#wait fuck 'the sword' is just razor again

[knockknockitsnickels]

why are there so many slay the princess gun posts

what's going on

[admiral-mason]

SAGAU x Forest Island

Based on this ask from @floofeh-purpi

This is Impostor AU again because why tf not lmfao

Reader is Gender Neutral

Warning: Violence, cult behavior, huntings

Ft. Yun Jin

Your ass can't be any more tired right now.

Ever since you were brought into Teyvat, you have been continuously hunted for "defiling Their Grace" or something. It started with Mondstadt- Jean personally sent all of the Knights of Favonius after you, forcing you to escape by hiding in Wolvendom.

Thankfully, reprisal came in the form of Razor, who didn't understand why he should be killing a random human that looked like a god. All the wolves near you also refused to attack you, and Razor treated you as if you were a Lupical.

Unfortunately, the Knights drove you out of Mondstadt, and you wouldn't have escaped if it weren't for a glowing yellow diamond you just happened to trip over.

Wait a minute is this Energy from Forest Island-

"You have nowhere to run, filth. By my sword, and in the will of Their Grace, I will strike you down-" Jean said before the diamond suddenly lifted itself up into the air and attacked Jean in the eyes, blinding her.

Suddenly, more of the same diamonds fell from the sky, attacking the other Knights and repeating what happened to Jean. This granted you enough time to escape from Mondstadt.

It didn't take long to confirm that the diamonds originated from Forest Island, an idle game you played in your pastimes alongside Genshin Impact. You obtained further confirmation when red heart icons suddenly appeared over local animals, whose affection for you grew tenfold.

These hearts regenerated stamina and helped foraged berries and fruits taste better, perfect boosts for a journey to Liyue...

...And suffer the exact same treatment. You'd be screwed right now if it weren't for energy diamonds blinding the absolute fuck out of your assailants with mere milliseconds to spare.

Then there's Yun Jin, who recognized you as the Creator, albeit with a weakened divine aura and in turn indistinguishable from an actual fraud with malicious intent. Even better, she actually tried treating you like a human, and within the short time you stayed with her, she got close to all sorts of wild animals that normally ran from humans.

"Oh, they're all so adorable, [Name]! Although I am an opera performer, never have I been given such treatment from animals before!"

Her family's great too! Although, with the amount of harassment the Yun-Han Opera Troupe gradually received for harboring an Impostor, you eventually decided to depart with a slightly tearful Yun Jin while reassuring her that you'll be back one day.

You head Inazuma, the same Impostor shit happens.

You trek on to Sumeru, and the same thing occurs!

Eventually, you just give up on all the nations, with everyone attacking you. So instead, you relegate yourself to an obscure beachhead, likely surviving on a crude fishing rod.

Sighing, you cast your rod into the waters, hoping to catch a fish to eat...

...Wait, why is the ground rumbling beneath you? And why is it intensifying?!

Suddenly, an absolutely huge-ass island slowly rose from the waters in the distance, and many diamonds fell from the sky, populating it with what appeared to be animals and fauna.

That finally solidified that indeed, your favorite pastime idle game decided to perform divine intervention that this world wouldn't give.

...Wait a minute- you get to live a cottagecore life without studying and taxes and shit!! Whoo!!!

General Headcanons

A green sea turtle helped you get to the island, offering to carry you on its back.

Immediately, all the animals left their respective areas and tackled you to the ground in their displays of affection. Thankfully, you weren't injured.

They all love you very differently; rabbits and foxes snuggle in your lap and nibble on the apples you feed them, while wolves and bears parade you on their backs and let you sleep with them during the night.

Ducks enjoy it when you sit near their pond's edge and pat their heads. Frogs just sit on their lily pads and croak happily at your presence.

Speaking of the night, all you need to sleep is a blanket on the floor! With a little energy from the island, you never feel too hot or cold.

You cleanse nature as a part of your new day to day cottagecore chores, and oftentimes the waste can be reused for cooking!

