#that I alternate through with hardly any energy

[the-sappho-of-lesbos]

.

[kentopedia]

𝐈. 𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 ❤︎༻°₊ ｡ villain!nanami + f!reader

series masterlist

chapter summary . . . it's been a year since the death of gojo satoru, and it seems that geto's plans have slightly changed.

chapter warnings . . . none other than jjk typical dark themes. see masterlist for series warnings!

author note! this series is my exploration of some of the themes and aspects about jjk that i find intriguing, but this story will be an alternate timeline, and will diverge from the jjk canon, lore, power system, etc. pls don't correct me if i get something about jujutsu or the current timeline wrong! <3

“𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮” 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐳𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞

The sheet wrinkled between your fingertips, your grasp far too tight for the thin piece of paper. Words smudged into a pool of black from the oils that danced across your palm, but it didn’t matter much… You didn’t need to read them anyway. 

Those lines were as familiar to you as your own name, scribbled down in Utahime’s neat calligraphy, a daily report of new information gathered. The length of the list never changed, but, really, seldom changed, these days. 

The same could not be said of the numbers beside the names, the words that followed. They were altered, on occasion. Often when you least expected it.

Directory of known sorcerers residing in Japan, as of December 24, 2017. Most recent grade of every sorcerer identified. Status identified. Bounty set by Nanami Kento and Geto Suguru identified (if applicable):

GOJO SATORU . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

TSUKUMO YUKI . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

OKKOTSU YUUTA . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

GETO SUGURU . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

NANAMI KENTO . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

SHOKO IERI . . .  Grade 1 . . . Reward: 35,000,000

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI. . . Grade 1 . . . Reward: 50,000,000

Your name was next on the list. 

Immediately, you stopped reading, the anger consuming you as quickly as your eyes scanned the words across the page, crumbling it in your palm. 

Every two weeks, like clockwork, your bounty raised. It was the same with Megumi and Maki, as descendants of the Zen’in clan, and children that the higher-ups were so desperate to obtain. But no one else’s reward held quite the same inconsistency as your own, which never seemed to raise by a set amount.

Today, nothing was surprising about the list, no new deaths, no numbers that seemed otherworldly. You threw the wadded ball of paper over your shoulder, slumping forward as your head fell into your hands. 

Everyone was getting desperate, it seemed. Not just the Zen’in clan, but Geto too. Perhaps even you were losing your last shred of rationality, of hope that things would change. The only ambition you still had was keeping Maki and Megumi out of the disgusting hands of their clan leaders. 

You swore to protect them… And you would protect them, now that Gojo Satoru could not.

Glancing up, your gaze fell from the ceiling to the window, rays of sunlight clearing through a dark curtain of storm clouds. The sky had begun to open up into a steely gray abyss, but it never looked natural, with the curtain of curse energy that shimmered across the horizon. It encased the entirety of the country, unbroken, from each shore to the beaches, sinking into the seas. A navy hue that sealed your home into a prison, out of hatred and fear, and every twisted feeling that Geto Suguru had settling in his heart.

There was hardly anything that passed through the curtain; only things that were predetermined by Geto, who saw himself, surely, as your great benefactor. No communication to the world outside, no alarming any foreign sorcerers of what had become of your country. Maybe no one cared enough to come to your defense.

It was shield that did little to protect, and it would remain there until someone was strong enough to break it. But without Satoru alive, even that had become an impossible task. 

Month after month, the strongest sorcerers attempted to break it, to take it down, and collapse the cursed energy that was compacted into a swirling wave. Every one of them failed. There were only two special grade sorcerers left, and they were the ones that had trapped you in the circle of hell, to begin with. 

You let out a heavy exhale, turning away from the window to slink back into the darkness of your bedroom. Thinking too hard about the state of your survival only served to depress you further.

At least you still had the rain. The drizzle that maintained the farmlands, kept the rivers from drying out, and you and the rest of the country from dying. Geto had been kind enough to give you that.

As if in response to your dismal thoughts, a dreary rainbow unfurled across the sky, brightening it like a beacon. The colors were still muted, though, swallowed by the darkness of an energy created by hatred. It did little to draw a smile onto your face, and you collapsed onto a chair instead, wrapping yourself up in whatever dusty blankets covered it.

Satoru’s name lingered in your mind like he was whispering it there, his lighthearted, arrogant tone seeping through your eardrums, nestling into your brain. You could still see his smug smile, almost as if he’d been standing in front of you all this time, the image of it painted onto the wall across from you. 

The mere whistle of a memory of him sent a twinge of regret and longing through your entire frame. He was always a pain in your ass, and yet, you were certain that no one missed him more than you. What a pity it was, to have been the strongest. 

So caught up in your memories, you were ignorant to the door unlatching, footsteps padding through the threshold as Shoko came in. Although you hadn’t heard her, you saw her out of the corner of your eye, the shadow of her before she spoke. 

“Everything okay?” Shoko asked, and while things hadn’t been okay in months, there was no other question that could have been asked in place of it. 

You looked over, nestling deeper into the blankets, as you observed her stature, which only seemed to shrink with time. A cigarette was balanced between her fingers, nails painted a light shade of pink; a way to counter the dismal reality of her situation. Shoko’s dark hair had been cut short again, a shadow of her teenage self, a shell of that girl she’d once been, hollow and empty. 

Just like you, you supposed. A burnt image of someone who’d once longed to visit her friends in Tokyo, who’d looked up to all of them like they’d hung the moon. 

How sick you felt, knowing you’d once adored the men that did this to you. Nauseating, even, that you held a shred of love for them still. 

“You could’ve knocked,” you said, rolling your eyes as Shoko puffed out of a cloud of smoke, one that wafted over to the nest you’d perched yourself in. It didn’t quite reach you, but you coughed dramatically anyway, waving your hands around your face.

“Would it have made a difference?”

“For starters, I could’ve looked a little less like I was brooding.”

Shoko laughed, and her tiny little smile caused you to crack one of your own, grateful that you could still experience a fraction of joy. There was still hope, somewhere, even if you buried it deep. Without it, you would’ve given yourself up to Geto months ago, or died trying to escape. There was no point in fighting with nothing to live for. 

“I’ve been under the impression that that’s all you do up here,” Shoko remarked, taking another long drag of her cigarette. “Sitting so seriously in your dark, cold room, all alone. Perhaps thinking of the things that might have been.”

Although she was teasing you, you feel a stab within your chest at the remark. You’d been shy as a girl, and you’d grown into a quiet adult — something that someone as obnoxious as Satoru had always teased you about. But you’d learned to accept his remarks, as annoying as they were, because for all Gojo Satoru talked, he was, really, quite horrible at communicating. 

It just seemed like a punch to the gut, that Shoko sounded like him now. That her mouth twisted up in the same way Satoru’s did, even though it was unsurprising that she’d picked up on some of his quirks over the years.

You just didn’t like seeing a reminder of him everywhere you went. As much as you missed him, you hated him for leaving you in a world where the unthinkable came to light. Even the strongest flame had been put out, and there was no safety in that sort of place. 

Silence remained Shoko’s answer, and she sighed, accepting it as her eyes dimmed. Looking past you, the last of the day’s rays burned through the glass panels, coating the room in a purple haze. “Utahime wants to have a meeting,” Shoko said, resigned. “Be downstairs in ten.”

The curt response was the end of your conversation. Once you nodded, your old friend left, letting the door slam behind her.

Meeting was hardly a name that could qualify for your meager gathering of sorcerers, especially since almost everyone had been stuck together for months, with no other options. Yet, Utahime continued to put on a brave face, calling it a formal congregation, as if to instill the hope that you all could become enough to incite a rebellion. As if, maybe, you could train and strengthen yourselves, overthrowing two of the most powerful curse-users in the world.

It was laughable, really, and you saw why Shoko and everyone else thought that. Why they rolled their eyes at the flimsy sheets of paper that Utahime passed out every day, because, maybe, there wasn’t a point to any of it. 

You, though, were happy to indulge Utahime. It gave you just a few moments to pretend like things hadn’t changed. You could listen to her lecture to your measly group of sorcerers, and pretend that she was still a teacher in Kyoto. You could pretend that Satoru was still by your side, that you were still fighting nothing worse than grade one curses, and that everything was normal.

It painted a pretty peaceful image, even if it wasn’t real. 

Throwing the blankets off your body, you finally left the room, your breathing seeming far too loud for the empty halls. Papery hotel walls loomed over you as you trekked down carpeted stairs, sliding your hands along the banister. The elevators were never used, and lights were only on when necessary. It was a risk to use up any resources, when none of you were certain how much longer they’d last.

Really, it was a mystery that you’d made it this far. For all of his theatrics and grandiose plans, Geto Suguru was not an idiot. If he was allowing you all to live, for anyone who opposed him to live, then there must have been a reason. Society was likely blooming within the four walls of Geto’s cult following, and those who stood with him received all the finest things in life. 

And it may have been a ridiculous notion, but it seemed more realistic than the alternative. Whoever Geto was now, he was still a man who cared deeply for his new family. You couldn’t imagine him forcing them into a life where they had to fend for scraps off the streets.

When you got downstairs, to the lobby of the hotel that you were all inhabiting for the week, the room was already lit with candles, flames so high that you could tell they’d been burning for a while. With the sun already setting on the other side of the building, very little light filtered through the vast windows. 

Despite the cold outside, the building remained relatively warm, a heating system kicking on regardless of your precautions. However, you were grateful not to have to face the winter in a small town without some source of warmth. Even if it died out on you by the end of the night. 

Nearly everyone had gathered when you arrived downstairs… But at this point in your battle, the numbers were never very staggering. Many of the sorcerers never bothered to show up, despite knowing the severity of the position that you were all in. 

Not that you could blame them, though. Oftentimes, in these meetings, you just repeated the same information; it was rare that you stumbled upon anything noteworthy toward your survival.

The would-be third years sat huddled in a circle, and Utahime and Shoko talked amongst themselves in hushed whispers. At the far side of the vast table, one you’d created from various smaller ones, Takuma Ino sat, beanie covering his forehead, eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair. 

Something relaxed inside of you, at the sight of him sitting there so calmly. Since Stour had died, Ino had become something of a comfort to you. His steadfast optimism and energy were hard to match in such dire times, bringing a new life to people who might as well have been dead—including yourself. Despite the few years difference in age and the differences in your experiences as sorcerers, he’d become one of your closest friends. 

You approached him, quietly; though he heard your subtle footsteps nonetheless. A dark eye popped open, and he smiled, lips pulling back, eyes crinkling at the corners. Ino was still so young, but there was more evidence of happiness on his features than many of you; wrinkles were already obvious around his eyes and mouth. It was admirable how deeply he could hold onto joy, and you found yourself latching onto that, longing for it, even. 

“You left your cave!” Ino remarked, pulling his beanie off, dusty brown strands falling onto his cheekbones. “This must be really important if Shoko pulled you out of there.” 

As you took the seat next to him, you made an effort to poke him in the shin with your shoe. A kick, almost, with how hard the pressure landed. “I always come to these meetings,” you said, rolling your eyes. “If I remember correctly, it was your seat that was empty during the last one.” 

Ino’s lips tugged upwards again, not quite a smirk but close enough. He sat up a little straighter, less relaxed than before, when the rest of the sorcerers began filing into the room. “Well, it’s never me that those bastards looking for.” Ino shrugged, wiping a hand over his face, hiding his weariness of the entire situation. “They don’t need everyone. Some of us, they just want to capture to eliminate.” 

An objection rested on your lips, but you knew that it was fruitless. Sorcerers that didn’t have a technique inherently useful to Geto’s agenda would be imprisoned — or killed. The rest of you… Well, you’re certain you’d be used for something far worse. Dying seemed, almost, like the better outcome. 

“Well, it’s a good thing that none of us have been captured, then,” you settled on instead. 

Ino looked away, his dark lashes fanning over the hollowed shadows beneath his eyes. “It’s only a matter of time, though. Isn’t it? We can’t run forever.” 

You didn’t bother to respond. Ino was right. Of course, he was right. You’d all fought like hell to keep everyone alive, and though a few had willingly left, sworn their allegiance with a betrayal of information, no one had been captured. The defects never really mattered, though. There were very few secrets kept amongst you. What secrets could be kept, when your goal of escape was more than obvious?

Finally, Utahime drew all your focus with a dramatic clearing of her throat. She stood tall, proud before you, like you were all first-years, oblivious to your own talents, and far too naive for the world of Jujutsu. 

It seemed a realistic comparison, though, as all of you still trained like students, trying to learn something from others that you hadn’t known before. A disappointing concept, considering many of you were beyond growth in your technique, and your abilities would remain stagnant. But the grades of sorcery meant nothing anymore — hardly anyone referred to themselves as such, these days. 

���As you all know, for months, we’ve been trying to anticipate Geto and Nanami’s next move,” Utahime began, as always, with the obvious. There was a brief pause, and whether it was for dramatics or for Utahime to gather her thoughts, you weren’t certain. “Our infiltration attempts have all failed — The bounties tell us little, except that the clan’s children are wanted more than everyone.” 

You glanced over at Megumi, whose eyebrow only twitched in irritation. He would be eighteen soon, but he would remain your responsibility. A life you’d always protect, dying before the clan could ever attempt to take him away, sell him for whatever he was worth. You’d promised Satoru that much, hadn’t you? 

“Although,” Utahime started again, with renewed vigor in her voice, “we think we’ve gained some new insight into their operations. Or, at least, what their next ambition is.” A frown took over her face, then, slowly, curled to every corner of her expression. Wrinkles formed between her brows, and she licked her lips, pointedly avoiding the far end of the table where you sat. “But there is nothing proven in the information. It is a gamble — one we’re not sure we’re willing to take.” 

“What options do we have left?” Todo said, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Risks are all we have now. Every other plan has led to nothing, and Geto is a complete basket case. You act as if any of his goals are rational — as if we can predict them.” 

Utahime opened her mouth, but faltered, looking at Shoko, who had already begun to take over. She was onto her second cigarette since you’d last seen her, the habit only erupting after Gojo had been killed. Clouds of smoke rose above her as she exhaled smoothly. 

“No, Geto is not rational,” Shoko agreed. “But Nanami is. There’s a reason that those without cursed energy still reside in Japan. That Geto has not wiped them out entirely.”

“To supply him with curses,” Todo argued, fists on the table. It did little to faze Shoko, who was already so numb. “And money.”

“No,” Shoko paused, gathering her thoughts. “That may be part of the reason, but it isn’t the entire truth, I believe.” 

Although she took a few more breaths, no one interrupted, letting her expel whatever was residing in her mind. When it came to Geto, evwryone entrusted her entirely. There was no one else alive who knew him as well as she did. Even if Gojo had been the only one to ever know him completely. 

“How many sorcerers do you think are left in Japan?” she asked, staring Todo down with a flat gaze, shadowy eyes only growing darker by the day. “An estimate.” 

He shrugged, glancing around the table, and counting heads. Thinking of the clans. Of those who had joined Geto before that evening in Shinjuku, and those who joined him in the two years since. “I don’t know. Perhaps two hundred?”

“I’d argue less,” Shoko hummed, taking one more drag of her cigarette before she dropped it on the floor of the hotel, stomping it out. “But let’s stick with your guess. Two hundred is hardly a feasible number to sustain a society, without setting all of us back centuries. Geto’s goal of murdering anyone without cursed energy… Well, it’s not feasible, really. Not unless he wants the human race, including sorcerers, to cease to exist.” She smiled, though it was sad, exhausted. Things had never stopped being hard for her. Not since the day she’d met the two special grade sorcerers that had once been her best friends. “That’s why they’ve stopped. That’s why the rest of the world moves along, why there are still curses haunting Tokyo, even when Geto hates them. If his plan fails here, then how will it succeed in the rest of the world?” 

Utahime took her seat beside Shoko, bowing her head. Silence arose across the table, as the words sank in. How often you’d thought the same thing, how rational it seemed that that was the case. Yet, none of you had ever been brave enough to say the words out loud. 

Perhaps it didn’t matter, really, when all of you were helpless to stop them.

 “So this is a test run?” Megumi interjected, not allowing Todo to supply any more questions out of his fearful rage. “If Geto can build his utopia here, then he will continue everywhere else?” 

Shoko nodded. “Well. That’s what I think anyway. No one needs to believe me.” 

But her statements were never up for debate. They settled around the table like the word of God, bestowed upon unwilling servants. Giving to the last of you; people who needed to continue on a path that seemed to lead to nowhere. 

“What are we supposed to do, then?” Maki threw her hands up, standing as the chair screeched across the floor. “We’ve run and we’ve hid, and we’ve planned for a year. We’re cowards, aren’t we? Just trying to get by while a lunatic takes over the entire world.” 

Shoko flinched at the word, at the brashness of the teenager’s tone. But she sat tall, face neutral, never letting anyone see how deeply she was truly hurting. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.” 

“Well let’s do something. I’ve lost so many people. We’ve all lost so many people. I’m starting to think that maybe their deaths were in vain.” 

