much fun... I took a great deal of liberty with exactly how Mac transforms into his Spider Monkie form and who says what and the TIMELINE because I... re-wrote this into a ship fic because of you. I call it ShadowCodingShipping because someone had to name MacaqueSyntax eventually! I guess you could say this is definitely a what-if story more than anything.

Warning for body horror because Mac is slowly turning half spider and that's kinda gross and painful. Also this is hurt/comfort but heavy on the HURT. This does not have a happy ending.

Am I scaring you?/I believe I can be of some help here.

"Am I scaring you?" Macaque asked with a smirk, pain clearly barely held at bay behind it. The monkey demon was a mess, fur tussled and miscolored splotches that hadn't yet grown in properly littered his torso. His torso that had gained a good inch in the last failed attempt at... what they were trying to accomplish. "... are you going to answer me, scientist?"

Syntax did not answer. Whether it was out of fear or knowing that regardless his answer would not make the demon leave him be even he didn't know.

"Queenie calls you Syntax," Macaque continued, moving around the computer to watch him over the screen. "That can't be your name, can it? I didn't give enough of a shit to ask before now. Hey. Hey. Hey. H-"

"No, it is not my birth name," the scientist snapped eventually, watching as Macaque smirked in victory. "Only a complete fool would agree to work with someone as infamous as the Spider Queen and use their legal name as if they were sending an unencrypted message containing confidential information across basic messaging applications without a VPN. What in the world are you trying to accomplish?"

"Ooooo, wordy," Macaque chuckled out as he leaned against the monitor and made it tilt at an awkward angle. "I'm. Bored. Entertain me, scientist, you're the most interesting person in this place. believe it or not."

Syntax raised a brow at the demon, sighing as he continued to type into the computer. "Do you want this to be finished any time soon? Because the more you bother me the longer it will take. I may be able to multitask but humans have limits."

Macaque scowled for a moment before shrugging, failing at hiding a grimace of pain. It must have made the new bones in his spine ache horribly. But he moved easily past Syntax without a word, only whipping his tail against his shoulder as he left.

It didn't hurt at all... he wondered what the point of the gesture even was.

~

The screaming rang through the entire hideout, Syntax's ears ringing even as he covered them. They'd tried twice more in their attempts at Macaque's twisted idea, Spider Queen slowly seeming to become less and less comfortable with not only their methods but with what they were even doing. It was working, sort of, but not correctly.

The changes were supposed to be immediate, so fast that the pain receptors wouldn't register properly. Not for the comfort of the converted, but so that it would happen so quickly they wouldn't be able to fight it. Less pain, less of a change for your body to try to fight off the transformation. Syntax had insisted on mechanical changes, nano-bots or something of the sort instead of organic growth. Macaque himself had vetoed this, saying something about how it wouldn't make him feel whole again.

This made the changes slow. Too slow, so much so that the mixture was fought off by his immortal monkey biology too quickly for it to take hold the way it was supposed to, requiring Syntax to make it stronger and stronger each time in the hopes it would finally kick in.

Now Macaque laid on the ground, holding his face and screaming so much Syntax feared his vocal cords would give out. The last two treatments had lengthened his torso even more and changed his fur consistency entirely. Once soft and thick black fur was a mixture of that and the coarse purple hair of a spider, not meshing together at all and instead forming an odd pattern on his body. At some points silver had begun to peak through, though if that was supposed to happen or if it was a reaction to the sheer stress of his body undergoing a change that should not be happening he was not sure. Syntax could see the red mark on his face warping, changing into the same purple on his torso around his eyes and moving up on his face as two more eyes grew above the ones he already had. It was fascinating to be sure, and he would have said that it was almost pretty had it not seen the build up of them forming in a fashion he wished to never see in slow build up ever again.

He was a scientist. He was supposed to be impartial to his work above all else, and he had agreed to help of... mostly his own volition. But this... This made him more uncomfortable than he was ready to admit.

"Help him up," Spider Queen said after Macaque collapsed onto the floor, screaming ceased as his body fought off the mixture for the fourth time. She looked... perturbed. Discomforted. "After his last treatment... move on to your idea. We are not doing this again."

She moved out of the room quickly, to fast to even tell her if he would or not, covering the side of her face with her hand to shield her from the sight of the collapse man on the floor. Yes... discomforted indeed.

Syntax didn't have that luxury. And he would not leave Macaque to lay on the floor regardless of orders. But the way he shook and covered his new eyes and the small amount of tears leaking from his normal eyes made a pang of pity shoot through him. He was a scientist... but he was still human.

"I believe I can be of some help here," he said softly, taking off his lab coat and folding it part way before shoving it under Macaque's head and laying the unfolded part over his face. The demon let out a half whimper, clearly bit back as he didn't want to show weakness, but eased ever so slightly as he realized the coat blocked out the light of the lab just as well as his hands had. "It's not a perfect solution, but it gets the job done.

"Th-thought Queenie s-said to help me u-up," Macaque stuttered out, moving his hands to grip the coat instead of his eyes.

"Yes, but that would be a bad idea," Syntax explained, sitting on the floor next to him with a sigh. He pulled his tablet down from a nearby table, there was no point in not getting at least some work done, and began scribbling away with the attached pen. "Your eyes are far too sensitive and with the other changes you have gone through your body will likely collapse again before we could get you to a cot. It's best you remain stationary for the time being until I am able to assess your pain tolerance properly, then I will move you to your quarters."

Macaque didn't say anything, just huffed in reply and seemed to relax. Syntax wondered if he was thankful he wouldn't have to move immediately this time, and he could have sworn he heard something... rumbling.

Maybe it was the machinery behind them.

He felt Macaque's tail hit his side after a while, thumping softly against him... but he didn't push it away.

He wondered if this would change anything at all.

~

Syntax saw more of Macaque than usual after that. Sometimes he would wander into his lab and just... stay there. Silent as the shadows he liked to hide in. Sometimes he would just watch him work, other times he would bring him plums or mangoes. Syntax never had much of a taste for fruit, not really enjoying any form of sweets, but he would not pass up free food when his stomach rumbled in protest from his long hours. One time Macaque had brought in a book, sat on his desk, and just read it.

That was bizarre, even for him. But Syntax found he didn't exactly mind the company. It was quite... lonely in the lab. He was the only human in the Spider Queen's entourage and her other two companions weren't exactly the best company. Oh, the big guy was nice and all and Syntax even enjoyed his presence well enough. But he would grow bored of the scientist's techno babble and science talk eventually and leave with a nod and a wave goodbye. He was grateful that he seemed to listen, however, even if he wasn't interested in the specifics.

The other one, however, was a pain in his ass. Constantly one upping him, trying to belittle him for being a human, just being an all around annoyance. He tried to act cool and suave but Syntax just found him obnoxious.

Macaque... Macaque stayed, listened even if Syntax ran out of things to talk about. And it was oddly nice. He felt himself growing excited for when the part-spider part-monkey would make his presence known.

He wondered, distantly... if Macaque was starting to mean something to him. To matter, in a way.

~

The day of the final treatment eventually arrived and Syntax actually dreaded what might happen. This was their last shot to make this work completely, there was a greater than 0% chance that this would cause irreparable damage to the monkey demon if they had to continue farther. But it seemed his worries were unfounded. He was smart, a genius even. He had done his job properly, even if it had taken far too long and was the least beneficial way to accomplish the goal.

Macaque screamed worse than with every other treatment, and understandably do. It would have shocked him if Macaque hadn't since he was growing two new arms.

The Spider Queen had taken her leave shortly after, disgusted by the sight before her. It was Syntax's job to watch as Macaque slowly changed before him, bones and muscle and sinew growing slowly and bit by until finally... finally it was finished.

They had learned from last time, placing a cot on the ground for him to sit on while this happened, and he collapsed onto his back. Two new arms limp against the floor as he shook and twitched and cried cold tears in agony. But it was finished.

Syntax couldn't stop himself. He rushed forward, kneeling beside Macaque's head, watching his eyes and expression for recognition and any sign that he was alright. It had only been two weeks since the last treatment, the time needed for him to recuperate, but in that short time... he had grown oddly fond of the man on the cot. He did not know what he felt for him, not yet, but he knew that he did not dislike him in the slightest.

"Ma-Macaque?" He asked softly after no response for nearly 15 minutes, waiting and watching and finally Macaque's eyes turned to him. "How do you feel?"

Macaque didn't say anything to him at first. Just blinked before a weak chuckle resounded from his throat.

"Whole."

~

The transformation was a mistake. Syntax had never felt guilt for any of his scientific achievement before, and he did not feel guilt for helping the Spider Queen in her endeavor, bit this? This he felt guilt for.

Macaque was in pain. Constantly. Sometimes it was just a dull ache, other times he almost collapsed as something moved the way it shouldn't and he had to bite back a scream. But there was no taking it back now and Macaque reveled in "feeling whole" again.

Syntax felt a mix of awe and wonder whenever he looked at the demon. He was... handsome, the purples and blacks and silvers of his fur blending together properly now. His eyes brilliant gold and green. And when he wasn't in pain his smile was nice, soft even if he could call it that. He was unsure of how much of it was true, he knew the Six-Eared Macaque to be a trickster. But he hoped some of it was, at least when directed at him.

But when he was in pain his face twisted in a way that made Syntax sick to his stomach to see it each time the agony rang true on his face. But Macaque brushed it off, not seeming to pay it much mind. Not when he had his eyes and arms "back".

The Spider Queen agreed with him, he could tell, but probably not for the same reasons. She seemed frightened of him. Goliath and Huntsman were just scared of him too. They avoided him like he would kill them on sight.

Syntax, despite his guilt, welcomes his presence still. He was not frightened of Macaque in the least. No, he just felt guilt that he was in pain. And he would never not want to help him through that now. The spider monkie had grown attached to him, almost a constant companion at his side. And he had grown fond of him as well.

He learned that Macaque had a flair for the theater. He made shadow puppets when the Spider Queen wasn't watching, though for what purpose and what audience Syntax had not asked. He liked to watch Syntax work, and eventually as he started to rest his head on the human's shoulder he learned the rumbling from the second to last treatment was a purr. He didn't know demons could purr, let alone to speed up recovery from injuries.

But the day of the Lunar New Year was coming and Syntax could tell he had something else... someone else on his mind.

~

The next day was to be the day. Syntax's last chance to get the new formula and tech right. It almost felt like a repeat of the past treatments but with less screaming. He was worried.

Macaque wasn't, however. He had never been worried, assuring the Spider Queen (sometimes through growls and bared teeth) that it would be done in time. He'd been a success after all. (Syntax said nothing each time.)

They'd never been this close before, but Macaque had eventually dragged the scientist away from his computer for rest. Taken him to his room, sat on the bed with him, and just. Held him. Purring loud and deep and eventually Syntax was lulled into slumber sitting up against the soft-coarse fur of Macaque.

He realized that Macaque mattered to him more than he cared to admit.

~

Syntax had failed. His formula and tech hadn't worked. They only had one shot left, and there was no time for him to fix his mistakes before the end of the celebration. Macaque had been in too much pain, on the other side of the room, to tell Spider Queen off this time. It was all over...

Until she came. The young woman in white and blue. She'd done something, added an ingredient he had not been able to calculate for, and then...

"Let's give it a spin," Spider Queen had said with a smirk as she turned toward her human scientist... her human guinea pig.

"Wait, no!" Syntax backed up, knowing that it was almost pointless to attempt escape. There was nowhere to run. "I helped you! You need me! Maca-AGH!"

Before the spider monkie could rush to his side the little spider drone had jumped on Syntax, adhering itself to his face before he fell backward over some machinery. It crawled around him, situating itself on his back and digging in it's injectors and

pain agony pain pain something came out of his back pain another painpainhescreamedandscreamed ANOTHER AGONYISTHISWHATMACAQUEFELTPAIN one more

And then it was over. Syntax felt... nothing. No pain. No agony.

No... guilt.

He stood straight, facing forward before kneeling. He knew what he had to do.

"My queen."

Yes. His queen. The Spider Queen.

She was the only one who mattered to him.

He heard his name spoken from the other side of the room but paid it no mind. That voice didn't matter to him.

That wasn't the voice of his queen.

~

"Syntax?" Macaque called, unable to stand from his spot as his arms throbbed in ghost pain. He had tried to stand before, when the drone had lunged at him, but the pain shot through him for a split second and send him to his knees too quickly.

His screams... his screams made his ears pull back not from the pain of the volume but from fear and something else.

Then Syntax stopped screaming and stood and knelt before the Queen.

"Syntax!"

... he never responded.

Macaque wondered if this is what guilt felt like.

[thatonecitykid]

I bet on Losing

Hey everyone! Sorry this is so sad.. was already crying so might as well make everyone else cry.This takes place after Endgame but during the same time as Far From Home. Listen to "I Bet on Losing Dogs" by Mitski for the full experience. Word Count: 2517. Have fun angels :)

Peter had finally left for his class trip, Pepper and Morgan had gone to spend their summer in Malibu, the remaining avengers were either in space or had completely disappeared from your life. Here you were after five years of your life had evaporated, and after all this time you had to play your fathers role for all the remaining avengers. You hadn't had the opportunity to cry when you first learned about what had happened. You couldn't cry at the funeral, not because you did not want to, but because you felt as if your father wouldn't want to see it. No one wanted to leave you alone, but after months of trying to dig some type of emotion out of you they had assumed that the death and slow disappearance of your makeshift avenger family had unaffected you.

You finally had the opportunity to exist alone. You had also finally mustered up the strength to visit secluded cabin your father had lived in for the last five years of his life. Although you had been given the keys immediately after the funeral, something about visiting the area made you feel uneasy. Not necessarily creeped out but just as if you did not belong, after all it was something your father invested in after you had already blipped away for several months.

You drove up to the cabin alone, slowly unlocking the door as if to not start or whoever may be inside. Before even entering the cabin, it looks clean, you assume that Pepper has had people cleaning constantly to maintain the cabin. It made sense, it was something she's cherished. You stepped into the cabin slowly and began to look around. The walls were lined with framed pictures of Morgan, family pictures of Pepper, your dad, and Morgan, and random posters and vintage albums. Although you were not the one to complain about it, having no evidence of your existence in the main areas of the home caused your heart dropped. As you wandered through the kitchen and the main family room, there is no evidence of Tony's life prior to the blip, just a somewhat normal family of three.

You decide to wander to the basement area, leaving the office and bedroom spaces upstairs for later. There was a large sitting area that you assumed they watched movies in. There was also a playroom painted pink featuring all sorts of gadgets very similar to those you grew up with that Tony had made for you. Towards the back hall of the basement, it was a glass door to your father's workshop area. You open the door gently and made your way in.

Despite looking like somewhat of a mess, you knew that behind the madness there was a method. You could tell that although your dad left in a hurry, things were placed in specific spots very similarly to how he did in every other one of his workshops. You walked towards his swiveling chair, noticing a metal box with a button on the worktable. You press the button and jump back as a life-size hologram of your father appeared in the room. He began

"Hi Pepper. My love, my muse, my boss. If you are listening to this then I did the one thing you have always told me not to do. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the worry I've put you through, and I am sorry for taking myself away from you. I was a gift wasn't I. You've already seen another version of this message, but it never hurts to see your face again my darling."

The tears in your eyes begin to form, not because you had not expected to see your father. At this point you had already seen the message he had left after the funeral; It was only really meant for Pepper and Morgan, never addressing you.. At the funeral you refused to enter the cabin but as you watched the message while standing outside, Happy looked over at you with remorse but you kept a straight face again. Who were you to complain at your dead dad's funeral? Yet this message radiated the same energy.

As the second portion of the message began to play tears began to fall faster. It almost feels like an out of body, sure your dad had taken up different kids during your time growing up, but this message made you feel as If you had been completely replaced. Although it felt like a dumb theory there was no evidence as to your existence prior to Morgan.

"Hello my little scientist. How's my favorite person. Daddy is really sorry I can't be there right now. Be a trooper and hug you mom for me real quick. Now you must be surprised because I'm supposed to be the strongest dad in the world but let me tell you kid, sometimes crazy things happen when put on the ironman helmet. My little minion I love you 3000. My love for you is infinite. You have been and will forever be daddy's best friend."

Here you were crying over a child who had also lost her father, filled with jealousy over the fact that you father had chosen her and failed to consider your return but had prepared for Peter's return, still had projects waiting for Harley, and had in fact set up a stable plan for Morgan's future. At this point you were sobbing, what had all felt like a bad nightmare and jumping to conclusions had started to feel way too real. This emotion was even stronger than when you watched footage from your father suit as the snap happened, this emotion felt like a stab in the back.

Maybe he never loved me.

You tried to collect yourself but were still sobbing when the holographic figure of you father disappeared. You might as well finish the house tour before leaving. The upstairs portion of the house featured Tony and Pepper's room, Morgan's room and two other doors. The main bedroom was tidy and organized, with a closet full of clothes that both Pepper and your dad had left. You walked into Morgan's room and did a quick look around, not wanting to invade child space. Returning to the hallway you opened the door to your father's office. Inside there was a rather simple with a desk, a leather chair, and two matching chairs. The plants in the room were growing well, meaning someone still came to water them. There were a few pictures on the wall, including Peter's Stark internship picture, and a random picture you took of the original Avengers after their first New York battle. On the desk there was another metal box similar to that in the workpace. You argued whether or not you wanted to potentially break your heart more before giving in, siting in the leather seat and pressing the button.

A slim beam of light scanned over your face, confirming your identity, and the box began to play. To say you were shocked is an understatement, as your father's hologram appeared across the desk sitting in one of the matching chairs.

"Hello Munchkin. If you've found this box, then I just going to have to accept that I've failed you. You've been gone for five years and regret every moment leading up to when you snapped away. You really did want to come to space with me, and honestly you would have been helpful, but I don't think I could see you Blip away and have the will to continue. That being said because I am already admitting I was wrong, I should not have had your suit take you to the bunker room, where you eventually snapped away alone. I regret that decision y constantly. On another note, I'm sorry I didn't hug you as soon as you got back, I clearly I cannot really hug anyone."

You had finally given up on holding in their tears. You didn't have to be strong in front of your dad. He had always held you when you cried and this time he couldn't. You tried to wrap your arms around yourself, but nothing felt the same.

"I hope you are crying, because if I'm crying alone during this part, I'll be embarrassed, his image continued as it stood up and leaned against the back of the chair. Munch I know you've probably walked around this house and have found no evidence of yourself. You've probably beat yourself up about how much I love Morgan, but think about it. The amount of time I've spent these last 5 years essentially idolizing you would not have been good for her to experience. "

You rose quickly from the chair. Not even one damn picture?

"Now I know you're wondering not even a single picture. Pick up the projector box and follow me ."

You did as the digital version of your father told you and followed it back into the hallway.

"Put the box down and put your hand on the center of the door. "

This activated a scanner which opened up the door to the room. As you walked in you recognized that this was an exact replica of your room back in the Malibu house. You were still a kid when the original house was blown to pieces but somehow everything was exactly as you remembered it. As you walked further into the room you noticed the large screens, placed like picture frames, which played videos and pictures of you and your dad throughout the years.

Your father walked towards the center of the room, bounded by how far the projector was.

"You see kid, me and you have somewhat the same grieving styles. I have a feeling you didn't cry at the funeral. I have a feeling you haven't cried, at least in a way that someone else could have noticed. You take after me in that sense."