Sea turtles like lazing around with you on the beach. Sometimes, you'll even get sucked into the one indefinite whirlpool on the beach with them and feel the rush of a brief flight before landing on the mind-numbingly soft sand that somehow cushioned your fall.

Does and bucks like to scale and descend the island at running speed with you on their back. When they're not running, you lay up on them and they nuzzle you as you nap.

Alpacas and sheep shed their excess wool, allowing you to pick up other hobbies such as knitting and quilting, activities you would otherwise have lacked time back on Earth.

Raccoons play around with you, and they sometimes steal your food. Which is now effectively vegetarian although tasty thanks to the energy on the island. Other times, any leftovers you have go directly to them, effectively making them garbage disposal.

You climb trees while a gorilla carries you in its arms. Most would likely panic by now, but with the tight yet never harmful grip on you, you're reassured of your safety on this island.

Other fun things you do with the animals are swimming with dolphins, birdwatching, and stargazing with everyone at night.

Overall, a very nice time! And then one day, a ship from Teyvat appears in the distance.

They get blinded by island energy as usual, but they manage to get away...

...Oh boy.

Now, you have people and vision wielders on ships attempting to reach your island. However, it appears that the island recognizes what you suffered through.

Now, island energy does not just blind them- it actively forms literal yellow rods from god that tear away at the wooden ships.

Among the unwelcome figures, one welcome one stood out to you the most:

It was Yun Jin! She yelled and rapidly waved at you with a radiant smile, to which you promptly scaled down the island onto its beach and responded with your own massive wave.

Then, you noticed that the same green sea turtle that approached you that day performed the same action with her instead of you. It beckoned her to get on, and she did so hesitantly.

Once her little trip was over, she gracefully stepped down from the turtle before rushing to you to give you a gentle hug.

"I missed you, [Name]! I never thought I'd find you here of all places but I guess the commotion was right!"

And you quickly introduce her to the island's residents, who treat her with the same respect as you.

She decides to stay a while and you help her write a letter to her family, and an albatross volunteers to fly the letter to Liyue.

It's a peaceful life on the island, with Yun Jin constantly obtaining new ideas for opera and living a very domestic life. No need to worry about anyone you dislike either- the island is very protective over you and its inhabitants.

@floofeh-purpi Alright I finally answered your ask lmfao

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Well fuck, I guess this is gonna be three parts instead of two

It was an accident I swear I'm sorry 😭😭

Just kinda want it to develop naturally instead of forcing it

Soooooooooo

Oooh that smile 😌🫠

Well, here we go.

Blacksmith's Daughter

Part 2 of 3 (I'm POSITIVE this time I swear)

Part 1 here

OPLA!Shanks X AFAB!Reader

Wordcount: 4.3k

Hurt/comfort, fluffy as goddeng cotton candy, I guess slow-burn now too? Idfk

Trigger Warnings: mentions of death of loved one, trauma

Tag requests: @zzbloody-animezz

Perfectly harmless.

You very highly doubted that claim was true.

"Well," he said, tilting his head a little closer, "mostly harmless."

Still, almost as if to prove it, Shanks released his hold around your waist, his hand resting at your lower back a moment before slipping away to hold the cell door open for you. You stumbled just a little on your first steps out of the cell, your legs trembling, stiff and weakened in equal measure from three days and two nights stuck with the very limited range of movement that your bindings had allowed.

"Easy, now," said Shanks lightly, briefly slipping his arm around your back to steady you by your waist. "You haven't been on your feet in days, you can take a minute to get your footing. We're not in any rush."

"R...right," you said, uncertainly. You swallowed as he helped guide you over to the brig officer's desk, where you sat heavily in the chair, stretching your legs out for a moment. "I still don't really want to stay here too long. Three days has been more than enough." You leaned forward, pulling your swords across the desk and resting your forehead on one of of the black leather sheaths, laying your hand over the hilt. "Don't want to keep the crew waiting, either."