Megumi’s eyes snapped over to her, muttering something darkly under his breath. In a failed attempt, Nobara tugged on her wrist, guiding her back down to her seat. But she flicked him off, sitting on her own, breathing heavily. You’d always liked Maki Zen’in. It was a pity you’d never get the chance to teach her as a third year — you would’ve promoted her to grade one sorcerer, given the chance.

“I agree, Maki,” Utahime spoke up again, softly, coaxing her anger back down. “We think that we might have a plan, though, as I have said, it is a gamble. And…” she blinked, glancing over at you before avoiding your gaze. “I’m not sure that everyone would be willing.” 

The statement started a chorus around the table, of those who would do anything to help, those who were tired of living as you had been living — if you could even call it a life. The students, more courageous than you’d ever been, were the first to offer up their lives. But it was not them that Utahime needed, and deep in your gut, you knew that to be true before she even said it. 

“Utahime,” you said across the wave of speakers, trying your best to make your voice louder than everyone else’s. “It’s me you need, isn’t it?” 

As quickly as the words had left your mouth, everyone was silent, blinking at you. And for a moment, you hesitated. How embarrassing it would be, to believe yourself so important to Geto that you must be the willing victim. 

But you weren’t a fool, and Utahime knew that. Geto knew that, and Nanami Kento certainly knew that. Your bounty had raised just as heavily, and the numbers were staggering. The price on your head was almost as high as Maki and Megumi, despite having very few sorcerers in your long line of descendants. 

It was just — your technique was rare. So rare, in fact, that other curse users had come for you before, when you were but a child. It was something that Geto could easily use to achieve his end goal, if he were able to use your technique to his advantage. 

Thinking of it now, it was logical and seemed almost ridiculous that you hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d surely attempt to convert you, perhaps promise you a life of grandeur, whatever security he could provide you. 

Yet, the realization hadn’t made you any more prepared for when Utahime’s face fell. Everyone around the table seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

She sighed, looking over to Shoko before nodding. “I’m sorry.” 

Momentarily, your heart stopped. 

Ino flew out of his seat beside you, arguments spewing from his lips in an uncertain stutter. “What? What does that mean? You’re just going to ship her off to Nanami and Geto? Because I’m not going to stand by and watch you hand anyone over to the people that ruined our lives,” he shouted. The heat had risen in his body far too quickly, painting him the image of someone who could only be your lover. 

Your cheeks grew warm, your body hot all over from Ino’s words, from all the eyes that were on you, the dread of what was to come. You’d do it — of course, you’d do it, whatever they needed. Whatever it took to save Megumi and Maki, and the rest of the children. Whatever it took to save the world. If you were to be a sacrifice, well, so be it. There wasn’t much of a choice. 

“Calm down, lover boy,” Shoko laughed, and though Ino’s cheeks grew red, his anger didn’t subside, features pinching up tight. “We’re not going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. There could be another way, we can get someone else but…” Shoko looked at you, studying you for any fear. “You are the best option, aren’t you?” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Megumi asked, eyebrows narrowing. “I’m with Takuma. You expect us just to watch her walk straight into the lions’ den?” 

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you said, schooling your face into a neutral expression. All these months, you’d been promising yourself that you would do whatever was necessary. You’d become a loud voice against the tyrants that controlled what was left of the Jujutsu society, and you couldn’t go back on your word now, could you? “What did you have in mind, Utahime?”

She blinked, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks, brown eyes wide. Almost like she’d expected you to say no — like she’d hoped for it. But, even though you knew in your heart and soul that you were a coward, you refused to let yourself act like one.

Megumi said your name again, an argument, as Maki became flustered beside him. How noble the two of them were. They were just kids, and already, they reminded you so much of Satoru. The good qualities, of course. Always standing up for what was right, fighting against the system that threatened to topple them. 

Geto had been like that once. Nanami had too.

Sadly, you smiled to yourself as Shoko cleared her throat, cooling the argument that had sprung up among you. Besides the students and Ino, no one had much to say. All of you were too tired, it seemed, to want to fight. To breathe life back into yourselves and your convictions, which seemed to barely be there at all.

“What we know for sure is that Geto has employed Mei Mei as a bounty hunter,” Utahime said, lips drawn thin. Her defection had never really come as a shock. Mei Mei could easily round up sorcerers with her technique, and Geto would supply her with millions; she’d never once put anyone first but herself. “We’ve managed to stay ahead of her, but…” 

Her voice trailed off, dark eyes drifting between Megumi and Maki, innocent children who had been dragged into it, simply because of their lineage. They’d fought bravely the past few years, had trained mercilessly, but they shouldn’t have been weapons in a war of this scale. 

Oh, Satoru, you thought, what a mess you’ve left us with.

“We won’t let any of the children get involved,” Shoko said, brushing her short hair out of her face. “They’ll be safe — away, with the rest of us. There might be casualties. We don’t know who else Geto has employed, or if Mei Mei will be on her own… I’m sorry, but we don’t know much.” 

“It’s okay,” you said again, but the wave of arguments had erupted once more.  

Shoko dropped her head, shaking it, as her chin fell against her chest. Under the table, Ino grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently. 

“You can’t expect us just to do nothing,” Maki argued, fists clenched by her side. “Last time you set us all on the bench, three students died. This is a ridiculous plan. Why don’t we just kill the bitch, and we’ll be down one less curse-user that wants us all dead!” 

“It’s not that simple.” Utahime, for the first time in a while, shouted at the former student. Her cheeks were flushed, bright and pink, her nose flared with the force of her breathing. 

For a moment, Maki seemed taken aback, but erased the emotion from her face, twisting it up before she sat back down. Utahime regained her composure quickly after.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Maki, but we need to be willing to do whatever it takes. We’ve spent a year playing it safe, and it’s gotten us nowhere. This time, we need to take a risk.” 

“If that’s truly the case, then I’ll help,” Ino offered beside you, threading his fingers through your own, palms clammy against yours. You let him run his thumb along the back of your hand, calloused and warm, even as you wanted to twist away. How often you’d gone to him for comfort, crawled into his arms… and yet, the subtle signs of affection made you want to writhe away and put distance between you. Sometimes, the dissonance of your emotions made you want to never speak to him again. 

It was a hard pill to swallow. Once, you’d been full of love, accepted it easily. But it was harder to give these days, and harder to take. Just a sign of how much you’d changed since Satoru had died. 

“If you need sorcerers, I’ll help, Utahime. I don’t mind giving my life so that the rest of you can live.” 

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

You sighed, looking around the table at all of the faces of people that had once been your friends, your colleagues, your students. Now, you were just a group of survivors, people who wanted to escape the miserable future you’d been given. How you loved them, even now, and it stung, to know this might be the last time you’d ever see them.

“Alright. Tell me what I need to do.” you said, putting on a brave face, swallowing away your fear. The little girl you’d once been, so terrified of curses and Jujutsu, threatened to slip back into your body. You pushed her away, refusing to let her in.

Shoko pulled another cigarette out of the box. “I think we should speak alone.”

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pairing: kyle 'gaz' garrick / single mom!reader summary: kyle looks for you, then finds you tags/warnings: grief, less angst but still there, depression, non-creepy stalking, judgmental people, anxiety, previous injuries, insomnia, don't accept rides from strange men ladies and theydies, unless it's gaz then feel free<3 w.c: 1.2k

"Can I get a red-eye?"

Sleep has been difficult lately. Evasive. He sometimes goes through insomniac phases, where no amount of jogging or calisthenics practice or mental exercise helps. It's pure, restless energy.

Before, he might've taken himself to a bar, found a pretty girl to fuck and ease the buzzing under his skin. Now it's too painful - too much of a reminder of post-mission decompressing with the team. Sat in a circle booth, slapping each other on the back as they left, the smell of cigar-smoke and perfume.

Not that he'd be able to here, anyway. The town is too small, too isolated. There's hardly a main street, just a strip with bare necessities vaguely at the center of rolling hill country pock-marked with bleached white cottages and surrounded by cold ocean on all sides.

Peaceful, sometimes. Unbearable, mostly.

"Sure, any milk or sugar?"

"No, that's alright, thank you." He's been here every day, mixing a caffeine fix with his ongoing search for you. Curiosity and boredom, he tells himself. The product of so many sudden life changes - the end of their last mission, Johnny's passing. He just needs something else to focus on, something soft and wide-eyed.

At least the coffee is good.

The next time he sees you, it's in passing. Driving out of town to the post office to pick up a gift from his sister.

You're holding a toddler by both arms, their feet on yours, walking them up the steps toward the local library. Another long skirt, wimpling softly in the breeze. There's a smile on your face as you watch the child walk with you.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity - like he should turn back. But the post office closes in a couple hours and it takes nearly that long to get there, so Kyle elects to be patient.

You're there every evening. From five o'clock until closing at eight, you sit at the same window and alternate reading a massive tome and babbling back at your baby, who's sitting on a wooden high-chair.

The librarian makes rounds just to say hello to the two of you, pinching cheeks and ooing and aweing.

"And how old is she again?" She whispers mindfully. Her nametag says Nettie and she's a kindly-looking old woman, bent a little from years of work but sturdy as a mast in a storm.

"Turning two soon," you whisper back. Neither of you have any idea he's there yet, browsing the books as a cover to peek through the shelf at you. "She's a taurus."

"Just about to hit the terrible twos!" Nettie laughs.

"Yep," you laugh with her, but there's something there. A sheepishness. Embarrassment? Your expression is almost a grimace, from what he doesn't know. He wants to, though. Looks through the peephole and lets his chest fill with something other than grief for just a moment.

"And the father? Not a fan of reading?" She probably means well, but your face goes from vaguely uncomfortable to something like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, um," you're floundering, but Nettie is too busy stroking a wrinkled hand over your girls head. "He's not in the picture."

Not in the picture? If Kyle had felt any kind of guilt for eavesdropping, it's overshadowed by that information. Best stake-out of his career to-date.

You shrink a little when Nettie yanks her hand back, frowning. He can tell judgement and prejudice when he sees it - experience and a keen eye. Must be hard being a single mom.

Resigned - that's the look. Pained and embarrassed and resigned.

"Right. Well," Nettie's sensible leather shoes clack against the floor. You don't watch her go, your hand is reaching into your bag for a tiny knit hat.

Fuck, you're leaving.

As you gather your things - book, coat, bags, baby - he tucks himself into the shelf, positioned still as a sniper, to-

"Ouch!" Your voice cuts through the quiet of the library. Kyle flounders, caught off guard for once. He'd only gently bumped into you to make it look like an accident, like something out of a rom-com. Girls liked that, usually.

But instead of looking up at him with surprise, you close your eyes and shy away from him, shoulders coming up defensively - you can't reach your arm, not with a baby on your hip, but it's obvious you're in pain.

"Are you okay?" You look to him, wincing still. You're asking him if he's okay? Heat creeps into his cheeks, warming him with regret.

"I'm good, I'm good," he says quickly. "Sorry about that, love, didn't see you there."

"That's okay," you readjust, arm limp at your side. Your heavy bags hang off of it, but there's nothing you can do with the baby on your hip.

"Let me get those," there's no time for you to reject his offer; he's too quick. The bags are heavy - no doubt there are more books and a baby go-bag. This close, you smell powdery soft like linen sheets and laundry dried outside.

"It's the least I can do," he's trying to be casual about it, lest he scare you off. Holds the door open, notices while you step out that your daughter looks just like you.

"Thank you, you didn't have to," you look down. How'd you hurt your arm? He knows he didn't hurt you - not like that, at least. Not enough to warrant such a reaction.

"Of course I did, didn't mean to get'cha so hard," his head swivels. There are only two cars in the parking lot. "Can I get these in your car?"

"Oh, I walked, that's okay," you reach to take the bags back, but he pulls away.

"I can't let you walk home, please- let me be a gentleman and give you a ride," he knows it's a long shot. Neither of you have exchanged names, neither of you are locals. He's tried to make himself look as approachable as possible; head tilted down, brown eyes imploring, palms out even with your bags in one hand, but it's a gamble.

There's natural suspicion and hesitation, your eyes looking side-to-side, but you nod with a hesitant smile after a moment. It's hard to keep the grin down, but he manages it up until you're tucked in his passenger seat and he's putting your bags in the back of his car.

"My name is Kyle, by the way," he puts his keys in the ignition, turns them. Pretends not to notice how you sink into the seat, eyes drooping, holding your daughter on your lap. It's not safe, but it's a country road and he promised to drive slow on the way.

You tell him your name. It's pretty, fitting. He wonders again about you - who left you like this? Alone, hurt, tired, trusting a stranger to drive you home. If he were your man, he'd never let you be put in a position like that.

The cottage you're renting is tiny, a glorified shack, rented as a cottage for tourists.

"There you are," he murmurs, trying not to startle you. "Need help getting in?"

"Hm?" You've been staring out the window. "Sorry! No, I'm alright, thank you again for the ride. Josie and I appreciate it."

Josie. It fits her, fits you. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

There's not a chance he lets you get the bags out yourself, and once you're appropriately sent off to your door, he sits and waits for a moment. Makes sure you get inside. Feels something loosen in his chest.

[dr-trafalgar-law]

Trafalgar Law X CisFem Reader

1

The rich scent of coffee percolated through the small apartment kitchen. Preferring to keep the room dark only the tiny light above the stove was left on. The sun had yet to rise and judging by the pattering against the window above the sink it wouldn't matter anyway.

Bringing the hardly sweetened liquid to his lips Law did his best to keep anxious thoughts away. Usually these consisted of work related topics, things he needed to get done when he arrived at the hospital or patients that took priority. This particular morning you were prominent.

He thought back to a night in November. At the time you had been matched for a month and had very recently moved in together. He had been opposed to all of this arranged marriage nonsense from childhood. Forcing people to be together for procreation didn't seem healthy mentally. But the alternative was prison, so most people just went with it.

Then he met you and discovered how similarly you operated so he decided to learn more. You had been pretty forthcoming with your reluctance, almost offensively so. You also felt the need to explain that you had a previous relationship that ended abruptly because of the law and obviously weren't dealing with it in a healthy way.

That week you stayed late at the shop every night working on different orders. When he did see you, you were practically vibrating with nervous energy. So, the nightly ritual of visiting the shop started, at least until that Friday. When he had announced he was coming to the shop you told him you'd meet him at home, which you did arriving at the same time. Even in the chilly humid air he thought he caught the scent of cologne as you passed, chalking it up to the hoodie you must have borrowed from a coworker, as he had never seen it before. After showering you shared the meal he'd brought from the hospital. You didn't say much but somehow seemed at ease especially considering the project you had been working on. Perhaps finishing the cakes provided some sort of closure? No, Law couldn't be that naive. Something definitely happened, something you didn't want to share. However, at the time he wasn't compelled to press you for information. He wasn't sure that even now after nearly four months you'd come clean. It wasn't like you had grown any closer as a couple, and he didn't know if you ever would.

His ears perked hearing your bedroom door softly open and shut behind you. Finally, the smell of coffee had made it to your room inviting you into the kitchen. You rounded the corner in an old purple shirt with the collar cut out, so it hung off your left shoulder, a pair of black leggings and mismatched knee-high socks.

His silver eyes roamed over the dip of your exposed shoulder before swaying up to your yawning face. It amused him that from day one you had no problem looking like a straight up mess in front of him. Perhaps it was because you weren't interested or maybe you just weren't like other girls. No woman he'd ever slept with dared to be seen without makeup.

You wore makeup as well, but it was always tastefully done. Law had surprised himself finding that he preferred you without, he liked the very light olive toned semicircles under your eyes and the natural hue of your lips so much so that on occasion you caught him staring. Being unaware of this preference and very aware of his constant stern expression, you had not thought about the attention being out of attraction.

"Morning." You yawned again running your fingers through your tangled hair.

"F/N-ya." Your fiancé nodded bringing his cup back to his lips.

"Top you off?" you asked pulling your mug from the cupboard not bothering to turn on the lights.

"Big order this week?" Law asked leaning back to hand you his cup.

"No, just couldn't sleep. There isn't much going on today I might just stay here and get some things done." Now that you'd said more he noticed your voice was a bit hoarse.

He hummed turning to let his eyes trail over you, even in the dim yellow light of the stove your skin seemed pale and clammy. Carefully he watched you fix his cup of coffee with shaky hands and move on to your own. The shadows under your eyes had deepened slightly, it was probably nothing, but no one would die if he asked.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes doctor," you smirked handing his cup over, "just a restless night is all."

"Then It's best if you stay home." He affirmed sipping the strong brew.

Somehow it was always better when you made it, though you did it the exact same way he had, yours was something to savor.

"Is it good?" You asked in amusement.

"It's ok. Why?" was his curt reply.

"You hummed," you chuckled, "That means you like it."

Had he? When were you so observant?

"I did no such thing." He glanced away from your smug expression.

"Will you be home for dinner? I was thinking about cooking." The light from your phone caught his attention drawing his gaze back to your face.

"I can probably arrange that." He tried to sound nonchalant, but you caught the intrigue in his tone.

"Anything you'd like? It's been a while since I made something savory, but I can still throw down."