The hologram started to sniffle, your dad had actually started crying when recording this. You really wanted to hug him, the reality of his death hurt even more. You had finally allowed yourself to start grieving.

"Look, I know you used to listen to the song about betting on losing dogs when you wanted to cry, but that does not apply to you at all. You may have gotten a more complicated stick of life, but I can tell ya, this does not need to be your villain origin story. From the first day I took you home I could tell you were a fighter, but I need you to feel as if its ok to cry. I've spent hours on this floor in shambles wishing you were here. The small things that Morgan does that remind me of you throw me into sadness pools constantly. You are my motivating force. I really hope you allow yourself to cry about it so that you can continue in life. I don't think I can stand in this room for any longer before I cannot speak at all, so please take the projector back to my office. "

As you lifted the projector you thought about how much this must have hurt your father to record. Maybe he didn't want anyone to encounter this box except for you. As you placed the box on the desk, you sat back into the leather chair as your father's holograph sat across from you.

"On a different note, you are probably wondering why I seemed to set up a game plan for everyone but you. With Morgan I just made sure she had a comfortable, who am I kidding, lavish funding behind her. I can't dictate what a five-year-old should do. For Harley you know that I've always looked out for him, a position in Stark industries honestly should not have surprised you. Peter is what I feel most conflicted about. I'm not setting him up to become the next Ironman, I'm setting him up to become the greatest version of Spiderman he can be. Well, I know the media is probably going to take it and run having known that Spiderman and Ironman we're friends at some point, but I'm really giving you the biggest responsibility. I don't expect you to live in my shadow, I want you to outgrow it. I think you might be surprised to see everything that I left you, besides Stark industries itself. That's a conversation for another day."

"I know I've been speaking for quite a while, but my baby, my baby yes I called you that. I know how much this has all affected you, and I'm sorry, I am completely sorry and do take full fault for it all. But now because we cannot change the past, let's focus on the present. I want you to know that I loved you with my entire being. I'm not sure how to emphasize this enough but I do want you to know you were cared for, you were loved, and you were thought about for every minute. If you don't get to see this message, and I'm already gone, that means this message will never have to play for anyone. Either I found you and I've given you a new message, or I'm rolling in my grave. Either way my darling I cannot emphasize how much I love you. I do hope for the best for. Before I have to go, I want to see you smile. Sure, I can't physically see it right now, but I can imagine it."

As the recording choked out that last sentence, you flashed a weak smile. A face sticky with all the tears that you have been crying.

Now I know you need to get back home, but when you get back to the city, stop by the shawarma place and get something to eat. you gotta eat Darling. Also don't act like you don't like Peter, you two idiots keep pushing each other away in cannot take it. Now I'm gonna say goodbye mini me. Watch over Pepper and Morgan for me, okay? I love you."

You took one final sweep of the house before heading back to your car. You had cried so much that your eyes physical hurt. You almost felt a sense of comfort having finally released some of the pent-up emotion. As you drove towards the city and towards the Shawarma place you almost felt kind of sad, knowing that all of your friends were in a foreign country. Yet you still felt as if your best friend, your Dad was watching over you. And in all reality that felt as if it was the only thing that mattered.

[mudwingpropaganda]

gimme your take on skywings bc 1) your take on mudwings is excellent 2) im writing a story that focuses on the skywing military and their employment of child soldiers and bread-and-circuses style of rule and 3) the skywings are so poorly designed and worldbuilt in canon

I LOOOOOVE the SkyWings. I’ve only recently fully understood the appeal of the tribe and after working on a few headcanons for them and Prince Cliff (pre-blog) I realized just how much sustenance they were lacking and how much they were deserving! I’d love to talk your ear off about what I have in mind.

SkyWings were once a tribe focused on music, theater, storytelling, and the arts. They prided themselves on their bards. They were known around the world as one of the most artistic tribes whose bands you simply HAD to have at your events, the sculptors you HAD to commission for your bust, the tribe you HAD to come to the parties of or else you simply haven’t lived. They were a tribe of merriment, festivals, games, and more. And don’t even get me started on their impressive air stunts and light displays, the fire dancers, and more. 

The SkyWings were close friends of the SeaWings, who loved to share this passion for the arts and exchange techniques, styles, and inspiration. It wasn’t until the SeaWing Massacre that this friendship became unsteady and nerve wracking, until they cut each other off - officially, sans a few independent artists - completely. 

In the grand scheme of things, the militarized SkyWings are a very new idea. It wasn’t until a few queens before Scarlet that the tribe aimed to display strength and firepower as opposed to inspiration and joy. And perhaps this is why these dragons are seen as more grumpy nowadays. They’re simply not in touch with their personal side and under Scarlet’s reign, they simply stagnated in creativity and individuality.  

Scarlet’s reign used her dragons as pawns for her master plans, instead of individuals who could improve their tribe. She was inspired by the elite theater productions her mother had taken her and her sisters to when she was young. So much so that she thought the drama, the fights, the bloodshed, oh, it simply HAD to be brought to reality. She relished in the emotional turmoil of pitting her citizens together, watching reality television in real life as her servants turned against each other for fear that they’d push each other onto Scarlet’s bad side. She threw dragons in her arena for the pettiest of crimes to watch them duel, with her daughter by her side, and her sons preparing and pleasing the crowds. 

This only ceased, somewhat, when the war struck. Oh, a war would simply bring so much entertainment for the arena. Scarlet organized the breeding program to further strengthen her dragons for war, children raised for battle, with more armored scales than the elder’s flexible scales made simply for flying. Dragonets without parents. Simply a duty to their tribe and to their throne. 

Ruby’s reign is going much better, to say the least. She’s trying to bring back the theater, music, and arts, with Vermillion taking lead in things such as opera and theatrics. Her son, Cliff, is taking massive steps in bringing back individuality, so much so, he rejected his responsibilities as Prince but uses their wealth for a plethora of creatively inspired organizations.

But Ruby’s rule still isn’t perfect. She’s trying hard to inspire the youth to take the steps to be individuals. But they were born soldiers. They were born to fight and survive for the throne, but there’s no more war to fight, and with no families to turn to and very little stability to take them in, the tribe is trying to rebuild to accommodate these dragonets with lost childhoods. 

As for appearances, SkyWings are comedically long, lanky dragons. They struggle participating in other tribes’ social spaces due to how long their spines, tails, and wings are, in comparison to their quite stumpy legs. They often walk like arched up cats or perpetually bent inchworms in order to get around on land. No wonder they prefer flying. SkyWings typically have beaks, talons, vents for their internal fire, and feathers. Though most dragons often burn their feathers by accident, those in higher positions such as royalty, merchants, or artists tend to have the cleaner, more elegant ruffs of feathers behind their ears. 

An important part of the SkyWings’ cultures are their horns. Their horns never stop growing as long as they’re alive and can bend in a number of intricate patterns, remain somewhat straight, or loop like rams until they’re stabbed by their own bones. But it’s gravely looked down upon to shave your horns or trim them down, regardless of how much they might irritate your scales or may weigh your head down. Elder SkyWings struggle to get through doors because of their pride in their heavy rack. Taking care of your horns is a priority in SkyWing culture. While women are always bigger than males, there is no discernable dimorphism between their horns. 

True SkyWings lacked armored scales. They were often very thinly protected by their soft scales with the texture of feathers, but as of the war, armored scales are more common, alongside inflated firepower. Firescales, in the reigns leading up to the war, were becoming more frequent due to the steady escalation of dragons with more intense fire. 

Speaking of firescales, I like to take this idea more literally and say that firescale SkyWings literally look like they are on fire. All SkyWings are capable of venting smoke from their scales if they feel a bit too intensely, but can control their internal fire. Firescales are incapable of this, and burst into flames with every heartbeat, every sense of emotion, and every feeling. To kill firescales dragonets was seen as a mercy. They could never be loved properly, they claimed, and their only destiny was destruction and death. 

In a similar idea, SkyWings killed animus dragons and firescales because they had a deep sense of self accomplishment. Being born with special powers was something they looked down upon, whether literally or socially. Everyone had to earn things equally, and no one could simply earn magic or the ability to set themselves on fire. These dragonets were killed on the mountain side, in the hopes they would be reborn anew. While recent queens forbade those who bore animus or firescale SkyWings, the parents were often encouraged to lay new clutches in hopes that their children would be reborn in their families. 

One other idea I’d like to add is the subset of SkyWings I’ve been playing around with. Mountain SkyWings are SkyWings who are essentially hermits, recluses, and loners of the dragon world. Derogatorily deemed “feral,” mountain SkyWings are individuals who live in the cave systems of their queendom, horde the treasures they find, and enjoy their territory in their lonesome. They chase off other dragons and grow so old that they frequently die in their own caves, unable to find their ways out due to their size, deteriorating vision, or simple exhaustion. 

Queen Scarlet prioritized reacquiring mountain SkyWings to “reintroduce them with a sense of nationalism,” but mostly because she simply wanted their hordes. Osprey was one of these dragons, an individual who had lived in the mountains his whole life, his scales rocky, spiked, and brittle, and was forced to join society as a standoffish, snappy SkyWing with a love of literature and law, looking for loopholes to get his treasures back. He unfortunately died before he could find a loophole from Scarlet’s “because I say so” judicial system, but found joy in giving Peril, a terrifying dragonet, someone to look up to, confide in, and talk to without going into full body trembles. 

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Ghosts’ Journey (End): The Biggest Assholes of Black Swan Bay

Because my Fanfic uses a blended version of the game and the original Black Swan Bay Lore, I had to reconfigure the relationships between the 3 Black Swan Bay surviving orphans as jolly rivals, friends and siblings. While their relationship is devoted and loving, growing up in an environment like that doesn’t create Polly-anna characters. I hope you agree and enjoy what I have created here.

The hardest thing about restraining emotions was controlling your breath.

Adrenaline shot liters of blood through your body at high rates and required you to breathe at high rates. If you didn’t, you could go dizzy or pass out.  Your heart quivered with her name and your vision went blurry. Renata… Renata!  The secret you learned was to yawn. A deep inhale, a big stretch and a slow exhale could effectively throw a wrench in the stress loop without blowing your cover. You blink rapidly to clear your eyes, finally let out a big, rude yawn and look completely bored, rubbing at them as though sleepy.

Renata was now Zero. She was likely in disguise to hide from Herzog.  It made sense for her to be after him too. She couldn't contact you but she was here now because your paths were always on the same trajectory.  It's just now that they happened to cross.

You were best friends in the past, but also rivals in combat. To those unaware of her abilities, you and Renata would be pretty evenly matched. But Renata had the skill of deep analysis. The longer you fought, the more she could analyze you and the more she analyzed you the less likely your chances of victory became. You would seem evenly matched and then she would just take you apart like you were an amateur.

She’d somehow survived the gunshot wound and the bombing. She’d somehow infiltrated Cassell and Hydra. Her Black Swan Bay training and behavior would have quickly made her disappear among the rank and file of Hydra. You felt it would have made it easy for you to get inside and fit with Hydra’s militaristic structure after all. That’s why when she talked about how deep she had made it into Hydra’s organization, you knew it had to be Renata.

 "In the opinion of Hydra, they are close to total victory. The remaining job is to get rid of the remnants of the Devil Clan, and the King General is, of course, the highest priority target for removal, with you being a close second.” Renata continues to speak to Chime with the cold robotic reality. “You once tried to kill the King General, but in the opinion of the Hydra family, it was just an internal fight. You are an evil spirit, you have long since violated the Clan rules, and the Hydra clan cannot tolerate someone like you." Zero stared into Chime’s eyes, "Your brother also believes that you have no need to exist in this world. He has seen the evil side of you with his own eyes."

"When you spell it all out like that, things do seem hopeless, don't they?" You turn to Renata as if she'd just lectured you like a schoolteacher. The sibling rivalry between two old friends warms up your heart and calms the panicked and fevered response of your sudden reunion. 

She thought she knew everything and she did know a lot. You were impressed yet again. Renata had spent all this time on the pulse of Hydra, but she didn’t understand Chisei the way Chime did. She shadowed Bondarev's puppet while you followed Herzog's puppet. And it was Herzog's puppet that was the key. You were third behind her, but that is an elite ranking that could shift and be challenged. 

You could not wait to hug her fiercely. But like most precious things in Black Swan, you would have to do so in secret. Her cold disheartening words to Chime reminded you of your rivalry and you wouldn’t be bested by throwing open your arms and sobbing like a naïve child.

“Although there is no proof, I will still do my best to convince my brother." Chime said slowly, "This is the only chance."

"You think we need his power?" Caesar asked.

"No, this is the only chance I have to reconcile with my brother." Chime said softly, "He was determined to be a friend of justice, so he couldn't accept his brother who was an evil spirit. For so many years, I never met with him again. Sometimes I hate him, but we are the only ones in the world who are truly family. Just because of my bloodline, he killed and abandoned me in a well? What in the world is more important than the fact that he is my brother and I am his brother? Justice? What is justice? I don't think there is any justice in this world. Those are just words that adults make up to fool children. But he believes that he can give up everything for the sake of justice. Is his kind of person just or ruthless?"

Everyone was silent, heavy with the sadness of his words. You couldn’t kill Chance even after he lost control. You only held out hope that he would snap back to normal. But Chisei killed him. Yes, you felt it was ruthless.  Not just. 

"But more than that, I was afraid to face him. I was afraid of the way he looked at me. That I made him feel dirty. I thought that I would never be my brother's friend, that I would only be his enemy. I have done more bad things than just the murder case in the village. I am the Dragon King of the Devil Clan, and I have the blood of many people on my hands. How can I go back to face him?

"But just today I suddenly figured out something. Why did I want to kill the King General so badly? It is not only because I hate him, but also because it's the only thing I can use to ask my brother for mercy. I wanted to cleanse my own mistakes with the blood of the King. Then maybe there could be a slight chance that I can become his fellow traveler again. But I failed. I can't do anything anymore nowadays. Ruri Kazama is still a useful person for my brother, Chime Gen is not. But even so, I still want to reconcile with my brother. I will tell him everything I know, and, as for my future, it is up to him to decide. If he decides to kill me, it will be the right end for me. I have killed so I will be killed, is there anything more fair in the world than that?"

You look up at him with uncertainty. He wasn’t thinking of throwing his life away was he? No. Chisei won’t kill him. Because… 

You suddenly understand where his train of thought was going. Chime was weaker but he was still very smart, able to weave his words to great effect, just like you.

 Chime bowed deeply: "Thank you for all your care these days. You did not treat me as a stranger. Except for you, only those girls who met me by chance would treat me as normal."

"Have you thought it over? If your brother really decides to execute you, Cassel Academy can't shelter you, Japan is your brother's territory." Caesar said to Chime with some concern.

"I have thought it over. It is true that the danger is great, but there are always people in this world with whom one has to reconcile no matter how much one hates them. Because without them, you will not even be able to talk about life."  Chime was silent, looking at Caesar, Chu Zihang, ‘Zero’, Lu Mingfei and Fingel. But there were no more questions. “And to that end, as a precaution, I would like to inform you that MC and I will wed tomorrow.”

Caesar’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. 

Lu Mingfei jumped up with his eyes wide at you. “What? You're marrying him? You hardly know each other!”

“That’s not the point.” ‘Zero’ grumbled, crossed her arms and looked away. She knew exactly what you were doing. Internally, you stick your tongue out at her.

Fingel was stunned and then he grinned. His arms shot up into the air. “YES!”

Caesar slowly mouthed the word ‘Wow’. “You were just waiting to throw that out there weren’t you, Chime? No wonder you're so confident.”

Chu Zihang nodded, though he seemed to be hesitant to completely endorse the plan. "At a celebration like that, it will be harder for him to reject you."

“Hey, don’t get us wrong. I love Chime. I don’t want to wait and I want things to go well. I’m sure you understand, Caesar.” You say, keeping your earnest character and trying not to cackle like a villain.

Lu Mingfei continued to sputter. “But… MC! Where are you getting married? You’re not planning on having a wedding in a … place like this?”

“Where else would I have it?” You blink at him.

“This place is.. Uh… well… it’s not very uh…”

“Pure?” You grin. “Well, Chime and I practically have the same father figure. So isn’t it kinda like marrying your step brother? Why would getting married in a women’s club be what you immediately point to as impure? If anything, it’s the cleanest part about this... in fact-”

Lu Mingfei clapped his hands over his ears. "I don’t want to hear any more!”

"MC,  be nice…" Caesar drawled. "So it's settled then?" Caesar tossed the car keys on the bar, "Tomorrow night right here, we negotiate with Gen Chisei at MC’s and Chime’s Wedding, which amounts to a negotiation between the Academy and Hydra."

"We can negotiate with the leader of the Hydra on behalf of the academy?" Chu Zihang frowned, "If we make any wrong decision, it will be counted against the academy."

"No, if we make any wrong decision, we can only bear the result ourselves." Caesar lit a cigar, took a deep puff and exhaled green smoke, "Everyone has to pay the price for what they do. If we believe in the wrong Gen brother, or if Chime’s judgement is wrong, the result has to be counted on us."

 "Zero said that the Hydra opened the Well of Bones, but until we find the sacred skeleton, it’s too early to confirm that the White King is really dead. That thing is different from any opponent we have encountered before. It lives by devouring souls. As long as humans still have greed for evolution, it can always find a way to resurrect." Chu Zihang said, "If the White King completely awakens, it is unknown whether Tokyo will survive. There are tens of millions of people in this city. Can we decide the course of history?"

Everyone was silent.

“A wedding that will decide the fate of the world? How dramatic!” You just smile at the thought of Herzog salivating over his grand entrance to such a momentous event and pull your hair back behind your ear. What a perfect trap for Herzog. 

"Let's think about it, if it was not us in this position, but the principal, what would he do?" Caesar suddenly said.

“'Hesitation will only leave more time for the opponent to prepare.'" Lu Mingfei said. "'Mistakes happen, but a hero who makes a mistake is still better than a fool who didn’t try.' I've heard him say this." 

Caesar took out a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, poured it into glasses, and distributed a glass to each of you: "If Chime and MC can have the courage to meet Chisei Gen on the day of their wedding, then we should also have the courage to negotiate with the Hydra. I think we all are unanimous, right?"

"Since I'm the leader of this group, if we do something wrong, I'm the one most responsible." He drank the liquor in his cup in one go. 

Damn straight. If it weren’t for Caesar’s meddling and stopping you from running away, none of this would have happened! You take the whiskey and down it.

You would be counting on him to spring the trap for Herzog, but due to issues of ‘leaks’ you wouldn’t ask him what his plan was. He would take responsibility for that.

 Zero put down her glass: "You guys are sure you won't leave the nightclub now, right?"

“Yes, is there any question?" Caesar asked.

"Then call me an orthopedic surgeon, and I'll need a separate bedroom." Zero suddenly fell forward. The hand that had been gripping the edge of the bar was loosened. She had been relying on this hand to keep her balance, otherwise she wouldn't even be able to sit down.

Lu Mingfei swooped down to catch Zero. She was completely unconscious. The bandage covering her knee was soaked with blood.

"She's hurt badly! Damn it! We need to call the doctor!" Caesar untied the bandage and looked at it, frozen.

"There are metal fragments embedded in the bone!" Chu Zihang flicked on the light and did a brief examination.