"Ah, they'll be busy a while," he said dismissively, pulling himself uo to sit on the desk. "There's a good bit of cargo to transfer." He nodded down at the swords. "Yours, I take it?'

You nodded, lifting your head. "I didn't even know if they were brought on the ship or not," you said. "My father made them for me." He had made them just over ten years ago, given them to you on your fourteenth birthday.

"Well, he was damned skilled. They're beautiful. May I?" He gestured a hand toward them. "If you don't mind."

"Go ahead," you said. You lifted one of the cutlasses and drew to from its scabbard, handing it over. His hand brushed across yours as he took the blade, clearly intentionally if the small smirk that briefly curved the corner of his lips was any indication. You watched him flip it deftly in one hand, holding it upright, his eyes scanning slowly down the edge of the blade.

"And well cared for. Sharp as a razor," he commented, impressed. He turning it sideways, flipping it around once more and nodding. "He teach you anything about smithing?"

You shook your head. "Not much," you said. "My brother was his apprentice. He taught me maintenance mostly. He instructed me in a few different weapon types, but swords were always my favorite." You took the weapon back when he handed it off to you, slipping the blade back into its scabbard. "And his."

"Experienced thief, weapons expert...." He leaned back a bit, smiling as he shook his head. "Yeah, you'll fit right in, sweetheart."

The way he was looking at you, the way his eyes burned into yours, had your face growing a little warm again as you turned your own gaze away, swallowing nervously. It wasn't as if no one had ever flirted with you before; you were honestly pretty used to it, ever since you had ended up living in the streets, used to crude comments and catcalling.

And yet here sat an incredibly notorious pirate captain, being incredibly respectful about it, all but making you swoon every time he lowered his voice or so much as touched your hand.

You stood from the chair, picking up your swords and setting to strapping them to your belt at either side of your hips, glancing down at the Marine cadet still bound in the corner of the room as his eyes passed between you and Shanks. You had never been around any pirates before now, but you had encountered your fair share of Marines, as many of them had been customers at your father's smithy.

Many of them had been self-righteous prats, and all the Marines aboard this ship had treated you like scum they had dragged in on the bottom of their boots.

"I think I will fit in fairly well," you finally said, quietly.

"Now that's the spirit!" His enthusiasm was honestly infectious, and you couldn't help but smile a little as he slipped off of the desk. "There's a fair chance you'll end up with a bounty on your head once word of your escape reaches Marineford, anyway. Between that and breaking into a base in a major city." He still sounded particularly amused about that as he rest his hand over the small of your back, stepping over the Marine cadet as if he weren't even there. "I'm eager to find out how you managed it. Oh, no, not yet," he added when you opened your mouth to respond. "I'm sure the whole crew's going to want to hear that tale."

Well, it was quite a tale. You were honestly surprised you had made it as far as you had before getting caught.

Before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

You lifted a hand to shield your eyes as you emerged onto the bustling deck of the ship; the mid-afternoon sun was blinding after days of only seeing it through one small, rounded window in the brig. The Red Hair crew was working quickly and steadily on robbing the Marine ship completely blind, right before their eyes—the entire crew of around fifty Marines was tied up on the deck, bound at their hands and feet, the captain and his officers situated at the center mast to give them the best possible view of the entire debacle.

Shanks called and motioned for his own officers to line up at the starboard side of the caravel, and took his time in introducing you to each of them individually. He glanced back occasionally at the Marines' captain and mates with a smirk, clearly reveling in their growing annoyance.

"Our newest thief has two years experience," he dragged on loudly, pacing slowly between you and his officers—many of whom were cracking up themselves, well aware that the whole spectacle was being orchestrated for the sole purpose of riling up the captive Marines, "and was arrested for—if you can believe it—breaking into a Marine base in a major port city in Arabasta with only one accomplice, and getting so far as to open their treasury vault before being captured."

