#sometimes sacrifices must be made no matter how small | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lets-try-some-writing · 7 months ago

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Forbidden Sight

With the threat of the Fallen forcing Bumblebee to act and Megatron long since out of the picture, he is left with no choice but to seek out the aid of the divine. Unfortunately, meeting the divine is not all it is cracked up to be, and sometimes the price is not worth the sacrifice.

(Please note: This is LONG and there is body horror going on so do be aware.)

“No, I am not going down there again.” Ratchet clutched his dented arm possessively, his optics flaring in fear of all things. Bumblebee stilled as the Doctor’s plating flared, his servo doing a terrible job covering obvious digit shaped imprints. What could have possibly caused such damage?

“Ratchet, you are the only one who knows the way. You went with Optimus when he-” Ratchet cut him off with a look of pure terror and grief that ran so deep it was clear to see in his body, field, and expression. Bumblebee couldn’t help but stare in shock as the Doctor shook his helm frantically.

“No. No. I will give you the path I mapped, but I will never go down there. Not again.” Something had shaken him to the core. Ratchet was never like this, at least not around anyone who could see or hear what he was dealing with.

Bumblebee took a moment to meet the gazes of his team. They were worried. They looked to him for guidance. None of them said a word, but Windblade’s dipped wings and Strongarm’s nervous twitching told him everything he needed to know.

None were looking forward to the journey ahead, even in light of its necessity.

“Ratchet…” He trailed off as everyone fell silent. Guilt radiated in Ratchet’s field, but he did not budge. He wouldn’t be guiding them, no matter how much Bumblebee pleaded.

In order to defeat the Fallen, they needed information that no living mech, save for perhaps Megatron, possessed. With Megatron lost to the stars, Soundwave stuck in the shadowzone, and other possible sources similarly scattered or deceased, there really was only one choice. It was a faint hope, but Optimus had made the journey to Primus’s core long ago in search of both an end to the war and a way to restore their world. There were none left alive who knew the exact details of what went on that cycle, but Ratchet and a small cohort had journeyed with Orion Pax and they knew that when he emerged, he was greater than he was before.

Orion Pax gained knowledge on that dark cycle. Bumblebee’s hope was that he could do the same.

Optimus was gone, dead, and given to the Well. There was no one else except Ratchet, who might have had the faintest idea as to how to get to Primus’s core safely. And yet he was shaking, terrified to the point of being unable to move, regardless of how badly his field flared with the desire to flee. Something had happened, and that fact did not give Bumblebee any confidence.

“I… I will wait for you here. But Bumblebee, you must listen to me.” Ratchet released his death grip on his damaged arm, leaving it free for all to see. Sideswipe cursed softly somewhere behind him, but Bumblebee could only stare at the damage in horror.

Deep, dark, and dangerous dents that turned into tears ran across Ratchet’s arm. Rust and dried energon bordered the wound, nonlethal, but a testament to something powerful down in the depths. There were four clear imprints, huge and imposing digit marks—dug into metal that for all intents and purposes, appeared delicate now. If Bumblebee looked closely, he could see a fifth imprint running along the underside of Ratchet’s arm.

Ratchet had been grabbed by something. And whatever that horror was, it had destroyed the long maintained stoicism of a mech that had never so much as flinched in the face of danger, save for the sake of another.

“Don’t touch him. Don’t even try to damage him. He will not hesitate to leave a far greater mark.” Ratchet’s entire being spoke of desperation. His plea rang with true terror, not unlike the horror that had been evident in his voice when the Unmaker woke. Still, this was deeper, more… personal.

“I understand.” Bumblebee didn’t bother trying to convince Ratchet to come. He was dead set on remaining, and based on his reaction, it was a miracle he wasn’t already high tailing it all the way back to Iacon.

“Here are the coordinates of the tunnel entrance and mapped paths I recorded.” Ratchet sent a message over a private link, a file quickly blaring red across Bumblebee’s vision. He accepted it easily and shared the information with his team.

“Be careful. You won’t like what you see.” Ratchet stepped away, his gaze turning anywhere except the giant hole in the ground leading down to the core of their planet. Bumblebee nodded and gestured for his team to follow. There was no more time to waste and he couldn’t afford to think too deeply on Ratchet’s warning.

Bumblebee half expected to have to rock climb down the Well in order to get to his target, but according to Ratchet’s map, there was a path for him to follow. It did take him and Drift arguing over the thing for half a groon before they found the entrance, but once the journey began, any mirth evaporated in an instant.

“I don’t like this…” Strongarm muttered, breaking the silence for only a moment before it became suffocating once more. She shivered, and not even Sideswipe was willing to talk as they delved into the depths. Bumblebee did his best to lead confidently, but the road was long and there were things that shifted in the dark the deeper they went. The entire area felt oddly… holy, but only in the vaguest sense.

Controlled seemed like a better word. The path was controlled. Everything was methodical, placed with purpose, even if Bumblebee was unable to parse it out. Drift and Windblade made a few awed comments off and on, but as the light dimmed and the tunnels became more cavernous, his team refused to speak. Bumblebee couldn’t blame them, especially not when there were pedeprints in the dust from mecha who traveled with Optimus Prime millennia ago.

This place carried too much history to be disrupted for longer than absolutely required.

“We are almost to the core. Stay together, and don’t touch anything. This is a place for Primes and Primes alone.” Bumblebee shivered instinctually as his internal map alerted him to the fact that they were close. It was hard to keep track of the time so deep beneath the surface, but he assumed they had been on the move for around a cycle. He expected the trip to take longer. Wasn’t Primus at the very core of their world?

The tunnels made no sense. They hurt to think about.

“Sweet Primus…” Sideswipe cursed, but it was lost in the void as they stepped through a final arch, quickly finding themselves basked in the light of their maker, or at least, his core. Bumblebee had to pause and look on in both awe and a degree of existential dread as cogs larger than life turned in a rhythmic manner, adhering to laws and designs long forgotten by any living being save for the one who ordered their continued functioning.

A thin pathway led closer to the core, one large enough for a mech or two depending on frame type. A few stray Predacon corpses long rusted littered the ground, dark energon leaking from their battered frames. They were lifeless, but they were a reminder of the battle hard fought and won.

“Everyone, keep a ways behind me. If something goes wrong, one of you needs to get out of here and regroup with Ratchet and my old teammates.” He held out an arm, not thinking too deeply on the motion as he cautiously moved forward. He could sense his team moving slowly a few dozen feet behind him, watching him like techno-hawks as he followed the curved pathway toward where he assumed he could address the slumbering god of Cybertron, or at least attempt to commune with the Primes of old.

Everything seemed to pulse and hum around him as he walked. And yet, there was no noise. Not a sound, not a creak, not even his own pedesteps as the light of Primus washed over him in waves. He might have been imagining it, but everything about the area felt intelligent, even alive. If mythology was to be believed, then his senses would be correct. However, it only served to unsettle him as he noted the marks of small pedes moving forward and far larger pedes heading toward the entrance.

How long had it been since the soil was disturbed? Were these Optimus’s marks? Or had someone else made the journey down to Primus to cry out to their absent god? He didn’t think so. The marks matched Optimus’s specs. That thought bothered him, although he could not pinpoint why. The dust should have moved. Something should have changed. Despite that, the echoes of a darker time remained engraved in the very path he walked.

He stepped cautiously, his optics drawn to a series of cables and connectors hanging down from where Primus’s core reached an accessible level. He momentarily wondered if Optimus’s body was stuck amongst those of the Predacons, or caught in wires beneath the thin path he carefully tread. Was the body of his leader hanging limply, forgotten by all but the void that embraced him?

Bumblebee wished that were the case. By Primus he wished that were the case when he finally ascended, following the path as close as it came to Primus’s core.

He wanted to purge as he set optics upon the tattered mess that hung from countless wires and cables. There was no denying who it was. No other mech bore red and blue so proudly or carried a relic of a forgotten age within his spark chamber. He was thinner now, seriously emaciated with rust and dried gore of all kinds spattered across his frame at various intervals. His plating hung off him at odd angles, some pieces even missing altogether. His left finial was broken and the optic on the same side was damaged to the point of almost appearing crushed.

The connectors attached to him dug beneath armor and protoform alike, bloating his frame in strange, unusual places. Blue tinted ooze dripped from unnatural wounds, falling down into the void beneath. The cables seemed to slither into him, creeping into every seam and strut, pulsing with the waves of Primus’s light. The Matrix glowed in time with it all, seemingly content even as its bearer hung lifelessly.

“Optimus, I’m so sorry.” His digits shook, and it took all his willpower to not turn away and purge as he stared at what remained of his mentor, his leader, and the only fatherly character he had ever known. The Prime was not honored in death, not like this. His body hung up like some sort of twisted trophy.

It wasn’t right. Optimus deserved better than this.

“I wish I could bury you properly, but this will have to do.” He stepped forward, doing his best to not look at the deep gashes along Optimus’s back where his jetpack had once been. He could see cables slithering there, sliding deep and along Optimus’s spine. He fought the urge to gag as he readied himself to act.

He would take the Matrix out of Optimus’s chassis and use it to find a way to commune with the Primes of old. His leader’s body would then be cut free, and he could rest without being strung up like a tormented attempt at taxidermy. It was the least he could do. After everything, Optimus should be allowed to pass without being held up in a grim state of disrepair.

“I wish you weren’t like this… I wish things were different.” He found himself murmuring softly as his digits barely brushed against the relic. However, his movement seemed to stir it, and Bumblebee leapt back with a yelp as the Matrix became encased in arcs of electricity. Optimus’s body convulsed, the cables holding it up twitching and shifting as the body was lifted higher, away from Bumblebee’s reach.

“Bee!” Sideswipe was the first to move forward, with the rest of the team following behind him. Bumblebee wished he could curse and ward them all off as what remained of his leader contorted in horrible ways. The legs squirmed, kicking at nothing, as power rippled through the living corpse. The arms tensed up, digits twitching madly as the body’s optics began to flare without rhyme or reason.

His spark flared in its chamber, terrified as the corpse gave another unfortunate spasm, a deafening crack echoing amidst the eerie silence. The entire chamber seemed to lurch in a spiritual way before the lights all dimmed, Primus’s very core lowering in intensity. Nothing happened for a klik, and Bumblebee was half tempted to try and reach out again as the body fell still. Maybe it was just… lingering processor function acting up. Perhaps the Matrix was trying to awaken a host that had long since gone offline. There were always possibilities-

“Bumblebee.” The garbled designation in that oh-so-familiar voice shook him, freezing Bumblebee in place as the corpse’s helm raised. The lone functional optic blazed bright enough to blind a mech as it settled on Bumblebee and his team. There was no way Optimus was alive. He couldn’t be. That… the thing hanging from wire and cables was a corpse. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be real.

“You have come to seek wisdom.” The corpse shuddered, its staticky voice steadying with every glyph uttered. Its helm tilted, the lone functional optic cycling in on Bumblebee in what could have been interest if it weren’t for the fact that there was no spark to power the frame that continued to defy reality.

“You come for my knowledge, that which has been lost to you, dear children.” The cables holding the corpse shifted, growing as more came down from the void. They slithered and writhed beneath the corpse’s plating, allowing the body to lower closer, almost to the point of being within touching distance. The blazing optic that illuminated the entire chamber flickered off and on, its gaze seemingly so glued to Bumblebee that it felt like fire on his plating. Yet, at the same time, it seemed the corpse was looking right through him, not seeing so much as observing.