It took everything in you not to run to her side. But Renata had made her statement clear. Reunions could happen later. She outranked you and you would obey out of both respect and the fact that she had carefully crafted this identity for who knows how long. You wouldn’t be a good friend of you ruined it.

 "She should have told us long ago that she has no sense of pain?" Caesar said.

No, Caesar, she was hurt this whole time, but once again, as a Black Swan Alum, she knew how to hide it. The nurses were cruel and merciless. If they were in the right mood, they would look for a child to beat to take it out on them and hear them cry. But because Renata and you learned to never cry, they would quickly grow bored of you. Eventually, they learned that it was useless to beat you and wouldn’t bother.

Renata adapted by just suffering without expression. You adapted by joking around with your tormentors until they laughed. Once they were laughing, their beatings would lose their ferocity and even stop completely. So Caesar could be forgiven for not sensing that Renata was close to passing out.

“Is she a friend of yours?” Chime was close to you. 

Your eyes were fixed on the scene before you and there was some tension in your hand as it held the glass. You loosened your grip and looked away. “No. I don’t know her.”

“She must be sent to the hospital!" Caesar said, "A wound like that has to be treated immediately, I'll drive."

"No, it's best not to move her and we shouldn’t leave the safehouse. Call an orthopedic surgeon like she asked.” You say loudly, commandingly. 

Everyone turned to you. Your voice and your demeanor suddenly resembled Zero’s! And even though you only met her for a few seconds, you were immediately deferring to her orders over Caesar’s!

Chu Zihang agreed, "In this case she has to lie flat immediately, the metal fragments are grinding her bones."

 "Why didn't you tell me earlier when the injury was so serious?" Lu Mingfei propped Zero up so she could lie flat on the sofa. 

You stare in shock.

Renata hated being touched by people she didn’t know! You were fine and Z was fine. Did Renata know Z’s brother? She had to. Even in her weakened state, if any of the others held her close like that, she’d knock them out!

"I had to make sure you wouldn't evacuate immediately. If you were going to leave, I'd still have to walk, and that wouldn't leave me time to see a doctor." Zero opened her eyes slightly. "I can't be useless. Useless people will be left behind."

You smile and duck your head as she recites Z’s little mantra. You had a lot to say to that girl. But now was not the time.

You get back to your room and it’s nearly 4 am. You can’t believe how much of a nightowl you were becoming. You wanted badly to talk to Z and give him a piece of your mind, but you hadn’t had time to look for the last bug in your room. Fingel was still recording everything you did in this space. So Z would not appear here. You put on Swan Lake again, sit down with a glass of vodka, and prop a cigar on the ashtray. You light it to smell the sweet tobacco smoke.

When Hydra researched you, they only found you were a ‘Siberian girl’ and did their best to make your room that of a Siberian girl. But Mingfei said that your world was composed of the people you know. And one of those people was Dr. Herzog. That’s why the smell of tobacco was relaxing. It was what relaxed you around Caesar… and the smell of it attracted you to Ruri Kazama and Chime.  You lift the glass if fine spirit. “Hm… A toast?”

Renata was here, you were here, Z was here. You’d imagined that they were all ghosts and you were just being emotional when you felt their presence. But they had all been here this whole time! Z had carefully hidden Renata from you and refused to give you much information. After all, you were still a low ranker. It was likely that Renata knew you were here too! Those jerks. You can almost see their smug, haughty, loving faces. You let out a soft little hiss and stand up again and pull two more chairs from the dining room table into the sitting room. Their ghosts sat down in the chairs.

“That’s better.”

With the ghostly figures of Z and Renata in your mind, in this secret place, everyone knew each other and deep down you feel the warmth of home for the first time. “As I was saying,” you raise your glass again. “Raise a toast!” You look at them all and shake your head. “To the glorious and bloody wedding! And… to the biggest assholes of Black Swan Bay!” You laugh and down shot after shot, not caring that Fingel was listening.

[cant-blink]

Half-Life

Summary: My first written story for Gigan and Showa Ghidorah. Gigan is trying so hard to go the honest route in earning Ghidorah’s forgiveness, but one’s true nature will always come to light eventually.

-

Never before has he felt so frustrated over one person...

Or was it three people...?

Eh, it was one person, all three heads spoke as if they were one, so...

He’s getting off track. He casted a glare at the golden dragon, wasting his time destroying plants of all things. This planet drew the serpent in with the promise of life, but the only life here were boring ass plants. Ghidorah didn’t seem to care, he was wiping them out anyway like it was the only thing he could think of.

Gigan wondered if there was anything else better for this three-headed asshole to do.

Guess he shouldn’t expect different. He heard about Ghidorah through his masters. He knew the dragon was created by another race, specifically to destroy. Not that different from himself, actually. He still remembered the days in the nest, back when he was all flesh. And fluff. And eyeball. And more fluff.

He would rather not be reminded of how cloyingly cute he looked, but alas, his masters thought it necessary to keep baby photos of him. And download them into his memories, never to be erased...

Point was!! He used to be mortal, whole, before he was old enough to leave the nest for his first hunt. He never got to enjoy that first hunt, for his Masters came and took him. Changed him. Kept him under that blasted mind-control Ghidorah hated so much. Blamed him for.

As if it was his fault. He wasn’t the one who studied Ghidorah’s creation. He wasn’t the one that got the bright idea to enslave him. Sure he was involved in his capture, but it wasn’t like he was in control of that.

The damn dragon and his damn grudges.

Not that different from himself, actually. Gigan can hold a mean grudge if he ever cared enough to.

Hell, he would probably hate Ghidorah more if it wasn’t for their shared past. Both created, made the way they are, by unnatural means. Both had their Masters destroyed (though from Gigan heard, it was Ghidorah that turned on his own creators, as well as destroyed Gigan’s Masters as revenge). Both were free of the mind-control and free to do and roam as they please.

And here Gigan is, spending that freedom following a dragon that didn’t even want him there.

But it’ll be worth it. He was never one to take “no” for an answer, and he admits, he saw something in Ghidorah. Perhaps it was his massive wings, resembling his own sails but much larger. Or perhaps, it was the gold scales that resembled the original gold feathering of his species. They were beautiful, the way they caught the light, as if from a well-preened female.

Gigan lost his own gleaming feathers a long time ago, gone was the last remnants of what he truly was. In the back of his mind, he wondered if THAT was the true reason why Ghidorah didn’t lust for him the same way.

He shook his head. He knew that was bullshit. He’s been following this dragon long enough to see that he showed no such interest in ANYONE. Not even fellow dragons, it seems, ones that resembled him far more than any other lifeforms he had stored in his memory’s database. No doubt, those draconian creatures served as blue-prints for Ghidorah’s creation. But even then, Gigan saw no courtship behavior, no attempt at casual conversation even. No interest outside of the usual “kill them all”.

Gigan loved the kill as much as the next person, but Ghidorah REALLY needed a hobby.

“Hey,” he called out from his seat upon a sizeable pile of boulders, his voice holding a mechanical edge to it. Ghidorah’s response to his voice was immediate and already full of tension so thick, Gigan can slice through it.

“Leave me alone.” Those words again, Gigan’s heard it plenty and it just sounded like noise to him at this point. So he ignores it, as he gave a casual stretch of his arms and tail, before leaning back on the larger rock behind him.

"Whaddya say we get outta here and go to the bar? Grab some drinks, have some fun. Kill a few folks."

"No."

"Heh, bet you don't even know what the bar is."

"Nor do I need to know." Ghidorah hissed, clearly not amused by the cyborg’s playful tone as he turned back to the forest blazing around him. “If you’re there, I want no part of it.”

Gigan frowned, but he doesn’t lose his cool yet. This was all a game of patience, a battle of wills, and he will not be the first to break. He will continue to wear this dragon down until he gives in. 

“You’re destroying plants, of all things!” he pushed. “The bar is a much better time than this place. I’ve sharpened these bad boys-” He lifted the blades on his arms for emphasis. “-for the past hour just hoping for something interesting to happen.”

“Then go,” Ghidorah grunted. “Do something useful for once and stop distracting me with your half-life.”

“Oh~?” Well, this was new and served as a confidence boost as he pulled himself up from his seat and stepped over towards the golden dragon. “I’m distracting you, am I? Tell me more about my ‘half-life’ then.”

Ghidorah’s left-most head turned to glare at him, while the other two Gravity Beamed the forest around them.

“I grow tired of having to filter out your presence when I’m looking for new victims to destroy. My crests constantly detecting you and throwing off my hunt for lives more worthy of my time than you will ever be.”

“More worthy?!” He shouldn’t feel so insulted by that, but he does. Especially when the three-headed monster turned away fully. “These are nothing but damn trees you’re wasting time on! They don’t even scream and you think this is more fun than I am?!”

“These trees,” Ghidorah continued without even looking at him. “It gives me great pleasure to snuff out their life-force. They scream in their own way. You, on the other wing, only give me annoyance with your constant blabbering and useless ‘apologies’.”

“Useless apologies?!” Gigan sputtered, his sails fanning open wider with indignation. “You’re lucky you’re getting ANY apologies from me! You know how many others I’ve apologized to? A grand total of ZERO!! But, nooo, apparently that’s not good enough for you!”

“Because I know what a real apology looks like,” Ghidorah growled. “I have seen many who fall at my feet, seeking forgiveness for whatever crime they felt they committed to earn the fate I bestowed on them. I see more genuine regret from those pitiful creatures than I see in you.” 

Gigan said nothing for a long moment, the red glow of his eye growing brighter as his anger begins to build. But his voice remains calm.

“So basically, you want me to beg at your feet.”

Ghidorah turned his heads again, watching him for a moment before a cruel look grows upon all three of his faces, his own red eyes gleaming.

“That would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

The cyborg’s tail tip clicked loudly with agitation before he broke eye contact. He should just leave, track the dragon down another day and avoid this bullshit altogether. But if this is what he had to do to finally make some sort of progress...

Ghidorah better be the best lay he ever had.

Swallowing his pride, he stepped closer and with another moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself down. One knee, then both knees. All three of his sails flatten to his back. It was the single hardest thing he’s ever done, and he dared not look up at the dragon. He didn’t want his embarrassment to be seen on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled through his teeth.

“For what?” Ghidorah pressed and Gigan’s tail tip gives another sharp spin. It takes another moment to respond, resisting his body’s urge to upper-cut the tip of his blade into one of those stupid chins. But he doesn’t and his voice softens.

“For what my Masters did. For what I did. I wasn’t in control, but I’m sorry anyway.”

“Hm...” was the only response he got and he finally gives a single glance towards those three faces. And no sooner than he did that than a golden foot slams itself right into his exposed chin and throat, causing him to fall back. He was stunned for a moment, his senses both organic and mechanic struggled to get back online. He almost missed the words being shot at him with venom. “As if I will ever accept anyone’s apologies, much less yours.”

.....

The amount of sheer rage that boils from within his core was unbearable. This game, he lost it. He broke as he pushes himself up with his elbows to glare seethingly at this good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit lizard!

“That’s it! I tried playing the nice guy with you, but I’m done.” He pushes himself to his feet, storming over to the three-headed asshole who stands his ground. “I’m done with your damn attitude!!”

“Then leave, or die.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m not leaving empty-handed. I’m getting what I want, whether you like it or not!”

He swiped for Ghidorah’s middle head with a scythe, the dragon pulling back with the slightest of nicks. Without hesitation, he slammed all three heads into Gigan’s chest to push him away. But the cyborg was not so easily swayed, as he kept his footing and jumped for him with an arm raised. His sights remained on the dragon’s middle head and he just needed one good hit to-

A Gravity Beam met his chest, causing him to fall to the ground. More beams around him brought rubble exploding from the ground and onto his face and chest. Before he can recover, he felt a heavy weight crash onto him, Ghidorah’s feet planted on his shoulders, wisely avoiding the buzzsaw on Gigan’s chest.

Those red eyes glared down at him, those three mouths opening to no doubt unleash another blast of energy. Gigan wasn’t giving him the chance and lifted his tail up, lunging it forward to stab the end into the dragon’s back.

This got a shriek, as a spray of blood escapes from the wound. Gigan gathered his strength, pulling his tail back to get Ghidorah’s weight off his shoulders. He shifted to get to his feet and swung a blade towards the middle head, but it struck the side head that thrashed in the way.

But Ghidorah can’t pull away from Gigan’s grip, those sharp ends fastening onto his spine. One wrong move would cause irreversible damage and clearly, Ghidorah was unused to having blood drawn. Those scales were hard and durable but even they were no match for the weapons the cyborg yielded. 

Such a shame though, that he had to stain those beautiful scales.

It’ll be worth it though, as he makes another swipe and successfully landed the tip of his blade directly into the base of Ghidorah’s middle skull, behind the horns where his mane met scales.

Got it!

The jolt that went through the dragon’s body can be felt, and Gigan couldn’t stop a smirk on his face as he met the wide eyes of his newest victim.

“What’s wrong, Ghiddy? Did you forget?” He opened the blades of his tail tip, and pulled his tail free of Ghidorah’s back violently, with another spray of blood. Ghidorah lets out another shriek, but he doesn’t run. “I know far more about you than you’re willing to admit. Have you never wondered how I’m able to track you down so well? You think being mind-controlled left you unscarred?”

The cyborg struck again with a blade; this time, across the dragon’s chest to draw more blood, causing Ghidorah to stumble backwards. Gigan snickered, stepping forward.

“You still have that chip,” He lifted a scythe once more, tapping the pointed tip right into the wound he left in Ghidorah’s head. He can see the blood already beginning to mat into that oh-so-luxurious mane. “The same chip my Masters and I activated when we first met, remember? Of course you do, that’s why you never tried to kill me, huh? Because you knew that I can do it all over again.” 

The blade tenderly moved from the wound left down to the dragon’s mane and all the way down that neck, tracing the dragon’s blood onto those scales. “I wanted to go the honest route for once, thought you would be worth the trouble. Figured it was the least I could do.”

Ghidorah still does nothing to fight back, even when Gigan kicked him and sent him crashing down onto his wounded back. Another shriek escapes, but this one was filled with anger. Gigan can see it, the way the dragon’s muscles convulsed beneath those scales. Ghidorah was fighting the chip, a battle sure to be lost.

“I guess I should thank your Masters as well as my own,” Gigan continued as the dragon carried on his mental struggle to keep control. “For being a rather stupid bunch, they chose such a strategic spot to ensure you can NEVER truly be free. For all your grandeur, you always were just a pawn for someone else. Even without the mind-control, all you’ve ever done was follow the programming given to you like a goddamn robot. Yet you call me the half-life?”

He planted a foot onto Ghidorah’s chest, staring down at those six eyes that began to lose focus. “Well, this ‘half-life’ owns you now. So let the fun begin~.”

[dreamscapefics]

HEY OMG, i have a prompt,, normal witcher universe except people have animal traits/features so Jaskier is a catboy...black kitty ears and a fluffy tail while Geralt has wolf ears and a tail,,it mostly goes all okay, Geralt even starts accepting and making J a member of Pack, then J ends up going into Heat (magic? Was it just his time? Who knows) and since G has already made J pack, it makes sense that he would help fill his kitty up (go Absolutely insane with whatever kinks u wanna give em ❤️)

I finally managed to finish the last one-fourth of this fic. Thank you so much for sending this prompt, I had a lot of fun writing it, despite the writer’s block haha. I hope you, and everyone who sees this, like reading this.

Brief explanation: I made a few tweaks about the Alpha/Omega aspect. In this ‘verse, Omegas are intersex. When they present, their organs and anatomy shift accordingly. That said, they’re unable to get pregnant unless they go into Heat, and they only go into Heat when they meet a viable mate. Even after they meet their mate, it can still take a long time before a Heat is triggered. They can still have sex, of course, but they just can’t get pregnant when they’re not in heat.

Tags: animal features on human body (partial animal transformation? Idk the right term), Alpha/Omega, breeding, knotting, cunnilingus

~*~

It’s believed that wolves and cats don’t really get along. They can co-exist and interact, yes, but only when it’s absolutely necessary. For the most part they choose not to because it’s not in their nature as a species. Alpha wolves and cats have a tendency to be aggressive towards one another, whereas Betas and Omegas are more manageable.

But an Alpha wolf and Omega cat? That’s an association that’s rarely, if never, heard of.

So when Geralt, an Alpha wolf, met Jaskier, an Omega cat, in Posada all those years ago, he never expected for the feline bard to stick to him, much else befriended him. Jaskier, with his black kitty ears on top of his tousled chestnut hair, almost always has his black fluffy tail held high, alerting Geralt that the young man enjoys being in the wolf’s presence. And Geralt, internally exasperated at his own biological urges, is unable to stop his own fluffy white tail from wagging back and forth, a clear indication that he’s just as happy to have the bard around.

Of course, the beginning of their companionship (friendship?) was filled with arguments and disagreements. It still is to this day, but it was a lot worse then. They’re both territorial creatures, and Jaskier had a tendency to rub his scent all over Geralt’s things, which the wolf witcher didn’t appreciate at first. Then there was the issue of taking on contracts, which Geralt has gotten used to doing on his own. So having Jaskier tag along, prancing about the place while strumming his lute, his black tail poised high as he talks Geralt’s ear off about the monster they’re hunting and the inspiration Jaskier will gain from witnessing the impending fight. It took several months before Geralt got used to having another creature around, his enhanced senses extending to look after his feline friend for any sign of trouble.

Years passed and they slowly grew more comfortable around each other. Geralt still gets pissed and growls at Jaskier whenever he smells the bard’s scent on his things, in which Jaskier would answer with a twitch of his tail. The first time he wrapped his tail around Geralt, it happened a few years into their friendship. They passed by a village who was vitriolic towards Geralt’s kind, spitting vile comments about him. So when he felt a brush of Jaskier’s fluffy tail around his waist, Geralt blinked at the unfamiliar gesture but remained calm. It’s only when they left the village that he allowed his own tail to lightly brush against Jaskier’s rear, who turned to Geralt with a sunny smile, his kitty ears twitching happily.

From that moment, Geralt knew that Jaskier was going to be with him for the long haul. It’s then that he decided to officially welcome Jaskier to his Pack by inviting the feline to winter with him at Kaer Morhen that year.

Jaskier accepted, obviously, and while Geralt was excited, he was also nervous at the prospect of introducing Jaskier to his fellow wolf witchers, not knowing whether his brothers will get along with his feline friend. But his fears were unfounded when Eskel and Lambert reacted favorably to Jaskier and vice versa. Even Vesemir’s grey tail twitched in curiosity upon meeting Jaskier, and his small nod aimed at Geralt was one of approval which made the witcher nearly sag in relief, heedless of his white tail wagging.

Everything was great that winter. Jaskier sang for them almost every night and Geralt took him on a tour around the Keep, showing him his favorite places and voluntarily sharing stories to the eager bard about his time growing up there and what he and his brothers went through to become a witcher.

To say that Jaskier was moved to tears would be an understatement because that night, Jaskier crawled into Geralt’s bed. He curled his body around Geralt, his black fluffy tail wrapping almost possessively around him which made Geralt huff in amusement. But he also wrapped an arm around Jaskier, fingers running through his tousled hair and kitty ears while his own tail curled around the bard’s.