And he paused for effect at that, waiting as the crew began to break into laughter, as you struggled to keep a straight face yourself, glancing toward the infuriated Marine captain, who had told you before shoving you into the brig a few days ago that he would personally see to it that you never saw the light of day again. For once in your life you were seeing karma in real time—and it was a positively beautiful sight to behold.

"And I'm sure we're all dying to know," Shanks went on, ceasing his pacing and stopping just in front of you, grinning, "how the hell she managed it."

He had given you more than enough time to go over the details in your head. A lot of your success had been pure dumb luck, for sure, but you drew up your resolve to relay it.

"Overheard a few cadets in a tavern talking about how the vaults were never heavily guarded...and the roof access was never locked." His eyebrows shot up toward the bright red fringe of his hair as you spoke. His officers glanced between each other. "A couple days later we climbed the back wall of the base. Knocked out a couple Marines at the top floor, stole their uniforms, and made our way down."

"Bullshit." All eyes shifted onto the Marine captain when he spoke up, glaring daggers at you. "That base is constructed out of sandstone. Five stories of completely smooth stone. There's no way anyone could climb the walls."

"Tell your comrades at the base to check the back wall for holes," you said coldly, your eyes lingering on his. "We used climbing spikes."

The man's teeth gritted together in a visible scowl. You turned your head back toward the snickering pirates, in time to see Shanks mumble something to Benn, who rolled his eyes and scoffed.

Then you heard the Marine captain behind you again, speaking in a low growl. "Disrespectful wench." You turned your head in time to watch him spit at the heel of your boot.

"Disrespectful?" Though the rest of his crew continued to chuckle, Shanks wasn't laughing as he put himself between you and the oposing captain, his forearm resting over the hilt of his saber at his hip. "I get the impression you haven't done much to earn anyone's respect," he said. "That being said, respectfully, captain...."

And with that, he placed the heel of his sandal against the man's shoulder and shoved him over. With the Marine's hands and feet bound, there was nothing he could do to right himself—nothing except glare daggers at Shanks as he crouched down in front of him.

"Don't interupt." Shanks gave him a smile and a rather hard clap on the shoulder before straightening back out and turning to face his own crew. "Now—"

"Goddamned pirates," he spat. Shanks looked back over his shoulder at the man. "A thief's a thief," he said viciously, glaring daggers at you from where he lay on the deck floor. "The whore'll rob you lot blind same as she tried with us."

There was scattered chuckling around the Marines as Shanks stared down at the captain for a long, tense moment. You saw something shift in his eyes, the warmth and humor leaving them.

"Whore?" he repeated lightly, raising his eyebrows. His eyes swept around the rest of the Marines, before he turned to you, taking a couple steps closer. He brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, offering you a warm smile. "I take it," he said slowly, quietly, "this is how you were being treated for the past three days, sweetheart?"

You swallowed, glancing over toward the Marines, whose laughter had quickly subsided. "More or less, yes," you affirmed.

"Hmm." He nodded, his hand drifting down to your shoulder, lifting the torn strap of your black tank top—torn when you had been flung into the cell in the brig by a couple cadets, while the captain stood watch and told you then that you'd never see the light of day again. His eyes shifted over to the Marines again, and he spoke aloud. "Change of plans, men. We take everything from this ship that isn't nailed down...and then we sink her."

The protest from the Marines was immediate, loud and desperate—some begging to be spared, others calling you several other colorful names and shouting claims that you were lying. Even you found yourself staring wide-eyed at the red-haired captain, at the knowledge that he would sink an entire ship just because of how the crew had treated you.

You were beginning to understand the reason for his bounty.

Shanks ignored the Marines entirely—it seemed his mind was made up. "I think we're just about done here." Your eyes remained wide as he turned his head back to meet your gaze, his expression softening into a smile again, his hand resting at your lower back. "What say we get you over to our ship and..." He glanced down at your shoulder briefly, at the broken strap of your shirt hanging down, "maybe find you something to change into."

You nodded, tugging unconsciously at the broken strap to pull the neck of your shirt up. "I...suppose that would be..."