He raised a brow at your enthusiasm, "Whatever you'd like is fine."

"Sandwiches then?" You teased.

He rolled his eyes, "If you can really throw down, how about onigiri, Ms. Chef."

"That will require some research and a trip to the store, but I accept your challenge." You were already searching for recipes on your phone.

After sitting in silence for a few moments and finishing his second cup of coffee Law checked the time and rose from the table to place his mug in the empty sink.

"Seven o'clock." You murmured looking up to meet his stormy gaze.

"I'll do my best. Have a good day F/N-ya." He exited the kitchen, a few seconds later followed by the sound of the door locking from the outside.

After your short trip to the store, you returned home to stock the fridge and pantry. It was shameful how much time you avoided spending there. Only coffee, sugar and creamer sat in the kitchen, and there were still boxes stacked in a corner of the living room waiting to be unpacked. You intended to remedy that.

Moving into the common space you began opening boxes. They'd been there so long you didn't know if they belonged to you or Law. The first was heavy and filled with medical magazines and notebooks. Box two was full of novels, most of them adventure, and the smallest was yours full of framed pictures and photo albums.

You organized the magazines and novels on the empty bookshelf that lined the back wall, leaving Law's notebooks for him to sort. At the bottom of that box you found a small framed picture turned over. Carefully you plucked it from the box curiosity piquing as you flipped the silver frame over. Law hadn't had any pictures of family or friends that you knew of. Making a mental note to ask about that your gaze fell over an old photo of your fiancé. He couldn't have been more than ten, wearing a school uniform with a little yellow backpack hooked over his shoulders. Next to him crouched a tall blond man with shaggy bangs swept across his face and a cigarette pressed between his lips. You were sure he'd always had that attitude and judging from the look on his adolescent face you were correct. The man in the photo must have been his adopted father, whom he didn't talk much about.

You filled your day with little projects and finally got around to making dinner. It wasn't difficult, but it was time-consuming. You felt good about preparing something he had picked specifically. It was your job to make people happy through their appetites, but this for the moment muted the crippling guilt that had been plaguing you.

Seven turned to eight turned to nine o'clock. You covered dinner in plastic and placed it in the fridge before moving back to the living room to binge watch some shows you had missed. It was disappointing that Law hadn't arrived or returned your texts but you supposed that came with being a doctor.

                                                                                          ____________

Law walked in quietly shutting the door behind him, first noticing the pictures lining the hallway. He stopped at the photo of his eleven-year-old self with Corazon on the first day of sixth grade. You must've had a productive day. Feeling incredibly guilty he continued into the apartment greeted by the soft light of the tv, he hadn't even noticed you on the sofa buried in a mess of blankets until you gasped.

"Sor-" Law was cut off as more gasps left the now writhing blanket pile.

Removing his coat, he crouched down pulling the throws away quickly. Your body had curled up into itself as you tried desperately to catch your breath. In the natural motion to ball up you'd smashed yourself into the back of the sofa. His slim tattooed fingers wrapped firmly around your wrists as you clawed at your chest and throat.

"D-don't..." you rasped.

"F/N-ya," he started softly pulling you into him as he sat, "try to calm down."

"Trying." You shuddered grasping his hands trying to fend off your instinct to fight back.

Now your clammy skin and shaky hands that morning made sense to him.

He hummed cradling you while you cried and hiccupped still hooked into a fetal position. Being wrapped in his warmth and hearing his low soft voice helped you focus on your breathing. The dark abyss that had been enveloping you began to fade.

"I'm... I'm sorry." You stammered. 

[good-beanswrites]

And a sort of alternate version for the last Fuuta/cry prompt, from a normal au that lives in my brain -- some hurt/comfort with Mappi :')

Mahiru hummed as she stirred. The apartment was filled with the wonderful aroma of her cooking. A door around the corner clicked. Perfect timing, she thought with a smile.

She hadn’t been sure Fuuta would wake up in time for dinner. He’d been out cold ever since she picked him up from his dorm room. Well, he’d probably recount it as kidnapping, since he was in no state to actually agree to come along. But that was the very reason she’d dragged his weak form out of there – no one at the school had noticed that calls stopped going through to him, or that his social media pages all vanished overnight, or that he’d stopped attending classes. When Mahiru finally made her way to his dark, trash-piled room, she discovered him with a 39 degree fever and rambling frantically about death. She needed to take matters into her own hands.

And that’s exactly what she did. Fuuta could hardly keep food down, after his diet of instant meals, energy drinks, and painkillers (if the discarded containers around his room were any clue), so she replaced them with homemade soups and teas. She traded his rumpled bed for her own, which was sweet-scented and well-lit. Mikoto had even helped with a change of pajamas for him. 

Mahiru had taken the liberty of calling Fuuta’s sister to let her know the situation, though it was difficult to find her information without Fuuta’s phone. She couldn’t find it anywhere in his dorm. She’d also given Shidou a call, and he’d stopped by the first day to check in. He said Fuuta should be more coherent by day three, at least.

Mahiru could always count on him for reliable information. Sure enough, soft steps approached from behind. 

“Good to see you, sleepyhead~” She smiled over her shoulder. Though in a better state than when she found him, Fuuta was still a bit of a mess. He looked pale and thin in Mikoto’s clothes, which were already big on him. His eyes were bleary. Strands of bright hair stuck out at all angles. His expression was dull, taking in the cozy apartment. 

“Mahiru made your favorite for dinner! I bet you’re hungry.”

“I… don’t want it… ” His expression was uncharacteristically blank. 

Mahiru giggled; he must be really tired to be denying food. “Oh, of course you do!”

“No, you… you don’t understand…” 

“Come take a seat, it’s ready now.”

He took a step forward. “Mahiru…”

“You should be more careful, Fuuta-kun! Next time you come down with something, you should really let somebody know. It’s a miracle I came and found you in time, hm?”

She spun to set things on the table. The pride in her masterpiece faded away as his expression twisted up. His hands drifted up shakily to his face, and he started to sob. 

“Fuuta-kun!”

Mahiru hurried to him. His knees gave out as she wrapped her arms around him. He leaned down into her, his breath hitching and hiccupping as he tried to tell her something. “You shouldn’t… if you knew what I… I…” 

“Shhh, hey. Shhh...”

After a moment of broken phrases and body-wracking sobs, he regained his balance and pulled away from her. There was a look in his eyes Mahiru had seen in the last few days, when he was trying to talk through his delirium. She’d chalked it up to feverishness, but she now saw that this raw, revolted horror was something real. 

“I fucked up.”

The simple sentence sent him into a fresh wave of panic. He tried to step backwards and hide his face away, but she tugged his sleeve backward. Normally she wouldn’t be able to forcibly move him anywhere, but for the second time, he was too weak to stop her.

“Just breathe,” she said. “You can tell me.”

Mahiru had known Fuuta for long enough to hear the range of his voice – the excited chatter, the snarky muttering, the grating yelling. In all that time, she’d never once heard him sound like this. His words cracked and wobbled. Sometimes it was so hushed that Mahiru had to press her ear closer just to understand.

And by the time he finished, she understood why.

“I didn’t know,” he kept repeating. “I’d never h-have done it if… if…”

“It’s okay,” was all Mahiru could repeat in turn, through her own tears. It wasn’t quite the truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either. It was what Fuuta needed to hear, and that’s all that mattered.

“I just want to take it back… but there’s no way… What am I – what am I supposed to do?” 

“We’ll figure it out, alright? It’ll be okay.” She guided him around. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay? I’ll bring the food in to you.”

He paused. His teary eyes studied her in bewilderment. “W-why?”

“Eh? Well how else are you supposed to eat from there…?”

“No, I mean,” he swallowed hard. “Why would you do that? You… you don’t hate me…?” 

“Oh, Fuuta-kun.”

She wrapped her arms around him again. This time, he willingly returned the gesture. He grabbed onto her for dear life, and Mahiru was suddenly struck with just how much of a miracle it really had been, that she’d found him in the state he was. 

She held him close, one palm spread on his back, the other twisted through his hair. 

“Not at all. Now, let me feed you something, okay?”

“... Okay.”

[gyrovagi]

"Do you think," Eloy asks, his smooth, even voice a shock in the stillness of the night air, "that I'm like Loghain?"

Zevran can only blink, at first, having already prepared himself to fall asleep in anticipation of an early departure tomorrow morning. He wasn't sure what to expect when Eloy swept back into camp, quiet but possessed by a strange, frantic energy. Wynne was hardly forthcoming about the events of their scouting expedition to Ostagar, save that they'd seen and done what they had to, and approaching Loghain with questions about his return to the site of his great betrayal seemed unwise. He'd decided to watch Eloy clean the darkspawn blood off his armor, instead, and wait for him to speak when he felt ready.

This question, Zevran never saw coming. He props himself up on his elbows, tilting his head. "I... am not sure what you want me to say."

"I want you to be honest with me." In the low light of their shared tent, Zevran can only just make out El's silhouette, sitting hunched over herself. She's looking at Zevran, to be sure, but her face is void, any hint of an expression blotted out by an ink spill. "I don't know if anyone else will be."

It is no small request. Zevran sits up properly and allows himself a moment to consider its weight. "I imagine you don't want me to begin with the obvious dissimilarities between you. You were mortal enemies until very recently, after all."

El snorts. Not past humor, then. "You know what I mean. I think that, after actually speaking with him, I—understand him. Why he did what he did."

"Yes, you do that. Try to understand how other people think. It's a rather admirable trait of yours. Along with your willingness to spare those who try to kill you," Zevran adds meaningfully.

"I would never have put you through the Joining," Eloy says with surprising conviction. "There's a reason that it's an alternative to execution. I can't say that I didn't hope he would die."

"If that was truly your wish, you could have simply lopped his head off on the palace floor. I am sure no one at the Landsmeet would have protested much. They may have even called you a hero for it. That is what Loghain would have done, I'm sure."

This does not appear to have the reassuring effect Zevran intended; El curls in on himself further, hugging his knees to his chest. He says nothing for a long moment.

Then: "You should have heard him and Wynne, at Ostagar. Whenever we could catch our breath between the darkspawn, she was trying to get a rise out of him." El scoffs. "He refused to even act apologetic."

There is something approaching admiration in her voice, beneath the scorn. And—yes, in this Zevran supposes Eloy is much the same. His Warden holds within him a cold, clear ruthlessness, a cutting edge tempered by a mind that refuses self-doubt and the indulgence of regret. Zevran admires this, as well.

He does not know what El wants him to say. He is unsure of how to be honest.

"If I had been in his place," Eloy says, "on that battlefield, I think I would have done the same."

"I was not there myself, but from what I have heard, it sounded quite hopeless. No matter what they may say, I think many would choose to save themselves, myself included."

"Does that make those who would have charged anyway fools or heroes?"

"I suppose that depends on whether they won."

El laughs softly. "And King Cailan?"

"Well." Zevran can only shrug. "I was not there; I never met him. What would you call him?"

"A fool," Eloy says without hesitation. "If he had any sense, he would never have been on that battlefield in the first place, to be strung up by the darkspawn like a trophy."

Zevran's mouth goes dry. "I did not know you stumbled across the young king's remains."

"Stumbled is one way to put it." El brings her hand up to her face. In the following silence, Zevran realizes she must be biting her nails. A nervous habit for years, Eloy has told him with some irritation, that he's never been able to kick. "They do look alike. Cailan and Alistair." Eloy pauses, corrects himself. "Did. It seems obvious in hindsight."

With that, something finally clicks into place. Zevran feels quite stupid, which does not help him think of something to say.

He'd been surprised, when he was making the first careful steps into integrating with their eclectic party, to learn that Alistair and Eloy had known each other for less than a month before his attempt on their lives. Though an odd pair from any perspective, they conducted themselves like old friends and comrades-in-arms, even siblings, Alistair falling into step behind Eloy's confident leadership so naturally it seemed a lifelong habit.

Without Alistair behind his back, an ever reliable presence, Eloy has seemed—smaller. She is too self-possessed by far to reach for an absence, to forget that calling a familiar name will get no answer, but Zevran is sure this has only been achieved through excruciating effort. He can only imagine how Alistair has fared, alone in an unfamiliar palace with the widow of the half-brother he never knew.

Zevran cannot say that Eloy made the wrong decision. That does not mean Alistair will ever forgive him.

"Thanks to you," he says, at length, "Alistair may make a better king than his brother yet."

"Zevran," Eloy says miserably. For a terrifying heartbeat Zevran thinks she may cry, a sight so unimaginable that he's glad for the darkness to hide it. When El falls forward to press her face into his shoulder, though, her eyes are dry.

Somehow, this is worse. It is not quite an embrace, their positions too awkward, El's arms limp at his sides even as Zevran opens his to hold him. Eloy makes a noise Zevran's never heard from him before, something too starved of air to call a sob or a laugh. "Zevran, I don't know if he will."

[practically-an-x-man]

14, 23, and/or 24 for Nikoletta for the cuddle prompts?

Ooooh yes!! Thank you so much!

14. cuddles after being touch-starved 23. snuggling up to them when they're cold 24. cuddles of reassurance (Cuddle & Snuggle Prompts)

____ Fever Chills

Word Count: 2.0k Content Warnings: Sickfic, emotional hurt/comfort, domestic fluff

Crossposted on AO3 ____

Sometimes it seemed like one of them was always sick.

It seemed to alternate between them: she got the flu, then Abner caught it from her, then her shadows returned and purging them left her bedridden for three days, then his dots flared up and left him just as sick the following week...

And now it was right back to her.

Nikoletta knew, logically, things would sort themselves out soon enough. Their immune systems were fighting to adjust to an environment that wasn't prison for the first time in years. Their first foray out of prison had come from an incredibly demanding mission that included several nights sleeping on the floor of the open jungle, not to mention contact with far too many rats. They were finally learning to release decades of pent-up stress, which led to its own sort of physical crumbling. She'd always heard things would get worse before they got better, but this was the first time in her life when she was safe enough to truly experience it.

So far, she wasn't a fan.

Maybe it was another bout of the flu. Maybe it was some aftereffect of her shadows. Maybe it was just the karmic rebound of all the stress she'd started to let go of. In all likeliness, it was a combination of the three.

Whatever it was, it left her feverish and shaky and utterly miserable, and Nikoletta prayed for the day it was over.

She trudged into the kitchen with a blanket tucked around her shoulders, shaking so hard she could hardly keep herself upright. Her posture was hunched, like an old woman wrapped in her shawls, and she nearly dropped her coffee mug when she reached to pull it from the cupboard.

It didn't matter. She could hold herself up. She'd held herself up through ten years of Belle Reve, through all the injuries and illnesses and everything else that contained, and this was hardly Belle Reve. She only had to be up long enough to make herself a cup of tea, and then she could crawl back into bed and be miserable there instead.

"What are you doing?"

Abner's quiet voice came from the doorway behind her, and Nikoletta jumped before she could help it. She'd gotten better about that, she really had, but something about her present illness sharpened those old blades all the same.

"Making tea." she mumbled, leaning against the counter and watching the mug spin around inside the microwave. She didn't have the energy to boil it the proper way - not that it really made a difference in her eyes, hot water was hot water and the microwave did it a hell of a lot faster.

"You're sick," he said, with the same careful, gentle tone, "You should be in bed. I can make it for you."

"It'll take two minutes. I'm fine."

Warm hands caught her arms and tried to gingerly steer her away from the microwave. Instead she shrugged him off- and regretted it the moment she did, but buried the emotion with a grimace.

"I said I'm fine."

Abner went silent for a moment too long, and icy self-hatred clutched her heart. She'd promised herself, months ago, that she wouldn't be sharp with him the way so many others were sharp with him. And then here she was with those old habits, the austere performance she'd kept up for so long, pushing her discomfort onto him in a way he didn't deserve. It was liable to make him shut down, and that made her feel worse than any illness could.

The microwave beeped, and with rough motions she retrieved her mug and tore open a tea packet. The tea bag inside slipped through her trembling fingers before she could drop it in the mug, and Nikoletta watched it slide pitifully to the bottom of the kitchen sink.

Something about the sight, her one tiny attempt at making herself feel better only ruined by her own treacherous fingers, threatened to send her into tears. Instead she just slumped over the countertop, utterly defeated. She was so cold it felt like her tear ducts had frozen. She couldn't have cried even if she wanted to. Her body refused to grant her that release.

Abner's arms slid around her waist from behind, drawing her in against his slim chest. Nikoletta couldn't help but melt into the warmth, those agonized shudders easing for the first time in days.

"Nik," he murmured, leaning over to rest his chin on her shoulder, "Please go to bed."

She let out a trembling breath, trying to let him steady her. He had such a way of doing that. She hardly understood it. Somehow, he knew exactly how to make her slow down, to soften the armor and melt the ice, like nobody else had ever known to do for her before.

Part of her still wanted to pull away, to shoulder her burdens alone as she'd always done, to let her pride win out.

The rest of her just wanted to go to bed. She felt like shit.

Nikoletta nodded against Abner's shoulder, and he gently released his hold on her. The shivers returned almost immediately, with the loss of his warmth, but she did her best to push her discomfort aside. Abner trailed her as she began to trudge slowly back towards the bedroom.