~

After that, Jaskier always went with Geralt to Kaer Morhen for the winter. They still go their separate ways for a few months or an entire season, but they make sure to always reunite by autumn, having agreed beforehand to meet at a city or town.

Even after ten years of traveling together, they still get a lot of stares. Some confused, some frightened, while others give them judgmental stares, eyes drifting from Geralt’s hulking form to Jaskier’s lithe body. Yes, it’s still unheard of for wolves and cats to be voluntarily traveling together, but an Alpha wolf and an Omega cat? Oh, the perverse shit Geralt has heard over the years from passersby.

“The bard is probably the monster’s sex slave.”

“How can a feline degrade themself to a fucking witcher?”

“Melitele, can you smell them? Their scents are basically entwined!”

“I bet the witcher’s knot is magical for the kitty bard to stay with him.”

Geralt doesn’t think the Jaskier ever heard those comments about them, because if he did then his friend would’ve likely gone feral on them - hissing barbed insults at them, body taut and tail puffed up.

Still, given their reputation as traveling companions, it’s a wonder they both managed to have sex at all. Geralt has the brothels while Jaskier has, well, anyone willing to bed a feline bard whose best friend is an Alpha wolf witcher. In the years they’ve known each other, Geralt has never seen Jaskier go into Heat; even the bard admitted that he hasn’t experienced it since he presented as an Omega.

“I guess I haven’t met my mate yet,” Jaskier says with a nonchalant shrug, but Geralt can smalle the sorrow and insecurity in the bard’s scent.

Geralt hums and brushes his tail against Jaskier, whose tail is slowly swishing back and forth. The feline looks at him with a sweet smile, and Geralt’s chest tightens at the sight.

He’s been having these peculiar feelings for Jaskier lately. Geralt can’t pinpoint when it began, but he knows he only became aware of it when they reunited a month ago in Oxenfurt. He’s not certain if it’s just a passing thing or something more permanent, but regardless Geralt doesn’t like to see one of his pack members sad. While a part of him is guilty for feeling happy that Jaskier hasn’t met his mate yet, a part of Geralt wishes he could be that person for Jaskier instead. He loves the bard, he’s Geralt’s best friend. He looks after him and cares for him and is there for him whenever Jaskier gets in trouble.

By the time they begin their trek up the Blue Mountains for Kaer Morhen, Geralt has pushed away all thoughts of him and Jaskier becoming more to the back of his mind. There’s no space for silly fantasies in the life of a witcher. The Path is all that matters, and Geralt can’t allow himself such distractions.

And for a while it worked. Barely, but it worked.

Until two years later when Jaskier went into heat in Kaer Morhen.

~

Geralt takes a deep breath before knocking on the door at the end of the hallway. He hears a muffled, “Come in”, before he opens it and quickly gets in, quietly shutting the door behind him.

“Hey, I brought you some broth Vesemir prepared,” Geralt announces as he makes his way to the form slumped in the middle of the bed. Like all the other beds in the keep, it’s huge and can accommodate at least three grown witchers, the mattress wrapped in soft, thick furs. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my insides are being scraped by a rusty spoon,” Jaskier croaks out, his smile coming out more as a grimace. His cat ears are turned sideways, chestnut hair disheveled as a few locks of hair cling to his sweaty forehead and neck. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Geralt perches on the side of the bed, breathing carefully through his mouth so as not to inhale more of Jaskier’s tantalizing scent. He’s always smelled a bit like catnip, lavender, and cantaloupe. But now that he’s in the first stage of his heat, Geralt can detect something spicy sweet, as well as something musky that only heats generate. Overall, Geralt is already addicted to Jaskier’s heat scent, his cock hardening further in his loose breeches.

“I told you, it’s fine,” Geralt says as he places the tray on Jaskier’s lap. “But like Vesemir said, it would help if you told us who triggered your heat. There’s still time to track them down the mountains.”

Jaskier flushes, ducking his head to spoon soup into his mouth. Geralt cocks his head when he smells a hint of nervousness and embarrassment in his friend’s scent.

“You’re nervous,” he points out. “And embarrassed.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “What are you not telling me?”

“N-nothing!” Jaskier shakes his head, but even Geralt doesn’t need his witcher senses to detect the lie. “It’s nothing, Geralt. It was probably that foxy blacksmith I slept with at the town before last.”

Geralt growls low and continues to look at him, unimpressed.

“No, it wasn’t,” he says in a gruff voice. “Stop lying to me, Jask. Who is it?”

“It’s… I.” Jaskier shakes his head and spoons another mouthful of soup. Beside him, his black, fluffy tail twitches. “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

Knowing he won’t get an answer if he prods further, Geralt decides to take a different approach. He clears his throat, his turn to be nervous as he psyches himself for what he’s about to ask. Offer. If this is the only time… Geralt internally shakes his head and clears his throat once more. Behind him, his tail twitches nervously.

“Fine. If you don’t want to tell me who, then… I have a suggestion.” Geralt pauses, waiting until he has Jaskier’s full attention, the feline bard tilting his head slightly with a curious glint in his eye. Nodding, Geralt carries on. “If you are amenable, and since it’s your first heat after so long, I... hmm. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up, the bard gulping audibly as he stares wide-eyed at Geralt.

“What are you, um, are you suggesting...” he falters, cheeks darkening.

Geralt slowly nods his head. “I’m offering to, um, help you. With your heat. If that’s okay with you.”

Jaskier is silent for several seconds, and Geralt is starting to become more nervous when --

“Geralt, I…” Jaskier swallows. Geralt can smell the honeyed scent of excitement as Jaskier’s kitty ears perk up, turning wide blue cat-eyes on Geralt’s golden. “You silly witcher, you’re the reason why I’m in heat. It’s you who triggered it.” At Geralt’s stunned silence, Jaskier lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Say something, you brute.”

“So you…” Want to share your heat with me? You’re my mate?

Jaskier, his smile breathtaking and blue eyes blown wide with arousal, nods his head.

“Yes.”

I want you with me.

Yes, we’re mates.

Something in Geralt unfurls and snaps. Surging forward, he takes Jaskier’s sweaty face into his hands and kisses him, careful to not knock the tray of hot soup over the bard, his mate. Jaskier lets out a punched out groan as he returns Geralt’s kiss, nipping and sucking as their tongues battle for dominance, quickly turning it into something filthy and scorching.

The next few minutes are a blur. Somehow, in their frenzied state, Geralt managed to set aside the food tray on the cold stone floor as he helped Jaskier get out of his damp clothes. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to shuck off his own garments, his mate pushing down the thick furs to the end of the bed as he turns over on his belly. Jaskier is on his knees and forearms by the time Geralt steps out of his smallclothes, and his arousal spikes when he catches a glimpse of his wet, dripping cunt.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier arches his back, tail flicking in excitement and wiggling his ass at the witcher as he purrs, “That’s the plan, darling. Please, please come and fuck me. Want your knot so bad.”

“Fuck, Jask.”

Not needing to be told twice, Geralt gets back on the bed and positions himself behind his needy mate. Licking his lips, Geralt gently pushes the other man’s legs wider before taking his plump cheeks in both hands and spreading them apart. Geralt absentmindedly kisses the fluffy tail curling around his neck, but rather than stick his cock in, Geralt leans closer to Jaskier’s taint and inhales the tantalizing scent. His eyes nearly roll back into his head at the ripe smell of his mate, and without hesitation he buries his face in Jaskier’s cunt, tongue lapping at the sweet juices dripping from his hole.

Jaskier’s gasp of shock quickly turns into a breathless moan, his thighs quivering as Geralt takes the little nub between his lips and sucks.

“Ah, ah!” Jaskier gasps out, his head thrown back in pleasure. “Geralt, I - ah! Fuck!”

Geralt moans from where his tongue is buried inside Jaskier, chest rumbling as he breathes in the sweet, musky smell. He licks into Jaskier’s hot, wet channel before stiffening his tongue and fucking his mate. He uses the hands gripping the cheeks apart to push and pull his mate from his tongue, Jaskier thrusting back against Geralt’s face with expletives and moans that would give a whore a run for their money.

He spends several minutes worshipping Jaskier’s cunt, and he alternates between fucking his loose, wet hole and licking a stripe from his little nub to his tailbone. Jaskier’s fluffy tail twitches and Geralt can’t help but lay a sweet, small kiss at the base before diving back in to lick and taste more of his mate’s sweet juices. Jaskier cums with Geralt’s tongue plunging in and out of his hole, and the witcher laps it all up while Jaskier rides out his orgasm.

Giving one last kiss to the swollen nub, Geralt gets up on his knees once more and grips Jaskier’s hips as he finally guides his cock to his mate’s leaking entrance. He slowly sinks into the tight, wet heat, and loud groans of pleasure echo in the spacious room as Geralt bottoms out.

When he breathes out and inhales, Geralt is then made aware of a new smell. It’s a cloying scent, not overpowering but present, blending perfectly with the existing smells that Jaskier has already been producing. His heat has officially begun.

At the thought of his mate officially in heat, and it’s all thanks to him, Geralt growls low at the back of his throat as he pulls out before thrusting back in. Jaskier’s moans urge him to set a fast and brutal pace, and Geralt is unrelenting as he begins to ram his cock in his mate’s cunt. He has a tight grip on Jaskier’s hips, whose hands are gripping the sheets below as he lets out breathy ah, ah, ah’s as Geralt continues to fuck his brains out.

“So good, so fucking good,” Jaskier chants, eyes hazy with lust and pleasure as he attempts to meet Geralt’s thrusts. Their tails entwine lazily, black and snow white twisting around each other on Geralt’s flanks. “Fuck - ah! Geralt, fuck me harder.”

“Insatiable minx,” Geralt says roughly, but there’s a feral smile on his face. He adjusts his grip and position and does as he’s told. From the new angle he’s fucking Jaskier, and by the deep, throaty moans his mate is emitting, he knows he’s hitting that sweet spot.

Jaskier tuts. “More like an insatiable pussy for you, darling.”

Geralt snorts in amusement and elects not to say anything, except to fuck his insatiable bard harder until Jaskier’s hands are pressed against the headboard to avoid hitting his head. After some time, Geralt presses down against Jaskier’s back to bite and suck a ring of bruises across his shoulders and nape. He trails his hands up to pinch and tweak at Jaskier’s sensitive nipples, the bard howling and buckling against Geralt’s hard thrusts. Geralt lifts his head to nose at Jaskier’s hair and kitty ears, playfully nipping at one twitching ear before licking it.

Jaskier’s breath hitch at the gesture, and Geralt’s knot swells as he inwardly smirks before doing it again. He traces the shape of Jaskier’s feline ear with the tip of his tongue, and below him Jaskier’s breathing quickens, his moans rising an octave higher as Geralt nips it again before moving to the other ear and giving it the same treatment.

“G-Geralt, fuck,” Jaskier mewls. He removes one hand that’s pressed to the headboard to claw at Geralt, blunt nails digging into the meat of the witcher’s hip and ass.

“You like that, kitty?” Geralt purrs in his ear. “You like having a wolf cock in your kitty pussy?”

“Yes!”

“So fucking tight and wet for me, kitty. You feel so good, so perfect.”

“F-fuck, Geralt, please!”

“What is it you want, kitty?”

“Y-you! Your knot! Want my Alpha’s knot!” Jaskier sobs.

Geralt snarls. “And you’ll have my knot, Omega.”

Half a dozen thrusts later, Geralt brings two fingers to rub at Jaskier’s little nub. And with a final thrust, he pushes his knot inside Jaskier’s tight channel as his mate cums with a scream, body convulsing at the intensity of his second orgasm. Geralt can feel his knot swell, locking the two together as his cock pulses and shoots thick ropes of cum.

After, Geralt carefully arranges them so they’re lying on their sides, still connected as he shoots another load of cum inside Jaskier, his mate purring contentedly in his arms.

“That was incredible,” Jaskier slurs, pessing his sweaty back against the witcher’s front.

Geralt hums contentedly, eyes closed as he breathes in their mixed scents. He kisses the back of Jaskier’s neck and murmurs, “Rest, love.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier hums back. Then after a few seconds of blessed silence, “Then you’ll fuck me again, right? And knot me again?”

Geralt huffs out a laugh and tightens his grip around Jaskier, his hand resting possessively over his mate’s heart.

“I’ll knot you as many times as you want, kitty.”

Jaskier purrs. “Perfect. My Alpha.”

“My Omega,” Geralt rumbles, kissing one of Jaskier’s black kitty ears. “Sleep now, love.”

Jaskier hums and does just that, their tails curled almost protectively around each other as they both fall into a peaceful slumber.

~*~

A/N: If you think my writing’s a bit weird towards the end, yeah it’s been a while for me haha. Thanks for reading!

Also, I don’t think future filled out prompts will have this kind of length. It would depend, I guess, and never say never, right? But just wanted to give you guys a head’s up beforehand.

[duraxxor]

Shadowlands: Chapter 1 - Division

Icecrown had often been a referred to as the capital of the Frozen North. Hues of blue decorated by the overcast of frigid snow. Remorseless and more often than naught, it often filled one with a sinking depression. Over the past several years, it had become a monument to undeath. The citadel spires erect in honor of the Lich King. However, much like many areas, the Frozen Throne was once a prison to the first Lich King, Ner'zhul. The Maw itself was originally designed to keep the Jailer imprisoned. But it had long become more a staging ground for something more sinister. Unlike it's mirror opposite, it was completely devoid of any sort of life and beauty. An undying husk plagued by hellish fire and nightmarish shadows that seek only to steal any soul, innocent or sinful of heart. The cycle had been shattered and now their was an rising flux of evil within it's heart... 

" Alphus... Daevara... time to awaken... " A hallowed voice called to him, possessing soulless depth that lacked any heart. Deprived and withered of any sort of remorse for this soul. The flow grating across one's mind like nails to a chalkboard, screeching and gnawing away. Dura's eyes slowly came an open, tugging at his arms as he realized he was in a shackles with his back flat against a metallic wall. The first vision of this formless creature before him haunted his mind as he couldn't make out a face or even a pair of eyes to stare into. Jaw falling open as if he had truly seen a ghost of sorts. "... how curious... you do no show fear but... curiosity... do you not fear the immeasurable pain that is to befall you from the unknown, child? " The voice flowed a testament to mock the mortals weakness of being caught in the first place. Wings of black smog finally painting a memorable picture that slowly caught Duraxxor up with where his story left off.

" Fear? " He questioned the very notion of such, his voice also having grown hollow. The fact rung across his eardrums as he cast a glance across the entire landscape. Never in his lives did he believe himself to find such a grotesque landscape that rivaled even the Scourge. "... What is this? Why am I being restrained like some animal? "He tightly tugged at his bonds, feeling as if the metal was barbed and pulling away at his very soul threads. " What is their to fear? I fear no pain of what is to come? This... land.. where am I?" 

The specter of death stepped over towards a small table off to the side as the harsh cries of some other individual echoed across the landscape, moaning it's displeasure to held prove a point in the words that were about to be uttered. " You are in the Maw... there is no hope. No escape. And you will yield yourself to his will or be consumed by the endless darkness. " The formless armor stepped forward, bearing a blade in arm that pulsed with tethers of anima, fibers of soul magic that was as common in the Shadowlands as mana was back on Azeroth. Another wailing cry echoed from the opposite direction from the last as the feeling of dread tried to creep along Dura's neck. 

Alphus' glare focused on the weapon, noting the magic that imbued the blade before he looked at the specter's helm, treating the eye sockets as a something to stare into. " You seek to torture me for eternity? Then you are sadly mistaken... I will not yield to any pain... there is work to be done and it is your meddling that has delayed the death of one who is worthy... " He hadn't forgotten about Lindeara, a being of chaos that would do whatever it takes to see her plans come to fruition while sabotaging any in her path. He wondered if these creatures had captured her and planned to torment her soul in this land. " Where is she? " 

" It matters not where anyone is... you will yield... whether as a whole being... or a broken one... " The being didn't hesitate or show any caution in her movements as she thrust this sword directly into the center of Dura's pectorals, feeling something tear into him like he had never felt before. It was as if his own soul had spontaneously combusted from inside, burning away. His veins began to start flowing with with erratic magics as he reeled back, crying out in something that truly hurt him.

" You... You wretch... ed! Gaaahhh! " He felt his form start to twist and writhe as bat wings tried to sproud out involuntarily while his features began taking on the form of a bat-like creature, shrieking as the pain began to get worse. He flailed and writhed like an animal that had been caught in a trap, helpless and bleeding out from his wounds. " I refuse... to yield! So much... left undone! " Despite his protests, all he gained was the symphony of cries that followed all over the hell bound lands and the growing pain of the blade being removed and reapplied all across his body. The actions felt as seconds had suddenly turned into hours, days, it almost felt like months were falling away, withering him from the inside out as he felt his body start to grow weak and heavy. " I... will not... yield... " Duraxxor continued to weakly protest, angrily staring at his captor despite the amount of puncture wounds that leaked the energies of his very soul, already tinged with a crimson flow. 

" This one.. shows great promise.. my master... he has already been touched by the power of anima.. " His captor commented, as if to be speaking with another person who was not currently present. Quietly, silence passed between him and this cold creature wielding a sword as a tool. " Of course, master... It is as you say... as a whole or as a fraction.. " The being pulled the blade out, giving Dura moment to linger on the pains of this torture, the winged creature of a man quivering from the consistent trauma being inflicted upon his bodily soul. The specter watched as he lifted up his head and bore his twisted gaze into their form, rumbling with a growl before it was cut short by a sudden slash of the blade that cut right through him as if he were nothing more than sliced bread. A jagged crack suddenly forming across his entire torso.

" What's... happen.. ing!? " Duraxxor could barely audibly speaking as he writhed agony, feeling the tethers that kept himself slowly spread apart. Like a paper husk, we was being split into pieces straight to the central fibers. Discoloration began to settle on his features as he soon found he was losing himself. The images of his life cycling through at a sporadic rate as the pain ignited wildly. His body slowly began to lose physique and he found that even has face was splitting into three sections as he bellowed out loud enough for the other denizens to feel the amount of agony he was enduring. The overly dramatized No following forth before the Duraxxor we knew finally shattered like glass, leaving the chains connected to three individual massses of energy that retained no shape. These shards of what was once the Myotis now writhed in agony in an attempt to rebuild and take on physical forms. A single fragment taking form in a serpentine-like creature that billowed and snapped it's jaws while lashing it's tail wildly like a whip. The second fragment, flapped two limbs that began to form, sharp teeth now shrieking as it flopped around due to being grounded. A full coat of fur beginning to form on the majority of it's body like a grizzled fruit bat. Then finally, at the epicenter of, the last piece began to take on the form of a humanoid. A younger, frail elf that possessed pale features, two snake bite piercings, and a gaze that bore no fruit and was as clear as glass. This new being was gasping for air and naked, possessing quite the panicked look as he felt his throbbing within his chest much like a living organ. Looking around, the creatures and their captor had finally disappeared, leaving what was left of Daevara alone to their own devices.

" What's going on? Why... who are you? " The elf looked to each of the creatures with unfamiliarity and a shivering fear about what was transpiring. 

" Reeeeeeeeeek! What is this?! Why did we fall apart?! " The bat creature screeched and continued to roll around on the ground, making matters worse as the chains started to wrap around his wings. 