“Little Orion came to me long ago. He too sought out my guidance.” The living corpse shifted, its arms moving in haphazard, jagged movements. Its digits twitched, seemingly trying to gesture and grasp at nonexistent objects. It hurt to watch as ooze leaked from between cracks, forced out by movement that should not have been possible. A few of the cables loosened, allowing the corpse to move a degree. It leaned forward, its tattered frame straining as its derma failed to match the syllables of the glyphs being uttered.

It was sickening. Bumblebee wanted to retch and flee, but his very spark lurched in his chassis, frozen before the entity that wore his father figure’s frame like a suit. There was no escape. Not for him, not for his terrified team.

“What will you give for that which you seek?” The corpse’s neck cracked and energon so old that it was little more than a tank churning goo dripped from torn ligaments and connectors. The corpse remained focused on him, a smile beginning to form on its face, cracking the delicate facial plating that once gave Optimus his classical reputation.

It reached out. Its arms gestured to Bumblebee as the light of Primus’s core pulsed behind it, shadowing it while also making it impossible to look away. It was a mockery of all Optimus was, and Bumblebee couldn’t help the rage that began to pool in his spark alongside the dread.

“What will you offer when my Champion gave me everything?” The Matrix flared, power arcing off it as the entity spoke. The corpse’s helm tilted a little too far to be possible for a normal mech, almost shifting a full ninety degrees. It grinned, its arms pulled close to itself as viscera and torn cables seeped out from between cracks in the corpse’s armor.

This thing was not Optimus. It merely wore his frame and mimicked his voice. Bumblebee’s desire to flee quickly found itself overshadowed by grim determination. Whatever the entity was, it could not be allowed to continue desecrating the frame of his leader and father.

“Who are you?” A slight tremor entered his voice as he spoke. His team huddled close to each other, stepping back from Bumblebee as the thing descended lower, its smile wide enough to tear through facial plating with ease. Bumblebee could see molar derma showing through the gashes that formed as the thing pushed Optimus’s body beyond its limits.

“I am the one below, he who formed your sparks from fire and starlight.” The entity’s smile softened, although it did nothing to take away from the rotted scent that emanated from the corpse. Rusted metal, stagnant energon, and the rancid smell of corroding internal fluids long since left to rot. That one optic blazed with renewed fury as Primus’s core brightened for a moment, joining the entity, the god as it, he spoke.

“I ask you again, what will you offer? How much are you willing to give for victory?” The cables slithered ever deeper into battered protoform, puppeting limbs as the god of all Cybertronians hung within the confines of Optimus’s corpse. Bumblebee’s digits shook as the being known as Primus continued to stare through the optic of his father.

This was so very wrong. What use would a god have for a mortal frame? Why would Primus do this to his chosen? Why would he demand sacrifices when already they had given all they could?

“I… I will give whatever is required.” He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for whatever was to come as Primus continued to stare, uncaring, unnatural, and yet so very loving all at once. His team’s fields flared in horror, and distantly he was aware of Windblade and Drift dropping to their knees in submission, be it out of fear or reverent respect. Strongarm and Sideswipe continued to step away, terrified as more cables wrapped around Optimus’s frame, supporting it so that the god could pilot it more freely.

“How noble of you. Optimus tended to you well. I can sense his touch, feel his influence all throughout your very being.” The corpse moved, the cables dragging it through the chamber as it did a slow circle around Bumblebee and his team. The god kept a safe distance away, remaining half submerged in shadow at any given moment as the spotlight that was Optimus’s optic continued to illuminate Bumblebee and those with him.

“I was right to let him keep you.” The voice echoed from all around and yet nowhere at once. Primus hung directly above Bumblebee for a moment, the corpse of Optimus Prime dripping fluids that made him want to gag. He resisted the urge, trying with all his might to not show how frightened he was as the god returned to his former position in front of the core, seemingly content.

“What does that mean?” The implications of the god’s words were startling to say the least. He spoke as though he controlled Optimus as easily as he did now, moving his body and commanding his voice. Would Optimus have left him if Primus had not ordained the Prime’s acquisition of Bumblebee after the destruction of his home city? Did Optimus have no free will? Or was the god toying with him just as Unicron had all those years ago?

“Nothing to you. It is of no consequence.” The god continued to smile in that sickly way that was only found on corpses where the mortician simply couldn’t manage to make the expression look natural. Optimus’s other finial snapped and fell into the void below as Primus contorted Optimus’s frame again, forcing it to jerkingly return to a somewhat comfortable position resting within the wires.

It didn’t look comfortable at all, not with wires and cables threatening to burst from every line and seam. If Optimus were alive, Bumblebee had no doubt that he would be in agony. He sincerely hoped his father figure wasn’t still functioning, trapped by some divine will within his frame as it twisted and shifted in ways it wasn’t meant to.

“Why are you doing this? Why can’t you let him rest?” Anger returned in full force as Bumblebee shook. Why did the monster that called himself a god have to do this to his chosen? Had Optimus not served enough?

He got his answer as the god paused, and then laughed.

It was a deep guttural and almost pained sound, one that bordered on a wheeze and the buzz of radio static all at once. Fluid must have been gathering in Optimus’s vocalizer all throughout his time rotting in the Well. The laughter merely emphasized that fact.

“Sweet child, have you no optics to see? Look upon this form, see that which it is and what it represents.” The god haphazardly threw Optimus’s arms open in a mock mimicry of an embrace. Primus smiled even wider, shattering further pieces of Optimus’s face as he forced it to match his design. He must have seen himself as benevolent and holy. He did not seem to understand the sheer horror of a god speaking through the deceased and rotted frame of a Prime.

“That means nothing to me.” Bumblebee stood defiantly, his door wings locked in place as he forced his hydraulics to stiffen. He refused to shake, to show weakness in front of an entity that bordered on maliciousness at every moment.

“A pity. No others have ever matched this one, my dear Optimus.” Primus spoke and almost lovingly forced Optimus’s arms to wrap around himself. The god tenderly caressed the Matrix, lovingly looking down upon it with what would have been an adoring expression if not for the rust that crept along the corpse’s face.

He looked so serene, and strangely enough, even holy. In Bumblebee’s mind, what he saw before him was a true depiction of their god. A rotting power of the old world who in turn chose new champions to pilot, corrode, and ultimately make just like him. Broken, and so very divine.

“So strong, so dutiful, so very faithful.” A look of pure joy spread on the corpse’s face. A piece of Optimus’s shoulder plating broke away and fell into the darkness. Primus did not react as he forced the arms of the corpse to stretch beyond their limits, as if to embrace the god’s chosen Prime with even more adoration.

“Always obedient and kind. He was, he is perfect. A true beacon for all my wayward creations.” The frame shuddered, almost like a clockwork engine as it let off steam. Energon long unused began to sizzle as the spotlight that was the god’s borrowed optic again returned to Bumblebee.

His team shook behind him. Sideswipe and Strongarm had long since fallen, their plating rattling as they unknowingly found themselves bowing. Bumblebee refused to budge. He clenched his servos into fists, unwilling to show the god before him just how frightened he was. Primus could destroy him in an instant, he was sure of it.

“How could I relinquish such perfection? He gives himself to me so very freely. Total submission, true supplication. Much unlike others who have come before and after him.” Again, the corpse moved forward, coming closer and closer to Bumblebee until it hung only a little ways off. He could almost touch his father’s broken face if he so desired.

But what truly set him off was not the proximity of the living corpse. Rather, it was the red and white paint that had been transferred onto the left servo of Primus’s borrowed vessel.

“You, did you-?” Realization dawned on him like a lighting strike. The corpse merely tilted its helm with its ever present smile.

“You think of the doctor, my Champion’s dearest friend. Yes, the damage was done by this borrowed servo. He dared to try and take what belongs to me and me alone.” Primus clenched the corpse’s fist, cables bulging within the limb in question as they were forcefully bloated with energon to facilitate movement. Bumblebee bit his lower derma as images of Ratchet’s terror and possible experience conjured in his processor. This thing had hurt him, that much was clear.

“He might have been a fine vessel once. But he is too tainted, no longer pure. Wise perhaps, and dutiful indeed. But he would never heed my call.” Primus reached up to cup his, or rather Optimus’s face. Weathered servos touched scuffed and dirty facial plates with all the delicateness one would give a porcelain doll. Bumblebee wanted to recoil in horror as the implications hit him. No mech should be subject to whatever in the name of the Thirteen this was.

“Optimus… my beloved Optimus. His faith has been a delight after so many ages of silence.” Primus maneuvered his borrowed servos down, brushing up against thin and frail armor plates. The singular functional optic Primus had to use trailed every movement, watching those servos which he controlled as they caressed the body the god inhabited. It was disturbing to watch. It almost looked like some sort of convoluted assault with how pleased the god looked as he forced Optimus’s body to examine itself.

“He gave himself to me willingly. Anything to win his little war. He called himself a sacrifice, but I have named him my Chosen.” The body shivered in what looked to be pleasure. Bumblebee couldn’t help the gag that he let out at the sight. The corpse merely continued to grin as it forced Optimus’s body to embrace itself, prompting a series of cables to burst and oozing energon to slide from new wounds.

“He obeyed my every command, listening to my whispers and calls for my brother’s return to slumber. He was so dutiful that he chose me over all others, even the likes of you.” The god laughed again, a sweet chortle that did not match Optimus in any capacity. Then, as if that weren’t enough, its helm tilted again, this time even further than before. Something snapped as Primus forced the corpse to comply with his wishes, ensuring the rotted frame’s helm all but swiveled into an impossible one hundred and eighty degree angle.

Anger swelled in his spark at the mere idea of Optimus throwing everything away for some dying deity. It wasn’t like him. Optimus was a Prime for the people. He would never cast away everything just for… some god who hardly cared. But what truly shook Bumblebee were the tears that began to fall from the singular functioning optic Optimus’s body still possessed. The tears were discolored due to rust and other contaminants, but they were real, and he highly doubted it was Primus who ordered Optimus’s coolant stores to empty themselves.

“He gave himself back to me entirely, and yet as he fell, he thought of you.” Bumblebee took a step back as Primus’s tone turned sharper, edging on something akin to agitation if not hatred. The god rattled, his borrowed frame shaking as the smile fell away.

“You and your fellow companions, his little playthings meant to guide and serve.” The god’s helm swiveled back into proper position, another unsettled crack echoing as something or other broke in Optimus’s battered frame.

“Be quiet. You don’t know him.” Bumblebee shot back, wrath, anguish, and everything else he had been doing his best to bottle up swelling to the surface of his mind and spark. Primus didn’t know slag. He had not been there as their people died off during the great war. He had not so much as offered one vague prophecy through his Prime throughout all the time Optimus carried the Matrix. He had no right to speak on the behalf of a mech who gave everything for their world.

“But don’t I?” Primus’s tone was sweet like freshly purified energex, but he did not smile.

“I know his spark. I lived within him throughout your entire war. His thoughts were mine to glean and his affections mine to allow or deny.” The corpse was moved, again shifting away from its lighted position and into shadow. Bumblebee couldn’t see it as Primus maneuvered through the dark, silence reigning for a long klik. The urge to activate his weapons was almost suffocating as he scanned the darkness, desperately trying to pinpoint the lurking threat.

His team didn’t so much as twitch as they remained in various states of terrified worship. Their optics flicked around, following Bumblebee’s lead as they too tried to track the threat. Not a spark spoke, not when the core of their world pulsed so calmly, serenely even. There was no acknowledgement of the body that hung in living chains, lurking in the dark and almost certainly observing.