"Do you want me to walk with you?"

"No, I'm-" she started, then swallowed the words and tried again, "It's not far. I can manage. Thank you."

"Okay." he said, "I'll be right there."

He started to draw back, then seemed to catch a brief ripple of courage and ducked in to kiss her cheek. Despite the shivers, the horrible ache in her joints, the indescribably unpleasant heavy feeling that came with illness, Nikoletta found a faint smile crossing her face.

She reached the bedroom and slid into bed, tucking herself into a tight ball under the covers. It didn't offer her any scrap of warmth - it only made her feel like some weak, scared child hiding from her nightmares. It made her think of STAR Labs, tucked under the thin sheets of her cot in the same way to shield herself from the cameras and the new unshakeable chill beneath her skin. The memories were nearly as bad as the cold itself. But even the slightest movement made her skin erupt with painful pins and needles, so there she stayed.

After a while one of the cats hopped up onto the bed and wormed its way under the covers with her. That made her feel a little better, in some small way. She'd never had pets in her prior lives - not indoor pets, at least, though she fed the strays whenever she had scraps to spare - and Baron's soft black fur was its own sort of tether to the present. Abner had been right about adopting them. It helped.

She heard Abner enter the room a few minutes later, the old flooring creaking under his shuffling footsteps, but he paused in the doorway. Nikoletta guessed that he wasn't sure how to engage with her: what to say, or even whether to speak at all, whether to come up to her or whether she'd startle from not being able to see his entrance. Nikoletta had just begun to shift when she heard him speak, softly and gently as always.

"I brought you some tea. Are you still awake?"

"Too cold to sleep," she mumbled, finally forcing herself to emerge from her cocoon. Her eyes fell on Abner still standing in the doorway, holding her coffee mug in both hands as if it were a small bird. He took a few steps closer when he found her eyes on him, and stiffly held the mug out to her. There was an odd tension in his posture- but then again, there almost always was.

Nikoletta took the mug and curled around it, taking a grateful sip and feeling warmth bloom all down to her chest. When the heat of the liquid subsided, she caught notes of a shockingly tangy taste - not the cheap store-brand stuff she kept in the cupboard, that was for damn sure.

"This isn't the tea from the tea bags," she remarked, only thinking to catch her words when she saw Abner's face fall.

"You don't like it?"

"No, it's- I do. It's good. Thank you."

"My mom used to make it for us when we got sick. When we were little. Before she... before things got bad." he said, ducking her eyes, "It's got honey in it. And mint."

She took a second sip, now finding another reason to be comforted. It wasn't just about the tea, or the fact that he'd spared her his own time and energy to make it. It was a piece of his heart, a rare good memory from his childhood, something he could easily have hoarded for himself- and deserved to hoard for himself, when good memories were so rare. But instead he shared it with her, however vulnerable that was, took a symbol of comfort from his past and made it an object of his care in the present.

She'd have to figure out the recipe once she was feeling a little better. If it meant enough to him that he'd share it with her...

Nikoletta stretched a hand out and patted the mattress beside her.

"Will you- um, will you warm me up?"

That was about the only way she could make herself phrase it. Anything else felt... strange, somehow both too intimate and not intimate enough, and she couldn't manage that just yet. It was hard enough just to ask to be held, as much as she longed for it.

But Abner knew her well, and for that she hardly had to speak at all.

He slid into the bed beside her, careful not to disturb her mug of tea as he wrapped his arms around her. There were times when he really did remind her of the street cats she used to feed as a child, and this was one of those. They were such particular creatures - half of them were so unsocialized to humans they didn't even know to meow, and they hardly understood how to react to a comforting touch at first, but deep down many of them were just as affectionate as the posh, well-groomed purebreds she saw peering out of city windows.

Abner was a lot like those cats. He didn't know how to initiate, the motions were awkward and the words were halting, but he cared more than anyone she'd ever known.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," Nikoletta mumbled, grimacing against a swell of the same bitter regret, "You deserve better- I want to be better, I'm trying, I just..."

"You're hurting, Nik. It's okay."

She wanted to protest - it wasn't okay, he'd had to shoulder cruelty from everyone in his life and she promised herself she wouldn't push the same on him - but simply swallowed the words and ducked her head against Abner's shoulder. Her fingers fidgeted with the mug in her lap.

"I hate being sick," she sighed, still curling in closer against him in the hopes that she could finally chase that terrible chill from deep in her bones, "It just... makes everything so much worse. I don't know if it's the shadows, or just my body, or... what else, but I just feel like I'm falling apart."

"I know how that feels." he agreed, and leaned his head against her own - like those near-feral strays, she thought again. "But that's why we have each other. Right?"

What happens when we both get sick, then? she thought, What happens when we both break down at the same time? Who makes the tea then? Who scoops out the litter boxes? Who picks up the mail?

And to her surprise, an answer came almost immediately.

Harley. Cleo. Rick. Even DuBois- he'd bitch about it, but he'd be there. Our friends.

It was strange to think that she had someone she could trust like that. It was strange to think that she had five.

"Yeah." she murmured, and drew the mug to her lips for another sip, "That's why we have each other."

[spacemonkeysalsa]

Appetites

Five years ago the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

(Angst and fluff and smut) Changed up the format because it was starting to look so silly with 20+ chapters.

Check it out on Ao3 from the beginning or jump into chapter twenty below the cut.

On reflection, going to Figaro’s to track down Leon in hopes that Aurelia and Isolde would be with him was foolish—he’d only gotten lucky that they were even there—but now that he had the strange entourage with him, he wasn’t entirely sure what the point had been. Yes, he needed help to figure out what to do next. And, yes, that would involve a certain amount of thoughtful objectivity. And, yes, they weren’t quite so close to the matter as he was, so it made sense to consult them.

But.

This felt awful.

They were all… looking at him.

Like they didn’t know how to feel.

In the case of Isolde, it struck him that she was probably just a little overwhelmed. Perhaps she also had some complicated feelings about her brother resurfacing after all this time. Alternatively, with Leon and Aurelia, he sensed at least a portion of their conflicted feelings probably came from a small sadistic desire to see him suffer the consequences of his actions.

Then, Aurelia asked if he regretted it. Regretted her. Regretted the choice he had allowed her to extract Leon from the torments of hell. He’d misjudged them. They weren’t enjoying watching him squirm. They were worried. If not for his own sake, then for theirs.

He couldn’t exactly bring himself to say that he was sorry he’d dragged them into this. He wasn’t. And that view of it felt reductive, to say the least, even if it had reflected how he actually felt. But, the fact that it even crossed his mind was interesting. It seemed like the kind of thing a much simpler, more annoying person would think about.

What do I do? He wanted to ask them, but he couldn’t, so instead he just marched back to the palace, waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

Approaching the palace, he felt the decided sensation of paranoia flit across his mind. A kind of extra sensory warning that there were more people inside than when he’d left. Within seconds of entering through the doorways, he focused. Could he hear them? Smell them?

He did hear something. Raised voices, so it hardly counted.

It seemed there was some kind of congregation in the ballroom. Behind his back, the others got rather quiet. Only Isolde stayed close enough that he could her hear breathing and the faint thump of her little heart.

The ballroom door was cracked open. Through the sliver, he saw something glint, then he caught the smell of dog. Dogs weren’t allowed in Baldur’s Gate.

The dog barked.

It wasn’t just any beast.

Astarion greeted Scratch just a few feet past the ballroom doors, “Oh, look who it isn’t?!” he hadn’t even gotten a good look at him yet, and the dog had closed the distance between them. 

Scratch looked a little different from last he’d seen him. Older, but no less spry—if anything there was more enthusiasm in the familiar way he threw his head into Astarion’s palms  as he patted him and ran his fingers through the white fur around his strange gith harness. Astarion scrunched up his ears, admiring his accessories. Lae’zel appeared to have outfitted him with all the best in canine armor. His claws were fixed with terrifying silver caps, and there was a not insignificant amount of psionic energy detectable in the gems of the silver harness he wore. “No doubt infested with astral flees!” Astarion scolded the dog, only then noticing that the dog’s master, Lae’zel, was also in the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Lae’zel stood in the ballroom, hand flinching towards her sword, keeping a dark sliver in the corner of her eye: Shadowheart.

The Sharran Mother superior, the Chosen of Shar. She stood with her channeling rod, disguised as a parasol, wrung between white knuckled hands. But this was the only thing that gave away her anxiety, in every other way, she was the picture of dark serenity.

Alice was there too—just to his right, and looking very ill, indeed, the small child with her was practically holding her up. Astarion did a double-take at the child. He didn’t know him, but he appeared to be a very young, golden-skinned githyanki.

“What’s all this?” Astarion demanded.

When no one answered him, he looked up to make eye contact with Lae’zel first, then Shadowheart, but the too of them both appeared too distracted to so much as face him. They were both a little slouched. Tense. Undoubtedly looking at each other more than anyone else in the room.

Finally, he turned back to Alice, clenching his jaw to school his exasperation. 

“I was going to tell you,” Alice looked absolutely terrible, and sounded worse when she spoke. He recognized that look, that feel. She was drained. Empty. He flickered an accusing glare over at Shadowheart, who didn’t seem to notice.

“Then it was so easy not to.” Alice patted the gith child’s head with a limp hand. “Ommelum told me that you’d brought him the egg in the first place, so as his previous caretaker—”

“His—what!?” an intense cold washed over Astarion. Not a cold like chilled water or wind, but something aching, something familiar. It was the feeling he’d had when they went into the Shadowfell, and as his eyes found the gith child again, he realized that they looked about five years old. It definitely could not be a coincidence. just shy of six years  ago, he’d found the forsaken egg.

Lae’zel had insisted it would never hatch. She’d had it with her when they went into the Shadowfell, and seemed to have concluded that this incident of interplanar travel was too much for it. She’d forgotten about it, but Astarion remembered, and delivered it to the Society of Brilliance himself.

“That’s Egg?! They actually managed to hatch a child from that?”

“Oh good, you remember,” Alice sighed, more of her weight crushing the wide-eyed child beneath her.

Of course he remembered, and now that she said something, he even remembered vaguely thinking that it was still warm to the touch as he closed his coat around it to take it from the Elfsong Tavern where he’d found it all the way to the Society of Brilliance. So, in a way, he had been the last person to handle it in their group but— “Caretaker?!” —you couldn’t go that far, could you?

“I’ve been keeping him here a few days. He’s been fairly unobtrusive, all things considered,” Alice confessed, voice still monotone and weak, like she thought she needed to get it all out before death took her.

Days? How could he have not noticed? He was sensitive to heartbeats and his hearing was excellent—the child was rather small, but he should have noticed something. As he looked around the ballroom at the others, he noted with mounting rage that absolutely no one else seemed shocked by this information. Isolde in particular, wore a slight blush, but showed no emotion besides. “Did you all, just know?!”

“Yes,” Leon answered reflexively.

“You’ve been alive less than half a day!” Astarion whirled around to get a look at his subtly smirking human face.

“Astarion.”

It was like someone had tugged at the hair on the back of his head. Her voice slithered into his ear, suggestive and cold and dripping with that pull towards nothingness. He immediately forgot all anger towards his rebellious household and instead snapped his attention over to Shadowheart.

“Shadowheart, old girl,” he replied to her without hardly parting his teeth.

If she was using that voice on him, allowing her gifts to enhance it, this must be serious, “Let me take the child. I’ll see to it he’s well cared for.”

The Chosen of Shar looked utterly still, and calm, aside from that grip on her parasol, and a slight manic glint in her eye.

Astarion took a moment.

It was clear that there was more going on here than he understood, but he could safely guess that Shadowheart’s investment in the child probably had something to do with her goddess’ agenda, rather than whatever latent desires to be a mother Shar hadn’t taken away from her yet. Looking at the child again, nothing stood out to him about the little creature besides that he looked quite scared and about as confused as Astarion felt.

“I sent a message out to your friend, Lae’zel,” Alice leaned into view, shifting her body so that Astarion was looking more at her than the child in her embrace, “no idea how she heard about any of it.” That Alice could infuse her words with any indication of any emotion at all was impressive, but the way she accused Shadowheart with a cock of her chin betrayed the deepest suspicions.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shadowheart said and Astarion didn’t want to listen to her. Not when her voice was so thick with Shar’s oppressive mantle. “Lae’zel is in no position to care for a child. She’ll probably just throw him to the first batch of hatchlings his own age, and he’ll be eaten alive.”

Probably true, Astarion had to acknowledge—but, no, was it? Was Shar working him, even now? Lae’zel was much more critical of her people and their ways than she had been, and certainly moreso than any other githyanki. Wasn’t she spending more time with the githzerai these days anyway?

But, regardless, why should he care? He cut Shadowheart with what he hoped was a sharp glance. She was trying to appeal to his sense of what would be best for the child. A child he hadn’t even known existed until moments ago. 

“You know it’s true.” Far from being cut, Shadowheart caught his eye and held it, unblinking.

“He has a certain amount of catching up to do,” Lae’zel finally spoke, her voice a low gravelly warning, “I will certainly not abandon him to the kind of upbringing I knew, when he is not ready for it. He will have my full attention and tutelage. He should know his people.”

That was a good point, he had to admit. Again, only in the scenario that he actually was in a position to make any kind of decision about the child. Just because he’d been harbored at the palace didn’t make him Astarion’s ward or something, did it? “Well, what does Egg have to say about it?” he finally demanded.

He’d hoped that this would simply redirect the energy away from him for a moment so that he could have a little think about what he should do, and how involved he already was, and whether or not he really had to be—but at this simple (arguably very reasonable) question, half the room began to shout at once.

“—Why can’t I stay here?—” Egg was at least the one person who technically had the floor, so Astarion didn’t begrudge him trying to speak up.

“—He still doesn’t even understand that he’s not going to be abandoned again—” Alice tried to speak for him, but could barely be heard over Lae’zel and Shadowheart.

“—His name will not be Egg!” Lae’zel declared, pointlessly.

“—powers beyond human will are at work, we can’t simply ignore that.”

So, he was right then. Shar did have some investment in the child.

Gods. He hoped it didn’t have anything to do with the egg coming with them into the Shadowfell.

Oh dear. That was definitely why, and he didn’t want to think on the implications.

The gith child appeared healthy, if a little neglected. His clothing had probably fit him properly about six months ago, which translated to far too many inches in barely-more-than-an-infant years. Shadowheart should definitely not be allowed to just wisk the child away, but he wasn’t sure Lae’zel should either. At least, not until he knew more about what the creature was doing in his house in the first place. Why hadn’t the Society of Brilliance been able to hang onto him?

“Huh,” Astarion drew out an unneeded breath to waste a few more seconds in contemplation. “Seems Egg is content to stay put, and I don’t have a problem with that, for the moment. He’s quiet and unobtrusive, apparently. What was that about powers beyond human will, Shadowheart? Do you mean to tell me that Lady Shar has an interest in a young githyanki child?”

Shadowheart’s measured answer was likely more revealing than she intended, “I am saying that it isn’t for any of us to decide his fate, when the gods themselves are involved.” 

That was a ‘yes’ then.

“Thayans are also involved,” Lae’zel revealed, and Astarion didn’t even have a moment to be properly unsettled by that before she added, “You may not want to keep him here, if it means they’ll come looking for him.”

It was time for Shadowheart to stand down. “She’s making better points than you.”

From the hard look Shadowheart tried not to give him, he could tell he’d struck a nerve. “You can’t honestly think that githyanki care about the well-being of children? They barely raise them in the first place. It’s just a clutch of eggs, then a gaggle of toddlers who kill each other off until a few lucky ones mature to something like adulthood and run off to die for glory in their never-ending wars.”

As Shadowheart spoke, Astarion could only watch Lae’zel, her rage burning hotter with each word, “better he struggle and learn to value his own life in the preservation of it, then be compelled to forget and give up on everything in his head and his heart, for the benefit of a greedy, pernicious goddess, who’s only pursuit is her own self aggrandizement at the expense of everything else in all the planes.”

Now, he had to watch Shadowheart react to these words.

For what felt like too long, she didn’t.

Then, all at once, she snapped.

“Grovel,” Shadowheart commanded.

Astarion felt the spell pass over him, failing to bring him to his knees, but around him, everyone besides Lae’zel flinched and fell to the floor. He fell with them, feigning a direct hit. Leon, Aurelia, Isolde, Scratch, Alice, and Egg all lowered to the ground until their faces met the surface.

In spite of the fact that she hadn’t managed to subdue Lae’zel, Shadowheart made a bee-line for the gith child, clearly intending to just grab him and run.

Astarion pounced, one hand immediately finding purchase at the top of her throat, gripping her on either side of her jaw, while the other ripped the channeling rod away, snapping it in two with a satisfying crunch.

Astarion’s grip at Shadowheart’s jaw was bruising, but he wasn’t closing off her airway or her blood supply, just yet, instead, he had her at the bones. He dragged her away from the boy, away from the people she’d just attacked, hitting the wall of the ballroom, and on instinct he kept walking, kept dragging her, even as her weight dangled off his fingers.