The serpentine finally managed to coil up defensively and calm himself, peaking from between his his coils as he hissed at the two. " There is no need for panic... it would appear that our soul has been split asssssunder... I do not undersssstand what hasss happened... but now.... we are trapped together... but sssseperate.. " 

The bat finally ceased his movements as he tried to straighten himself up as he looked over towards the elf and speak. " Hey, you, you look just like us as a kid... does that mean you're the main part of us? Why are you so weak and frail? "

The elf finally sat up, curling his body to hide his shame before he finally answered his bat companion. " I... I don't know... I just feel this... vulnerability... I don't... feel like.. myself... what is... happening to... Me? Us? You? I don't even know... " Confusion showed about his features as he looked between the two.

" How the hell are we going to get out of here? What if we are stuck like this forever?! " The bat piped up as he wildly flapped his wings around, gusting air before he found himself whiplashed by the serpent's ridiculously long tail. " Ow! "

  " Would you calm yourself, you gutter snipe... do you want to catch the attention of more denizens of this place... we have to remain calm until we formulate a plan to rid ourselves of these chains... we are all a part of this until we figure out how to fix it... " The serpent appears to be the voice of logical reasoning out of the entire trio before he coiled himself around the elf protectively. " She will come... someone will come... don't forget this... " 

The elf looked towards the crimson serpent as if he was providing some insight and guidance to the situation before he nodded. " Very well... we will hold out as long as we can... until then.. let us... keep one another company, my friends. " He reached over to his left side and actually pet the bat creature along his head before he spoke further on the matter. " I shall call you... Randdu... and Sphula... " He gestured to the serpent with his other hand for the second name before he gestured to his own chest. " For now... I am simply Daev.... and we will figure out how to escape and settle the score... this i swear to you both... "

[snowwhitelass]

I’m pleased to be here today to discuss who I’ll be supporting for president, and why.

It was the honor of my life to represent my state, Arizona — my family’s home — in the United States House and Senate for eighteen years. I am a conservative. I’ve always felt that my conservative beliefs and values were best expressed in the Republican Party. I was a Republican long before the president ever called himself one, and I will be a Republican long after identifying as such is no longer useful to him. Principle does not go in and out of fashion, does not chase ratings, or play to the base, or care too much about polls. And principle is the provenance of no one party. That is one of the things I am here to talk about today.

The other thing I am here to talk about is the future — both of my party, but more importantly, the future of our country.

I was raised on a cattle ranch in Northern Arizona. Goldwater country. When I was a kid, the Republican Party under President Reagan was brimming with ideas, full of purpose and principle. It was coherent, and inspiring, and idealistic. So much so that it awakened the imagination of a kid from the town of Snowflake, and a whole generation of other kids just like him. Made us think big thoughts, and of our place in the world, and of what it meant to be an American in America, the shining city on a hill.

With Reagan, a conservative’s vision of America as the indispensable nation was benevolent and big-hearted, a beacon to the striver and to the subjugated and those locked behind an ideological wall that divided the world into free and oppressed. It was morning in Reagan’s America. It wasn’t perfect, but it was always getting better. We were the sum of our goodness, not our gripes — of our resolve, not our resentments.

I got into public service believing that for our politics to be healthy, the American government needed people who believed as I do, but also people who believed differently from me. This has become somewhat of a novel idea. But it is the genius of our founders that the Constitution forces compromise. Governing is hard. Democracy is hard. Decency shouldn’t be that hard, but apparently it is. You know what’s easy? Name calling. Demagoguery. The politics of vengeance is easy. Dehumanization requires very little talent.

By raging at each other, our minds vacant of reason and reeling with ill-will and tinfoil hat conspiracy theories, we have given in to the horrible tribal impulse to first mistake our opponents for our enemies… then become seized with the conviction that we must destroy that enemy… seemingly oblivious to the fact that not only are we not enemies, we are each vital organs in the same body.

It’s as if in order to save itself, your brain decided to destroy your heart. That’s about the level of care we are currently bringing to the proceedings. There is a sickness in our system, and we have infected the whole country with it.

We’re all old enough to remember when we elected presidents who spoke to our highest ideals and aspirations as a nation, not to our darkest dystopian fears. I can remember when, once an election was settled, a new president would reach out a hand to those who had opposed him, and pledge to do right by all Americans, not just those who were loyal to him.

That’s the way presidents once sought to lead and govern. In fact, it is the way every other president in the modern era, Republican or Democrat, tried to conduct himself in office. Each possessed a keen awareness that a president’s principal role is to serve not himself or his interests or the interests of his clan, but the people of the United States. That was once the American way.

Those of us of a certain age in this country have also had the rare good fortune of growing up and into adulthood not having to think too much about the consequences of our votes — or even whether we vote at all in a given election.

For our entire lives, through some very fractious political periods, we have taken steady self-governance for granted, and that is a luxury that so many of our fellow human beings living in other countries have never had for a single day of their lives.

But the story of the past 3 ½ years is the story of the power that we vest in the presidency, and the consequences when a president does not use that power well. And these times prove the folly of taking anything for granted.

In 2016, one candidate running for the Republican nomination described our current President as a “chaos candidate” and if elected he would be a “chaos president.” Can anyone now seriously argue against this proposition?

Of course, in 2016 the President was a private citizen, and thus was unaccountable for the chaos he caused. And these traits of the man who would become the standard bearer of my party were bad enough when exhibited by a mere candidate for president.

In 2016, it was bad enough when for months in advance of the election, the Republican nominee for president claimed falsely that the coming election would be rigged. Now, as president of the United States, he has said, and I quote: “The only way we’re going to lose this election is if the election is rigged.” What kind of president talks like that? What kind of American leader undermines confidence in elections in his own country, as part of his strategy to hold power? This is extraordinarily dangerous to a free society and it stands to inflict lasting damage to our democracy.

It was bad enough when as a candidate he attacked a federal judge because of his heritage, saying that Judge Gonzalo Curiel couldn’t preside fairly over a certain case because Curiel’s parents were from Mexico. As President, he has only intensified his attack on judges. He has interfered in cases involving his friends and threatened jail for his opponents, demonstrating how little he knows or appreciates about the independent administration of justice in America.

In 2016, it was bad enough for a mere candidate for president to sweet talk the Russian dictator, calling Vladimir Putin a “strong leader for his people,” as if “his people” had a say in the matter. Watching that man as president stand with Putin at Helsinki and take the dictator’s side, defying his own intelligence community and denying the ongoing Russian attacks on our elections — was shocking and appalling. In that moment, and in so many other inexplicable moments of deference to dictators, a president of the United States degraded his office and diminished America’s role as leader of the free world.

It was bad enough in 2016 when as a candidate he resorted to calling his opponents childish names. That behavior in a president — which has only gotten worse, is an embarrassment to the office. Do any of us want our children to emulate this behavior?

I could go on, but the litany is all too familiar. It is apparent by now that the president’s behavior has not and will not change, whatever hopes we Republicans might have entertained about the office changing the man.

Some of my conservative friends will say, yes, we don’t like his behavior, but he governs as a conservative. Here, today, I will say to my fellow conservatives: Whatever else you might call the behavior I have just described, it is most assuredly not conservative. Indifference to the truth or to the careful stewardship of the institutions of American liberty is not conservative. Disregard for the separation of powers — the centerpiece of our constitutional system — is not conservative. Governing by tweet is not conservative. It’s not even governing.

And to the refrain — Well, it’s all about the Supreme Court, I say: To fall back on Supreme Court appointments as the last remnant by which we define a once vibrant conservative movement should offer little solace to conservatives.

Three conservative principles have defined and animated the Republican Party over the past several decades. A belief in limited government, a commitment to free trade, and a recognition that strong American leadership around the globe makes America a more secure nation and the world a better place.

So, how are we doing with these principles?

Well, we were running trillion-dollar deficits even before the coronavirus hit us. We have destroyed foreign markets for our goods and services. We have threatened security agreements that have kept the peace for nearly three quarters of a century. We have offended allies who we will desperately need to face China and other long-term threats to our security and prosperity. For no good reason.

Can any of us stand here today and claim that our party has remained faithful to conservative principles during the President’s time in office? No, we cannot.

If we are honest, there is less of a conservative case to be made for reelecting the President than there is a blatant appeal for more rank tribalism. And further division. And more willful amnesia in the face of more outlandish presidential behavior.

I cannot and will not be a part of that. There simply is no future in it. To my fellow Republicans who, like me, believe in the power of conservative ideas — ask yourself: Will we be in a better position to make a conservative case for governing after four more years of this administration? I think we all know the answer.

So here we are today. During the 2016 election, given what I had already seen during the campaign, I knew I could not vote for the President. Like many of my colleagues, I chose to vote for a third-party candidate. Today, given what we have experienced over the past four years, it is not enough to just to register our disapproval of the President. We need to elect someone else in his place, someone who will stop the chaos and reverse the damage.

Putting country over party has a noble history here in Arizona. In 1992, Mr. Republican, Barry Goldwater, endorsed a Democrat running for Congress over the Republican he felt would not represent the party well. Goldwater hadn’t traded in his conservative credentials. Far from it. He simply believed, in that case, that the conservative cause would be better served over the long term if the Democrat prevailed.

And that is what I believe today, in this election. And that is what a growing number of Republicans believe and are declaring today as well.

I have never before voted for a Democrat for president. But I’ve been asked many times over the past four years if I, as a conservative, could vote for a Democrat for President. “Sure,” has been my ready answer, “if he or she were a Joe Biden-kinda-Democrat.

Well, the Democratic Party just nominated a Joe Biden-kinda-Democrat, whom I am confident will approach his constitutional role with the reverence and dignity it deserves. I know that he will reach across the aisle, because that’s what he’s done his entire career.

After the turmoil of the past four years, we need a president who unifies rather than divides.

We need a president who prefers teamwork to tribalism.

We need a president who summons our better angels, not a president who appeals to our baser instincts.

That’s why we need Joe Biden.

If we have learned anything over the past four years, it is that character matters. Decency matters. Civility never goes out of style. And we should expect our president to exhibit these virtues.

I have known Vice President Biden for two decades now. I served with him in Congress for much of that time. He is a good and decent man. I haven’t always agreed with him, and there will be many policies on which we will disagree in the future, and that’s okay. The steadiness of leadership, and the health and survival of our democracy — those things far supersede any policy issues on which we might disagree.

And this much I know: With Joe Biden as president, we will be able to preserve the civic space wherein Republicans and Democrats can go back to merely disagreeing about issues of policy, without fear of revenge or reprisal.

That day cannot come soon enough.

And so, it is because of my conservatism, and because of my belief in the Constitution, and in the separation of power, and because I am gravely concerned about the conduct and behavior of our current president that I stand here today — proudly and wholeheartedly — to endorse Joe Biden to be our next president of the United States of America.

America’s best days are ahead. Go Joe.

Thank you very much.

27 Prominent Republicans endorse Joe Biden for President.

[sanguinesorceress]

Marked For Death (Part 3)

[Part 1]

[Part 2 ]

Suspicious Death of Magister Deemed Homicide

 Toxicology reports have uncovered the cause of death for a Kirin Tor Magister to be a deadly toxin more commonly known by its street name of “Zanzil’s Slow Poison.”  Believed to be completely incurable, the outlawed toxin is either ingested or absorbed through direct contact, triggering the gradual deterioration of multiple internal organs before resulting in what can only be described by medical experts as “an excruciating death.”  Authorities are baffled as a recent interview with the medical examiner has revealed “there is no definitive way of knowing precisely when the victim came into contact with the toxin. Several factors such as body mass, diet, exercise, and the use of other medications, can alter the timeline when attempting to calculate the exact moment of poisoning.  Unfortunately, we are working with an approximation of one week at best.”  If anyone has any information regarding the suspicious death of Magister Jadex, authorities are encouraging them to come forward at this time.

As the ‘Tide Seer’ dispersed with a splash of salt water and collapsed into a lifeless heap of seaweed on the shore, the Sorceress appeared on a cliffside elsewhere.

 "Such an intriguing cloth to wear,” remarked the watcher from the shadows as he stepped to her side, “especially when used to turn a suspicious eye toward the already disreputable Kvaldir.”  She could feel his frigid stare burning into the crimson fabric of her hood, but she dared not glance his way.  Not yet.  For now, her eyes remained glued to the Kaldorei’s silhouette down below, watching him saddle up in preparation for his immediate departure.

 As per their agreement, her co-conspirator had tailed the assassin across the continent while taking every precaution to ensure his presence went unnoticed.  Looming high overhead, he observed the Sorceress’ performance from the safety of a cave through a network of scrying orbs she had organized beforehand.  Already confident of the answer, she sought the opinion of her companion for the sake of making conversation.  “Do you believe he will comply?”

 "You understand your prey, Sorceress.  You know their weaknesses and just how to exploit them,” he remarked dispassionately.  “The living will throw all caution to the wind when love is concerned, whether to obtain said infatuation or to protect it, I find it quite pathetic, really.”

 She glanced over her shoulder, rivaling the intensity of his gaze with that of her own.  “Is that so?” she prodded, and an amused grin pulled her sable lips tighter than a garrotting wire, “Is there nothing in this world you would protect with your life?”

Her question brought a telling smirk to his face. Haunting was that subtle gesture, the look of a man who housed layer upon layer of intricacies that were nearly impossible to unravel. "Blindness" he scoffed, and although the word was little more than a whisper, his authoritative voice carried above the crashing waves, refusing to be overcome by their ceaseless roar. "Blind love. Blind actions. Blind movements in the dark. Flailing arms trying to grasp at hope, at an opportunity to free one’s self from whatever chains they have shackled themselves with.” His eyes found her target, the shaken Kaldorei, and his grin stretched into something far more sinister.

 "What I cherish, dear lady, cannot —and does not— need protecting.”  His eyes flared into a mixture of blue flame and shadow, as his gaze returned to the Sorceress. "You need only notice the bones under your feet, the cuts you make, and the lives you absolve from this realm.  Gaze deeply into the eyes of those you claim, bask in the realization of their fate —of their untimely end—then, in those eyes, you will see what I love."

 It was for this very purpose she had chosen him to carry out this important task in her overarching plan.  The man’s ideals were iron-clad, armoring him against unwelcome influences, thereby distinguishing him as a powerful ally.  Having served his tenure under the Lich King, the Shepherd, once awakened, vowed to never again succumb to the same ‘blindness’ as the living. Perceived to be walking abominations in the eyes of mortals, the two shared the belief that they were lucid dreamers existing alongside a comatose society.

 “I would like for you to continue your surveillance on the young assassin to ensure he fulfills his task.”  She handed him a satchel, and judging by the clinking sounds coming from within the leather bag, it housed several glass vials.  “I have procured enough invisibility potions to conceal you from the scrying eyes in Dalaran.”  A single, cautionary finger stabbed the air as she relayed a warning. “They will only hide your appearance, not your aura, therefore I advise you suppress any urges you may have to use magic over the next twelve hours.”

 A trying task. The simplicity of it was presented before him, yet the request was made all the more complex in the back of his mind. For one who dwelled among the shadows, who lingered out of sight only to be seen as the last thing to be seen, he understood intimately that strategy was paramount in a situation such as this. "Hide what I am.” It was a familiarity that soon reclaimed him. Conceal yourself. Don't let them catch you. Pallid lips twisted ever so slightly as he accepted the Sorceress’ magical aid. "Be it by shadow, unholy magic, or physical inevitability… Death always collects its due.” He curled his plated fingers around the bag and held it close to his chest. "You shall have your result."

From the moment the Tide Seer dispersed, Oneth knew the clock was ticking.

 12 Hours.  Starting now.  Think fast, you can do this.

 Eliminate target number one = 4 Hours (Including travel time, cleanup, and disposal.)

 12 - 4 = 8

 8 Hours

 Target number two would require preventative methods and careful planning.  His death won’t be nearly as easy to cover up while meeting the Tide Seer’s conditions of a ‘slow and excruciating death.’

 Excruciating Death = Zanzil’s Slow Poison

 Acquire reagents from usual suppliers = 6 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

6 + 4 = 10

 8 - 10 = Dead Wife

 Not an option. Try again, Oneth.

 Acquire half of the reagents locally, the other half from usual suppliers = 3.5 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

 3.5 + 4 = 7.5

 7.5 Hours (with 30 mins serving as a buffer for small errors)

 This won’t be easy, but if it will save her life, I have to at least try.  Now, to make this happen and not fuck up.

He had worked tirelessly through the night, and thus far, not only was everything going according to plan, but according to schedule.  Perhaps lady luck was on his side, or maybe the Gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Whatever the reasoning, he was not one to question his good fortune.

 Even with the use of portals, the majority of his time was consumed by travel.  The places he was required to visit were remote, and with good reason.  Herbalists were forbidden to stock the full ingredient list and alchemists were outlawed from making or carrying the deadly poison. Anyone caught with the knowledge of its procurement were obligated to report suspicious activity to the authorities, and there were few business owners willing to risk their livelihood or their reputation on an assassin regardless of how tempting the bribe may be.

 Each reagent had to be purchased from a different supplier, then combined in the privacy of an undisclosed location to avoid suspicion.  This was not the first time he had created Zanzil’s Slow Poison, but it was certainly the first he had done it on such short notice.

“Your tea, Sir,” trilled the waitress as she placed a steaming beverage before the Magister.  “Only a half-spoon of honey; just the way you like it.”

 Scholar’s hands, smoothed by the caress of only the finest parchment in Dalaran, wrapped around the teacup.  Stolen warmth snaked its way up his arms and scalded his lips as he flashed her a heated smile.  “My dear, sweet, Lady.  It appears you are working late, yet again.”  Despite what he would have others believe, the Magister was not as gentle natured as he feigned.  His tips were overly generous, particularly when it came to pretty faces, and such generosity would grant him a night or two with a supple body to warm his bed.  (Before they discovered the dark, sadistic desires he harbored behind closed doors.)  This evening’s prize had been particularly elusive over the past several weeks and tonight he was certain she would succumb to his particular brand of charm. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not fret for your safety at such a late hour.  Would you allow me the honor of escorting you home after your shift this evening?”

As the two conversed, Oneth carried on with his work, seemingly overwhelmed by the persistent duties of being a porter.  Tables were cleaned, empty glasses were cleared, and bottles were retrieved from the cellar upon request.  Never did he cease to move, the buzzing bee that he was, and he flitted from table to table with the enthusiasm of a young lad eager to please.  Let them grow comfortable with the diligent worker so they may overlook the stinger at his back.  It was menial work, but necessary in order to maintain certain appearances, and the bustle of the tavern helped to bring a semblance of normalcy to an otherwise unorthodox lifestyle.  Now and again, Oneth allowed his gaze to wander in their direction, waiting for the exact moment when all of his careful planning would come to fruition.

 Twenty seven minutes and counting.

 After an excruciatingly painful exchange, his coworker managed to, yet again, artfully decline the polite pervert and evade his overeager hands.  Evidently the Magister would be going home alone again, but tonight’s loss would do little to thwart his redoubled attempt tomorrow. Oneth had witnessed this ‘act’ on more than one occasion.  He would be doing her, in addition to his employer, a favor by ridding the world of this viscid parasite.

 Eighteen minutes.