“Do you miss him? Does this voice make you wish he were here?” The corpse called out, this time without any undertone of Primus’s interference. It sounded almost exactly like Optimus, and it came from all around. He had to fight back the instinctual urge to cry as the familiar gruff softness reached his audials.

It wasn’t Optimus. That wasn’t his father. Optimus Prime was dead and a god was making a mockery of him.

“Come. Come greet him.” He turned around, facing the way he came to try and determine where the voice was coming from. But when he returned to his previous position, the corpse was a mere few feet away, far closer than ever before. He let out an undignified scream as the corpse leaned in, its arms outstretched.

How had it moved so fast?

“You must come closer. He cannot hear you so far away.” The tone of the thing was sing-songy, but Bumblebee shook his helm rapidly in primal terror. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t HIM. The thing that smiled and watched him with one wide and far too bright optic was not his leader. The mech he wished he openly called father would have never done this. Optimus would have never beckoned him like some sort of… creature.

He stepped back, his bravery falling in the face of true fear. His venting hitched and he prepared to run as the corpse tilted its helm again, a snarl forming on its features for the first time since it began to speak.

“Why do you flee from me? Am I not your maker?” The thing lurched forward, its movements so stiff and unnatural the Bumblebee scrambled back just in time to dodge its attempts to grab him. The god seethed and Bumblebee’s team quickly floundered in their attempts to get to their pedes as a wrathful field pressed against them from all sides.

“Come here.” Primus looked enraged. His borrowed face contorted into anger so rarely seen on Optimus in life that to Bumblebee it looked like the mech he once called his leader was possessed by the Unmaker himself. The god looked a klik away from forcing his borrowed frame into combat before he stuttered, power arcing off him until at last, he stilled.

“You… must… run.” The voice of the corpse whirled to life once more, but unlike the clear sound that Primus produced despite the state of his borrowed frame, this sound was pained. It came in a wheeze that gurgled and croaked, finally matching the tears that stained the corpse’s face.

“Leave. Go before he can take you.” The body looked up, and the movement was smooth, evidently practiced. The optic that settled on Bumblebee was not nearly as bright. Rather, it was dim and flickering, sickly in the purest sense. It was a light that should not have been there with how badly the frame it was emanating from was damaged.

Bumblebee’s processor scrambled for an answer, but the conclusion was obvious. He didn’t want to believe it. A part of him hoped that his leader was at peace, if only in spark. But seeing the desperate expression on Optimus’s face… he knew who it was that spoke to him, and he wanted to kick, scream, and cry all at once as the body spasmed and control returned to the god of their world.

“How dare you.” The corpse bore no expression now. Only the words came out with a thick vile venom that stung just to listen to. The ground began to shake as Primus’s core pulsed rapidly, wires convulsing and ancient gears stalling for nanokliks at a time.

“How dare you taint him.” The voice rose in volume, no longer sounding like Optimus at all. A maelstrom of sound and sensation assaulted him from every conceivable angle as voices that were few and yet singular at the same time all converged on him. Energon and thick viscous fluid exploded out of Optimus’s throat as Primus’s speech shattered more and more of its components.

“He belongs to me.” The corpse stiffened, its singular optic blazing so brightly that smoke rose from places, prompting more tears to fall. But instead of smiting him as Bumblebee expected, the god instead fell still once more, his borrowed optic flickering as something seemed to change.

“He is innocent. Merely a child.” Optimus, the real Optimus spoke out in the gloom. His words were slow and agonizing, grating just to listen to. But Bumblebee found himself crying all the same as his leader began to plead, desperation evident in every glyph he uttered.

“I serve. I serve willingly.” He sounded like he was in agony.

“Glory to the one below. He who slumbers and gives us life.” Prayers flowed from his torn derma, regardless of the absolute torment he was likely enduring. Optimus held his servos in a loose symbol of the Primacy, his gaze unsteady as he spoke.

“Praise be to His holy station. His will is our demand.” He did not look up, but his stuttered venting spoke of life forced to continue operating regardless of its viability. Bumblebee couldn’t find the strength to wipe away his tears, not when his Prime pleaded for his very existence.

“There is no greater purpose than to offer Him our loyalty. For He is the truth where lies fester.” The prayers continued for kliks. There was no pause between them, nor did Optimus look up even once. Eventually, the prayers changed and strange glyphs that made no sense began to emerge in something akin to a babble. Bumblebee couldn’t tell if Optimus was too pained to continue or if something deeper was happening, but ultimately, the shaking stopped and everything returned to its previous state.

“What will you give to achieve victory?” The question was repeated and Bumblebee was not given time to move before the corpse swept down, grabbing his face with one monstrous servo so tightly that he could feel his jaw creaking. That lone optic all but blinded him as the god held him in place, all but lifting him off the ground as Primus demanded his answer.

“Would you give me your spark?” The servo that was not holding him still wandered to Bumblebee’s chassis, sweeping over his plating in a seemingly fond manner. He wanted to curl in on himself in shame, horror, and something that had long since evolved beyond terror. However, he was helpless to stop the god as he ran his borrowed digits along transformation seams, his expression hopeful as if he expected Bumblebee to open for him.

“If not yours, would you give me theirs?” Seeing his lack of reaction, Primus looked over his shoulder, down at Bumblebee’s team. He flailed, but the death grip the god had on his face was all but unbearable. Fear ran so deeply in his spark he couldn’t find a way to produce words. Linguistic codes were gone, far out of reach as he stared, meeting Primus’s gaze properly for the first time.

He saw his team reflected for a moment in that lone optic as it flickered and struggled to remain online. They were terrified, but similarly frozen. They were at the mercy of their god, and they had no say in the matter once he decided what to do.

“I am not a cruel maker. I am willing to make deals.” Digits reached up, dirty from energon, rust, and years of contamination. They brushed his derma, tracing around his optics and facial features like a lover would. He wheezed, tears falling from his optics with greater ferocity than ever as the god watched him with that strange apathy and love all balled together into a disgusting mix that left him wishing it could all be over.

Primus continued to touch him for a long few moments, a hum bubbling in his borrowed throat. Bumblebee sobbed softly all the while. This wasn’t right. Optimus was his father. All of this was wrong on a fundamental level. He only wanted information, a way to save their people. Why this? Why did it have to be like this?

“Ah… it seems the debt has been paid by another.” Suddenly, without warming, Primus let go of his face. Bumblebee fell to his knees gasping in sheer relief as the corpse pulled back, slowly returning to its original position.

“There shall be no sacrifice from you this cycle.” It spoke soothingly, as if nothing at all had happened during their interaction. Primus smiled in that divine manner that should have been comforting but only served to remind Bumblebee that this entity was a god more than capable of violence.

“You shall have your victory, when the time is right.” Weathered arms stretched out as the corpse performed a mock bow, at least as much as it could with the way it was bound.

“I will lend him to you for a time, at least until the threat is removed.” It straightened, more cables coming from the walls of the chamber to connect to Optimus’s battered frame. Bumblebee continued to shakily vent, observing in silence as the god pulled his puppet back, far out of reach.

“Go now. Tell the doctor and prepare yourselves.” Optimus’s arms were crossed over his chassis, an almost respectful position if it weren’t for the sheer amount of damage inflicted all over him from Primus’s attempts at controlling a mortal frame. Optimus’s lone optic flickered and glanced around for a moment before Primus uttered a final statement that haunted Bumblebee throughout his return journey.

“I know he was too afraid to stand before his god once again.”

Huh.

So what if he was?

Bumblebee couldn’t say he blamed Ratchet for much of anything anymore. He couldn't help but wonder if getting Megatron would have been the easier decision. At least the warlord wouldn’t condemn his spark to the void if he failed to show proper respect. At worst, he would be disemboweled. And quite frankly, compared to Primus’s little attempts at touch, he would prefer that any cycle of the vorn.

“I told you not to touch him.” Ratchet’s first comment was simple, but without any malice. Bumblebee all but collapsed into his arms, the aching marks on his face clear to see.

Ratchet didn’t comment after that.

No one did.

What happened that cycle was never spoken about, at least not in public. Bumblebee did his best to forget, especially when Primus seemed to keep up his end of his supposed… deal.

Optimus came back, pristine and shiny as if he’d never been dead to begin with. He showed no signs of distress or the vaguest recollection of events down in the Well. He played it all off as if he had been peacefully deceased and promptly returned to existence at the drop of a hat. But after everything, Bumblebee now knew the faint look in his optics, the shadow that followed him wherever he went.

Primus was watching. There was no escape from the god of Cybertronians and his precious Champion.

Over and over again Bumblebee found himself haunted, hearing the words replay again and again in his mind whenever Optimus’s optics met his.

”The debt has been paid by another.”

By the Thirteen. Just what had Optimus given to ensure no others suffered as he did?

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #transformers robots in disguise #optimus prime #ratchet #bumblebee #sideswipe #strongarm #windblade #drift #primus #the matrix of leadership #robogore #religious imagery #body horror #yupppppppp here yall go #another brain worm that went nuts

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pixeldolly · 26 days ago

Text

The Sacrifice - Part 1

“Hello there!”

A woman’s voice, rich and honeyed, stopped Fiona in her tracks. It was a voice she had heard before, but couldn’t quite place it.

“Can I help you?”

Turning around, Fiona’s gaze landed on a striking blonde - mid to late 30s - wearing a chic red blazer and a charming smile on her perfect, rouged lips.

“I just wanted to introduce myself - I’m Eliza Clare, I live next door.”

Fiona remembered then; the blonde had moved in some time ago then vanished just as abruptly. Fiona had assumed she’d moved away.

“Fiona Merridew; nice to meet you.”

“Likewise! It’s always nice to make the acquaintance of a fellow practitioner!”

Eliza’s aura sparkled with magical energy, and there was no mistaking that sharp undertone, like electricity prickling along her skin. Fiona recognized a fellow dark witch when she met one.

How interesting.

“So, listen - are you doing anything right now? Would you like to come inside for a drink and a chat?”

The only task on Fiona’s list that morning was grocery-shopping, so she accepted.

“What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea for me, thanks.”

“Coming right up! I promise I conjure the best tea.”

Fiona cast an eye around Eliza’s home: the furniture aspired to class, but it was cheap and worn and quite at odds with the woman’s designer clothing. The combination suggested someone who was used to wealth, forced by circumstances to make do with less.

She also noticed several bottles of wine in the living room alone, and Eliza wasted no time pouring herself a glass.

It wasn’t even 10 am yet.

“So, Fiona, do tell - what brings you to this dismal little town?”

“I was born in Walden, an even smaller town high up in the mountains, and moved here after graduating. Trust me, it’s an improvement.”

“That bad, huh? Forgive me for being so bold, but I thought the Merridews lived across the pond, in the Windenburg area.”

“Most do. My dad moved here in his youth. What about you, Eliza? You’re obviously not local either.”

“I needed a change of scenery, and a clean break. Messy divorce - ugh! It was such a headache, I couldn’t wait to get away!”

“I can imagine. This is why I keep things commitment-free.”

Eliza toasted her good sense.

“Clever!”

“By the way - speaking as one witch to another - what’s the state of the magical community here? I’ve been away and I haven’t had time to research the matter.”

“It’s small, but growing.”

“Any covens worth mentioning?”

“There’s the one I lead, of course.”

“You?”

Fiona didn’t appreciate her incredulous tone.

“You’re welcome to apply. Although I must warn you, membership requirements are quite strict. We take only the best.”

“Aren’t you precious? I will definitely consider it.”