When he’d pulled her acolyte up to the ceiling the other day, the room had been smaller, the ceiling closer to the floor, and he’d dropped her immediately, never intending to try and keep her suspended up there. His muscles strained, and he realized his grip probably wasn’t secure enough to keep this up for long, but sheer determination kept him from dropping her as they reached the ceiling.

His force of will crashed against Shadowheart’s, as she somehow managed to utter the verbal component, “Ira et Dolor!”

The burning fire of radiant, swirling figures should have been too much for him. He ought to have lost his concentration and dropped Shadowheart and even fallen himself from the ceiling, but the intense, blinding pain only seemed to solidify his shaking grip. He felt the silver-gold flame ignited in his own undead body tear through the fabric of his waistcoat, his shirt, striping the flesh of his chest with burns. He couldn’t let her stay conscious. She’d burn him to death in a minute, assuming he didn’t drop both of them. He shifted her weight against his hand, cutting off the blood to her brain and stifling her breath. It would only take seconds for her to pass out, but during those seconds, the radiant beings encircling them would continue to pummel him. It was a test of endurance for both of them, and he was determined not to come out the loser.

Just as it seemed that Shadowheart was at the point of going entirely limp, a shout from below preceded a crash of hard, angry silver against the broad side of his body, knocking him from his perch, so they both fell.

The radiant guardians vanished, and the burning stopped. Astarion landed in a crouch on the ground, next to stiff bang of Lae’zel silver sword, as it hit the ground beside him. Shadowheart, Lae’zel had caught in her arms.

The githyanki woman cradled her, gently, searching her face. Her jaw was tight. Her gaze found Astarion. She didn’t condemn him, but she didn’t thank him either. Slowly, she rose up, Shadowheart’s weight draped across her arms like it was nothing more than the garments she wore. “I’ll take her back to her cloister. Then, I’m coming for…” Lae’zel looked over her shoulder at the child, “we are not calling him Egg.”

“Don’t take her anywhere,” Astarion recommended. “We’ll lock her up here until we can get to the bottom of this.” He wasn’t sure why he offered it. The confrontation with Shadowheart rattled him. They’d always been rather friendly. And she’d struck first. Then again, of course she had. It was for Shar. And he never would have been stupid enough to attack her unprovoked. He still couldn’t believe she’d done that. If she was willing to use her powers against them, why not come back with a small army of acolytes?

As if reading his mind, Lae’zel shook her head. “Her people will come looking for her if she doesn’t return. If we can avoid a war with Sharrans…” she trailed off, voice heavy. He’d never heard Lae’zel sound so reluctant to enter a fight before. 

“We?”

“You’re the one who attacked her,” Lae’zel pointed out.

“And you’re the one who hesitated,” Astarion countered.

Lae’zel’s grip around Shadowheart’s body tightened visibly and she looked down at her face, upturned, and deceptively serene again. “Yes.”

He still wanted to argue the point. Sending Shadowheart back to her enclave to gather reinforcements seemed stupid—but Lae’zel had spent the last five years supposedly learning the finer points of diplomacy between some of the most stubborn and proud races in all the planes, so perhaps he ought to leave her to, hopefully, do what she did best. If she could stay with Shadowheart until she awoke, and speak with her, maybe she would listen.

But would Shar?

As Astarion watched her carrying Shadowheart out of the ballroom, whistling to call Scratch after them, he rose up—the radiant burns he suffered keened, angered by his insolence at daring to move before he could heal.

Isolde was in front of him in an instant, fully recovered from Shadowheart’s spell, eyes glassy, breath short. She stopped short of putting her hands on him, her dark eyes searching the angry red marks he could feel on his face, and his hands. He looked down and found charred bits of fabric fused to his flesh across his chest.

“Where do you keep your potions?” Isolde asked in a voice that was much more composed than her trembling lips and wet eyes.

He was about to say that Alice knew where they were, but past her, he saw Alice lying on the ground, breathing, but clearly not awake, the gith child was still holding onto her, looking rather helplessly around the room at the strangers. 

“My study has a small stash in that ugly bronze credenza. Get one for Alice too.” Astarion asked.

Obediently, Isolde was gone before he could say anything else.

Leon and Aurelia had stayed on the floor where Shadowheart put them as well, but were at least sitting up, shaking themselves a little. Aurelia’s tail whipped anxiously behind her as she watched the gith child inch closer and closer to tears.

“She’ll be alright,” Aurelia tried to assure him.

Astarion approached the child to get a better look. He moved slowly, both to avoid exacerbating his burns and in areas not to start the child shouting or crying.

“I didn’t do it,” said the child in a strangely pleading voice, his little hands in fists. “I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”

“We all saw what happened,” Astarion regarded the child, halting his approach. “It was that ridiculous half-elf.”

“Everyone always thinks it’s me,” his wet eyes stared down at Alice.

“Oh dear,” Astarion sighed, the only real option he had forming itself into a plan. At least this felt like a problem that he could understand, a little. At least it was just gith and Sharrans, and maybe Thayans, apparently? Not devils. Not vampires. Still, it was a distraction he probably couldn’t afford.

Isolde returned with the potion and once the burns on his flesh stopped throbbing, it was a little easier to think.

Once Alice was awake, he was determined. “Right. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Isolde was the one who asked, but they all had the question in their faces.

“Just a short flight to the Society of Brilliance and back,” Astarion explained, “then I’ll tell you everything I know about,” he waved a hand vaguely at the gith child, who was a little soothed now that Alice’s eyes were open again. “It’s clear I don’t have the whole story, and I think I should.” He focused on his bat form, but didn’t feel the change.

Perhaps the potion hadn’t worked quite right? Was he still recovering? But that errant thought didn’t hold him—he’d managed to transform while injured before.

All at once, it felt like a clawed hand gripped the center of his chest, and squeezed. A horrible tightened began at his core, spreading out through all his veins like the branches of a tree of a trunk that was about to crack and split open. Tingling pain rushed through him, so spread out and so intense in some places that he couldn’t immediately focus on where it was the worst.

He must have cried out, he must have doubled over himself. Why else were the others screaming his name? Asking him what was wrong? What was happening.

What was worse? The tips of his fingers, where each nail was bursting, growing into thick, heavy, tapered claws? The base of his spine where he felt a sickening shift, the bones popping and changing position as they stretched? His skin everywhere churned like he was on fire again, but in particular down his spine and then concentrated at the center of his back?

No. It was the head. His head was in agony. He felt two points just above his temples prickle, then split as something shot out. He would have cried out, but the pain made him clench his jaw shut so tight that he started to feel his teeth crack—and his teeth were changing too.

It was like his animal transformations, but slow and heavy, and drawn out, and somehow it was like all of them at once where trying to take control of his body.

Then, he felt the unmistakable sensation of wings bursting forth at the usually blunted sides of each shoulder blade. A tail whipped out behind his back, and the horns on his head weighed him down. His clothing was shredded around him. He looked at his hands, drew his wings and his tail around his body to see, and felt the tips of his pointed horns.

“Oh, gods, Astarion!” Aurelia managed to exclaim her shock first.

Alice had moved several feet back and was covering the gith child’s eyes.

Leon appeared too stunned to speak.

Isolde had stayed close, trying to keep a hold of him, but he must have pulled free of her, given how she was partly fallen besides him, looking up at him  with her mouth parted and her eyes disbelieving, the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of her head giving away her moment stranded in denial.

Astarion let out a breath and tried to forget the pain, tried to push away the moment of fear. He gathered what little dignity he could, cracked his neck and said. “Well. It seems Mephistopheles’ gift has been revealed.”

A devil form.

Could be a gift. Except.

Astarion focused on his animal forms, one by one, but felt the loss of them, a sense of disconnect plummeting into his soul. He could almost hear the laughter of the archdevil in the back of his mind.

It would almost be a gift, if he hadn’t lost the others. 

And, if he could manage to change back.

[crypt-tids]

I had a big weekend, so I'm still recovering from that. Part of that is just letting my brain return to normal because I had a couple very overstimulating days having to deal with people I didn't want to deal with at an event I didn't want to be at. My boyfriend had off Monday and Tuesday so I stayed with him afterwards. He goes to class on Monday and I go bowling (which I have to wear my loops for otherwise I will get very anxious and stressed because it is very loud).

Because of that, I guess I was still teetering on the edge and woke up a bit depressed. My mood would shift here and there through the day but still maintaining a not so great feeling.

We played video games all day, alternating between levels and handing off the controller when we got too mad at a level to play it anymore. We were playing astro bot, and there is one bonus level that basically broke us. I couldn't do it, I got pissed, he couldn't do it, he got pissed. We took a break, played some other levels, and then he went back to it. And got stuck in a determination rage loop trying to beat it for probably an hour and a half. He got so focused I eventually got up and started doing some chores I needed to do before going home. When I went back in, he'd made no progress but had gotten far more frustrated. Eventually, he gave up, turned off the game, checked the time (it was late) which made him more irritated because he felt bad wasting the rest of our time together trying to beat that level. I didn't care all that much, but there were a few times I had considered taking the controller away and making him leave it because he was getting so heated about it that he definitely wasn't going to beat it that angry. But I let him roll with it.

Well, sometimes when he feels like he has neglected me, he tries to make it up to me. Which is normally fine, however his energy was still elevated, but his face wasnt matching his energy which started stressing me out. (I start to panic if I can't read his emotions properly, or the signals feel mixed). I had to look away to calm down because I didn't want to worry him (it didn't work 😮‍💨)

He was kissing me, which is fine, but my lip piercing had felt weird all day, like my lip was a little swollen or something, so I was annoyed about that, and my sinuses are messed up from being outside for 2 days straight at the season change, so I was feeling suffocated a little as well even though I was breathing. The combination of all of that, and him touching me just pushed me over the edge and I started panicking and had to stop him because I was trying not to cry (I cried anyways, I had a full breakdown).

Ofc, he is freaking out asking me what is wrong a million times and I can't answer him because I don't know what's wrong. I don't know why I'm having a breakdown, I've never had one in this particular situation before.

I reassure him that he didn't do anything, which he doesn't believe and feels like it was his fault. He hadn't been in a relationship before me for 5 years, and his last relationships were with cheaters/emotional abusers. He has absolutely no confidence and anytime I get upset or cry about something, he is afraid that he somehow caused it and that I don't love him anymore, so he always has to ask if I do (which breaks my heart every time).

I finally get him to believe that he didn't do anything wrong, but I feel like the worst human on the planet because I had no control over it, I tried to stop it, and it didn't work and it made him feel bad, and he already has hardly an ounce of self-confidence to begin with.

I have never been in this particular situation before, and the best I can figure is that I was just already battling overstimulation, which the game amplified a little maybe, and I just couldn't take it. I fucking hate it, and I hate that I can't properly explain what is happening because I don't know why it is happening or what exactly is pushing me over the edge at any point in time because there are times when I will feel completely fine or at least very manageable right before I breakdown. I just don't really know what to do exactly to assure him that my breakdowns are usually just because my brain doesn't work and not because of something he did. I feel like I ruined the rest of our night because of it. He isn't bothered, he just wants me to feel better and to help, which he really wants to do, it's just that I often don't know what to ask for to help because I don't know what will really make it better aside from just hugging him and crying it out.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 13: Reading Together - James Norrington/OC [839 words]

* this prompt comes from an alternative list I found, and isn't for one of the official Flufftober prompts.

This one is very short, but I love it all the same.

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here, and my behemoth of a main fic about these two is here 💜✨

One thing that amused Theodora, upon returning to Port Royal with her shiny new husband, was how little things had changed. Okay, everything had changed, short of Beckett painting the town the colours of the Union Jack and erecting statues of himself all over Port Royal, it could hardly change more. Said statues would likely not be to scale.

But there were glimpses of the routine they’d fallen into when they’d last lived here with one another…just less bullshit in the way. They were themselves as they had wished to be, all that time ago. As much as they could be, circumstances considered. For instance, they still read together in the evenings – when time and energy permitted. But now they did so on the same sofa, with her legs strewn across his lap, his free hand nestled beneath her skirts so that his fingers could trace lazy circles up and down the inside of her calve. Either of which would have been enough to induce heart attacks for the both of them back then, wound tight as they’d been where the other was concerned.

Although she could hardly pretend it didn’t induce a few flutters now.

Furthermore, now she could annoy him much more than she’d been able to back then without just being downright rude. That was pretty nice, too. Which was precisely why she was setting out to do it now – although it wouldn’t do if he caught on too quickly.

“Can you tell me what this word means?” she asked.

It wasn’t even immediately clear that she was playing daft – for she’d arrived in the past just early enough for lots of words, and the spellings of those words, to be unrecognisable to the modern eye. Leaning forward, he peered at the word directly above her thumb nail. To his credit, his eyes did flicker towards her suspiciously, but it scarcely lasted a second – maybe fearing she was being genuine and without any wish to mock her in that case.

“Providence.”

“Oh. It’s spelled differently back home. My mistake.”

He nodded as if to say no matter and she settled back down, his fingertips resumed their thoughtless circles as he returned to his own book. She counted to twenty before she spoke again.

“What about this one?”

This time she was given no such benefit of the doubt.

“…Continual. As in, you are a continual menace.”

“James Norrington!”

“That word is but two words after the last one – it did not take you a half a minute to get through those two words alone.”

“They’re very tricky words!”

“'Is the'?”

“Is the what?”

“Theodora.”

She grinned, returning her eyes to the page. This time she counted to thirty – a feat of self-mastery, indeed.

“And this one?”

He rolled his eyes, and read the rest of the sentence in its entirey, likely thinking he was saving himself from a few minutes of harassment by doing so. Which was very cute of him.

“'And Exact Guide of her Executive Power.'”

Theo beamed.

“Oh, that was good! Well done! While you’re here, you may as well read the rest of the paragraph. The page, even. Go mad! Wow me.”

“Theodora,” the bite was taken from the groan by the way he was visibly fighting a smile.

“James.”

“I’m not reading this book to you.”

Theo groaned as if wounded.

“But you have that voice! It’s not fair to keep it all to yourself.”

“I don’t, I use it to shout at very incompetent men every day,” he countered drily.

“But never me. I feel neglected,” she complained in return.

“Because I don’t shout at you?” he stared at her in exasperated disbelief.

Theo chose not to answer, artfully deflecting instead.

“There’s a whole paragraph in Latin coming up, I bet you’d sound lovely speaking Latin!”

“According to you, I sound lovely speaking any language.”

“So I’ll settle for just the English bits, then.”

“Sola lingua bona est lingua mortua.”

Theo had no idea what he was saying then, but she was fairly certain that he was either insulting her, or just showing off. Either way, it didn't change her response.

“I love you, too.”

In response to her profession, something in his face softened - only a little - in such a way that almost had her feeling guilty for weaponising it. But she so enjoyed finally being able to say it. For it to no longer be a secret, nor a problem. She grinned as he plucked the book from her hand with a beleaguered sigh and began to read aloud to her. The way his hand began to creep upwards from her calve was just an added bonus.

Notes: James says to Theo - the only good language is a dead language. So he was showing off. And we love him for it.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[ectoplasmic-entity]

I think there’s potential chemistry between Dan and Fright Knight.

Remember this post?

We don’t know much about how they know each other or how they met. The most we get in TUE is Fright referring to Dan as “master”. In spite of the little info we get, I can reference to Fright giving his services to the most powerful ghost in the Ghost Zone. Previously it was Pariah Dark, but in the alternate timeline it’s Dan since Pariah at that point is still sealed in the Sarcophagus.

So that leaves how did they meet? And why does Fright Knight specifically only work with ghosts who have the most power?

They probably didn’t meet right away. Fright would’ve been sealed away in the crumbling ruins of Pariah’s Keep.

Considering just how powerful Dan is, chances are Fright probably sensed that power even from such a considerable distance. Even if not physically present, he still probably felt that immense power reverberating through the Zone.

Immense, overwhelming, hungry. It seeps deep into Fright, an addicting, acidic taste. He relished in it.

More under the cut because I spent far longer than I should have writing this _(-ω-`_)

As curious as he may be, he doesn’t know who or what this power is. Unless his sword is removed and he’s freed from his prison, all Fright can do is sit and bide his time. He does however, have a continuous feed of the power surges.

Dan probably didn’t consider Fright Knight at first. Maybe nearly forgot that the ghostly knight was sealed away. He doesn’t need another obstacle in his way. Oh, it’d be fun for sure, but Dan does tire quickly of the same enemies over and over again.

The frequency of his attacks has slowed down. Dan’s becoming aimless and restless. Both humans and ghosts fear him. He can’t possibly gain any more than that.

Dan is bored.

Admittedly, he occasionally wonders about having someone just��not fight him for a change. Or at least not try to destroy him on a daily basis, Dan didn’t want himself going slack.

The thought does eat at him. Who’d want someone like him? Not likely very many, Dan would bet.

He tried to ignore it but he couldn’t help feel a small pang of…loneliness. Dan had grown pretty used to it. It still didn’t erase the fact that he felt it.

It wasn’t like he needed someone. Just…someone to be there. 