 Long after the tea, and his advances had gone cold.  Magister Jadex commenced his nightly exiting ritual.  The empty teacup was returned to its saucer, followed by the jingle of too many coins being placed upon the table in a grandiose show of ‘appreciation,’ and lastly the dabbing of his lips with a paper napkin.  Only this time, the napkin would bear both the message and the means of his demise.  At first, the Magister appeared not to notice the writing, but rather than make a scene, he lowered it to his lap where he could read the words discreetly.

 One day I will return and you won’t be around to see me rise again.

 No dilation of pupils, no widening of eyes, no frantic searching for the culprit ensued. Nothing occurred despite knowing with absolute certainty that he had received the message.  Oneth found himself both perplexed and slightly intrigued.  Perhaps this was not the first threat the Magister had received.  Instead, the note was pocketed, and he bid his coveted prize a good evening before gracefully taking his leave.  

 Unfortunately for him, this was not just a threat.  It was a delayed execution, and with the strange pearl already concealed within the Magister’s home, all he had to do now was wait.

[ Co-written with @lazraelbandtherion​​ as his respective part. ]

@hmratking​​ @loveherdekay​​ @safrona-shadowsun​​ @duraxxor​​

[drunkbatya]

Pinocchio!AU | HC

Pinocchio!AU, in which lies grow not the nose, but another part of the body.

I don't even know how to start this story. Maybe that way... 

— Richard was remarkable for two things: 1) one part of his body grew larger when he lied; 2) he was a pathological liar and sometimes couldn't control it; 

— Whatever it really is, the most logical thing to do is to call it a curse, perhaps even a generic one! And let's assume that a huge contribution to this story was made by chance or the vagueness of the wording, because no matter how uncomfortable it may be, when a man is able to legally grow his penis, it can not be called a curse; 

— Let's say the text of the curse said that lying should grow a part of the body, but it did not specify which part. And whether it was an arm, leg, nose, or left ear, or even the little finger on the right foot, the curse would really be inconvenient and help to get rid of such a pernicious habit or at least to control it; 

— Richard never worried about the curse, and of course he didn't try to get rid of it (he didn't even know he could), because no matter how inconvenient it was, the benefits were still significant, and it was a sin to refuse them; 

— By the way, you're not born a pathological liar, and neither was Richard. He lived the life of an honest man until he found out about the existence of lies, and then things got a little out of control; 

— We all know it's bad to lie, but Richard grew up in a world where it was safer to lie than to tell the truth. Eventually, it got to the point where he started lying all the time, even when it wasn't necessary. It came out of him unconsciously, and if it wasn't for the growing member, Richard would not have realized that he was lying; 

— The problem with the lying begins in childhood. This was the most difficult period for Richard for many reasons: a) realizing that a lie is better and sweeter than the truth, and even more profitable, he began to lie constantly and uncontrollably; b) have you ever seen a child whose penis is dragging on the floor like a third paralyzed leg? 

— Later, Richard learned to control it. And when I say "it", I mean the size of his dick. Did he lie less? No. Well... Yes, he did, because he became more silent with age, but every time he opened his mouth, 60% of what he said was a lie;

— Since he was not able not to lie, and a long dick, of course, cool, but not very convenient, he had to resort to a trick. It turns out that just as a lie increases the size of his reproductive organ, the truth cancels this change; 

— The more terrible the lie, the bigger the penis and, of course, the more weighty the truth, the more lies it cancels; 

— Technically, he can lie about small things to a rather "inconvenient" value, and then give out some revelation and return everything to "acceptable"; he can do the opposite — reduce a big lie to zero with small truths; 

— Richard assumed that no matter how weighty the truth was, below a certain value (minimum) the size of his dick can not be reduced, so he can safely confess, without fear that the penis will shrink to microscopic size, rather remain as it should be; 

— And Richard had no idea what size his penis was originally supposed to be, because by the time puberty was over, there wasn't a day when Richard didn't lie; 

— In ordinary life, Richard tried to keep his mouth shut, so as not to say something superfluous, because we all know, or at least assume, that not only a bad dancer... well, you know; 

— But on a date, you can lie a little, you can say a couple of false facts about yourself in the pool or on the beach or before going to the public toilet (because, oh my god, embarrassing men standing next to you with your huge penis is one of the things that always lifted Richard's mood, and if he did not want to show his member to people, he just went to the stall); 

— Richard loved to literally measure dicks, because he was always the undisputed winner, shocking the fragile minds of children or the precarious mental health of adult men with his size. Yes, he was a cheater, but what did honesty matter? It had never given him as much moral satisfaction as a lie; 

— Is the phrase "I have a huge penis" a lie? After all, if it's not huge, Richard will probably lie, but as soon as he lies, it will immediately become true, and then what? Will his penis shrink? But then the statement will be false and... what's next? Richard's dick in superposition? 

— Richard couldn't be caught on the «your penis will increase by ten centimeters if you...» ad, because if Richard wanted to increase his penis, he simply answered his mother's question «have you smoked again?» with a confident «no»; 

RICHARD AND GAVIN 

— It`s very difficult to start an honest relationship when on the first date you have already raised the bar by thrusting a dick several times larger than the real size into your partner; — I can assure you that 'my penis is actually smaller' and 'it increases when I lie' will only come out of Richard's mouth when he is on his deathbed. There's no chance that Gavin will find out about this before, or maybe... — Everything secret becomes clear, we all know it, so no matter how much Richard wants to hide what is happening, sooner or later he will have to tell Gavin the truth (which will reduce his penis to the size of a molecule, he is sure of it!); — Anyway, Gavin wouldn't know the truth until Richard was sure enough about their relationship to open up, and if circumstances forced him to admit it sooner, he wouldn't. It's easier for him to break off a relationship than to admit something; — You understand that telling someone about his curse is literally giving them information that can and will be used against Richard, so his concerns are understandable; — At first, Gavin is shocked and has to take a long time to digest the fact that his young boyfriend is able to change the size of his penis depending on whether he is telling the truth or lying; — Actually, Gavin thinks it's unfair! He does not see anything wrong with lying, at least in a small things, and he is also very upset by the fact that for the rest of his life he will live with a penis that is just below the average size and he can do nothing about it (but he wants to!!!); — Gavin has already come up with 1001 ways to use his boyfriend's feature not in sex. At that moment, he already had a folder with Richard's dickpicks, which were used against the most persistent admirers who do not understand the word "no", but clearly understand what the photo of a huge member and the threat of reprisal hints at; — After Gavin was able to digest the "shocking" news, a genuine childish interest came to him, with exactly the kind that only boys have and only in relation to their penis; «Richie, how big can it be? Have you ever reached the upper limit? Have you ever gotten to the point where your pants couldn't stand it? Did it happen that he was too big and suddenly got erect?» — A lot of questions and a lot of things that Gavin would like to know. His scientific interest was aroused, he just wanted to understand what he was dealing with. Although it was just fun to learn and experiment or be the cause of curious situations that get out of control; — However, no matter how fun things are, in the end, there are more disadvantages than advantages for others; — Even if you know that all people lie, you will not be ready for it. And no matter how you feel about lying, suddenly the last thing you want to know in your life is when people are lying to you; — Even less you want to know that your boyfriend, with whom you seem to have moved to a new, more serious level of relations, turns out to be a pathological liar and hands you the opportunity to determine exactly when he is lying; — No matter how good this idea initially seemed, it is not very cool to realize that you are constantly being lied to, even in some minor details. First, what kind of honest and open relationships can we talk about? Second, it has a very strong effect on trust; «I can't figure out if you can't help lying, or if you just like it when your dick is hanging down to your knees?» «Both.» — Trust, but check! At one point, Gavin found himself unable to believe what Richard was saying, which was not surprising, but what was much worse... he was always looking for confirmation of the truth or falsity of his words... where? Right! Between his legs! This, by the way, was strange and a little confusing; — At some point, Gavin realized that he didn't need any hard evidence to see the difference between truth and lies, at least on some level of everyday life. It's as if he can feel or hear when Richard is lying, and there's no need to grab his cock at that moment; — The last thing a pathological liar wants to do, even if they know they can't control themselves, is let someone know they're lying. But you can always see the difference between truth and lies if you know how to do it; «You just lied to me, didn't you?» «No.» «Then how about taking off your pants and repeating it again?» «Okay, I lied!» — We all focus on the changing size of the penis, as if this is the main problem, but the problem is that Richard constantly lies. And Gavin wouldn't mind if he didn't know he was being lied to. A lie only makes sense when no one knows it's a lie; — It seemed like you could handle it, you could at least learn to live with it, and... yes, if it was about size variability, you could get used to it, but Gavin realized that he couldn't be in a relationship with someone he couldn't trust; — The worst part is that even if Richard once stops lying completely, it won't make much difference, because Gavin doesn't believe or trust him anymore, and it can take a very long time to get things back to the way they were; — In fact, Gavin doesn't mind lying, and he doesn't mind Richard lying. but at least not to him or so that he never found out about it, which is quite problematic, because unconsciously he is always looking for confirmation of words and simply can not forbid himself to check his boyfriend; — One day, Gavin realizes the relationship that was easy and fun for him suddenly begins to weigh on him. Have you ever regretted that a person was honest with you, because they told you the truth that broke everything to hell? Gavin always regrets it; — Imagine that perhaps the first and only time Richard was honest and told the hard truth instead of the easy lie, Gavin considers the worst moment that destroyed their relationship. And how can he not be a liar after that? More precisely, how can he not stop telling the truth after that? — In the end, Gavin sees only two options: either he and Richard break up and don't rape each other with it, or... Richard will have to control himself and learn not to lie impulsively to Gavin (ideally, of course, not to lie at all, but this is too much in the beginning); — Well, they will always have time to break up, but they can try to work on their relationship for a change right now. And here's the whole long story of changes in one sentence: it wasn't an easy work, but they did it; — In the end, they were able to find a working formula for their relationship, which, of course, did not imply that Richard refused to lie at all, but minimized it in the relationship to a minor; — His dick is still big, if you're interested. Richard wouldn't refuse that opportunity for sure. Even if you tell him that all these manipulations will end in a long and painful death, he will still lie so that his dick was a little bigger; — You know, no matter how much Richard wanted to be an honest person and no matter how much he wanted a healthy open relationship, he just couldn't live without the «big dick» advantage, even if the big dick is completely non-functional and only needed for... show off; — Gavin loved Richard, so he did his best to make sure that «a small problem doesn't become a big one because someone lies too much»; — Their relationship, by the way, was never on the edge of disaster and did not threaten to self-destruct because of the fact that Richard was lying. But problems that aren't solved tend to get worse, and Gavin knew it. He also didn't want to wait until things were disastrous for them to start doing something; — As a result, they found their way and learned to live with a problem that they could not solve. The relationship worked and worked well, and that's the main thing, isn't it? It was serious between them, or so it seemed; — And then during sex, Gavin said: «I love you», so Richard answered: «me too». And Reed felt the little asshole's cock grow bigger. Now Gavin is not sure of anything. Even whether they should break up or finish the sex first.

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

Werewolf of Portland

Pairing: Dean x FBI!Reader

Word count: 10K

I’m not good a summaries, but I drew inspiration from anytime the boys give actual FBI Agents the “talk”, as well as that episode where Jody calls them out for using Bobby as their “supervisor”. This is a repost because I accidentally deleted the original, but it gave me time to edit it better. I’m thinking of doing a second part if I get enough feedback or requests for it, so please, please, please tell me what you think. I’m hungry for feedback haha. Also I know nothing about Portland or official FBI Badges so please keep that in mind as you read.

Warnings: Canon violence, profanity, and a plot twist I didn’t even see coming

Werewolf of Portland

The repugnant, putrid scent overcomes the clearing, spread by the gentle breeze. Despite the green grass littered with wild flowers, the unforgiving scent of rotten eggs clings to the workers’ hazmat suits. Flies buzz incessantly around the body, like that of an opaque blanket if adorned with beady eyes and veiny wings.

While the forensic cleaners work to gather the corpse’s remains for transportation, Agent Y/L/N stands at the edge of the control zone. Her day started at 4:39 in the morning, wherein she spent the next five hours scouring the field alongside her team. Even with her duties tended to, she refuses to leave the scene. The sparse clues yielded in the first examination plague her mind.

No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no footprints, no DNA; the list of what they don’t have extends further than what they do.

The body itself— what little the attacker left of it, at least— covered the majority of the scene. Torn to pieces, heart removed; remains scattered. She hopes the coroner can get something from her examination. The lacking evidence in addition to this being the fourth body found places an insurmountable weight on Y/N’s shoulders. 

The public’s outrage cries for the FBI to put the criminal behind bars, but they’re no closer to identifying witnesses, let alone a culprit. Y/N signs, running her hand through her hair. No matter the amount of cases she faces, no matter how gruesome, she never lets it desensitize her. If she becomes numb to the pain of blood and guts, she fails to invest herself in solving the case.

Turning from the scene, she instead takes in the myriad official vans and workers putting about. Her partner speaks with forensics, gathering whatever helpful information they can provide. A small side glance her way and the lift of his hand by his side, he beckons Y/N over. However, her lead feet refuse to move. Still engulfed in the horror show behind her, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

Y/N struggles to keep her emotions in check. Rage courses through her veins at the heinous acts humans commit, to fulfill sadistic pleasure or cure one’s demons. Unfortunately, in the FBI, she must swallow her anger and sadness, replacing it with a monotone voice and calculated expressions. Taking a breath, she departs from the border and heads towards Agent Colt. 

He finishes speaking with the worker, who leaves the partners in peace.

“They’ve got nothing. We’ve got nothing. Not for this one, not for the past three.”

She already knows this. A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she cannot name it. “All right. Maybe they got sloppy; maybe this time the coroner will get something. Anything.” Elijah rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and rubbing his chin. Y/N knows he’s saying We can’t base our investigation on maybe. Another sigh. “Fine, let’s run through this again.”

Elijah leads the way to their company car. “So, the heart. That’s the main focus. It’s missing.”

“Yes. This points to it being personal. It takes a lot of passion and hatred to rip through someone’s chest and remove their fucking heart. Which, another thing, the hearts aren’t just removed. They’re taken.”

“Right. Okay, haphazard blood splatter; no pattern. I’d say our killer is disorganized. Listless.”

“Not completely. I mean, there’s an even month between each murder. That leans more towards organized. There’s ritual. It’s not really first come, first serve, ya know?”

Elijah pauses at his door, fingers clasped tightly around its handle. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, staring off into the distance. Y/N knows that look. She’s seen it in herself, survivors and fellow agents. He’s not looking at the clearing, but trying to connect the dots. Perhaps the weight of solving this doesn’t rest solely on Y/N’s shoulders.

As Elijah returns from his reverie and yanks open the car door, Y/N hears a deep, raspy voice greet the local law enforcement. Her partner settles into his seat, staring at her with drawn eyebrows and pursed lips. She holds up a finger.

Casting a quick glance behind her, Y/N finds two suits mid-introduction with the sheriff. The pair hold up identification booklets, much like the one in her pocket. Their suits hang too loosely off of their bodies, their dress shoes too scuffed. The longer she watches their body language, the larger the pit in her stomach grows. She turns around to lean against the car, keeping focus on the men. They talk for a moment more before the sheriff nods in her direction.

Y/N watches their shoulders tense, standing taller from the rigidness. Yes, she muses, something is off.

The window she leans against pulls on her coat as Elijah rolls it down. “Hey, you coming?”

Pondering for a moment whether she should let him in on her instincts, Y/N decides against it. “Yeah,” she leans down, poking her head through the window. “I’m going to stay here, actually. I want to see if I can squeeze anything else out of the uniforms.”

Elijah chuckles. “We’re uniforms too, you know.”

She returns the laugh. “Right, well, you head back to the office. Make a fresh pot of coffee, too. I’ll meet you there.”

He holds two fingers to his forehead before dramatically sweeping them across his face. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Y/N stands as he rolls the window back up, patting the roof. Elijah peels off while she returns her attention to the still-gawking men. Their postures only straighten as she nears; if they stood any more rigid she’d swear they were wax figures. “Harold,” she acknowledges the sheriff. He nods. “How’s it going on your end?” Y/N keeps the men in her peripheral but focuses on Harold. 

Harold’s eyes shift to the pair, then back to Y/N. “As I was telling your fellow agents—” at this statement, the men share a glance, “—still nothing.”

“Right, well I want to go over everything again. Give me a moment.” She finally turns to greet the supposed agents. “Gentlemen, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Scanning their faces, she studies them for any quirk of the lips or perspiration on the brow.

The taller one speaks first. “I’m, uh, Agent Pert and this is Agent Bonham,” he gestures next to him.

Pert and Bonham? Really? She refrains from rolling her eyes.

Instead, Y/N doesn’t respond, using the pressure of silence in her favor. Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. She ignores him, keeping focus on the men before her. Most of her suspects break under her gaze; very few can sustain their façade in an encounter with her steely eyes and stiff posture. Harold excuses himself,  unable to withstand her harsh eyes. The men continue to stare, neither willing to relent. Unfortunately, this renders them at an impasse. She, too, will not look away or speak.

Agent Pert concedes, taking the lead. “Right, well, we’re here from DC to investigate the murders. What have you got?” His voice imperceptibly wavers— if untrained, Y/N wouldn’t notice the quiver— the corner of his lip twitching. 

Ignoring his request, she commands, “Let me see your badges, agents.”

Another conversation through a shared look before they hand them over. They’re good, the badges. A smidgen off center of authentic. If not for the incorrect serial code and too high insignia placement, Y/N would accept them at face value. She closes the booklets and pockets them, earning a small Hey of protest from the short one. Cocking an eyebrow, she dares them to challenge her.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime, I’m sure you know.”

“Impersonating a— call our superior and check! Let me see your badge!” Crew cut exclaims, indignant.

“I’ll lend my badge after I’ve talked to your superior officer.” She wonders how far they intend to take this rouse. 

With their business card in hand, she retreats a few steps. As she dials the number the little whisper in the back of her head pesters her further. The questionable agents and unsolvable case remind her of… something. 

“Agent Willis,” a voice grunts.

“Willis? What’s your outpost?”

“Headquarters. Who is this?”

“Agent Y/L/N. It appears I have two of your agents here; I’m sure some wires crossed when you sent them down? What were your orders for Agents Tyler and Grohl?” 

“Who are you to question my authority, Agent?”

His growl pulls the pressing thought to the forefront of her mind. 2005, in Cincinnati on her first case. Similar to her case today: bodies piled up with no leads and peculiar circumstances. She ran into someone claiming to be FBI, too. Fresh from the academy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she accepted his excuse of  bureaucratic miscommunication; why don’t we work the case together? 

She laughs. “Wait, hold on. I know you.”

“Noyoudon’t,” he spits out, too quickly.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck, what’s your name?” she mumbles, more to herself than him. “Singer! Ohio, we worked a case together. Culprit never caught and you went on your merry way.”

He blubbers, failing to produce a proper excuse. “I don’t know a Singer, Agent.”

She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face the men. The stricken look on their faces only further points to the truth. “All right, Willis. Even if that were true, you also don’t know your agents’ names. They introduced themselves as Pert and Bonham. Really, Singer? Rockstars’ names?” The humor of the situations drains, replaced with its severity. “All right, I’m taking your men in. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put and wait for mine to come get you.”

“Wait— Y/L/N, right? Hear me out,” he pleads, urgency ringing clear in his voice.

“You have ten seconds.”