They made casual conversation until Fiona found a pretext to leave. She decided she didn’t like Eliza Clare, from her thinly veiled arrogance to the counterfeit charm she wore like a cheap perfume. Fiona doubted anything she’d told her was true.

Nevertheless, it was good to get the measure of a potential rival.

“We should do this again sometime! Take care now!”

“You too, Eliza. I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.”

As soon as Fiona’s back was turned, Eliza’s bright smile vanished, replaced by a coldly calculating look.

When Fiona had introduced herself as a Merridew, her heart had skipped a beat - that family had wealth and connections, and she had survived this long by keeping a low profile - but it seemed that only an insignificant offshoot branch lived in the area.

Also, if this girl was at the head of Mistvale’s most prominent coven, she likely had nothing to worry about.

Still, Eliza planned to keep an eye on her. Just in case.

#sims 2 #the sims 2 #sims2 #ts2 #sims 2 story #story: the sacrifice #eliza clare #fiona merridew #sims 2 bacc #bacc: walden

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atsadi-shenanigans · 3 months ago

Text

What Shall We Become 16 - Sacrifices

The rogue is badly injured.

On AO3.

Fucking TRIGGER WARNING for torture and gore here.

Pain is everything. Wretched, grinding pain. Can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. He tries to sink into oblivion once again, but his thrice-cursed vampiric nature will not let him.

He’s broken. Blind. Can’t hear. Smells only blood—old and dead and his own. Worthless blood. He’s tasted it before (not a thinking creature, the master had decreed, red eyes leering; have a taste, boy and it was the most rancid thing to ever touch his tongue).

Rancid, undead blood. A mockery of life.

He’s…where? Why?

His thoughts won’t coalesce. Something touches him and his skull shifts and pain lights his hair on fire. There’s something deeply wrong with his head. It’s broken. He’s felt that before. Skull smashed like a sun melon.

Oh, what has he done.

The master rarely lets anger show so directly. It usually comes in disgust and annoyance. In a predator’s eyes in a dark room. But he can be pushed to anger. Astarion has a talent for it. Wretched, stupid boy.

He can’t remember what he’s done, this time, though.

Cold hands on him and his skin lights up in agony. He’s being dragged, he thinks. His siblings hauling him somewhere (he knows where). More than one, even. He’s made some terrible mistake. If they’re all here, if it takes all of them and not just Godey…

He whimpers.

There’s no point in fighting. There never is. The master will let them, sometimes. Let them have that small freedom. But exercising it makes it all so much worse. Yet compliance, when Astarion forces his own legs to move himself and his own arms to stretch out for the manacles, his reward is the master’s chilled fingers sliding through his hair and a thin voice in his ear, “So pathetic you don’t even try.”

He doesn’t know how long they drag him. Must have been in a distant wing of the palace. He can’t remember this night at all. Doesn’t know what he’s done or failed to do to draw the master’s ire like this.

It doesn’t really matter. Master doesn’t need a reason. At least not one Astarion’s stupidity needs to understand. He’s so worthless, so insignificant, he can’t even comprehend the lessons the master must carve into him, over and over again. He must be corrected so frequently.

Eventually, they stop. Eventually, his siblings haul him onto a table. His own blood is so thick he can’t smell the stink of the kennels. He’s not sure that’s an improvement.

Then they pull his arms up and oh, he’s truly shattered, isn’t he? Ragged fractures twist and tear him internally as they move him and he cannot stop the screams. The master laughs; he enjoys Astarion’s screams. They’re the sweetest of them all.

New pain starts. Hot slashing, scraping over his ribs. Is Godey starting with a flailing? It’s been some time since he’s experienced that one. The screams begin in earnest, now.

Voices warble. His previous injuries have filled his ears with blood, likely crushed his ear canals entirely. There are no words, no sense. Just warbles and his own, pathetic cries.

Godey hoots and jeers, as Godey does, wretched beast. And then they pull at the incision. He’s being dissected. He wishes he knew what he did so he can beg properly. Sometimes—very, very rarely—that works. The master appreciates a good grovel, especially in front of an audience: his siblings and guests alike. Likes to show his power and control.

But Astarion can’t remember, and can only scream as skin is ripped open and scraped from underlying muscle.

“…more! Bleed more!”

Doesn’t know that voice. The master must have company. A special guest. Perhaps Astarion did nothing at all and the master just wanted to show off his most beautiful creation. Those are the worst nights.

Something nudges him inside his broken head. His fuzzy thoughts blur a moment. The master is often in their thoughts, but never so small. And the master is right here, overseeing Astarion’s correction.

Another nudge. Something urgent. Something angry.

He’s failing his punishment. The master means to make a pretty example of him. But he cannot move to thrash, cannot think to plead. His eyes are ruined and he can’t even cry as the torment continues. A poor example. A failure, even in this.

Frustration, now. And…and fear. No, not just fear.

Terror.

…that. Is not the master.

Something in his skull crunches. His body tries to stitch itself together even as the tearing continues. That’s Godey’s favorite part. The way Astarion’s body struggles despite his mind knowing better. He lets Astarion heal, just a little. Expend whatever meager rat blood he’s consumed enough for the nerves to reconnect. And then starts again. For the challenge. Grind Astarion down until even his body fails. Because to lift one up, to shape them to perfection, they must first be destroyed.

Sound filters in. Still warbling (must be the blood or the brains in his ears). But it’s enough to make out chanting.

“Boooal! Boooal!”

What in the hells is a boooal?

A knife cuts into him again. The air is thick and stinking. Fingers inside him as something jeers as it hooks fingers between his ribs and tugs.

He screams again. The master’s favorite sound. Drawing it out, playing Astarion’s agony like a musician with a lute.

He hears…water. A soft lapping behind the chanting and his own vocal chords go ragged.

There’s no water in the kennels. Only blood. Old and rotten and his own.

“Boooal! Boooal!”

“Yes! Bleed! Bleed more!”

The air shifts. He catches the scent of that water, cool and dark. And of…fish.

This isn’t the kennels, is it? And if it’s not the kennels…

Something else clicks and crunches in his head and a memory floats up: he fell. In the Underdark. He was running with his…his illustrious leader. And something exploded and knocked him into the depths and shattered him.

Something taps in his head again. It almost feels like her. But he remembers that, too. She was in his mind (and he in hers). She saw it. Saw his own memory. The river. The rope. His knife.

She knows he cut her loose and left her to die. She’ll see right through everything that came after, all his pathetic attempts to soothe the ire he knew would come eventually. Of course she would find out. He always knew, deep down, she would find out because good things do not last. This, the thing rummaging around inside him, that is reality.

He might actually die here. After all the running. After everything. Not an illithid tadpole. Not an orc club or a goblin arrow or even a githyanki blade. He’s going to be torn to pieces by what sounds and smells like fish.

A pathetic end. A pathetic failure. That’s all he is, anyway.

At least he’s not in the kennels. At least Cazador won’t get him back.

His arms won’t move and neither will his legs. He must have crushed his skull and probably his spine. He can’t get away. He ought to resign himself and save himself the trouble. There were times he prayed to the darker gods for something like this. Any way out. Anything at all.

And yet.

“Bleed the sacrifice!”

Whatever gurgling monstrosity hovers over him reeks of putrid blood. “Bleed him for Boooal!”

“Boooal! Boooal!”

Ah. He’s being sacrificed to another god he’s never heard of. There certainly is a crop of those popping up all along the Sword Coast this year, aren’t there?

And yet.

He doesn’t want to die. He didn’t two centuries ago. And while that hasn’t held true all the time since then, it does once more. He doesn’t want to die down here, soaked in his own blood, surrounded by stink and fish and rot. Blind.

Alone.

He doesn’t want to die alone.

“…arion.”

The voice in his head. Oh wonderful. He’s hallucinating. Perhaps he can lean into that and get out of his own cracked skull while his body succumbs to the grave he clawed out of centuries ago. Perhaps he still has a soul (unlikely). Perhaps he can find the others and haunt them.

“…starion…”

The gith? No, too boring. And besides, she might have some astral ability to blast him to another plane. The Blade would simply exorcise him. As would the cleric. The tiefling? No, no, she doesn’t deserve that. The wizard, then?

“Astarion.”

Unless someone is very good at using the tadpole. But the only one so far good enough to form words is the wizard (he gets the sense the gith can, but doesn’t deign to). But that voice doesn’t sound like the wizard, and Astarion has blocked himself off. Thrown up every wall he can because he cannot stop what is happening to him (never can, stupid boy, weak runt) but he can damn well hide in his own mind, at least from them. But something slips through his walls. Slips through because it’s familiar. Because he’s recently been part of it and she halts at the soft edges of his consciousness. Waiting.

He’s usually the one who needs an invitation to enter.

His illustrious leader. Not dead. Not even distant. What…?

He reaches out. And she pulls him in as she did before. He can almost touch the inside of her skull, trace the contours of the bone from the inside. Then he’s staring out through her shit eyes.

Everything dim, in shades of gray and faint blue. A vast lake. The upturned front of a boat (the bow) ringed in chanting fish creatures. A be-gored figure standing over a table, and upon that table, some broken thing, all white and red.

It’s him. She’s looking at his mangled self as the disgusting figure raises a knife again.

Her rage is the sharpest thing he’s ever felt.

Eleanor.

She’s right there. Slipping along a rocky outcrop at the edges of the horrid camp or temple or whatever it is.

She’s too close. She’s not stealthy. Can’t melt into the shadows as he does and she’ll be seen. Be captured. Be dragged to the table to join him, only her mortal, human body won’t stand up to this as his own does and they’ll both be tortured to death by whatever even is that?

But then a memory: digging through a pack (his own) (must have dropped it) (she found it, her vision blurring for some reason). A bottle filled with liquid silver. An invisibility potion. Taste of absolutely nothing in a way that makes her grimace.

She’s invisible. Slinking along the edges, creeping closer. She’s not speaking to his mind through the tadpoles. She’s simply gotten close enough for his unnatural ears to catch her voice.

Why. Why is she even here?

And the danger of that tadpole connection is that she can feel his thoughts as her own when they’re not careful (the pain, the stretching and tearing of his muscles and the pink of his skin turned inside out).

She lets her thoughts be his in this moment: she returned for him.

It makes no sense. It’s pure idiocy. There’s no reason—

The knife cuts and the gore-slicked fucking little goblin cackles and clasps its hands as Astarion wrenches and oh.

Oh, her rage is a thing to behold. Not a fire. Not a storm. Not any of the terms poets usually describe it as. Hers is a blade: clean and sharp and glowing cherry red as it burns. It’s aimed at that figure, at the fish. She’s going to kill that goblin. It’s not a question. Not a suggestion or a want or a wish. She’s going to kill it as certain as she breathes; she only needs to find the right approach.

And for that, she’s fallen to her usual habits.

It’s not a habit.

It very much is, darling.

The smooth vial in her hand. Her skin tingles where the liquid sloshes inside. A shade of orange found at the edge of a flame, shifting to hot blue where it ripples in its confinement.

What’s an “emotional support grenade?”

She didn’t mean to let that slip.

Arsonists oil. The one he gave her.

She’s close enough now to smell them all even with her dim, human senses. The heavy stink of fish, the stomach-churning sweetness of rot, and the thick, metallic reek of blood, old and coagulated.

The figure (goblin) above him sways back, its head falling as it inhales. The fish flail around in devotional frenzy.

She hefts the vial. Cuts their connection. He slams back into his grinding, screaming body, blinded and paralyzed as every nerve lights in agony.