Dan shook it off. He was going to drive himself insane going around in circles. He didn’t need anything, to be held back. Dan was very much capable on his own.

Since Dan was getting tired of the same faces showing up over and over again, even when he beat them and made sure they knew it. He goes out to seek out potential new opponents who could actually keep Dan on his toes.

There’s no one in specific. He wanders far and wide across the Ghost Zone. Ghosts of all kinds veer away from Dan, fearing retaliation if they came across him. Deeper and deeper in the never-ending depths. Ghostly doors and isles so lonely that they may as well be calling out.

Ancient, ruined rocky ruins of ghost lairs long past. Hardly interesting, but Dan does feel a pull. Something in his gut that says keep going. The haunting lull of an old isle he was aware of, though very few ghosts ever visited it. Not really a “call” per say, Dan just had that deep gut feeling that he’d find something waiting for him there.

Battle scarred and scorched rocks and ruins greet him. The remnants of a massive fortress sit atop a huge chunk of rock. Just barely large enough to hold it all up. An ominous sensation came over Dan as he approached it, he barely even blinks at it.

Dan gets excited, though he doesn’t understand why.

Past the blown apart gates and into the halls of Pariah’s Keep. It is undeniably empty, barely any amounts of ecto energy flowed through here. The creaks and groans of the old foundations spelled danger. Dan supposed he should be quick about it lest he gets interrupted by something inane.

The tall, foreboding walls loom over him as he approached the main room. Dan can feel the impressions of a time long past. An elaborate and ghostly throne room in disarray. Cracks, debris, craters and scorch marks told Dan all he needed to know.

Barely minding attention to the large sarcophagus that rested at the top of a winding stairway, an eerie purple aura lured Dan away. It was barely noticeable and a faint hum emitted from it. It seemed familiar, the way it reached out to him.

Far off to the side in the shadows. Innocuous and so close by yet out of sight, easily missed.

The purple aura unveiled itself in the form of an eerie Jack-o-Lantern. Its wide, demented expression stared right through Dan. A wariness came over him in the form of a tingle down his body, which Dan was admittedly impressed by.

Curiously, a large, sharp green sword is impaled through the fruit. Dan could barely stand looking at it. The blade seemed to sing out to him, whispered of secrets and fears untold. The metal rang dangerously in Dan’s ears.

Curious indeed as to why the blade was struck through the pumpkin.

What if Dan removed the sword?

After all the world had tried to throw at him, there couldn’t possibly be something any worse than that. Dan…wasn’t that young anymore, his very being was hardened and refined to a point it seemed inhuman.

Hands loosely held the hilt at first, then reflexively tighten. With very little effort, the sword is pulled free. A wave of ominous, overwhelming spectral energy surged out. Dan skidded back a bit, his boots dug into the ground. He retained balance and fought against the unnatural gust of wind.

As soon as it started up, it suddenly fettered out. Only a faint whoosh indicated it ever even happened. The sword felt heavy in his hands, his strength wavered ever so slightly. It seemed as though the blade didn’t want him holding it.

Too true when Dan sensed a presence behind him. He swiftly swung the sword and with a loud clang, he skidded back in the other direction. The sword vibrated in intensity in his hands.

Dan marvels at the sight before him.

True to the name, the dark and fiery visage of Fright Knight stood over Dan. If only because the sword was getting heavier the longer Dan held it. The two green voids that were Fright’s eyes glared down at him.

“The sword, give it to me.” Fright beckoned with a hand.

Dan shot a fanged grin at his newest, potential adversary.

“You want it so bad? Come and get it!”

They’d fight, play a game of cat and mouse. They barely noticed they were equal on the power scale. Hardly distracted by the commotion they stirred up around themselves, too focused on each other.

Even though Dan isn’t all that experienced with swords, he does notice that Fright Knight went out of his way to avoid touching the blade itself. Twisting, parrying, maneuvering. Yet so persistent on getting it back.

Dan gets an idea. He was known for many things, if it had to be just one, it was that he was mischievous. Not just mischievous, a specific, malignant brand of mischief.

I headcanon that ghosts have ecto energy ‘flares’, or a ghostly ‘aura’. It’s mostly passive, but flares out with strong emotions. To display dominance for example, to show that they’re strong and not to be messed with.

Dan most definitely uses this to his advantage. He is a domineering ghost, depending on the context.

He flares his powerful aura at one point, invisible and heavyset to anyone in the closest vicinity to it. Loose objects clattered around him, a breeze blew through Dan’s cape. His eyes became a deeper, glowing red.

Fright Knight felt it. He stalled, amazed at the burst of energy. Lively and addicting, perhaps inviting. He very clearly underestimated this ghost, he had not relished in such an energy surge since Pariah Dark’s brief reawakening long ago.

Unfortunately, Fright stalled long enough for his opponent to get the upper hand on him. Fright is momentarily startled by a blade that impaled itself into the wall, right next to his head. He craned his head to meet the deep, eerie red eyes of his adversary.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” Dan asked him with a smug grin.

Fright remained silent, deep in thought.

Now that the situation was quiet for the moment, Dan decided to study the ghostly knight. He was still undecided whether to continue treating him as a foe, or branch out to him as a potential ally. Though unrelated, Dan did see that Fright Knight was a similar physique to him. The knight’s mysterious features hidden within a helmet. Dan was intrigued, and he wanted to know more.

“Not bad at all,” Dan said, gesturing at Fright. “Looks like you were holding back though.”

He slowly pulled the sword away, the wall crumbled with age and damage. Scarred and never forgetful.

“What would happen if I were to drive the sword through you?” Dan’s grin upturns into a malicious smile. “Want to test it out?”

Rather than verbally respond, Fright gestures one hand.

The sword violently shook in Dan’s grip. It glowed faintly before it ripped itself out of his hand and back to its rightful place. At Fright Knight’s side.

Dan didn’t react. Instead, he was more interested than he was before. Oh, he was a bit irked that he lost the sword so easily. But it could be forgiven, if Fright gave him a good enough reason.

“We needn’t joust,” Fright stated neutrally, his eyes warily fixated on the Phantom before him. “You’re powerful.”

“Oh, liked that little display, huh?” Dan cocked his head playfully. He wondered if there could be more gained out of this. “You’d better believe it, I make sure those who get in my way never forget it.”

“I only serve those who have shown their power and might.” Fright continued, pretending he didn’t notice the playful advances. “I strike fear into those who dare stand in my way.”

Fright paused.

“You too were holding back.”

“…I suppose I was.” Dan rolled his eyes.

“I propose a…partnership,” Fright Knight said slowly. “You have someone watch your back, make certain that your seat of power is not threatened.”

Dan leaned in closer, listening intently. “Go on…”

“And I rejuvenate myself with the energy you expel.” Fright Knight finished, he stood stiffly. His hand twitched on the hilt of his sword.

“Sounds like you want more than just a ‘partnership’.” Dan approached Fright, amusement shone in his eyes.

“I did not say that,” Fright said stoically.

They were face to face.

“Mm…we’ll see about that.” Dan stepped away, his gaze never left. “Though I think this will be quite entertaining.”

He held a hand out, a branch of sorts.

Fright stared for several seconds before he too reached out. His and Dan’s hands firmly clasped around each other’s forearms. Sealing a pact, so to speak.

“Your name. I do not know what to call you,” Fright stated, his grip tightened.

Dan was quiet for a moment before he bared his fangs, his ghostly aura flared ever so gently. “Phantom.”

I’ll probably write a more coherent version of their meeting later. But, the big question at hand. Why does Fright Knight only work with powerful ghosts? My guess is because of what type of ghost he is.

You notice that he has very minimal features? His body seems to be a pure black, the most he wears is his armor, the rest uncovered. Probably because he doesn’t need to cover up fully. Another ghost I can think of that does something similar is Spectra.

What if Fright Knight is the same type of ghost as Spectra? A “parasitic” type of spirit that leeches off the emotions, energy, or a mix of both, from others. 

Spectra leeches off the depression and negative emotions of human children.

Fright Knight leeches off the fear he strikes into others, and perhaps the immense power of ghosts that are equal in strength, or far stronger than he is. To give him a boost when he needs it. Or would it be to maintain a solid form?

Fright and Dan’s “partnership” probably started off just like that, a business-like deal that benefits them both. Fright strikes fear wherever he goes, Dan made sure those who opposed them stayed down. That’s all it was really.

Dan didn’t find it very fun.

He was far too interested in knowing who and what Fright Knight was to just keep it business-like.

Fright was too stoic for Dan’s liking. While Dan had absolutely no qualms about entertaining both guys and ladies, it seemed like he had his work cut out for him. Fright was an interesting kind of guy, not too many like him around. Dan wanted Fright to stick around.

Dan knew there had to be more of Fright from under the hood. He’d bring it out, one way or another. Fortunately, wherever he went, Fright was usually close behind.

As for Fright Knight, he actually didn’t know what to think of Phantom at first. Powerful and volatile. Temperamental and yet eerily calm. It seemed as though as piece was missing. Whatever that was, it wasn’t Fright’s business. He was perfectly content as is. If only he could ignore Dan’s more playful persona. It wasn’t constant, but enough so that Fright did take notice.

Fright felt he should be annoyed by such behavior. For reasons indiscernible to him, he allowed it. In small doses. He supposed it was amusing, and so long as it didn’t interrupt their little deal.

It’s like a game of cat and mouse, though subtler. They both had thoughts about each other. Neither came forward, or said them out loud. It was more satisfying that way in trying to figure each other out.

What was more notable was that they respected each other’s power. They rarely depended on each other past watching the other’s back. It was oddly an inkling sense of trust, no matter how surface level and frail it was.

They’d have short conversations on occasion, when it was quiet. They didn’t say too much to each other, but they’d let bits and pieces of information slip out. Intentional or not was left up to interpretation.

Fright Knight, as Dan learned, was completely and utterly ruthless. Literally none could escape the terror that was the Soul Shredder. As for what happened to people and ghosts when the sword touched them, Dan could only imagine. A well-earned reputation as the feared ghost of Halloween.

And…Fright was strangely courtly. Of course, he would be, he’s the ghostly equivalent of a medieval knight. Cordial in a gruff manner. Fright was a warrior first and foremost.

It reminded Dan of himself a little, he was certain he had a chance. He just had to nudge it somehow. Fright clearly did notice how Dan would occasionally act playful, despite pretending not to. What if he pushed at Fright a little? Get him to react?

The reactions could be case by case. Dan was sure it would be worth it to see such a strong and stoic guy get his “feathers” ruffled. Dan could already imagine it; Fright Knight’s eyes were rather expressive.

Fright would most definitely be aware of Dan’s…affections? He refused to entertain the idea of flirting…courting with someone outside of his station. It wasn’t seemly for him. Admittedly, he was amused by it, but didn’t reciprocate them.

It did seem like Phantom was lonely. Fright understood that in a way. He was somewhat taken with Phantom’s advances, no matter how much or little attention he paid. Fright would remain at the forefront, no matter how much the thought of a powerful partner at his side niggled at the back of his mind.

He didn’t mind having Dan close by, that’s all there was to it. Surely…

[house-of-mirrors]

23. What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

24. What is an alternative life path your OC might have gone down? How different would their life be if they'd made those decisions?

for Samuel

Today is Samuel's birthday and I just noticed I had forgotten this in my inbox!

23. I think sadness would be the hardest to process for Samuel. He was a child when London fell and has gone through so much loss in his life that it becomes numb. When bad things happen, he keeps his head low and accepts it as fact, never realizing he's allowed to react or be upset. It's unwise to dwell on things. When he's happy he makes things, when he's angry he fights things, when he's sad he just... freezes.

He hardly shows any outward display of emotion, but the hardest to express would be fear. He wants-- no, needs to be seen as strong and fearless for the benefit of those who look up to him and those who know him from the stories. It takes a lot to frighten him, but the first time he comes close to the East again after retirement, he's afraid. He does not show it in any traditional way, no tremors, no sounds. But those who know him well can notice the change in energy and pull him out of it.

24. Two things come to mind. First, Samuel almost went East in his prime zailing days, and if he'd done that, well... he wouldn't be here. He would never have learned what it's like to love a (found) family, would never have been able to mentor the kids. They'd be much worse off without him, and when he feels the pull of the East now, he thinks of them and how he has to stay for them.

Second thing: I contemplated doing HD with him and choosing the time ending, since he fears death. Would be weird if he did that. He loves London but also doesn't want to be stuck in debt to the Masters. And... Samuel is a DILF it's just wrong to imagine him looking like a young man with the peach brandy negating aging. And if he did that we would never have gotten world's funniest vake hunter

[valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn]

As you are a big and very knowledgeable Wanda fan, I hope you can answer this question. From where does she derive her power? In Multiverse of Madness (hardly a film I like to think of as canon for how it ignored its titular character and the trauma he must carry from his timeline search), her power seemed limitless. Plus, they made her the subject of a prophesy that said she was destined to rule or destroy the UNIVERSE. When TAO was training Stephen Strange, she told him that Sorcerers drew the power for their magic from multiple/alternate dimensions. Based on MoM, this apparently leaves them limited when compared to Wanda. The energy for the things she does has to be drawn from somewhere ... or is she so advanced that she creates her own?

This question has really been bothering me for a while. Frankly, mostly on Stephen's behalf (you know how much I love him). Thanks for any light you can shed on this topic!

My understanding is that Wanda was born with chaos magic, but her powers were locked away until she came in contact with the Mind Stone, and then the Darkhold just provided her with enough knowledge to make her pretty much invincible.

As the Scarlet Witch, she's capable of spontaneous creation, so she just creates her own. I don't think she's drawing power from some other place like the sorcerers do, she just has that power inside of her so she would be drawing it from within.

Her connection with Chton is only through the Darkhold although I think in the comics he's the one who gave her that chaos magic she was born with (I don't think that's the same in the MCU though).

Regarding the sorcerers, I know The Ancient One told Stephen they draw their magic from other dimensions, but Mordo also claims the sling ring allows them to travel the multiverse - that was retconned, I believe, so I don't know if the MCU has been clear on the power range. Especially when our Stephen also used the Darkhold, granted not as much as Wanda did but it sure amplified his powers as well. So where does he stand? Not sure. Chton was a demon but Stephen commanded the souls of the damned, so... 🤷‍♀️

MoM was super careless with Wanda's powers. They gave her these absolutely crazy godlike powers and she was capable of pretty much anything, but they only did that because they looked good on screen, they didn't care too much whether it made narrative sense.

[skylermadness]

The Rook (Heymans Breda TF/PMC)

(Original Date of Upload: June 10, 2024)

Original Description:

This was initially a commission for YGuy99 on FurAffinity, but spiraled into more of a collaboration. Furthermore, a downloaded PDF with proper formatting has been uploaded on his page. It can be accessed here. This has admittedly been a few months in the making! I admittedly know next to nothing about Fullmetal Alchemist but truthfully after writing this I am very much tempted to get into it. Although I will note that I mainly handled the writing of the initial draft, and a lot of the descriptive systems present in this story were fully handled by the commissioner. Honestly though I feel like he really improved the story in every way with everything he added! But I do thank him a ton for the initial commissioning, especially because this was a really fun story to do. Rated Mature for mild usages of mature descriptive systems and themes.

The sound of a door closing in a less-than-gentle manner resonates through the air of Wyatt’s bedroom, the young man the place belonged to having fully stepped in.  The slam reflects less of a “welcome home” and more of a “thank god that’s over,” whatever “that” is.  With a wistful sigh, he flicks the lightswitch, illuminating the space and allowing him a proper view of his bed.

Wyatt has been feeling many things since he got off work today.  Exhausted, frustrated, worn-out physically and mentally.  At a hyperbolic level, he relates it to coming back from war, a monthly war to pay rent on-time.  Even worse, this has now become the standard cycle of events and emotions that arises from a typical workday at this job, a job that can only be described, generously, as a motley mix of banal and draining. Running around in circles like a rat race every day has been debilitating his mental state, digging him further and further into the doldrums.

Wyatt continues to stare at his bed, zoning out like a zombie.  His instincts nudge him forward, but a lingering dread tethers him to his current spot.  Bedtime… a source of healing comfort, but also the gateway to fast-forwarding into the next predictably unpredictable day.  It doesn't feel particularly pleasant for the young man that his two modes nowadays flip between work and sleep, leaving hardly any time in-between for actual normal human stuff.  That very thought would make him shudder, but his weary physical state only allows him to shuffle slightly where he stands.  Not even enough energy to complain.

Still though.  How much longer must he beat his head on the wall and slog through his current job to simply make ends meet until the next round?  How much longer until the grueling loop of stress and exhaustion mounts up and becomes too much for him?  How much until everything combined finally makes him snap?  He knows it’ll only take one more bad interaction to cause a meltdown, to prompt him to quit, to get him fired.  To force him into the only thing worse than his current situation: another nerve-wracking round of unemployment.

As hard as Wyatt tries to count his blessings, he’s built up some unfortunate resentment, stemming from trying to force himself to constantly feel grateful for such a palled, monotonous existence, solely on the basis of the alternative being that much worse.  From counting blessings to counting days, hours, minutes… how much longer?  Isn’t he meant for more than this?