"There's no need to worry, love" He clearly noticed your unease—there was no doubt it was written all over your face. He curled his arm around your back, leaning in a bit so he didn't have to raise his voice over the mounting protest of the Marines behind both of you. "You're part of my crew now, and we always look out for each other." He glanced over at the metal clink of a lighter igniting at his other side, and grinned at his first mate. "Isn't that right, Benn?"

Hi first mate quirked an eyebrow, taking a puff from his cigarette. "What am I agreeing to?"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Shanks laughed. "Anyway—I'll trust you to handle preparations here." He nodded back toward the Marines as the three of you stopped at the starboard railing around the deck, and he leaned forward against it, his eyes scanning over his ship floating only a few feet away, over the rest of the crew getting the supplies they had taken from the Marines organized. "Half a keg of powder should do the trick, we'll bring the rest with us."

"Right," said Benn, stubbing out the cigarette he had just lit on the railing and tucking it behind his ear.

"After you've—"

There was a light metallic clink right behind you—and all three of you heard it, glancing over your shoulders.

In the same instant you drew one of your swords and spun around, leveling it with the Marine officer's throat, Benn had his rifle pointed at the man's forehead. The officer dropped the flintlock pistol he had pointed at Shank's back, his eyes widened in shock, shaking as he slowly raised his hands.

Shanks turned around and leaned back, hanging his elbow over the edge of of the railing and glancing at you with a quick nod of approval. Then he turned his eyes on the Marine, giving a small chuckle and cooking his head to the side a bit.

"Now that wasn't a very smart decision, was it?" he said, grinning. "You could have just snuck by and sent out a distress call. Did you?" he added, lifting his eyebrows.

"I—I—no, I—I just—I—"

"Check," said Shanks, cutting his eyes toward Benn.

Benn gave a short nod, shouldered his rifle, and headed off toward the quarterdeck in quick strides.

The Marine remained standing there, shaking and stammering, his eyes darting between your blade and Shanks as the red-haired captain rolled his gaze back over to you. "Quite a set of reflexes you've got, sweetheart. You said your father trained you?"

You glanced at him only briefly before training your eyes back onto the Marine, and nodded. "We didn't live in a great area," you said. "He wanted to make sure I could defend myself."

"I would have to say he succeeded," he chuckled, shaking his head a little. He leaned back a bit further, placing the toe of his sandal over the Marine's pistol and sliding it across the deck, stooping down to pick it up. "What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?"

"Well," you said, watching as he turned the pistol over in his hands, and then casually reach behind him and drop it overboard. Benn was heading back down the stairs from the quarterdeck with a coil of rope hanging from one shoulder. He seemed to be in no hurry, so clearly no distress signal had been sent off. You went on, "He rigged this for me, in case I ever get disarmed."

You shifted your weight onto one foot, and hit the back of your right boot heel on the deck, and a three inch blade shot out from a slot in the front of the sole.

The Marine drew in a sharp breath, and Benn stopped a few feet away, speaking one word that clearly echoed his captain's wide-eyed expression.

"Shit."

Shank's brief look of shock quickly faded into an almost childlike excitement.

"God, that is brilliant," he laughed, crouching down and tilting his head to examine the blade. "How's it work?"

"Some sort of spring-loaded trigger mechanism," you said. You knocked your heel down again and the blade retracted. You smirked a little yourself as Shanks straightened back out—his enthusiasm truly was contagious. "My father called them 'Ball-Busters.'"

That cracked him up immediately—he leaned his shoulder into the railing, laughing, while Benn gave a scoff and shook his head. "I'd say that's pretty goddamned accurate," the first mate said. "I got it from here," he added, pulling his rifle down from his shoulder and shoving it against the Marine's shoulder as you pulled your cutlass away and slipped the blade back into its scabbard. "Alright, over there with the other assholes," he said, nudging him with the barrel. "We're as sick of being here as you are of having us here."