Glass shatters. And it’s as if the world (Eleanor) manifests his own agony into reality as scorching heat flashes over him and the fish scream.

The thing over him (he doesn’t think it’s a goblin) shouts. Everything hurts, everything burns.

And then a rush over him. Something crashes. Screams. The sound of wood bashing flesh.

He can’t move, can’t see. Can’t know what’s going on and he can’t—can’t—he needs to see.

He finds the doorway to her through their connection. She’s distracted. He doesn’t need to sink into her this time, only skim along the edges until he finds the shape of her eyes.

If she notices, she doesn’t react. She’s rather busy. Everything in her is focused. A razor’s edge aimed at that awful creature. It’s short thing, with a sharp chin and a mouth full of needle teeth. Familiar. Seen it before.

Fire boils in the midst of the fish creatures. Two lie, presumably, dead. Others back away. Many are scorched.

She sees this in a glance, and hones back in on her target.

Goblin, she calls it. It’s not, but he’s in no shape to correct her.

The goblin screeches and swipes with the knife still sticky with his blood. She backs away, holding still at it flails. As it screams insults and pink spittle froths at its lips.

It can’t see her. Good. She’d never believed in a fair fight (one of her most admirable traits). The goblin moves fast for her to angle behind it (which she would prefer). And it’s too close to that table and the gurgling thing upon it for her to risk another grenade.

Fear twists through her. He doesn’t understand why. She’s not in the goblin’s reach, isn’t—

Kill it. End it. Tear it apart.

That fear falls beneath the anger. She’s got her whacking stick (staff). No poison robes, though. A fucking pity. But that stick’s pretty damn solid and she demonstrates this by smashing down at the horrid beast.

It senses the blow. Tries to dodge. The staff swipes down the side of its arm. Then the thing grabs it, twists, nearly pulls it from her.

She remembers a fight like this: Lae’zel and Harvey Dent. She doesn’t think. There’s no thoughts. Only that rage and her purpose and she lets go.

The goblin stumbles back. She’s already on it. Grabs its face and shoves it back. They hit the table and pain blasts through Astarion’s body—

Fuck! I’m sorry!

And the goblin kicks. Scrabbles. She doesn’t have the strength to wrestle it, but she does have the bulk. Lae’zel said something about that once, huh?

She slams it down. Reaches for the eyes, fingers hooked into claws. Take out the eyes, cripple it, don’t get up, don’t let it get up.

The goblin shoves its chin down. Those needle teeth sink into her forearm. She shouts (hollers) and jerks back, but it don’t let go. It’s slicker than shit and manages to twist out of her hold. The knife flashes, and she has to stumble back again. But not before kicking out and connecting as pain rakes down her shin.

No, no. It needs to die. It needs to not exist. That thing will end.

She throws her staff. It goes visible as it leaves her hands; the goblin snarls and swipes but she’s moving again. Grabs something at her neck—careful, be careful fucking ringwraith shit—and bashes the thing full in the face with a metal flask.

The goblin screams. Throws something (poison; Astarion’s lungs stop their labored, habitual panting). But Eleanor—

She lowers her head, holds her breath, and plows into it. Through it. Grabs it like a spitting, clawing cat and slams the both of them down to the ground. Grabs a fistful of gore-slicked hair and pops the thing’s skull against the ground. Once. Twice. Then spots the end of her staff and plucks that up, lunges backwards to her feet.

Before it can do little more than hiss, she’s on it.

There’s a strategy to her work, though he doubts she’s conscious of it (never get up, don’t never get up, you don’t get to hurt nobody motherfucker). She systematically begins to smash the creature apart. Crunches and shatters the joints, like she did with that gith in the mountain pass.

The knees, so it can’t get up and can’t run.

The elbows, so it can’t claw at her.

A shot to the neck because that is her favorite spot, not that he can blame her.

And then the face.

That part isn’t necessary. The beast will die after she crushed its throat. But she’s on a roll, and he’s certainly not going to stop her.

Die, die, die! her mind chants over and over, in that same frozen, almost detached way he realizes she slips into when she’s like this.

She beats it beyond dead. Past having a face. Spatters of blood coat everything and he’s sure it freckles his own body.

(he wonders what it would taste like if he licked it off her skin)

And then the silence finally registers. To the both of them. And she pauses to look up; stomach lurches as her gaze skitters over his ruin but he’s seen his own insides before and she notices him in her head at that thought and they both backpedal—

Astarion slams once more into his broken puppet of a body. Agony drowns everything for a moment—he feels air where there shouldn’t be any, and if he were a living man, he knows he wouldn’t feel it for long.

“You have killed out god?” burbles a fishman.

Eleanor leans in over Astarion, smelling of blood and sweat and fury and he wants to turn his face into her warmth.

“Can you light this when I say?” she says. Holds something over his head and she found his secret stash of sparkpowder, didn’t she?

“Yes,” he manages. His mouth is full of his own, rancid blood. It spatters over his face when he forces air out of his shivering lungs.

“Our Boooal?” a fish says.

“All you shits stay the fuck back, or you’re fucking next!”

“He killed Boooal.”

Which starts another chanting of that stupid name.

She fumbles with the rope—simple rope; a testament for how mangled he is that something so simple and rotten could hold him down like this. Swears in her own tongue and the words come out thick and trembling. Funny, he hadn’t felt her fear of the fish when he was in her mind.

“Boooal was a liar!” A different voice. The others fall silent. “Boooal was not a god!”

A murmur runs through their audience, and it sounds like wind rustling a flooded field of long grass.

“Boooal not god?”

“Boooal! Boo—ah!”

“Boooal was an impostor! A test!”

“Astarion, what the fuck’re those things,” she says as she manages to free one of his hands.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t reach up to free his other hand as he ought to. For some reason he cannot fathom, he reaches down to find his skin and lift it, burning and screaming, back into place over his ribs, like a maiden clutching at what modesty she can find after something horrible.

Eleanor makes an injured sound. Her own wounds must be finally hurting her.

“I’ve no…idea,” he says, in between bouts of choking on his blood.

“A test!” the fish shout in a chorus.

“A test!” the first repeats. “A test from our true god!”

Her fingers still over his other wrist.

“Our true god! Mah-gloompah!”

“Mah-gloompah! Mah-gloompah!”

The chant takes up, sounding rather like some deranged devotional, if all of the congregation had previously drowned. A sick gurgling that sweeps over them both.

“Hail, Mah-gloompah!”

“It seems,” he manages, “that you’ve become a god, dear.”

***

Heads up that I'll be taking a week off to catch up. Chapter 17 should be next, next Wednesday, September 11.

#what shall we become #these two shitheads #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #slow burn #lost in a cave #he's have the Worst Time

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joka13 · 4 months ago

Note

Hey can I please request a post war George Weasley x squib reader where she lives with her muggle mum (her wizard dad died in the war) and has been away from the wizarding world for a long time and george kinda brings her back to it thanks Xx

Helloooo👋 What an interesting idea! I enjoyed exploring the more melancholy aspects of the wizarding world, so thanks for the suggestion. Hope you enjoy!🫶

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Dear reader,

As you may or may not know, I post extensive, multiple part fanfiction stories. I must remind you or clarify that I do not consider any requests I write as parts of those stories. Thank you for reading❤️

FANFICTION (REQUEST): George Weasley x Squib Reader (Female) - Empathy - Part 1

WARNINGS: mentions of violence and death

Birthday. Every year before, the word had brought feelings of excited anticipation and joy, but today it only made you feel down (and that was an extreme understatement).

That evening you would have your first birthday celebration without your father. Almost nine months ago, he died in the Second Wizarding War, leaving you and your muggle mother magicless except for a few trinkets, including his wand.

You kept it with you at all times. Not because it would be of any use to you (because it wouldn't), but for it's sentimental value. Of course, the wand reminded you of dear Dad, but it also brought to your mind the wonderful things he used to talk about.

When you were younger, as a squib it was complete torture to only hear stories and see small tricks from your father when you couldn't go explore the wizarding world and practice magic for yourself. But, after the war and learning more about the dark side of magic, a part of you came to despise and fear it. It was difficult to feel anything else for the thing that killed your father.

Though, sometimes, when you were alone with only your dad's wand to keep you company, you would be tempted to hold it, to point it and cast pretend spells like you did when you were little. You imagined yourself commanding your bedroom to tidy itself or your cat to talk back when you asked him a question. But, no matter how hard you imagined it, you would never be able to wield magic. That was the sad truth. When your father was around, the truth was tolerable because he could. He could do all of those things and so much more, and he was so kind to show you even a sliver of what he knew.

But he was gone along with his magic. He died and you and your mum went on with your regular, muggle-styled lives. You had to tell everyone that your father died in a car crash. It hurt. You wanted everyone to know about your father's sacrifice, his bravery, and how he fought for a righteous cause. But they would never know...

"Y/n?" your mother said, pulling you away from your thoughts. You sat on the couch in the living room, failing to stay focused enough to read the book in your hands while Mum iced your birthday cake in the kitchen.

"Yeah?" you replied.

"Did you hear me?"

"No, sorry. I was distracted."

"It's alright. I was just saying Mr. and Mrs. Weasley want to pop by for a quick visit tonight to wish you a happy birthday."

Oh no. Please, no more condolences, you thought.

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know," you sigh wearily.

"Hey, don't be like that." Mum wiped her hands on her apron as she went to sit on the couch beside you. She wrapped her arm around your shoulders affectionately. "The Weasley's are good friends."

"I suppose... It's just been so long... too long since I have seen them," you said. "And they had a son die in the war."

Mum blinked in concern and confusion. "Well, yes, but I don't see why that would make them unwelcome."

You rested your head on her arm. "It's just that... they're gonna want to talk about Dad, and then it would be rude not to mention their son... It'll turn into a pity party instead of a birthday party."

"You're being ridiculous," Mum scoffed, but you could tell she understood your point just fine. "Besides, they have a present for you. And we can't eat the cake all by ourselves."

"What's wrong with leftovers?"

It was Mum's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry, but they insisted on coming. It's good of them to reach out to us. And it's just a quick visit."

"Might as well get it over with. It was bound to happen anyway."

"Y/n—"

"Yes, yes, I know better than to act like this in front of them. Don't worry. I'll be nice."

You truly didn't want to talk about the war, but you didn't want to see the Weasley's also because they had magic. You never told your mother about your new fear of witches and wizards because you thought it was silly. You knew there was plenty of good magic, or rather good uses for magic. Magic doesn't kill. Your father never endangered you or your mum, but there were bad people in the wizarding world just like the bad people in the muggle world.

When you heard a knock on the front door that evening, your heart leapt with panic. Even though you knew Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were good people, a part of you was afraid of them.

"Mum, the Weasley's are here!" you called behind you. Mum hurried out of the kitchen to come stand behind you, leaving it up to you to open the door. You took in a deep, nervous breath as you reached for the knob and opened the door.

"Happy birthday, y/n!" Mrs. Weasley greeted you cheerily. She stood on the ends of her small feet to kiss you on the cheek, embracing you like you were her own child. "How are you, dear?"

"I'm alright, thanks. How are you guys?"

"Good!" Mr. Weasley responded, walking through the door behind his wife. He shook your hand enthusiastically. "Happy birthday, y/n!"

"T-thank you..." You began to feel emotional, remembering the love you had for the Weasley family and their caring, happy ways. Before you could get teary-eyed, another person walked through the door behind Mr. Weasley, surprising you.

You were taken aback, believing for a moment that Fred, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's son who was killed in the war, was standing in front of you. But you knew that was impossible, and you also knew that Fred had a twin. So, the young man must've been Fred's twin, George.