“Listen, they’re there to help. Your attacker ain’t what you think it is. I closed that case in Cincinnati, thanks to your help. But, it wasn’t a person. It was a vampire.”

She laughs again, this time wild and unbelieving. “Yeah, right. And this one is a fucking Chupacabra.”

“No, it’s not. We think it’s a werewolf.”

“You’re fucking nuts. No, I’m calling this in.”

“Y/N. Wait. Talk to them, please. People are still in danger. Their names are Sam and Dean. Winchester.” The desperation in his voice settles with unease in her chest. Her time on the force yields too much experience in discerning honesty from duplicity. 

Rather than respond, she ends the call and returns to the newly named Winchesters. They stand unmoving, shoulder to shoulder; if not for the wind tussling the tall one’s hair, she’d think they were statues. “So.” They squirm under her gaze. “Which one of you is Sam and Dean?” Their eyes widen at her remark, startled by her knowledge of their true identities. 

Crew cut juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I’m Dean. That’s Sam. Why don’t you tell us who you are and how the hell you know our names?”

“I’ll be the one asking questions, gentleman. I’ve half a mind to put you in cuffs. First, you impersonate a federal agent; second, your pal Singer brings up werewolves? Sounds like three peas in a pod headed for St. Christopher’s Asylum to me.” Neither respond. “Thirty seconds, boys. You have thirty seconds to make me believe you or the only way you’re leaving is in cuffs.” For emphasis, she pats her hip, whereupon the cuffs hang.

The pregnant silence leers on.

“25.”

Sam sighs, running his hand through his hair. “All right. There are things in this world that you don’t know about; that not many people know about. The bumps in the night, the clichés; most of them are real. Have you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain? Or had an unsolvable case?” He pauses for her answer, but she only looks on, hands on her hips. 

Vampires? Werewolves? What the fresh fuck? Her mind reels with the implications of his statement; even still, it doesn’t feel wrong. A few cases come to mind instantly: the serial killer who left victims’ eyes burnt out, people torn to shreds in supposed animal attacks by nothing from these parts. How many victims faced the unknown rather than human wrath? She can handle psychopaths, serial killers, the insane. She knows that evil; deals with it regularly. But the supernatural? No.

“Right, well, we hunt those things. We take them out,” he gestures between himself and Dean.

Y/N’s hands drop from her sides, falling limp at her thighs. “Just you two?” She whispers, cold and disbelieving.

“No,” Dean speaks up. “Not just us. There’s a lot of us out there.”

“Listen, I’m going to need more than just your word. I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. What can you give me that will make me believe you?” Despite not wanting it, she needs proof. Plus, if they turn out to be nuts, she can lock them up and toss the key; no harm, no foul.

They nod once, curt but understanding. Sam takes a step forward, hand raised in her direction. “This’ll take a leap of faith, Agent…”

“Y/L/N.”

“Agent Y/L/N. Let us work on this with you,” Sam implores. “And if we’re wrong, you can book us yourself.” 

“Sammy, hold up. Who’s to say we can trust her either? She’s just some Fed. Who’s to say she won’t cuff us anyway?” Dean protests, turning towards Sam.

While the two quietly argue, Y/N takes a step back. Running her tongue over her teeth in concentration, she ponders the options. Even if Sam offers her control, she knows their type: they won’t let her actually take the lead. Dean reminds her of her father, and that man never relinquished supervision. In order for this to work in her favor— seeking the truth, protecting the public— Y/N must fulfill the role as the dutiful public servant. Perhaps they’re not fucking lunatics, and this thing turns out to be real, she’d be way out of her element anyway. Still, she refuses to give up control.

Staring off towards the field, where the body once laid, she contemplates the little evidence recovered. Vics torn to shreds, no prints, no DNA. Local PD swears it’s a cougar, an animal indigenous to the area. Even still, animals are simpler than humans. They kill for sustenance or safety. The brutality of this kill, the length of the claw marks, lack of fur, ritual occurrences; it all points in the wrong direction. Y/N would quicker say some furry decided killing offers more sexual release over cosplay than call it a fucking cougar.

“If you expect me to try to trust you, or at least what you say, then I need your trust, too. This goes both ways,” she interrupts. The men cease their heated discussion, turning towards her. “I don’t like what you’re telling me. I don’t want to believe it. But… I trust my gut, and I think you guys are either great liars or telling the truth.” Sam smiles, but Y/N holds up a hand. “However, I will not put my eggs in one basket. I need insurance that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain. This means I’m taking point, and you guys are consultants. Anything you know, you tell me. Anything you find, you tell me. Anything you do, you tell me. Capiche?”

Sam nods before Dean, nudging his side to encourage his agreement. Dean tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Where to next, Agent?” Venom drips with each word. 

“I need to get back to the station. My partner, Agent Colt, will be—”

“Colt? Agent Colt? The irony.” Dean interrupts. Sam elbows him again, and Y/N chooses to ignore him altogether.

“I’m going back to the station. I’ll talk to the Uniforms and tell them to give you anything pertinent to this specific scene. Anything to do with the others can wait until tonight. Meet me at Carlton’s, off of Hamilton street. I’ll bring the files for the other Vics.” She hands Sam her business card, not trusting Dean to keep it. 

“What about our badges?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, exhausted. “Fuck, man. I’m trying my hardest to ignore the federal crime you committed right in front of me. Prove you’re right and you’ll get them back. Until then, you’re consultants employed by the Bureau.” 

She pushes passed them, heading towards Harold. Their boots crunch on the gravel as they lag behind her. He halts his conversation with one of deputies upon their arrival. “Sheriff, these two are fresh blood from the academy.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder. “HQ thought this would be a good case for them to learn on the job. Tell them anything you know and let them case the scene. I’m going back to the station to meet up with Elijah.”

“But—” Harold begins. Y/N levels him with sharp eyes and pressed lips, stopping him in his tracks. “Right. Okay. Follow me, Agents.” Sam and Dean shoulder passed Y/N, catching up to the Sheriff with a few long strides. 

Y/N stands for a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, watching the two men. If this turns out to be a rouse— if she let two criminals onto the field with her permission— that’s her head. Shaking the thought away, she turns. She’s able to hitch a ride back to the station with the forensic profilers.

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah spared his questions when she returned, thankfully. Instead, he shoved a hot cup of cop shop coffee into her hands before continuing their earlier evaluation. “Right, can’t be disorganized, but he’s definitely passionate. That shows connection to the victims.”

Y/N sips her coffee. Forcing the bitterness down her throat, she also swallows her new knowledge. She must work this case like any other, for it might be. “You think it’s a man?”

Around the bite of an apple, he says, “Yes. Female offenders aren’t typically serial murderers; they’re passion killers. Black Widows, Angels of Death, you know the type.”

“I do, but Wuronous diverged from the typical female murderer.”

“Yeah, that’s one of many. Most other women utilized poison for their kills. The ME didn’t find any traces of cyanide, arsenic, or tetrodotoxin— nothing. Doesn’t fall in line with what we know.”

Y/N simmers. She knows this, of course. “Let’s keep the possibilities in mind.” She sifts through the crime scene pictures, lining up the photos of the different victims side by side. “Placement doesn’t seem to matter, so that leans away from obsessive compulsiveness. The offensive wounds support this, too.”

“Y/N, what are we reaching for? We don’t have a profile, a motive; nothing.”

“Not true. Let’s lay it all out, one more time. Hearts are taken, gruesome attack wounds, lower body left alone. Maybe these are passion killings, and the only thing in common with the victims is the killer. I mean, people come and go all the time here. Maybe they knew the Unsub outside of Portland. The ritualistic pattern of the murders makes me think the killer stalks the victims in the month down time; gets to know their schedule, comings and goings. They’re all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five. Maybe the killer is attracted to the ages rather than physical descriptions. Also—” Y/N stops, sighing.

Even as she tries to string everything together, she knows Elijah is right. Too much of the evidence contradicts any profile they could scrape up. Ritualistic but not obsessive, disorganized but keeps to a schedule, passionate murders between unrelated victims. Nothing points them in any definitive direction. They’re grasping at straws here. 

Sam and Dean creep to the forefront of her mind. She downs her coffee in one go. It heats her stomach, and she blames her rising temperature on the beverage rather than brimming anger. Clenching her fists, she crushes the paper cup. Elijah reaches over to rub her shoulder, massaging her tense muscles. “It’s okay, Y/N/N. We’ll catch this son of a bitch,” he encourages, misunderstanding her frustration.

She rubs her eyes, forcing them open. Wordlessly, Elijah fills hands here a new cup of coffee, topping himself off as well. They sit in silence, pouring over their respective files. The victims must have connections; even if Y/N allows herself to believe the Winchesters, she can’t believe monsters don’t have rituals. Psychology reaches further than humanity— scientists observe it in animals. In order to keep hope and keep going, Y/N trusts in the knowledge that all things in existence operate off of some code. 

Another sigh, another gulp. “One more time. From the first victim. Elijah, there has to be something.”

He purses his lips, clear indignation warring his exhaustion and winning. Even still, he nods. “All right, Vic One: Stephanie Lane, age 27. She worked at the local vet clinic on Broad Street. Usual nine to five, Monday through Friday. Killer got her leaving work Thursday night, July Fifth, around six p.m. Scratched her up, took her heart. Passerby found her body two days later.” He wets his lips, staring at her file.

Y/N nods in confirmation, already well aware of the facts. With a fine-tooth comb, they revisit each victim after Stephanie Lane. Jonathan Grism, Marcus Kent, and, the most recent, Gabrielle Shaw. All with varying occupations and seemingly no connections, aside from enjoying the casual run or grueling hike. Despite their apparent love of nature, the Unsub chose to kill them in their daily routine.  

On a whim, Y/N searches each date (July 5th, August 3rd, September 2nd, and October 1st) for any similarities in the dates, coming up short and further exasperated. Elijah keeps to himself while she abuses her keyboard, refusing defeat. Only on her fifth page of Google searches does she find anything worth noting; unfortunately it supports the Winchesters. Each murder occurred on a full moon. 

She slams her laptop closed, finishing her coffee and crushing her cup. “I need a break, Elijah. Just some time to clear my head and get fresh eyes.” She stands, tossing her cup into the wastebasket. Elijah leans back, clasping his fingers behind his head. “I’m getting some sleep. You should too. You look like shit.”

Elijah laughs. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You don’t look too much better yourself.”

She shoves his shoulder as she passes, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. Elijah hollers something back, but she’s already out of the front doors. The crisp air helps the fog in her head, supplementing it with aches in her bones. Her boots crunch leaves with each step, and she forces her focus onto the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

Werewolves?

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The supernatural?

Crunch, crunch— smack.

A broad chest stops her, calloused fingers grasping her upper arm to steady her. Y/N looks up, palms pressing against a soft t-shirt, into effervescent green eyes. Dean grins down at her, the left corner of his lip tilted in an almost-sneer, if not for the mischief in his eyes. She rolls her eyes, pushing back against his firm chest. He releases her, hands up in mock surrender.

“Agent, fancy seeing you here.”

“Where? Outside of the station where I work? Must be kismet.” Sarcasm drips from her words like venomous honey, sickly sweet and sticky.

“Well, to be fair, you did say to tell you anything we find, so here I am.”

Her heart stutters, excited. They found something. This could be the end of the murders. Straightening her back and returning to Agent Y/L/N— locking Y/N into a tight box at the back of her mind— she faces Dean head on. “All right, what have you found?” Her voice lacks the previous emotion, all business and no play.

Dean sighs, a look flitting across his face and disappearing before Y/N can place it. “Walk with me.” He turns on his heel without awaiting her response, starting down the sidewalk.

She follows, despite the annoyance burning the bottom of her feet with each step. They continue down the street in silence, save for their steps and the seldom passing cars. While she wants answers, Y/N knows pestering delays the process. Dean seems like a man who has been through the ringer a couple times. If he shares similarities with herself, he won’t share anything until he’s ready— another form of control she wants to rip from his fingers.

By the time they reach the doors to the Sunshine Diner, Y/N must clench her fists to bury the frustration of unanswered questions. Dean holds the door, motioning for her to go in. In the back right corner of the restaurant sits Sam, typing furiously on his laptop. So. It appears Dean did search for her once they found something. Pleased at the notion, she lets some of the annoyance roll off her shoulders.

Dean settles in next to Sam, Y/N taking the opposing side of the booth. “So, get this,” Sam begins. “Your murders started four months ago, right? Well, turns out a small werewolf pack traveled from Washington to Portland because they drew too much attention to themselves. One of our connections in Seattle worked the case until they completely disappeared, no trace, no nothing. Within a month of leaving Washington, the Portland murders began.” He finished, peering at her through the too-long tendrils of his hair.

Y/N schools her face into indifference, despite her racing heart and sweating palms. He sounds so sure and calm, like they run into werewolves grocery shopping. Dean looks at her, too, sharp eyes searching for anything in her expression or body language. 

For a moment of reprieve, the waitress approaches the table. Rushed and rough, the trio relay their orders: Sam an egg white omelet, Dean the Bacon Supreme, and Y/N another black coffee; she ignores her shaking hands and clammy skin. The server jots down their choices, rushing off to the next table.

Y/N clasps her fingers together, leaning forward. “That sounds like a nicely wrapped present with a bow on top. I need your process. How did you come to this conclusion? Who is this supposed hunter?”

Sam squints at her, mouth  agape. “Those are your questions, really? Nothing about werewolves?” He turns to Dean, bewildered. Dean shrugs, looking all too comfortable for the topic of conversation.

The server returns with their drinks,  setting the three coffees and one orange juice in front of the respective customers. As if purposefully slow, she takes her time to offer creamer or sugar, unaware of the tension. Dean taps one of his fingers on the surface of the table while Sam makes polite small talk with the waitress. Y/N continues to study the men before her. Finally, the server leaves once more.

“Listen, if I’m going to believe your bucket of crazy, then I’m going to believe it. So, no. I’m not going to ask about werewolves, I’m asking about the details of your research. I need to know how credible you are.”

This time, Dean leans forward, staring straight into her eyes and speaking low. “The hunter we know in Washington, Richard, kept track of them enough to know their comings and goings. He put out the word through the Hunter grapevine that he needed help with the… extermination of the pack, but by the time anyone could come to help, they migrated south. To here. We know it’s this pack because the victims share the same hobby: doing shit in nature. Runners, hikers, whatever. It makes them easy targets—”

“— Except they weren’t killed on hikes or runs. They were killed after work or errands or—”

Dean continues speaking, as if she hadn’t interjected. “—This specific pack only eats the heart, a common characteristic of werewolves. However, a lot of them eat more of the body, and depending on what they eat points to which pack is most likely to be the attacker. These sons of bitches blend in, except on the full moon, where they go apeshit for hearts. Richard identified the pack leader; Sam found where they’re holed up in. Good enough for you, Agent?” 

She wants to slap the pleased look straight off of his plump lips and pretty green eyes. Instead, Y/N props her head up in her palm, keeping her eyes level with Dean’s, swallowing her ire and replacing it with feigned kindness. “Yes. When are we going to get them?” The thought of coming face to face with a monster rushes like winter water through her veins. She reminds herself she deals with monsters on the daily; hers only lack claws and fangs, and whatever else. The circumstances only vary slightly.

“We? There is no ‘we’, sweetheart. We kept you in the loop, like you asked, but you don’t know Jack from Shit about how the gank these fuckers. You do your job, and we’ll—”

Y/N raises her hand, silencing Dean. “Listen, sweetheart, I know the area. I’m guessing they’re staying at the Crest Apartments off of 205, right? Developers left it abandoned when the surveyors refused to clear it due to landslide likelihood. I know the woods, the city, everything. As for what I don’t know, you can teach me. I may not be trained in proper monster lore, but I know how to fight.”

Dean leans further forward, meeting her at the halfway mark of the table. He lowers his voice, speaking gruffly as if to admonish. “You might be an agent in the normal world, but to us you’re just a civvie. No matter what you think you can do, no matter what you think you know, you’ve never faced these things in real life. I’m not about to put your stubborn ass in danger just so you can prove a point.” 

Y/N opens her mouth to retort, but Sam grabs Dean’s collar and pulls him back. “Enough with the pissing contest. I get it: you’re both badass,” he interrupts, at his wits end. “Listen, Y/N,” he begins, softer. “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You got the location correct without any intel, save for what you know about your city. But Dean’s right. If you come, you’re more of a liability than helpful.”

Y/N closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for five counts. When she exhales, she forces a smile upon her lips, albeit a bit sardonic, and opens her eyes. The men stare at her, awaiting her response. She stands, instead, straightening her jacket. “Gentleman, I’ll see you tonight. Bring an extra weapon, seeing as I’m sure normal bullets won’t kill a werewolf. Nine o’clock?” Rather than wait for a response, she nods her head and departs onto the street once more.

———————————————————————————————————

From the moment she stepped outside of the diner to the moment she parked her car behind Sam and Dean, her phone rang. Y/N assumed the alternating unknown numbers belonged to the brothers, likely wishing to dissuade her from joining their crusade. She ignored them, deleting any voicemails they left. She knows they’re right; she doesn’t know left from right when it comes to monsters. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when she lets some terror run rampage in her city.

Instead, she chose to bide her time researching werewolf lore between several more cups of coffee. Luckily she came across a duo well versed in their knowledge: the Ghostfacers. Although they posted their most recent content a year ago, she assumes lore stays the same. Silver bullet, shot to the head or heart, werewolf down for the count.

Y/N alights from her car, closing the door. Sam and Dean stand at their trunk, rummaging through— an entire arsenal of weapons? Y/N still has half the mind to arrest them. First impersonating federal agents to knives and machetes and guns in a hidden compartment of their car? She forces anxiety down, instead choosing once again to believe Sam and Dean are not raging psychopaths. Every bone in her body screams to cuff them and book them; her entire career banks on capturing nuts jobs like these two.

Still, she makes her way to their car, stopping at her front bumper to lean on it. “So. Silver, huh?”

Sam turns to face her, loading his .45 absentmindedly as he takes in her appearance. Gone is her official suit, in its place jeans, boots, and a well-worn long-sleeve. Dean rummages through the trunk, ignoring her presence. “You researched,” Sam replies, more so a statement than a question.

“I don’t go in half cocked. Pun intended. Got any leftover bullets? I’ve got a .45, too,” she muses, patting her hip for emphasis. 

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand, the other occupied with a magazine. “For the last time,” he begins, turning to face her, “I don’t want you here. We don’t want you here. If things get hairy in there, we can’t protect you, Y/N. You’re a liability. You don’t know—”

“— Jack from shit, yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, waving a hand. “Stow the crap, I’m coming. Now, do you want me going in defenseless or do you have silver to spare?” She stands straight, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high. 

Sam covers a laugh with a cough, his attention trained on Dean. Y/N forces her unwavering gaze onto him, who in turn rolls his eyes. His shoulders sag in defeat as he returns attention to his trunk. Wordlessly, he passes her a simple pistol, already loaded. She adjusts her grip, searching for a comfortable hold. 

“Thanks.” 

Dean barely nods his head. Y/N leaves the pair for a moment, returning her own gun to the glove box and locking it. 