You watched Benn usher the officer over toward the main mast, feeling oddly as if you were stuck in the middle of some strange dream you might wake up from at any minute—wake up back in the dark and dingy cell below the deck, down in the brig, getting dragged out to be shoved into an even darker cell in Impel Down for the rest of your days.

"Oh, you are just a treat." So lost in that thought were you that you jumped a little when Shanks wrapped an arm around your back again. "Come on, love. Let's get you changed and cleaned up." He pulled himself up onto the railing and stepped into a sturdy plank laid out between his own ship and the Marines', offering you his hand. You took it and he helped pull you up as well, his fingers lacing through yours as he gave you another charming smile. "I'd say you've more than earned it."

Your eyes remained locked for a long, tense moment, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand, your heart racing a little faster—until a particularly strong wave rocked both of the ships and made you stumble a little. He chuckled lightly, before leading you across the plank and onto the main deck of his own ship.

You felt more than a little out of your element a few minutes later, lingering near the door of the captain's quarters with your arms crossed over your stomach while Shanks rifled through a wardrobe against the wall. You were still a little apprehensive, your mind still lingering on the man's decision to sink the Marines' vessel solely on your behalf, but there was a charm about him that was almost intoxicating, and it was drawing you in quickly.

"Don't really have anything that's going to fit you properly," he said, pulling one shirt out and frowning at it before hanging it back up. "But there might be...something...."

You swallowed, glancing around the cabin—at the table to your left that was covered in maps, a desk in the corner with a closed logbook, a four-poster bed in another corner with a pair of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the port side of the ship. It still all felt uncanny enough to be a dream.

"No...other women on the crew, I take it?" you said slowly.

"No," he affirmed, still pushing aside hangers and frowning. "Not as if it's intentional, it just...turned out that way, I suppose?" He said it with an air of genuine surprise himself that almost made you chuckle. "Seems most women aren't interested in sailing around with a ship full of—ah, this should do," he interjected, pulling out a white shirt on a metal hanger that seemed at least a little smaller than the others. "Probably haven't worn it since I was a teenager," he said, looking it up and down.

He gave the shirt an appraising nod, and then tossed it to you before crossing the room to take a seat at the desk. He noded once more toward the corner by the wardrobe where there stood a fold-out changing screen.

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little averse to leaving a stranger alone in my personal quarters. But..." He lifted his hand, smiling, before covering his eyes with it. "I promise I won't peek. Pirate's honor."

You did chuckle a little at that. It wasn't as though you weren't used to changing in less than totally private conditions—you had been living on the streets for just over two years. You crossed the room yourself, ducking behind the divider screen and pulling it out.

"Nor do I wish to be on the recieving end of the Ball-Buster," he added, and you laughed aloud at that.

"I've never actually used it," you said, hanging the shirt over the top edge of the screen and pulling your tank top over your head. "Not as more than a threat a couple times. The sight of it usually gets the point across."

"I can't fathom any circumstance where it wouldn't," he laughed. You heard him sigh after a moment, while you pulled down the hanger and unbuttoned the shirt he had given you. "Out of curiosity," he said finally, "why exactly were you being shipped to Impel Down?" You paused, your eyes flickering up to the changing screen, in the direction of his sillhouette—and noting that from his shadow alone you could tell he still had his hand over his eyes. "That's a privilege normally reserved for pirates and revolutionaries rather than petty local thieves."

"I, uh...." You swallowed, pulling your arms through the sleeves of the shirt. You hadn't been completely clear on every detail, but it seemed now was as good a time as any—even if it was painful to recall. "I...killed two Marines before I was apprehended."

"Did you?" he said lightly.

"Mmm." You set to buttoning the shirt, slowly, glancing toward his silhouette again. "I didn't...really mean to. After...I guess after my brother took a bullet for me, I just sort of...reacted. I don't even really remember much of it. Just—him falling, then them taking my swords and locking me in a storage closet before carting me off to the ship."