"Hello, y/n! Happy birthday!" he said, grinning crookedly and handing you a brown, paper bag.

You smiled, laughing awkwardly as you accepted the gift. "George, hello! What a pleasant surprise."

"Yeah, sorry about that," George chuckled, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't invited, I know. But I liked the thought of... reintroducing myself since the last time we saw each other. I was just a kid then, probably immature—"

Mrs. Weasley snorted as she pulled your mother in for a hug. "You say that like you've matured so much!"

You all laugh.

"I have! Just not enough to get rid of my good sense of humor," George snickered.

"I think I was about nine when I saw you last," you say, reminiscing about the Weasley's magical house. "It was Thanksgiving, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I remember it," George chuckled, nodding. "Your eyes opened so wide at everything; I thought they were going to fall out of your skull!"

Mrs. Weasley shot George a warning glance, but you pretended not to notice, and laughed, "I'm sure I'd still have the same reaction now."

"And how old are you today, y/n?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Eighteen," you replied.

Mr. Weasley's brow furrowed. "Isn't that a significant age for muggles?"

"Well, I can vote now, but—"

"And how exactly does that work?" Mr. Weasley asked, intrigued.

"Oh, don't bother the poor girl with questions," Mrs. Weasley said.

"I'd be happy to tell you about it sometime, Arthur," Mum chuckled. "For now, how about we open presents!"

TAG LIST: @tomhockstetter7-111 @jasm-1ne @costheticbabe @luthien-elvenia-asher @megablonde22 @thecuteavocado @weasleylady92 @websfromallthespiders @rubyintheforest @weasleylover4eva @georgeweasleyslostearhq @im-coolrat @them-cute-boys @xmadigurlx @keirasinbin @huayan @deathtonumber7 @elmolovesw33d @coffeebeans11

#george weasley #george weasley fic #george weasley x reader #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley x y/n #molly weasley #arthur weasley #reader pov #wizarding world #magic #battle of hogwarts #fanfics #fanfiction #weasley family

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thatgirlsstar · 9 months ago

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For once… I wish people would stop leaving me // Chuuya Nakahara x Reader

Warnings: Angst, fem!lead death early on, Female Reader, death(slightly very descriptive), blood, nicknames(Doll, Princess, etc.(All by Chuuya)), called Y/n by Chuuya once, Everyone else calls reader Miss Y/N or just Y/N, Let me know if I missed any!!

Words: 777(She's a short one but so worth it)

Now playing: As the world caves in by Matt Maltese

Please do not copy, translate or post on any other platforms this belongs to @urgirlmoon thank you :)

Ever since you were a child you always loved the idea of heroes and their stories. The older you got the more you realized that the villains were a better choice. The hero would sacrifice their loved one for the world while the villain would sacrifice the world for their loved one. No matter the cost they would try and get them back.

You didn’t know how you ended up in this situation. You were currently held hostage by Fyodor. Your fiance, the Port Mafia, and the ADA stood in front of you, a few feet away. You’re scared, of course you would be. Mori and Fukuzawa seem to be trying to reason with Fyodor while Dazai holds your fiance back from doing anything rash that could get you hurt. “And you guys really think that I would do that?” Fyodor’s voice brought you out of your trance.

At that moment everything seemed to go in a flash, loud screams as you felt something stab into your abdomen then it was twisted. You coughed up blood and fell to the ground. Fyodor ran and everything was a blur from there. “Doll. Look at me. Please.” Chuuya begged as he laid your head in his lap. After Fyodor ran off, everyone ran after him but a few people. Atsushi stayed back to call an ambulance, and Kenji stayed beside Chuuya’s side the whole time.

Oh how Chuuya wished Yosano was there. She wasn’t. She was currently at the agency building helping Junichiro who had gotten hurt pretty badly. “I’m sorry Chuuya… I wish it could have been different.” You said putting your bloody hand on his face. He looked startled “No. No no no no no! Don’t talk like that! NO! You aren’t leaving me! Princess please!” He seemed desperate, a lot different from the Chuuya you knew. “Were-tiger, Where's the ambulance?!” He asked Atsushi “ He didn’t look away from you at all.

“They should be here soon!” He said back, finally coming beside Chuuya and Kenji. “Miss Y/N please don’t leave.” Kenji said, crying. You hated seeing him cry. He was like a son to you. You looked back at Chuuya, not being able to look at Kenji anymore.

It seemed like all your memories were flashing in front of your eyes. All of your dates with Chhuya, your small hangouts with Kenji, your picnics with Kyouka and Atsushi.

Flashback

“Chuuya!” You yell as your then boyfriend picked you up kissing your face. You were laughing and he gave you a rare smile. It was one full of love and you both wouldn’t have it any other way.

Flashback

You and Chhuya were walking around when he spotted Kenji, hoping he wouldn’t see him, unfortunately he did. “Mr Nakahara!” Kenji yelled and ran up to the two of you “You know him?” You asked and Kenji looked at you “You must be Miss Y/N!!” Kenji said and you tilted your head to the side “Mr Nakahara talks about you when he takes me to lunch sometimes.” He says and Chuuya grumbles and you giggle. You all go out to lunch together and you and Kenji get along well, by the end of lunch you’ve grown attached and see him as if he was your own.

Flashback

Kyouka had always taken a liking to you when you would visit headquarters to visit your boyfriend and when she joined the agency she invited you to go on a picnic with you and Atsushi. That day you all had a lot of fun and promised to do it with them again sometime.

End of flashbacks

“I’m sorry Chuuya, I love you…” You said, smiling, as your hand fell from his face, falling limp in his arms.”Miss Y/N!” Kenji yelled, grabbing one of your hands, crying a lot harder than before. “Miss Y/N!! No, you made a promise to Kyouka that you would join our next picnic!” Atsushi yelled, finally falling on the ground crying “Y/N!!! NO! Answer me doll! Please!” He yelled. He put his hand on your face “Y/N! Please! Don’t leave me!” He seemed oh so desperate. No one had ever seen him like this.

The rest of the Port Mafia and ADA came back and saw him squeezing your lifeless boy to him, Kenji and Atsushi crying. Kyouka teared up for the first time since her parents died. Mori walked up to Chuuya and put his hand on his shoulder “Nakahara-san, You have to let her go.” Mori said and he just held tighter “No!” He yelled.

After much coaxing from everyone, he finally let go. That was the day he swore that he would not stop until Fyodor was either in jail or dead.

#chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #angst #bungo stray dogs #chuuya nakahara angst #bsd #bsd chuuya

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greentrickster · 6 months ago

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(Was thinking about Shen Jiu's ascent to divinity in the Great God Airplane AU, so!)

When he looks back on his last qi deviation, it's a blur. A request from a god whose face he could not see and whose robes are made of the sky, a choice made out of spite (though far less of it than anyone would ever suspect, especially the peak lords of Cang Qiong), blinding pain, that same faceless god in summer blue and cloud white, introducing himself as The Memory of Shangdi, the one who wrote this world, who wrote all the terrible words of his life.

The shouts that are demands as much as questions (and pleas more than anything else). "Why should I have had to fight for everything, no matter how hard I worked? Why should I suffer because someone else wrote me a wretched fate, why does this world need Little Nines and Shen Qingqius?"

...afterwards he can only describe it as 'if approval had a colour, then that is what he became'.

"It is true. Sometimes a fate is too cruel to bear, no matter how poetic, no matter how good the story it would make. So from now to eternity, if one meets with such a fate, and if they reach for better, then let that fate be broken... and let there be one who will lead them to better. And to the one who has given all, let all be given in turn."

He remembers... relief then. Even a fraction of Shangdi's power still carries Shangdi's will, and this- did not feel a vow easily broken. So strange, there at the last, to finally find peace as he sinks into oblivion. Perhaps his sacrifice was worth it then, not for the world, not for promises of reward or for change enacted, but for this single moment of peace. A peace so profound that, for the first time since he was abandoned, he is able to sink down, to fold himself small and sleep in the presence of another male.

(He sleeps, for close to a year he sleeps, though he does not remember it, sunk deep in slumber as he grows himself anew. From a tiny golden pearl (no larger than a grain of rice) that sighs into existence in the private quarters of the Heavenly Officials, to one the size of a hawthorn berry, a goose egg, a melon, larger and larger until finally it splits open and he spills out, still sleeping, clad in fine and simple silk, with limbs a length they might once have been, were it not for a childhood of hardship, pain, and want, with siblings he does not know waiting to smooth him into bed and gently braid his hair. (It must be so tiring, they murmur to each other as they do so, so tiring to remake oneself from mortal into a Heavenly Official, into a god. Let him rest a little longer, as long as he needs, our newest member, our precious and only didi.))

He doesn't want to wake up, truly he doesn't. But there are times, such terrible times, when - no matter how comfortable the bed or lazy the mood (and he feels so comfortable and languid) - when one is simply too well rested to stay asleep any longer.

So he wakes.

#svsss #scum villian self saving system #shen jiu #original shen qingqiu #great god airplane #fanfiction #chap when

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pityslash · 2 years ago

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— “IN THE WATER.”

SHIP: bakugo x fem reader

DESCRIPTION: one year unexpectedly turned into two, you start to think all hope is lost in the apocalypse. spoiler warning: the real danger in the zombie apocalypse isn't the dead, it's the living.

TW: short series, apocalypse au, rawr rawr zombies & mild gore, descriptions of a panic attack, friends to lovers, main character injury.

　　I. WHO ARE YOU?

“please let there be something other than canned beans.”

you stood watch in front while he was looking around the back aisles. you two were in search of food, but everything else has been wiped out already. you weren’t excited about moving onto the next town.

it was cold out, you bury your face in the scarf around your neck when a shiver runs down your spine. occasionally you would see a few undead stumble towards you, empty eyes and its jaw hanging loose. you always took care of them quickly, you just have to aim for the head. “katsuki.”

it’s been years since everything turned to shit. when the bitten were who you feared and everyone you knew was gone. sacrifice or idiocy, it didn’t matter. but sometimes, you’ll catch a glimpse of the survivors —they always traveled in groups and you wanted to avoid them at all costs.

you had to remind yourself what kind of people would be left over, what morals they have.

the screams met deaf ears when katsuki saved you from this other man, grabbing his neck and throwing his body on the ground, the eyes of horror before getting a shot to the head. you shift slowly, shards of glass dig into your hands as he comes closer.

“you killed them.” you hated the way your voice trembles. blood leaks out of the holes in their heads, your throat tightens and aches like you’re about to cry.

it was like static noise on television, the buzz of city life only a memory in the back of your mind. now all you hear was the groaning of the undead, and the screams of those who weren’t resourceful enough.

your small moment of peace doesn't last long, broken by the slide of the glass door behind you and a pair of footsteps. you don't need to look over your shoulder to know who it is. “there’s nothing but dog food. some fucks must have found our stash.”

you can’t hide the disappointment on your face and it makes katsuki roll his eyes, pushing up the safety lever on the beretta 92 before sliding it back into the band around his waist. “i see more revenants coming this way, let’s go.”

katsuki holds out a hand and you take it.

the man took a glance at your arms and legs and you knew what you’d see from the excruciating agony. “yeah, should i have left you for dead?” he kicks your leg with his shoe, “maybe i’ll shoot you anyway, just in case.”

in case you were bitten? you were bleeding too much for it to be a bite.