The mental bombardment of such answerless questions do not uplift Wyatt whatsoever.  It simply seals his fate.  This sense of resignation gently, forcefully guides him to limp towards his bed, like a set of invisible puppet strings.  He pulls out his phone during this mental spiral in order to set tomorrow morning’s alarm.  At least he's gotten used to doing things off of five to six hours of sleep alone.  That has to mean something, right?

After setting the alarm to 5:30 AM, his exhaustion takes over, seasoned with dread, and he properly collapses onto the bed, not even taking the trouble to remove his work uniform.  Doesn’t really matter if he’s just going straight back anyway, or so he convinces himself.

Naturally, he expects to feel nothing but the softness of his blankets and the inviting allure of the mattress to beckon him closer upon it.  However, whatever comfort he could cling to breaks in an instant.  Something small pokes into his torso, accompanied by the sound of some crinkling paper.

“Wha…?” Wyatt musters the strength to roll leftwards and onto his back, then properly sitting up to investigate.  His expression changes to one of confusion when he sees what it is.

He takes his left hand and picks up the object, finding it to be a simple chess piece.  It’s a white rook specifically, shaped like a castle tower, and as he holds it, the fine material surprises him even further.  It’s very cold, as if made of marble, and with a closer look, he deduces that may very well be the case.  It’s a very lovely piece, but a rather strange find for Wyatt nonetheless, seeing as he doesn’t really play chess.  Any set he’s owned has long since found its way into storage, so he can’t begin to speculate where this thing came from.  If someone’s lost it, then they surely miss it.

Not long after does he look back at the spot again and fully notice some kind of note that the chess piece had come with.  He picks that up as well, realizing that the note is made of some kind of elegant parchment paper, while the writing on it is etched in dark ink and has an equally-as-refined handwriting, as if scribed with a quill.  As he reads through it, he can’t help but notice a distinct air of sophistication, as if someone very important is speaking directly, personally to him.

“You are the rook.  A team player who wields both physical strength and tactical prowess.  The rook moves vertically and horizontally across the board, as far as it wants to.  You are a stalwart force in all capacities, and those who underestimate you on appearances come to regret it in the end.  This will make sense soon enough.”

“The heck does any of that mean?” asks Wyatt.  His gaze revolves between the note and the chess piece as he fully questions everything about this obtuse observation.  The rook and the parchment are obviously related, but how they got here is a complete mystery to him.  A part of him wonders if this is some weird work thing he accidentally took home, but he doubts he wouldn't have noticed a small sheet of paper, much less a whole chess piece, stuck to him during his drive home.  Furthermore, he usually locks his door, and the thought of someone just breaking in to give him this cryptic message feels a little absurd, yet still unsettles him nonetheless.  Stuff like this doesn't spontaneously manifest out of thin air!  Maybe he’d received this in the mail earlier, though he’s sure he’d remember as such.  Or, or maybe…

From there, Wyatt slides down a mental spiral, brainstorming a viable reason behind this.  While his eyes peruse the mysterious note, he also unconsciously rubs the chess piece with his thumb.  In his fixation, he fails to notice a pressure welling up within that hand.  Small at first, easy to ignore as his focus remains elsewhere, but increasing as seconds pass.

This strange pressure precursors the odd transformation starting to set in.  Each finger of his left hand, initially fairly average, is steadily getting thicker, the length of each finger also extending forward.  His knuckles crack and pop gently, his fingertips blunting and enlarging with the rest of his digits.  Whatever is happening to Wyatt’s fingers works its way into the rest of that hand, starting a process of swelling.  The mounting pressure makes that hand more firm, more meaty in comparison to its previous appearance.  Even the skin under his fingers and on his palm gains more prominence, padding up, becoming soft and tough.  After a short moment, Wyatt’s hand would look disproportionate, like it belongs more on someone much beefier than himself.

Though he’s stayed oblivious up to that point, the amalgamation of sensations within his hand has grown way too much for the beleaguered young man to ignore.  Another tinge of pressure finally breaks his daze, and he turns his head.

“Why is my hand so- wh- what the-”

Wyatt is pierced by shock.  He completely disregards the note and drops the rook as he takes a proper look, comparing both hands in a panicked fervor.  The left one has already become so much larger than the right one, meatier and stronger in appearance.  He cringes.  It looks so wrong.  Without hesitation, the pressure sensation migrates upwards and layers on and around the forearm, starting to blow it up.

Wyatt can only think of one thing to say: “What is happening to me!?”

He panics at the sight of his arm relentlessly growing with each passing second, condensing and contracting what he soon realizes to be his muscles.  Wyatt’s always been a lean-built person, rather slender, but judging by his arm, that will be changing fast.  His brow raises in confoundment as muscle mass quickly accumulates, thickening and bulging out from that limb as if forcing it through years of hard body work in seconds.  It’s not painful, but not comfortable, either, like a deep, deep massage.  The ridges that divide the muscles entrench themselves within his forearm, the clear musculature forming in his upper arm not long after.

The young man still adorns his work uniform, and as his upper arm swells, one of the short sleeves of his shirt strains against it, his bicep and tricep burning with raw strength and rapidly maturing with what feels like an instant series of workouts.  Then, his deltoid rounds out, further developing through this sudden increase in power.  Muscle doesn’t seem to be the only thing growing either; not long after, the ridges that divide his newly-defined muscles begin to fill up a bit.  A pudgy softness wraps around the raw strength, bits of fat circling his arm, giving it a smoothness that it wouldn’t possess if it had stayed purely muscular.

The sleeve that contains this arm is quick to fit to form, struggling to contain its widening diameter.  It doesn’t take long for Wyatt to pick up on this as a couple of rips pierce the air, a tear beginning to stretch on the shirt from above the bicep, slowly arcing around the sleeve.

“Uhhh-” Wyatt vocalizes, his mind trying to properly comprehend what’s going on.  Why is he buffing up!?  He can't help but shakily lift his currently unchanged right arm, curious, yet terrified at what’s now happening to his body.  Gently, he strokes the firm mix of muscle and fat his altered left arm has garnered.

Unfortunately, this triggers a similar pressure that emerges in the other hand, followed by that same sensation pouring forth from his left shoulder to his torso.  Helplessly absorbing these sudden feelings, he watches the fingers of his right hand pulsate, gradually bubbling as they too begin to thicken, becoming sausage-like.  The changes in this arm mostly mirror those in the other.  However, while his right sleeve fills out like the last, he is interrupted, rudely, by a queasy churning in his midsection.  Wyatt grimaces as his stomach gurgles ominously.  He feels sick.

“Oh no…”

Wyatt keels over, crunching onto his bed like someone’s dropped an anvil on him.  He rolls and writhes in discomfort, trying not to scream as yet another series of changes billows into his torso region.  In these excruciating moments, he doesn’t notice the fabric on the rest of his shirt tightening, starting to bulge around his entire upper body.

Wyatt’s body, for that matter, isn’t anything special.  To his credit, in spite of his inconsistent workout routine, he still maintains a good physique, lean and athletic.  His tall, toned frame of six-foot-one height and one-hundred and seventy-five pounds implies a healthy-enough lifestyle with plenty more room to grow.  That growth is happening right now.

As the pressure heats up in his torso, his chest pushes out, gaining definition and packing hard muscle and size onto his breast.  More and more, slowly but surely.

“Huff… huff…” Wyatt breathes heavily, almost panting as his newly hardened pec muscles squeeze up against his shirt, the developing cleavage cratering a canyon in the middle of the fabric.  This chiseled muscle quickly pads itself up, blimping beneath another soft layer of fat, adding some moob-ish qualities.  The two slabs of meat mound themselves larger, his nipples rounding out significantly, adjusting to the growth.  This all gives his chest a much cushier appearance than before.  He now carries much more power, the raw strength coursing around the tissue and fibers that call his chest home.

The bulk spills down from his boulder shoulders, and Wyatt can feel the back of his shirt rub up against his skin as the musculature behind him burgeons more each second.  He groans and lurches forward, gripping his bedsheets with vigor as the sensation of more power pulsates beneath the pressure, expanding his trapezius and broadening his back.  Such a mass increase between his back and front promptly causes the back of his shirt to start splitting open against his stronger dorsal build.  He squints his eyes and grits his teeth, feeling his bulking frame tear through his work top at the seams, exposing more sections of bare skin by the moment.

“Great… there goes my uniform…”

The constant, relentless heaviness invading the young man’s body wracks itself into his very skeletal structure.  An intrusive tugging sensation from both sides of his form causes his frame to widen fairly significantly.  Before he can fully notice this, another sharp pop surges in his spinal cord, quickly followed by a squeezing sensation.  Wyatt continues to grit his teeth, clenching his meaty mitts into tight fists as he rides the intense sensation compressing him downward.

Wyatt has always been a taller man; again, 6’1” in stature.  However, the intense buzzing and popping sensation tells him that his height might be changing as well.  Something seems to be squatting him down to a shorter height, shaving off inches, centimeters.  He’s getting shorter.

All the while, the queasy, bloating pressure from before continues building within his stomach.  This pressure soon turns into pain, and he groans again, clutching his abdomen and mustering whatever ugly noises he can to grind his way through this arduous process.

“Dude, guh…” Wyatt heaves, suppressing his nausea, beads of sweat dribbling on his forehead.  “Wh… what the hell did I do to deserve this?”

His abs sizzle as they define themselves, rippling forward and gaining definition like the rest of his muscles up to now.  One could possibly even see them indent the front of his shirt for a moment.  However, this is not entirely the cause of this bloated, blazing stomach ache. Shortly before Wyatt’s abs could fully finish their upgrade, the rest of his torso starts heaving itself forwards.  This stops Wyatt dead in his tracks.  He stares wide-eyed, breathing deeply and anxiously as the hem of his shirt rises slowly to reveal his swelling stomach, burying his abs underneath as if never even there.  Predictably, he is accumulating more fat.  His growing gut peeks out more and more below his shirt, becoming increasingly softer and rounder as the moments continue to drag.  The bottom of his increasingly ill-fitting worktop pushes up more and more, failing against the drastic changes of the expanding employee.

“Pop… pop pop… shrp… shrrrpp…”

Judging by the cacophony below him, he concludes that the side stitching of his shirt is now tearing against his increasing wideness, though he can’t even look out of fear that adjusting his position will cause more damage.  Yet, the discomfort grows too strong, and as Wyatt’s face reddens with strain, he is jolted by a loud SNAP, followed by instant relief.  A heavy sigh slides smoothly from his throat.  Once his shirt rises sufficiently, his gut hangs freely over the waistband of his jeans, still bubbling and gurgling with more weight, hiding his now broken belt from view.  He now must weigh at least over two-hundred pounds and counting.

Laying back on the bed, the distraught young man swallows a lump in his throat.  He shudders, some heat rushing to his cheeks, and with self-conscious curiosity, he slowly lifts up a changed hand and tenderly caresses his belly.  The corpulent mound of flesh pins him against the mattress like a weighted blanket.  Damn… it’s really warm.  He grabs a chunk of it with his thicker palms, the soft thickness convincingly filling his hand, widening his grip as it continues swelling with taut adipose.  By this point, his other arm has caught up in size to his left one, the man’s body having lost that awkward asymmetry it possessed at the start.

Now, though, his attention focuses more on the slight itching on his ball-shaped gut.  It tickles a bit, blanketing across the surface of his skin.  The heftier man fixates on the sight of an increasing amount of fuzz making its way across his fat tum.  A light, but noticeable spread of hair sprouts up and along his stomach; not too much, but enough to add an interesting new layer to his exploratory belly rub.  He can even feel an equal amount of itching on his chest, no doubt because it too is dusting with fuzz.

Despite the discomfort and lingering fear in his brain, Wyatt can't help but observe a sense of enjoyment, albeit a nervous one, at the sights and sensations of his much stockier build.  The mixture of warm fat and rippling strength makes the man feel a certain attraction to his own form that he isn't sure he’s felt in a long while. He huffs quietly as his head spins, face warming up again as the flustered transformee resists his willingness to admit, much less accept, such positive emotions with this change.

“Mm, s-so… fat…” is all he can utter.  Wyatt catches a slight tingle in his throat as the sentence ends.  That final word sounded different, slightly rougher than before, but his focus span only lasts so long in these emotionally heightened moments, even if those emotions in question aren’t all that bad.

Then, with zest, the pressure hits his legs.  His lower body buzzes with sensation and anticipation, and against his better judgment, he impulsively decides to stand up from his bed.  Bad timing.

“W- whoa!” he huffs, the transition causing him to wobble a bit due to his significantly thicker size and shifting center of gravity.  He waves his arms a bit to regain balance, feeling their new mass as it jiggles in tandem, though he secures himself and remains upright.  Standing, however, will soon prove itself difficult during this portion of the change anyway.  He shifts his gaze and bites his lip, finding the right vantage point to watch just how the lower half of his body would change.

The tugging at his sides rolls itself down to his hips, prompting Wyatt to rest his hands on them.  Within his hands, his hip bones snap and pop, becoming wider.  This would certainly hurt more if his belt hadn’t already shot off.  Even so, the man shifts his stance subtly, widening his base to maintain balance and avoid top-heaviness.  This new posture can’t help but feel more and more natural for him as the size of his lower body begins matching up with the top.

As Wyatt grasps his expanding hips, more overt physical changes cascade further downwards.  The upper half of his work pants starts to fill, and the skin surrounding his thighs steadily bloats towards the stiff insides of his legwear.  Beneath his skin, his muscles have, again, begun swelling up in size.  Hands fall from his hips to his knees as more burning permeates his quadriceps and hamstrings.  Wyatt’s enthralled eyes go wide again, locked onto his thighs bulging up and out in conjunction, their growth causing ridges to form in his skin that outline themselves pretty clearly.  These ridges indent his sweatpants for a few seconds before ultimately smoothing out, more fat filling in comfortably, hulking his upper legs.

Perhaps the most interesting portion of these changes is contained to the back of this region.  His rear.  Wyatt shudders.  He’s been anticipating this particular change; with the rest of his body growing out like it has, it’s only inevitable that his glutes would follow suit.  They do not disappoint, as a compressing surge throws Wyatt back forward onto his bed, the hopelessly flustered man leaning onto the mattress for support.  A soft vibrating and growing tightness tells him that his perfectly average rear has begun expanding dramatically.  His deep breaths grow louder, more visceral.  Overwhelmed by sensation, the man is left with no choice but to surrender to these more intimate portions of the shift.

“Gghhhhhh…” he grunts gruffly and heartily, his two lean cheeks bulking up into two thick, sturdy slabs of beef.  His face flushes crimson, his rapidly fattening ass bulging out larger and heavier against the seat of his pants.  His blush only deepens as he feels the back of his underwear fill out more and more, the fabric rubbing against his mounding, fleshy cheeks.  Even the waistband visibly weakens, tensing desperately around his increasingly obvious crack.  It’s just so much larger.

However, what really differentiates these changes is the individual pressure in each buttcheek, the fat within them continuing to gain, no end in sight.  His ass… it keeps swelling up and up, far larger than anything he had before, rounder as well.  This roundness gains quite some prominence as he continues to feel his butt bloat by the second.  He somehow holds down a moan as the soft warmth squishes itself firmly up against both his underwear and the seat of his ill-fitting work pants.  Even without the belt now, his pants are tight.  Really tight.

Naturally, Wyatt grows curious.  Too curious.  The man turns his head once again, trying to capture every moment of the change as possible.  It shocks him when he finally gets a good look, though it doesn’t exactly upset him.  It’s already gotten so thick.  Perhaps that shouldn't be too surprising, given that most of his entire body has bulked up as well.  He’s much fatter now.  His shocked expression softens a bit, and he even suppresses a smirk, his continued self-exploration accentuating the odd feeling of enjoyment he’s been trying to ignore…

…and yet, he can’t stop himself from putting a hand on his swelling rump and giving it a nice squeeze.  He doesn’t even think about it.  Wyatt catches himself blushing as he feels the growth beneath his very hand, layers of hefty mass filling out within his wide, firm palms.  A sense of bliss overtakes him, overriding his anxiety for just this moment, allowing him time and space to indulge in this incredible experience.

“N… ngh… damn…” Wyatt is ashamed to admit his undeniable attraction to the changes, but he just can’t help it.  It all just feels so good!  Luckily, now, it seems the pressure is subsiding, the changes presumably slowing, but it’s clear that his ass has garnered quite the bubbly attribute that it had not possessed before!  He finally readies to unhand his butt when…

Shrrrp!