You truthfully weren't even sure how long you had remained at the base before being taken to the docks—locked in the dark, your arms wrapped around your knees, wondering if you were ever going to see daylight again, hoping it was all just some awful nightmare you might wake up from.

"That's...." You heard him sigh heavily. "That's a lot." You gave a small hum in agreement, looking down at the shirt, and sighing yourself—it fit you like a nightgown, the hem drooping nearly down to your knees. You shook your head and set to unbuttoning it again.

"I suppose the Marines had a good reason for treating me like trash," you allowed, rolling the hem of the shirt up and tying it in a knot at your midriff. You fastened a few of the buttons above the knot, and set to rolling up the sleeves. "I did kill a couple of their comrades."

"And they killed your brother," he pointed out.

You frowned to yourself, swallowing back a lump forming in your throat at his quiet, understanding tone. You glanced up again when you heard him shift, and watched his shadow stand and cross the room through the screen as you rolled up the other sleeve to just above your elbow. You pulled the screen back just as he reached it, your eyes meeting his the moment you did. The sympathy in his dark eyes was almost enough to break you in an instant. You glanced down at his hand when it came to rest on your shoulder for just a moment before your eyes snapped back to his.

"That doesn't—" He shook his head. "Nothing excuses fifty plus grown men treating a young woman like something a dog dragged in. Particularly not after what you went through." Your gaze fell away from his at that, down to the floor. "I'm assuming from what you've said—and forgive me if I'm wrong—that you'd never..." He paused, seeming to search for the correct words. "You'd never been forced to defend yourself before?"

You shook your head. You had practiced with your swords for years, sparred with both your father and your brother regularly, but you had never been in a situation where you had to truly fight for your life. You had definitely never killed anyone before. You barely recalled the details even now, and you honestly didn't want to remember them at all.

"Oh, sweetheart..." He let out a slow sigh, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. You closed your eyes as he rest his hand lightly over your head, as a little tension you hadn't even been aware of released from your shoulders. Your head fell forward, resting against his chest, and you closed your eyes as he lowered his head over yours. "Just so we're clear...you don't have to stay here," he said gently, his thumb brushing across the crown of your hair. "You're not a prisoner, you're a guest. You can take a few days to decide. Or longer. But if you do..."

He moved his hand to your cheek, lifting your head gingerly until your eyes met his.

"This crew is like a family." He lowered his forehead to yours, his hand drifting down to your shoulder again as he offered you a warm smile. "And you'll be welcome to stay as long as wish. Alright?"

You swallowed, and nodded.

Lowered your head again, your breath shaking as it left your lungs, and you rest your forehead against his chest again, your eyes closing tightly. You weren't used to this—this degree of kindness, of compassion from much of anyone, much less a stranger...but something in his eyes, in the warmth of his touch, told you that he was being completely sincere.

"Th...thank you," you whispered—you couldn't think of anything else to say than that, nothing that could wholly express the emotion swelling in your chest.

He just chuckled lightly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders again.

"You're welcome, love."

[auroragehenna]

AI-less Whumptober

Day 16 - Whumperless Wednesday (Drowning, hostile environment, “I don’t know how anybody could survive that.”)

(OC) Tierney

TW/CW: DnD, whump, brief wing-whump, minor character deaths, murder, rage, enviromental whump, fantasy whump, self sacrifical/careless whumpee, angry whumpee, multiple "whumpers", multiple whumpees, medieval setting, Word count: 1'204

Not every forest in their world was a peaceful place to be. Not even for a druid.

A careful step on the grass covered path. Carefully calculated, always. With the stick she picked up Tierney prodded the front in front of her, a säule(?) of toxic gas erupted out of the flat grass, only barely missing her. They could still feel the acid bite of it on their skin from where she stood. With not even so much as a sigh they continued to follow the makeshift path through the dead grass until a group of tight-sitting holly-bushes. From there on she finally saw what she had been looking for.