“no— of course not!”

you hold your breath, bruised cheeks burning and you felt dizzy when he raised the pistol again, unblinking and focused. “stop yelling, jackass.” you can’t even look at him directly.

you’re shaking and everything hurts, and the blood everywhere makes you so scared, the gun pointed at you makes you so scared. it was the ease with which he saved your life, the complete lack of hesitation.

“keep zoning out and you’ll get lost again.”

“that was one time.” you take a deep breath, the smell of wet grass doing little to calm your nerves about being in the open like this. “how much further?”

“just a few miles.” katsuki says quietly, not a hint of hostility in his voice for the first time, and you nod, fighting to get your breathing under control. you wished, more than anything, that you had your anxiety medication.

“hey, relax. before you make yourself pass out,”

it took a long time to gain his trust, having to pack up the bedding while he took care of the rest before you two made it to the city, in case you made a run for it with days worth of food. the hours and hours on your feet and the whining while this man told you to shut up, struggling through a harsh winter.

but he was true to his word.

“it looks abandoned.” you look up at the house with boarded up windows and a wooden fence, it was too quiet. “wanna do it?” the sky was pretty and clear, finally warming up but that meant the undead would venture out again, too. katsuki sighs, “we can’t be too sure, be careful.”

you duck behind the car halfway up the driveway and creep up the stairs of the front porch.

the slits between the boards give you a limited view inside, seeing only the first room but there was a gate leading to the backyard, though it was chained up. katsuki kept watch while you tried the knob. it was locked, of course.

you share a glance and he held his gun at the ready with a nod. pulling out the crowbar from your backpack, you pry at the door as quietly as possible, the sound of wood splintering. it took a few tries but you finally eased the door open.

you two searched the house, both floors came up empty besides a few dead animals. there were four bedrooms, one belonging to a young girl and you wondered about the kind of family who once lived here.

smudged pencil marks on the door frame, glittery princess stickers peeling off the yellow walls. you find out the girl’s name and it didn’t make you feel any better.

the sun was setting so you two settled in for the night, putting your sleeping bags down in the living room and lighting a small candle. the house was empty and wasn’t completely falling apart. “here, take it.”

he was giving up his share. you offer half of the jerky and he reluctantly takes it, the grumble of his stomach enough to shut his mouth.

“thanks.”

for miles all that could be heard was the sound of running water and kicking a stone on the road, that random tune that got stuck in your head last night.

the sun was high in the sky and it reminded you that you’d have to meet with katsuki at noon. you were the one who suggested the split up to cover more ground even if he was reluctant.

“is it too early for lunch?” you asked no one, digging through your bag for the last of the jam and bread you packed before leaving home. things were getting harder every day, and you two were getting more and more frustrated when you came back empty handed.

you take a bite out of the bread and savor the blueberry jam, rich and sweet. katsuki would always tell you to make it last, maybe you’ll save him half.

you finally made it back to the market. those things always wandered about, and the place was too big to just walk inside hoping for the best.

so you knock your crowbar against the tile floor to call out any more undead but there was only silence. you start to go through the mess. sunflower seeds, some dented cans of tuna and fried apples, it must have been luck.

you were looking at the arrangement of dead flowers and think about taking a magazine with a cover that caught your eye, but then you heard a scream.

there’s gunshots and names thrown around as you rush over to see the commotion. you quickly see more undead thanks to all the noise, hoping katsuki wouldn’t come this way, because you could be stuck here for a while.

two kids were cornered just across the street, it used to be a barber shop, those disgusting things getting closer and closer. leave them or give into the last bit of humanity you had. “hey, this way!”

you call out to them from the other side, it was a little girl standing in front of the boy, who you assume was her brother. she cried in frustration when the gun clicked each time she pulled the trigger. revenants are fast, but they’re clumsy, so you could be faster.

you stab two in the head without breaking a sweat, they fall to the ground with a hollow thump. you make a run for it since more were drawn by the noise. “come on!”

they caught up quickly, the scraping of that girl’s shoes against the cement makes you want to cover your ears. “katsuma!” you hear from behind, turning to see her pick him up from the ground. he tripped.

“hurry!” you might have pushed their backs too hard if the squeak that left the boy’s mouth was any tell, struggling to keep up with their small legs. then you notice the alley, taking a sharp turn and yanking their arms to pick them up.

suddenly you were inside a heavy metal door, it was dark and they whisper as you slide down the handle and there’s a click.

“quiet,” you shush them, using your own body to shield them if worst turns to worst. you feel the boy bury his face in your shirt, grossed out by tears and snot, and the little girl squeezed your hand, so tight it felt like it’d bruise.

you were horribly out of breath, maybe even scared. but the undead finally passed —waiting a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. you listen as the groans and growls get far enough, taking a deep inhale and slowly moving away from the cool surface.

it was alright.

“we’re safe now.“ but you can't even turn back before there is something cold on the back of your head. this time she holds the gun with confidence, fingers on the trigger.

“put your hands up and close your eyes.” you feel your blood boil, the tone of this girl’s voice not sitting right but maybe that was the point. “don’t do anything dumb.. take the bag.”

you noticed the boy, katsuma, had dried the tears from his face and started to walk over while you slowly took off your backpack, which he took with shaky hands. “so i just saved you and now you’re robbing me?”

he must have been surprised it felt so heavy.

the girl snatches it from him. “we were fine, didn’t ask for your help.” sure seemed like it. you turn your head and watch her digging around in your backpack and you know katsuki will kill you.

“we’ll just take this, thanks. keep your eyes closed and count to fifty before you go.” she said, and for some reason you did.

the silence after their small footsteps fade out, even with your keen ear. you finally found katsuki waiting for you anxiously outside of the market.

“i heard the gunshots. what happened?” he was quick to ask and you were never one to hold back from him. too bad he was as upset as you expected. “—but you’re alright?”

the question made your smile get bigger, and you feign a small limp. “mm, i twisted my ankle so bad.” katsuki didn’t look impressed. “anyway.. katsuki, they could have been with a group, don’t you think? maybe they got separated.”

you made it home before dark. when you finally are able to shake off the feeling of being watched, you collapse on a chair in the dining room, the legs scraping against the floor loudly. katsuki drops his bag on the table and you make grabby hands, “so, what’s for dinner?”

“beans. and more beans.”

the look you give him makes katsuki glare back, opening the lid of one can. “don’t complain! next time, don’t let some kid take our shit.”

you snatch a can of beans and katsuki rolls his eyes, spoon flinging a bean at you from across the table. “didn’t your mom ever tell you not to play with your food?” but katsuki only gives a half smile, and it makes dimples dig into his cheeks. you swear you haven’t seen him smile before, or maybe you never noticed.

you two eat in silence and start to get ready for bed, doing one last house check and finally putting out the light. you stayed up a little longer though, wrapped in a small matted blanket as those kids have yet to leave your mind.

glancing out the window, stars bright in the unpolluted sky, you hoped they had a safe place to sleep tonight. you sigh and finally close your eyes, not that it makes a difference in the dark.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x you #apocalypse au #bakugou fic #mha x you #bakugou angst #mha x y/n #my writing

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toushindai · 11 months ago

Note

I finished reading your latest fic and I have to say your character study of both Rauru and Ganondorf and their relationship to themselves and power made for a very interesting read! My question: what parts of Rauru do you enjoy studying and elaborating on the most? What parts of his character endear you to him?

Thank you anon!! And thank you for the question as well. Rauru is my favorite character in the sense that my brain will NOT stop chewing on him but I don’t know if I have ever felt endeared to him, per se. My firstest reaction to him—when the final trailer dropped—was one of suspicion. “Did you kidnap my princess so that I would solve your problems?!” This was mildly unfair. He didn’t kidnap Zelda. He sure does want me to solve his problems, though? So the feeling somewhat persisted.

He’s just sssooooo. Infuriating. In a way that I’m maybe 70% sure the devs didn’t intend? I’m almost but not quite certain that the game’s writers just want me to perceive him as a noble king whose justly founded kingdom was threatened by a scary evil man who had no real reason for his violence against Hyrule, whose courageous sacrifice of his own life is to be admired and emulated (never mind that Zelda doesn’t need to be told that it’s a ruler’s duty to sacrifice themself for their people, she already did that for a century). Almost, but not quite, and 30% is not a small amount of uncertainty, actually. And that uncertainty comes from:

The specifically called-out fact that he repeatedly reached out to the Gerudo in spite of a lack of positive response, whatever that looked like. Buddy that is ✨coercive✨

His cold, superior treatment of Ganondorf in the Show of Fealty cutscene. Which is even more potent linguistically in Japanese and, I am told, in French. There’s something very twisted IMO about treating Ganondorf as a technical equal whose rightful place is beneath Rauru. It makes my brain go brrrrrrrrr real hard (this is known) and it is too apparent for me to think I’m not supposed to find it a little sick. s-sorry I'm just thinking about it and my brain is going brrrrrrr again. give me a second. ok

And—shifting away from that cutscene even though I live there—I have been thinking recently about how much of the game’s message is that you are not alone and yet how heavily Rauru’s instinct is that he must face the Demon King alone. How he sets up Link, only, as Ganondorf’s eventual doom. It’s Zelda and Mineru who build the framework for the future sages to fight at Link’s side. Rauru’s not fully aligned with the theme of the game, and he grunts at his sister, miffed, when she points that out to him.

So was this intended? He is arrogant—the game names this as his fatal flaw, he names this as his fatal flaw—but how much of his arrogance does the game criticize and how much does it treat as his right? My brain will not stop chewing on this question so I make it the central question of his characterization.

What do I like about him. As a person? Not very much. He is kind and supportive to Zelda. He loves his wife. His ears are very expressive and that’s cute. List ends here, I think. I don’t even respect as a person his desire to be a good and just king because it is far too wrapped up in that “king” part.

But as a character, I like him as someone who showcases—if unintentionally on the game’s part—how ultimately insufficient good intentions are. And how solipsistic it is to think that good intentions are everything. I like writing him as someone who truly wants to be a good person, as good as he can possibly be, and who suddenly finds that he has desires and instincts that don’t support that self-perception at all. I think that happens to all of us, sometimes. We all have moments where our instincts are crueler or more selfish than our ideals. It’s how we chose to react to those instincts that matters, and part of that process is to look at them honestly and admit to them. But Rauru, as I write him, fails this step pretty hard. And what happens as a result? He is left in this morass of inner conflict, he is not able to deal honestly with his own desires. They keep building, and he keeps blaming Ganondorf for provoking them. He faces them for just long enough to act on the worst of them and then, horrified by what he has done, he looks away from them again. Not ideal! Not a desirable outcome! But not, I hope, outside the realm of his characterization. (Zelda tells him he will sacrifice himself and he says well that’s my duty but (A) of all you weren’t here before so things will be different! dw about it! And then when he realizes that no, to sacrifice himself is the only option, there is heartbreak on his face. My guy, you were warned. Did you convince yourself this wasn’t coming?)

He’s complex. Maybe on purpose or maybe because the game doesn’t realize how insidious the evils of empire and monarchy are--I think probably the former greatly exacerbated by the latter. I have made up so much about him but he would not be nearly as interesting if exported into an OC because I'd be starting with the premise "ooooh he's a lil fucked up actually" as opposed to my making this point about the game writing about a character the game (mostly, I think) wants us to think of as purely good.

gnaws on him some more. puts him back in the terrarium. gives the terrarium a good solid shake. what a guy

#thanks for the ask!#anonymous #and we were both kings 😳#bad and imperialist zonai get put in the goat wiggler #tou and the tearful kingdom

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mckinlily · 1 year ago

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One of my favorite tropes is characters who fully and completely believe they aren’t morally good. And yeah, maybe they’re rough around the edges and maybe definitely they aren’t “nice.”