Upon her return, Dean closes the trunk with a deafening slam, leaning against it. “All right, let’s get some things straight. We go in first, you follow. We’ll call clear and then we move forward as a group, understood?” Y/N wants to roll her eyes— Dean seems to forget she works raids on the regular— but she nods. “Good. We counted five. You see someone who isn’t us,” he motions between Sam and himself with his gun, “you shoot. Bullet to the heart will do the job.” He delivers a pointed look in her direction, awaiting confirmation.

“Got it.”

He looks at her for a moment, his eyes alight with enough fire to bore holes into her clothing. A familiar look hides behind his façade of rage; it rests on the tip of Y/N’s tongue. Perhaps a concoction of grief and hope. She sees it in herself when a case grows too heavy; grief for the pain and hope for the end. In this moment, Y/N feels like she knows Dean. 

The moment breaks when he shakes his head and walks heavy footed to the building. Sam falls in line with Y/N, resting a hand on her shoulder to slow her. She cranes her neck to look him in the eye, skin burning whereupon his palm rests. “He doesn’t want casualties. He doesn’t have the best way of showing it, but Dean cares about people. He’s got enough blood on his hands.” Sam squeezes her shoulder, sparing a tight lipped smile, before dropping his hand.

A few long strides puts him next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder. Y/N hangs back, processing Sam’s vague confession. She understands the need to protect others. The most pressing motivation for joining the Bureau stems from this desire. These men fight in a war separate to her own, but not dissimilar. They’re two sides of the same coin, both Y/N and Dean aching to save, save, save. 

She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the nerves building in her chest down to her toes. If Sam and Dean tell the truth of the awaiting horrors, she needs to ready herself. In matters of life and death, anxiety only increases the chances of death. Adrenaline only carries her so far before it peters out.

Dean stands at the front door, gun raised and legs parted. Sam stands to the side, hand on the handle. Y/N, as promised, stands back and behind Dean. With a nod from Dean, Sam pulls the handle, opening the heavy door. The brothers file in first, flashlights illuminating the unfinished floor and walls. 

Their footsteps echo as they clear each room, a foreboding cadence through the empty halls. Dean looks back at Y/N, ensuring she still follows. She keeps her gun pointed to the ground and her senses open. At the first corner, Dean holds his arm out. Sam and Y/N flatten themselves against the wall while Dean looks around the corner. He nods, stepping out into the open once more. 

A crunch from the right hallway drags Y/N’s attention from the brothers proceeding to the left. Peering down the corridor, she finds it empty. Just as she turns to catch up, another crunch sounds, followed by a squelch and a footstep. Looking behind her, Y/N finds Dean and Sam halfway down the hallway. “Dean!” she shouts as quietly as she can. He doesn’t turn. “Dean. Sam!”

Nothing. 

She sighs, frustrated. One side begs her to run down the hallway to warn them; the other implores her to follow her gut and the noise. Another wayward glance in their direction and Y/N turns right. She steps carefully, avoiding debris. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. 

The further she travels down the hallway, the darker it gets. Footsteps and low voices grow closer as she reaches another left or right turn. She presses against the left wall, sparing a glance down the right corridor. Empty. The left hallway, however, offers cover to three silhouettes crowding in front of a closed door. She startles back, heart hammering against her ribs.

Y/N holds her breath, calming the relentless anxiety in her chest. Breathe in, hold four seconds, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. She looks back to where she last saw Sam and Dean; they’re gone. Great. Now she's truly dug herself an early grave. 

With one last breath, Y/N turns the corner, aims and shoots. One of the people— werewolves— yowls in pain, collapsing to the ground. Yellow eyes glow in the dark, the only light from their end of the hall. Guttural growls roll from their chests as they stalk towards Y/N. She fires again. It hits the plaster, sending dust and shards flying. 

“Fuck.” 

The monsters pick up speed, running full force in her direction. She fires one more time, hitting one in the leg. It crashes to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a sickening crack.  The other continues. Y/N whips around, running down the hallway towards Sam and Dean— she hopes. Her feet thump with each step and she pays little mind to the trash and tools on the ground. 

A foolish mistake, it seems, as she stomps on an empty chip packet. Her right foot slips from beneath her, sending her careening to the ground. The side of her head smacks against the concrete. Her vision blacks for a moment before the pain spreads in webs from her cheek to her neck, down her back. The heavy footfalls of her pursuer sound muffled compared to the needling throbbing in her head. 

With a groan, she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. A hand on the wall stabilizes her, she clambers to her feet. An unfortunate time to do so; the werewolf runs full force into her, slamming her onto the ground once more. Autopilot takes over as she raises her palms to the man’s chest, pushing as hard as she can.

He snarls, snapping his teeth as he tries to reach her neck. Y/N blocks his throat with her forearm, using her spare hand to blindly search for her gun. Instead of the handle, she grasps a wrench. Good enough. With as much force as she can muster, she clobbers the werewolf’s head. He falls off of her, a hand pressed to his bleeding forehead.

In the second of reprieve, she spots the pistol a few feet away. She throws herself through the air, grabbing the handle before turning onto her back, the gun pointed towards the monster. 

He dives after her. Bang. The shot rings out through the hallway. His body tenses before relaxing completely, eyes half lidded and empty. Y/N rolls out of the way as it collides with the floor. Her breaths come ragged and short, but the fight persists. The unforgiving footsteps of her aggressors afford little time to catch her breath; she pushes herself up once more. 

Panting, but not yet done, she turns towards the thundering steps. Sam and Dean race towards her, guns at the ready. “Oh, thank God.” She drops her guard and lowers her pistol to her side, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

Dean reaches her first, fire in his eyes and coating his words. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stay with us, Y/N!” He grabs her chin, calloused fingers tilting her face to get a better look at her wounds. He pulls back, lifting and examining each arm. Y/N, too spent, lets him search for whatever he wants to find. She feels the welting of a bruise on her right cheek and a trickle of blood from her forehead.

“I got— I got three,” she gasps, watching Sam turn the werewolf over. 

Dean releases her, shaking his head. She touches her cheek, wincing at its sensitivity. “Oh, how nice. You also almost got yourself killed. I swear to—”

“—Dean,” Sam warns. “There are two more. We can worry about this later.”

“I got— I killed one of the others, but the third one I just hit in the knee.” Admitting to killing something, despite it being a monster, settles heavily in her stomach. She presses her hand to her lips, forcing her lunch to stay put. 

No time to puke, Y/N, she scolds herself. 

Shaking her head, she compels herself to focus. She nods at Sam and Dean, who take their positions at the front once more. This time she has no intentions of abandoning their protection. They stalk forward, albeit not as carefully as before; the ruckus certainly alerted the rest of the pact to their presence. Turning the corner, they find the werewolf Y/N shot first. A trail of blood leads the room they convened outside of, the door open this time.

The trio step lightly and quickly to the room. Dean peers in before entering. Inside, the wounded werewolf leans against the wall, a hand pressed against his thigh. Dean shoots him on the spot, wasting no time. Another body lies in the corner, torn the shreds. Aside from the two corpses, the room yields no tell-tale signs of the rest of the pack. Even still, Sam and Dean survey every nook and cranny. Y/N hovers by the door, working on slowing her breath and calming her heart. 

She peaks out into the hallway, just in case. The darkness limits her view, but she can’t hear anything either. Her ears ring, a relentless low buzzing from hitting her head and firing her gun too closely. Dean places a hand on her lower back as he passes, alerting her to his presence. The warmth spreads through her body, even when he lets go and walks ahead.

“Do you think they left?” she wonders aloud. It’s what she would do, but packs could think differently than humans.

Sam walks next to her, looking at her in his peripheral. “Maybe. But we want to clear the whole building, no stone left unturned and all that.”

She nods, instantly regretting it. Her brain tumbles around her head, hitting the walls and throbbing. Y/N rubs her temple, but says nothing. Lord knows Dean would already have a smartass retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. 

They clear the first floor easily, no signs of the last two. Dean leads them back to the front of the building to the stairwell. The door refuses to open, no matter how much force they use. The handle turns, but something on the other side blocks its pathway. Sam and Dean brace their backs against the door, plant their feet on the ground, and push as hard as they can. It budges slightly, only enough for them to see inside.

One of the railings torn from the stairs leans against the door, while another, wedged between the railing on the door and the first step of the stairs, holds it in place. They’d have to get in there to open the door. The brothers try once again, opening it a smidgen further. 

As Sam and Dean discuss the next step, Y/N formulates her own plan. She knows the boys, Dean in particular, won’t like it. Stepping closer to them, she chooses to stand next to Sam, hoping for his support.

“Listen,” she interrupts. Both brothers run their attention to her, Sam’s eyebrows raised and Dean’s drawn down. For a moment, she wonders if they have other facial expressions or if they always look this perturbed. “I can fit in there,” she motions to the opening in the door, a crack about a foot wide. Dean opens his mouth to disagree, but she holds up a hand. “I’ll get in there and move the railings so you guys can get in too. Quick and simple. Won’t go off on my own, promise.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, silently coming to an agreement. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fine. Be quick.” He sets his steely gaze upon her face. “And, I fucking swear, Y/N— if you go off by yourself I will kill you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, you will.”

She shoves passed him, knocking his shoulder on purpose. He grumbles something under his breath, but moves out of the way. A deep breath in, Y/N sidles through the opening. She barely makes it, struggling to get around the railing. Once inside, she grasps the leaning railing, using her whole body to pull the steel from where it’s wedged. Inch by inch, she gets it out of the way. 

It hits the floor with a reverberating clang, settling in the alcove beneath the stairs. The other falls to the ground, closing the door with its force. Y/N sighs, throwing her head back in frustration. Fists bang on the other side of the door, Dean shouting her name along with profanities.

“I’m fine, you oaf. Give me a second,” she yells back, exasperated.

“Hurry up, Y/N.”

She groans, sinking to her knees for more leverage. Breathlessly, she retorts, “I. Am. Trying.” With a grunt, she pushes the steel into a vertical position. “All right, you should have enough—”

“Need a hand?” a low voice taunts from above.

Y/N looks up. An unassuming woman stands at the platform of the first level, hands on her hips and an all teeth grin baring her lips. “Dean?” she yells, urgent and frightened. The door opens with enough room for Sam and Dean to squeeze through.

Dean barges in first, gun raised. He casts a glance at Y/N, following her gaze to the landing. Mechanically, he pulls the trigger. The woman falls with a thud. Y/N lets out a breath, hands white knuckling the railing and eyes trained on the body. Sam grabs the metal while Dean pries Y/N’s fingers off, more gently than he’s been with her all day.

She looks at him, eyes wide. As much as she wants to act fearlessly, she’s seen more people— things— die in front of her today than in her entire life. Dean nods, as if to say It’s okay, we get it. She steps back, letting him take the railing. Together, the brothers shift it to rest upon the other. 

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, the stinging centering her. Okay. Okay. I can do this. Her skin burns under the gaze of Sam and Dean, even if she can’t see them herself. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the men before her. 

“You good?” Dean asks, warm and low, a hand reaching out to her.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” She motions before her, allowing them to take the lead again. 

Four down, one to go, Y/N reminds herself with each step. The task seems less daunting with the odds in their favor at three against one. On the second platform, they exit into the hallway. The builders didn’t get so far as to hinge a door to the opening, thankfully. The trio stalk down the corridor, straining to hear anything out of place. 

The end of the hallway yields a wall and two doors opposite of each other— one opened and one closed.  The brothers broach the entryway of the open room, clearing it with a quick sweep. Similar to how they entered the building, Dean stands in front of the closed door while Sam grasps the handle. Pushing it open, Dean rushes in, Y/N and Sam following closely behind. 

The door slams shut behind them. Y/N whips around, ready to fire and finish the job. She stumbles, lowering her weapon, jaw dropped. Dean steps in front of her, half blocking her from— “Elijah?” Dean looks back at Y/N, brows furrowed and lips parted. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he taunts, almost as if scolding her. “I see you’re running around with scum. I thought you were better than that.”

She shakes her head, struggling to wrap her head around the man before her— her friend— being a monster. “What— how…”

He rolls his eyes. “Wah-how? Blah, blah, blah. You were always so naive.” He twirls a knife between his fingers, a small smirk dancing on his lips. Y/N looks away, unable to handle Elijah being the culprit she sought so long to capture. “When they came to town all those months ago, I caught one of them. I was ready to cuff ‘em and book ‘em, like we’re trained. But Eddie, the one you shot in the leg, Y/N, presented an offer I couldn’t refuse.” His voice glides like silk over her skin. It takes everything not to vomit.

“Only downside is once a month I’d get a little craz—”

The shot rings clear in the air, stopping Elijah’s tirade. Y/N’s head shoots up in time to watch him crumble to the ground. He settles with a soft finality, folded over himself. Dean turns around, saying something, but she can’t hear him. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her knees give out, collapsing. Sam falls with her, softening the blow.

She pushes off of him. “Get off of me, get off of me,” she screeches, banging her fists into his chest until he releases her. He holds his hands up in surrender as she scrambles a few feet away. 

Y/N rests on her knees, forehead touching the cool ground as if in prayer. Dirt and dust grind in her wound, she knows, but she can’t feel it. She can only replay Elijah’s fall. The separation of the man she knew and the man who he became felt too small. She never noticed a difference. He acted the same: kind, funny, a good agent. A good friend. 

Her sobs wrench in her chest, burning her throat. She wants to scream, but it comes out strangled, reverberating from the ground back to her— furious and despairing and inconsolable. Running her fingers through her hair, she grips the roots needing something to hold. Everything feels new in a terrible, sickening way. Just yesterday she believed she and Elijah would put the murderer behind bars. Now, she knows monsters exist. She fought one. She knew one.

Y/N breathes in, steeling herself. The man she knew died four months ago. She pushes herself onto her hind legs, wiping her tears. The burn of her fingers against her wounds calm her. Dealing with physical pain numbs the emotional. She presses her fingers to the bruise, hissing but reveling in the tenderness. 

She struggles to her feet, all too aware of the aches in her legs, and turns to face Sam and Dean. They stand by the door, leaning on the border. In her moment of desolation, they moved Elijah somewhere. Out of her sight. Not wanting attention, or Are you okay’s, she pushes past them, avoiding contact. Silently, they follow her to the stairwell and out onto the street. The cool air dries her tears and fills her lungs. For the first time since peering around that godforsaken corner, she can breathe. 

Sam and Dean keep a respectable distance, letting her lead them to the cars. Wordlessly, Y/N returns the gun to Dean’s grasp, leaning against her front bumper. She tilts her head back to gaze at the waning moon. 

“You good?” Dean asks, settling next to her.

She looks at him, really looks at him, for perhaps the first time. The green of his eyes highlight the bags beneath them. His laugh lines contradict the exhaustion heavy on his lips. His shoulders hang low, weighed down by the knowledge of darkness and pain.

Y/N sighs, accepting the beer he offers her. “I’ll be all right.” She means it. Maybe her monsters don’t have fangs and claws and familiar faces, but they’re monsters all the same. “You know what’s funny?” Dean raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his El Sol. “I’ve seen worse,” she giggles. 

Dean looks away, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah? Like what?”

She sips her beer, too, thinking of a good story. “One time there was this weird inbred family that captured people and hunted them down. Had a barn with cages and shit. They kept their victims cars in a junkyard-graveyard thing, and—”

Sam and Dean share a look before busting out laughing. She glances between them, offended at their mockery. “All right, I’ll keep my stories to myself, then.”

“No,” Sam gets out between bursts. “No, we, um— we hunted those guys. Thought they were monsters. Turned out to be hicks with too much time on their hands.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh. “No fucking way! Must’ve just missed each other.” She shakes her head, taking another sip.

“Small world,” Dean whispers into his bottle. 

They settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from the day drained. Y/N lets her mind wander— from meeting these men to now, and everything between. She tries to think back to before all this; before yesterday. The person who stood on the outskirts of the caution tape versus the person who sits on the hood of her car are miles apart. 

“Oh, that reminds me.” She pushes off of her bumper, unlocking her car. From the inside door she grabs two small booklets. Y/N passes the fake badges to the respective users. “A few tips: don’t use famous names. That’s the first thing that gave you away. Secondly,” she takes Dean’s badge back, opening it up. “Your official federal insignia is too low. It should be square with your picture. And your serial code is the wrong date. The first number—sometimes letter— is the year this was manufactured. We get new badges every two years, alternating between numbers and letters. Right now,” she says, opening her own booklet, “we are on letter Q.” She passes the badge back to Dean, who pockets it.

Sam nods, “Thanks for the information.”

“Yeah, I just love helping people—”

“— impersonate federal officers,” Dean and Sam interrupt, saying it in unison.

She laughs. “I’m glad you guys didn’t turn out to be crazy.”

In another pocket of silence, they finish their beers. Dean grabs the empty bottles, tossing them into a beat up green cooler while Sam turns to rest on the side of the Impala. Y/N readies herself to say goodbye, ignoring the ache in her chest. She refuses to admit it aloud, but she wishes she met them under different circumstances. She wishes she met Dean under different circumstances. 

Despite only knowing him for two days, Y/N can see herself in Dean. He bears the same weight she bears. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes remind her of fresh cut grass at the beginning of fall. Paired with his smell of cinnamon and gunpowder (a scent she knows all too well), she can’t help but want to know him. If they had met in a bar, she would definitely have taken him home.

Dean returns to her side, this time shoulder to shoulder. “You think you can handle that?” he inquires, pointing to her forehead and cheek.

She touches it gingerly. “Yeah, I think so.”

He nudges her shoulder with his, and she looks up at him. “You did well, tonight. Better than I thought you would, honestly.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s what you get for doubting me.”

He looks ahead again, and she does, too. The sky brightens as the sun returns for its reign. The fatigue from the last twenty-four hours settles in, and, without much thought, she rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. He tenses for a moment, and she feels him look down at her, but he lets his shoulders sag again. He places a hand on her thigh, squeezing it gently, as if to say I’m right here. I’ve got you. 

At least, she hopes that’s what he means. 

The sun finishes its creep into the sky and the stars fade into a blanket of pink, orange, and purple. Y/N and Dean hop down from the hood of her car and Sam meets them between the bumpers once more. Sam dips down to hug Y/N first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tight. She fights not to groan when his grasp aggravates the aches in her bones. He releases her, casting a smile in her direction.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N. Here,” he passes her a torn piece of paper with two numbers scrawled across. One has an “S” next to it, the other a “D”. “These are our numbers. Call us if you run into anything else.”

She nods, grinning too. “The same applies to you guys. It doesn’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

He pats her arm before taking his leave, settling into the passenger seat. Y/N turns to Dean. He doesn’t look like much of a hugger, so she extends her hand for a shake. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it, but wraps it around his waist. Dean envelopes her in his arms, holding tighter than Sam with one hand in her hair and the other barred across her shoulders. This time, she welcomes it, in spite of the pain. 

He lets her go, but keeps his hands on her shoulders. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is low and sinful. “If you need anything, call us. Call me.”

“Anything?” she drawls playfully. He nods, regardless. “Even just to talk?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” His right hand travels up to her neck. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, not entirely sure of his intentions but welcoming anything. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Get home safe, Y/N,” he mumbles upon releasing her.

“You too, Dean.”

She waits for him to get in his car before she clambers into her driver’s seat. Her bones creek as she settles. Twisting her keys in the ignition, she rolls the windows down and heads home. Werewolves of London blares across her speakers, and she laughs. Yeah. She’ll be all right.

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