This time, he fails to stifle his moan, and a deep, gruffer-sounding voice bellows from within.  The familiar shredding sound informs him that his work pants are likely no more.  His entire uniform has officially surrendered, though really, it never stood a chance.  Ironically, Wyatt cares far less at this point, though another deep blush returns to his face as he feels the air conditioning breeze along his now-exposed rear, as well as some other open areas where the seams in his clothing have torn.  Before he knows it, his hands lift back up, each one grabbing hold of a brawny chunk of bare ass meat underneath his briefs.  He feels the heavy flab bunch up in his grip, soft and thick, the bulbous butt cheeks bristling with some more light fuzz that sprouts softly along the top.  He purrs deeply and lovingly under his breath.  Wow…

“I-I p-probably should've… mmff…” he averts his gaze from his butt, fully embarrassed, as if all hypothetical eyes are somehow on him.  There’s no denying it anymore, no denying that display, that very chain of events turning him into the stocky hunk he’s becoming.

Wyatt just lets out a defeated sigh before he finally accepts it. “I really am enjoying this, aren't I!?”

Wait.  That voice… It sounds familiar.  He’s not sure though; maybe it’ll come to him.

At this point, the chunky brawn he’s gained is just impossible not to love.  He relishes the feeling of this raw strength and size coursing through his form beneath the warm layers of soft, malleable fat.  Such a stark contrast to how he used to look, and he knows that the pure suddenness of gaining such a form is something he should probably fear.  He certainly did at the outset.  At the same time, though, he truly can’t suppress his burgeoning love for gaining this wonderful body type.  It just feels so good!

“...I should really get to a mirror,” Wyatt mutters to himself, twinging a bit at the tone.  He swears his voice seems to deepen with each sentence he speaks.  Deeper, lower, huskier.  The faintest hints of a nasal brashness have been forming as well, as if his voice continuously teeters the border between maintaining its original sound and changing entirely to something brand new, divorcing itself from the bright, youthful tone he carried before.  Again, too, he can’t shake the fact that he’s sounding ever so familiar.

For the time being, though, it’s not something he puts too much focus on.  He still needs to get a real look at himself.  The man pushes himself up from the bed and steps forward, hauling himself to the bathroom that’s connected to his bedroom.  His running is still a bit wobbly, Wyatt still not fully used to his weighty form, each step landing heavier on the floor than he’s used to.  This is not to mention that his legs are still finishing up their changes.  The constant pressure beating in his bones doesn’t make movement an easy task, and amidst the shuffle, he can just barely see his height continuing to alter with his own eyes thanks to just how many more inches subtract off of him.  Although it isn't exactly the largest reduction in height, it still feels sizable since, even though he can't calculate it himself, he feels he’s dropped down by about half a foot.  Things just feel a little taller than before, like his new self would definitely be looking up at his old one.  

There’s also the swelling within his calves as the crura of his legs grow as well.  Calves, ankles, all within his lower legs, thickening like everything else.  Again, this just means movement while transforming is a challenging endeavor.

Still, he finally manages his way into the bathroom, instinctually shutting the door and locking it before turning on the light.  He heads towards the mirror as the familiar buzzing starts to permeate his skull.  He looks down at his belly in front of him, wobbling a bit with each step, until he reaches the sink.  Reluctantly, he lifts his aching head, and his jaw drops at what greets him in his reflection.

A wave of reactions and emotions swerves through his brain as Wyatt officially gets a good look at his changed form.  Everything starts sinking in, and despite his initial concern, he can’t help but chuckle.  It is rather humorous to see his relatively unchanged head on such a big, stocky body.  This perspective is odd.  However, that doesn't stop him from lifting one of his arms into a good flex, just to see how strong it looks.  The biceps and brachioradialis contract themselves into a pronounced peak, showcasing his solid, bulking strength.

“Eheh, lookin’ good…” he compliments himself, a newfound sense of confidence warming his soul.

It isn’t long until another sensory interruption, this time in his shoes.  Alerted to this new constriction, Wyatt decides to kick off his footwear before they could explode from his growing pair of feet.  This already proves rather challenging, seeing as his foot size has already increased a fair amount. Both feet predictably grew larger, thicker, and meatier than they had used to be, and this negates the idea of “kicking” off his shoes.  They’re getting stuck.

“C’mon… hrfff…” he digs his fingers between the heels of his shoes, and luckily, he finds just enough strength to pry them off with minimal damage.

His socks aren’t so lucky though.  He can only watch as the cotton easily stretches around his expanding feet, his toes chunking up a bit, twitching and popping beneath the fabric.  This fascinates him, and as he continues to hold one of his feet, some holes start to pop and stretch across the material of his stockings.  Tiny bursts of material snap as each thick toe busts out the front end of each sock, his heels even tearing apart parts of the back end, as well.  A few tears also stretched across the bridge of his feet, growing them much larger than before.  Longer, wider, at least 12 inches, a true foot, maybe even more.  This also gives Wyatt a glance at the slight increase in hair in these areas, flecks of fuzz blanketing the tops.  He now owns a pair of two truly big feet.

That's when he notices that the color of that on his feet hair seems a bit off.  Come to think of it, the color of his belly hair looks a bit different as well.  Wyatt has always had auburn hair; not entirely red, but his numerous freckles certainly cement his status as a ginger.  Even his body hair possesses a brownish-red tone to it, though as he observes in this moment, he interprets a lighter coloration of almost reddish-brown instead, just different enough to pique his interest.

“Eh…?  O- OH!”

The ache in his head pounds back in full force.  Entranced by the mirror, Wyatt is completely jarred at the sight before him, the sight of his face starting to physically remold itself.  A slight, albeit surprisingly painless, crack rattles his skull as his jaw juts out slightly, beginning to bolster.  It seems to be broadening, restructuring from round and spherical into a distinct lantern shape, more like a widened triangle.  In response, a descension of weight droops from beneath his wider jaw, a swelling of submental fat that steadily forms into a double chin.  He watches silently, in awe, lifting a mitt to his thickening neck, feeling new indentations of fat surround his fingers, a subtle series of clicks still gradually expanding his visage.  All the while, the man feels his vocal cords tingle as the internal workings of his throat shift at an even quicker rate, his steady huffing and puffing of breath now sounding completely foreign to him.

Of course, the rest of his face has begun changing, as well.  His entire skull crunches in and around itself, shifting bit by bit to fit in proportion with his new body, all while his various facial features remold themselves before his very eyes.  He continues to stare, entranced by the way his eyes reposition a bit, the browline pushing forward while his faded-looking eyebrows darken, becoming much sharper and more angular.

His nose cracks repeatedly before broadening out, getting rather large.  It feels like a steadily growing sneeze that never quite works its way out, his sinuses tingling as his nose widens, popping out from a fairly average nose into quite the bold schnozz.  Parts of his face almost seem to squash themselves inwards, though his features remain firm and prominently defined, more masculine in appearance.  The larger nose coupled with the almost piercing gaze his eyes seem to possess now gives his face a more brutish appearance, one that actually intimidates Wyatt while looking at it.  His bone structure thickens, and his cheeks chub up, puffing rounder and glistening with sweat as his head enlarges overall.  A look of astonishment plasters his transforming face.  He still can’t believe what he’s watching.

This disbelief further accentuates once the changes in his hair occur, another itching sensation scratching itself across his face, similar to his stomach and chest.  Wyatt keeps an on-and-off beard, but he had shaved earlier that day before his shift (work shift).  This clean shave doesn’t last for long, his chin tingling and darkening with scruffy fuzz.  More reddish-brown follicles sprout like tiny blades of grass across the lower portion of his jawline, slightly centralizing at the middle of his chin before expanding a little bit across the ends of it.  He wiggles his widening mouth in response, tucking his lips together as he strokes the sizable amount of new chin stubble with his thumb.

However, while his facial hair grows out, his already-short head hair tightens itself up.  While one hand cups his chin, the other holds the side of his crown, each strand of hair sliding between his fingers as it pulls back into his head.  Wyatt chuckles a bit; he recently outgrew a buzz cut, but it seems to be returning in full force, at least on the sides.  As the same red hue brightens the auburn of his hair, the top tugs itself upwards, spiking and thickening, forcing itself into a crew cut.  In truth this new hairstyle seems almost uniformly militaristic in appearance, the sides neat and tight to his head, along with a faux-hawk like trim on top, reddish-orange in color, almost a little rusty.

It’s at this moment that something finally clicks for Wyatt.

“Wait…” he drawls, narrowing his eyes at his reflection (and somehow still intimidating himself, provoking another blush).  His irises and pupils narrow, his gaze somehow even more piercing than before.  Even the color of his eyes alter, washing Wyatt’s former green color out with a deep blue.  He also takes note of what seems to be hints of aging in his form.  Nothing too drastic, but the beginnings of wrinkles at the ends of his eyes etch themselves in, as well as around his mouth and along his forehead.  This strange rush of new wisdom and experience seamlessly permeates his psyche, and he knows that, to some degree, his very age is shifting, if only subtly.  A warm, nostalgic buzzing in his brain informs him he has left young adulthood behind, now more properly an adult that hovers around his late twenties or early thirties instead of his early twenties.

By now, it’s clear as day who he has become, and given the physical and mental torrent he’d just experienced, he can’t say he’s disappointed in the outcome.  The suspicion on his face relaxes into a smirk of fond realization as he finally recognizes himself.

“Yeah… there he is.”

Heymans Breda.

How hadn't he figured as much until now?!  Well, maybe because he doesn't physically exhibit the anime art style to connect everything to, but still!  Breda is one of his favorite characters from Fullmetal Alchemist, and now he’s actually become him physically?  Why?  For what?  He continues to ponder his reflection, wiping more sweat from his furrowed brow.  Eventually, his naturally intimidating demeanor gives way to a big, goofy grin.

“Guess that explains the chess piece, too!” Wyatt jests.  His heart jumps at the sound of his voice, which has finally settled into Breda’s deep, brash, and hearty tone.  He can't help but laugh, reveling at the sound of it reverberating through his ears, which shift only slightly, a little further downward.

He then realizes something else.  In the midst of his discovery, his damaged clothing loosens, the rips and tears from his sudden growth starting to mend themselves.  Moving his gaze downward, he finds the size of his tattered shirt expanding a bit, the constriction from his hefty body fading away as his shifting garment properly fits itself to his new proportions, all while fading from pale gray to a deep navy blue.  For a bit, he is granted a proper look at his broad, fuzzy chest as the shirt splits further down the middle, the hem dipping down a bit before ending below his waist, flowing down to around his knees.  The deep blue continues across the shirt as a silvery color lines the edges along with bits of gold weaving onto the shoulders.  His collar rises further up from the neck, and a single lapel extends out and folds along the leftward side of the split.  On the right, he feels something small slide along the top of his pec, a silver ring hooking around a small blue clasp in his shirt, adorned with a single golden tassel that snakes up to his shoulder.  His short sleeves then proceeded to extend downwards to each of his wrists, his larger forearms accentuated by the form-fitting fabric.

Wyatt chuckles again as he watches the miscellaneous military adornments decorate his new uniform, although his gaze quickly drifts back to his chest.  Again, he can't help but feel himself up, give one of his pecs a nice squeeze. 

“Heh, that’s really good now…”

Knock-knock-knock.

The door?  The door!

“Damn-” he shudders, snapping out of his spell and unclasping his chest.  As he looks towards the door, a white shirt spontaneously manifests beneath his new jacket, splitting off from the former and becoming its own separate piece of clothing.

“Just a sec, sorry!” he pleads, the soft cotton of his new undershirt hugging his gut as he scrambles to answer whoever’s on the other side.

Wait… he lives alone. Why would-

“I'm just here to remind you of our strategy meeting,” a voice calls from behind the wall.  “We’ll confer in 15 minutes.”

Whoa.  Wyatt knows that voice all too well.  No way… Colonel Roy Mustang.  The Flame Alchemist.  His commander.

Commander?!  Except Wyatt’s not in the army!  He knows that!  Or at least he… he thought…

The man just looks down at himself, frozen dumb, watching the same blue overtake his work pants.  They mend themselves like his jacket, morphing into the same fine material, fitting around his tree-trunk legs.  Even his snapped belt repairs itself, turning from black to silver, almost metal in appearance, part of it dropping and hanging below.

“Breda?”

“Gah!”  Caught off-guard again, Wydatt completely forgets Mustang outside the door.  “Sorry sir!  I'm just, uh… getting changed!”

A momentary pause.  Great.  He’s probably pissed now.  Wonderful first impression.

“Pay no mind.  See you shortly.”

With that, the sound of footsteps fades down what sounds like a much larger space on the other side of the door, the material of the floor sounding harder, almost marble-like.  Wrydatt pauses and processes for a moment.

“Crap-” he utters beneath his breath.  He hastily slides on the sleek black boots that his shoes have somehow morphed into, though not all of the previous tears in his socks sew themselves back up.  Perhaps Breda simply needs a new pair of socks to begin with.

“GAH, CRAP!” Wryda yelps, clutching the back of his head.  He squints with grit, that buzz in his brain from earlier only getting stronger, immutable to his resistance.

Something’s shifting again, something in his mind.  That strange feeling of militaristic desire wells up in him again, the same one he felt when his comman- when Mustang spoke to him from behind the door.  The fact that Mustang is there, talking to him.  The fact that he saw that man as his leader, at least in that moment.  No… the fact that he still can't help from viewing him as such, from feeling anything otherwise.  This is a fact.

“This is crazy… I-I'm really becoming him??” is all he can utter.  The name… W- Wre… no- Wyatt, right… ugh, it feels weird at this point, and the only thing weirder than that is the part of him that still remains acutely aware of everything happening.  This part of Brydatt knows that the more he utters his new na- no, the more he utters Breda’s name, the more that connection will only solidify, cementing him into this new life he’s suddenly grown into.

Fatigued and confused, he moans weakly as the unrelenting headache rattles through his brain once more.  This one feels different though, and every fiber in his being hopes that this is the last.  He meets his reflection’s gaze for a moment, then another flashing throb within his skull sinks him to his knees.

It’s cathartic.�� Memories upon memories, increasing desires, familiar and new, a complete reshuffle of his personality.  So many things Wreda just cannot stop from gushing their way into his redefining system, rewiring his neural pathways.  Does he even want this to stop?

His new identity rewrites more and more brain chemistry, and the last shreds of his resistance finally give way, the battle long lost.  An all-encompassing shift in his personality gives the formerly mild-mannered man a tough and gruff thought pattern, a sense of savvy pragmatism he’s certain he’d never possessed before.  He feels intellectually sharp, much sharper than before, though maintains a down-to-earth aspect to his demeanor.  He’s well-aware that his wisdom, experience, and skill in wartime strategy often surprises those who doubt his ability based on appearance alone, and he’s more than happy to use this to his advantage.  He did graduate top of his class at the academy, after all.

Finally, his heart swells, beating warmly, overwhelmed with a sense of duty, dedication, and unwavering loyalty.  He embraces a steadfast commitment to protect Colonel Mustang and the rest of his team, his family, from the tyranny of Fuhrer Bradley and the Homunculi.  He’ll do whatever he can to save his world, anything to support the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric, and his brother, Alphonse, in their life-or-death mission to save themselves and bring lasting peace to Amestris.  To everything and everyone he loves.

Everyone.  All the memories return, all the relationships.  Mustang, Edward, Alphonse, Hawkeye, Hughes, Fuery, Falman, Havoc!  Havoc… he hopes that jerk is doing alright.

Despite this drastic character shift, Wreda- wait, Wyatt!  Right… despite this, Wyatt certainly still exists, in some capacity.  His old identity persists in the background, unbothered, entirely aware of what happened.  In truth, he’s just glad he doesn’t have to go back to his old job, or at least he infers such.  His remaining memories and personality fragments coexist with those of the person he’s just become, living symbiotically with each other.  Now, even if he identifies indubitably more with Breda than he does with Wyatt, they’re both there, the latter able to witness and enjoy the experience of being him, even if that means forgetting his old name every so often.

“Ugh, my head…” Breda mutters as he idly rubs the buzzed temples below his crew cut.

In spite of his exhaustion, Breda feels a swelling sense of pride in his core.  It does feel nice to have a more concrete purpose to his life, a job that he knows will truly help people in ways he can only imagine.  He gazes once more at his reflection, his expression softening, smiling with a gentle warmth.  The self-intimidation from earlier melts away, the decorated lieutenant playfully patting his gut and giggling like a giant teddy bear.  He turns around and examines his backside, his hips and rear perfectly shaping out that part of his uniform.  His grin grows wider, coupled with a nervous blush.

“Heh… not bad.” Breda admits, allowing his confidence to shine through, sneaking in a gratuitous flex.  It feels… refreshing?  Invigorating?  Hopeful.  Something like that.

With one more chuckle, Breda turns to the door, preparing to meet Mustang and his team at their strategy meeting.  The Rook is unsure of what awaits him on the other side; he never really can be at this point, given the state of affairs in his suffering nation.  He presses his uniform neatly, brushing off some dust and adjusting the finer details before he walks out.

The next day, the next moment, is never guaranteed.  He knows this.

He also knows his orders.  He’s followed them up to now, and it’s kept him alive so far.  He knows the alternative to what’s happening; he knows it too well.  More than anything, however, he knows that he has faith in his allies and each of their individual skill sets.  If he stays the course like he has up to now and relies on his team to do the same, then that’s all he can do.

With a deep, reassuring breath, he opens the door of his former bathroom and steps out into the regal halls of headquarters.  Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda, reporting for duty.