But when you really dig into them, you find a moral code that’s been tried, hardened, and tested more than most people have ever had to face. You find out they’ve had to face and make decisions with no good answer and then somehow had to find a way to live with that. They’ve left conventions and social niceties far behind because they’ve encountered the situations where those just don’t work. They’ve faced the brutal, hard reality that you can’t save—you can’t even not hurt— everyone. They know sometimes the only person you can save is yourself. Sometimes you have to betray or hurt more than a few people to save yourself. They know Do no harm is an impossible lie. And yet under that forcing pressure, they have forged a moral core stripped of all bloat or arbitrary hangers on and tempered in brutal, honest assessment of reality.

And yet. Because they’ve seen the world for what it is rather than what is the sorry being sold. Because they don’t buy into the hypocrisy of “innocent” and “unblemished” and “pure.” Because they don’t look like what society says good should look like, because they don’t think like society says good should think, because they have faced impossible situations and made decisions instead of looking away and pretending that was not also a choice—

Because they are human and imperfect and feel the pain “good” is not supposed to know—

They assume they must be not be good. No matter how hard they try, how brave they are, how much empathy they extent or how many sacrifices they make to help others. They assume they must always be fundamentally Bad.

Because Good people don’t see the complexities, don’t struggle with the complexities and failures, like they do.

Right?

I love when those characters are the kindest (not nice but kind), strongest, most truly brave characters in their setting. Who can reach others who are also imperfect and struggling and broken and beaten down in a way those who are that golden, innocent “good” never could.

I love when good is not being above, separate, untouched by ramble masses and evil. But instead are right in the thick of it, scarred and broken just as much as anyone else, but made the decision to try. Even if they do not believe they are good—or ever can be. Even if they think their efforts are too small. Even if their attempts are small.

And I always hope for those characters to eventually find enough healing to see how strong and good they are.

But in the mean time, I love them for hard they try, even while believing there’s something wrong with them, forever staining their soul.

(As if there isn’t something wrong with all of us. As if the definition a good person is not innocence from bad actions but the choice to do better. As if that single choices doesn’t take more bravery than the most fearless warrior.)

#just random thoughts #if you’ve been here long you probably know who at least one of these characters is about #another is my favorite oc who I will actually write…someday #oh whoops my religious trauma is showing #would you believe I thought boundaries made me a selfish and morally bad person until I was 25?#ANYWAY #yes this is at least 50% about Takashi Shirogane

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dancingwiththefae · 1 year ago

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If he sinks to darkest night

A prince gave up the life he knew for his siren until he could not

Radskier, 1.9k, s3 spoilers, kissing, angst,panic attacks, blood, regicide, sad ending, AO3

“A prince and a siren?”

Jaskier laughed at the bewilderment on his face. But who could blame him? Each story he told about his time with the Witcher was more incredible than the last. And no less baffling.

“There’s poetry in that isn’t there,” Jaskier replied, fingers absently caressing his lute, “a creature of the sea and of land falling in love. Two people from two different worlds. And what are they willing to give up for love.”

Radovid watched him as he spoke. Hair delicately tucked back behind his ear. Small smile lingering on his lips as he spoke. Chemise open, chest on display. He somehow managed to look dishevelled and put together at the same time. It was endearing. And attractive, he had to admit. They were enjoying one of those rare moment of peace that they could share together. Jaskier sat completely at ease in his chambers. It was a far cry to how he looked when he had arrived. There was always a stiffness to his posture when he visited. Always uncomfortable around royalty and courts and noble fanfare. He tried to hide it. But Radovid saw through it. Jaskier was a performance, impenetrable to most. Not to him.

“So the prince and the siren, locked in a battle of who is willing to give up the life they know for the other.” Radovid couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice. It was an enchanting story. “What happened next?”

Jaskier’s hands returned to their place on his lute. He plucked the strings elegantly as he continued his song.

“His choice was made aside the sea,

A twilit red horizon.

For she had finally made him see

His place among the sirens.”

Radovid’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t quite imagine it. A prince giving up his status, his everything, for the person he loved. How must it have felt to make such a decision? To know for sure in your heart that this was what you wanted?

“For if yer goal be Paradise,

Just give your love a firm nudge,

If he sinks to darkest night,

Embrace his Little Sacrifice.”

The song ended. Jaskier looked at him, waiting for a response. Radovid was threatened to be overcome by what he felt. He took a breath, sat forward in his chair.

“The prince he…made the sacrifice.” He chose his words carefully. Mulled over every one.

“He did.”

The prince fidgeted in his seat, reflected on the story the bard had told.

“Truly,” he said at last, “you’ve told some tales in your time but this- I can’t imagine someone making such a decision. A prince no less.”

Jaskier watched him carefully.

“Sometimes the life we’re given is not the one we want.”

“But such is the way of life,” Radovid replied as a matter of fact.

“Not always.”

He wondered what it would have been like to give up the life of a prince. He knew from experience that it was not all what people thought it was. Still, he couldn't deny it came with benefits. He never had to worry about where his next meal came from. He wore fine clothing. People who would attend to his whims. Sometimes in Jaskier's stories, he would talk of the hardships he and the witcher faced. Hungry days. Camped out in bad weather. Counting their coin. Was it worth it, he pondered, for freedom.

“More wine?” Jaskier’s voice cut through his thoughts. Radovid nodded in assent. The bard carefully laid his lute down and got up. He sauntered over and poured more wine into his glass for him. Radovid waited until he had placed the bottle down to wind his arms around his waist and pull him into his lap. Jaskier laughed and let himself be dragged him. He threw an arm around his neck and their lips met. The bards hand tangled in his hair and let out a pleasant hum. Radovid dragged his fingers across his chest. They parted and Jaskier sighed. The princes hand came up further to cup his cheek.

“You are my siren,” he murmured, “stay the night. Be with me.”

“Just for tonight,” Jaskier replied softly, “I need to leave first thing tomorrow.”

“Then I will make the most of my limited time with you.”

The bard surged forward to capture his lips once again.

***

“Just let me be there for you. Prove that I am more than a mask.”

Jaskier's face shifted with emotions that made anxiety rise in his gut.

“Maybe,” the bard settled on. A glimmer of hope. It was better than nothing. He could work with hope. It pained him to let Jaskier slip through his grasp right now, but he took comfort in the fact that it was not forever. Jaskier needed to find his family. Radovid would do anything he can to help him. Because that was what this was all about wasn't it? Surrounded by so much death and destruction. They were in the midst of war. All they had now was each other. It was love. Love was the most important thing. To Radovid, at least, it was everything.

“Wait,” the prince called before Jaskier could disappear through the doorway. His heart sang when the bard turned back. Radovid reached out to him, took him by the hand. The trepidation was back in Jaskier's face. Fleeting, but he didn't miss it. He brought his hand up to lay a soft kiss on his knuckles.

“You are my siren,” he whispered.

Something changed between then. The bard understood. He understood what he was telling him. This wasn't an end. It was a beginning. Radovid was all in, heart, mind and soul. He was willing to make the sacrifice. Jaskier gave a small nod. And Radovid let him slip away. He stayed behind a moment so that he was not tempted to follow him, and then hastily make his escape. The fighting had stopped. He tried his best to drown out the cries of those suffering around him. There was nothing he could do for them. He weaved his way through the broken battlefield towards the exit. He was halfway across the bridge when he ran into Philippa.

“Ah, there you are,” she said with mild concern, “I was beginning to think you'd been buried under the rubble.”

“Philippa,” Radovid greeted, “I'm glad to run into you actually. I need to get back to Tretogor as soon as possible. I need to talk to my brother urgently.”

A hard smile spread across her face. The prince had no doubt that she wasn't looking forward to her next meeting with Vizimir after the shambles that had happened today. But he wasn't overly concerned about that. He had better things to worry about than her being reprimanded by his brother.

“Of course,” she replied with false cheer. With a wave of her hand a portal opened before them. “Come. It seems we both have urgent matters to attend to.”

***

It had all happened so fast. One moment he was headed to his purpose and the next... Long live King Radovid rang wrong in his ears. His brother's body barely cold on the floor. The image of him lying there, throat cut open with cruel precision, would never leave his mind for the rest of his days. The walls closed around him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. His prison had no bars. It had expensive drapery, servants, and silver cutlery. It was still a prison. His eyes locked with Philippa's. He wondered if he'd ever seen a genuine expression on her face. Something in her eyes was so...cold. Maybe he could process that later. But not now. Now, his mind went back to Jaskier. The prince could not escape to his siren in the sea. The tide went out, leaving him behind. Trapped on dry land.

“I think the king may need a moment to process,” Philippa spoke up.

“Indeed,” Dijkstra agreed, “his Majesty needs some privacy.”

He couldn't keep his focus on the conversation. The words became indistinguishable noise. People were moving around them. Blurred shapes. Radovid stood still amongst them. A servant appeared through the mist and stood before him. Offered a bow. Led him out of the room. He followed the blurry figure without a sound. One foot in front of the other. Mechanical. He didn't know where they were leading him until the familiar door of his private chambers appeared. It was opened for him. He forced out a small 'thanks and walked through.

The door closed behind him. Radovid looked around his room. Everything was as he had left it. He had left his chambers a prince. And returned as a king. His eyes stung with tears. He had been so close. So close to happiness. Vizimir hadn't fully understood his reasoning. But he wanted him to be happy. His brother hadn't been perfect. When it came down to it, they loved each other. And then suddenly it was all gone. The rug pulled out from under him. He ran his fingers along the fine upholstery of the chair Jaskier liked to occupy. A prison is a prison.

He fell into his chair. The emotions began to slip away, a numbness taking its place. He stared blankly out into space. He didn't have the energy to cry any more. There were no tears left. He glanced around with a kind of detachment. Was this to be his only sanctuary? Or perhaps they would take that away from him too. Eventually, his eyes landed on his lute. It sat in the corner. An old, worn thing. He’s used it for practice, planning to replace it when he improved. Maybe have one made for Jaskier too as a surprise. Not to replace his old one. He was always so attached to that thing. To show him how much he cared. There was no point to that now. Just to go out and get one would require so much more planning now. He didn’t want a servant to do it. He had wanted to do it himself. His world was limited now. Responsibility weighing so much more than the crown placed upon him.

Radovid pulled himself up and strode across the room. A feeling he couldn't describe squeezed his chest at the sight of it. It sat there, pathetic. Worthless. But still asking to be held. He picked it up by the neck and sat back down. Settled it into his lap. It didn’t feel right. Like he couldn’t quite get comfortable holding it. He carefully plucked the note. It was wrong. Fuck. What had he showed him? He slid his fingers up a little, tried again. That was it. He played the notes mechanically. They echoed out into the empty room.

“Ponder all your wants in life,” he sang quietly, “and make a little sacrifice.”

A knock came at the door and Radovid jumped.

“Your majesty,” came a voice from behind the door, “you’re needed for important matters. At Lady Philippa Eilhart’s request.”

The king sighed deeply. He dropped the lute carelessly on the floor and rose. Straightening his back, he took a breath. And then strode forward with the mask of a king. He opened the door, greeted the servent and let himself be led away. The door closed behind him. An empty, hollow room. The lute on the floor left to gather dust.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #radskier #jaskier #radovid #prince radovid #the witcher s3 #the witcher spoilers #the witcher netflix #hmmm im sorry they were made for tragedy im afraid

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