A group of forest-folk, probably the closest thing to natives from here, sitting around a fire on tree trunks. And at their feet…

Tierney saw red for a moment as she made out the bound figures at the folk's feet. They looked, in pain, injured and scared. They had been tracking this particular group for a long time now but never was it possible to inercept them. Well now that fight would need to happen here. She scanned the area, it was surrounded by tight standing trees with long, cross-growing arms or open gras squares-which were even more treacherous. So either through the trees-too risky if I get stuck, I'm fucked. Or through the grass patches-very open but doable. painful. Or straight through the holly bushes-she didn't see any blood hunters. Or from above of course..But her wings were currently safely strapped away due to the forest's treacherous nature. Their black tail; testimony of their hellish side twitched nervously. She couldn't wait any longer, she had to do something! And so Tierney hushed to the nearest shadowed grass patch, drawing her bow. With silent precision the first arrow hit the on-guard into the eye, he was instantly dead. Seconds after Tierney stepped to the side and shot another, the closest to her into the throat. Now she bolted forward, setting off toxic gas geysirs into her face every few step, but she didn't care.

The folk were now in a tumult, screaming and pointing at the approaching attacker, preparing to fight.

They aimed their wooden pole they were carrying and shot it forward into the first attackers abdomen. When they doubled over they in the blink of an eye replaced the bow in their hands with daggers, slashing forward towards the woman. They needed to get to the fire! When they heard the all to familiar sound of metal gliding through air she let herself fall to the ground and roll away. Tierney's leather armor, barely protected her from the toxins and the razor-like blades of grass but it was irrelevant.

The sword hit only centimeters next to where she had just stood and was definitely meant to incapacitate, not kill. It made her even more mad. Did they mean to take her prisoner too? Well it wouldn't happen. The image of bloody white feathers flashed in front of her inner eye. Never again.

Two folk came at her, one swinging a whip and another wielding an axe. The one with the axe for one definitely screamed bloody murder. Their feet seemed to always find the safe grass patches and even if not, it didn't seem to hurt them as much as foreigners.

They took a deep breath, hostile or not this forest was still nature. And she was still one with nature. The morphed-wildshaped wolf ears on her head twitched as Tierney connected to the forest and then pulled, effectively shiting the terrain and creating hills and holes on the clearing, shifting the advantage of a known battefield to her. The axe wielder in front of them had lost balance and was struggling to keep standing. Without wasting another second and a stone-like facial expression the child between an Avariel and a Tiefling shot forward and slit his throat. But the whip wielder was still alive and re-gained his footing. Deciding that it for now was smarter to run Tierney bolted towards the campfire. At this point purely driven by adrenaline and a promise, as her skin screamed from acid and her clothing and skin was torn from grass and tree twigs. As quickly as they could they cut free the prisoners. When they came to the last one though a harsh and blinding pain exploded in their back, on their wings. Pain like...A whip. Tierney shot around and was eye-to-eye with the last remaining folk. And its whip that had previously burned across their back.

The folk had no words left for the murderer that had infiltrated their camp and killed their colleagues, their whip heavy in their hand. The two seemed wait for the other one to move first, them with whip in hand and her with bow raised. In their rage they didn't see anything but the creature ahead of them. And so they couldn't see one of their previous prisoners run into their side full force. And before their footing could be regained an arrow had already pierced their heart.

Tierney stepped forward and pulled the arrow out of the dead folk's body. There was no remorse on her face only stone. But when she turned to face the freed creature her expression finally softened. With an outstretched hand she helped the other get up again and checked for threatening injuries. That process was repeated with the others too. None of them seemed fataly injured tho, only hurt and deep in shock. Knowing that any words of affirmation would be pointless while still in the forest she collected all her arrows and lead the group safely out of the forest. When they had finally, after a long and silent hike reached the outskirts of a village again Tierney turned around. She inspected the terrified and sometimes crying faces in front of her and a deep sorrow marked her features. Sorrow at their suffering, at all suffering and the ones she couldn't save. Blood white feathers, again. "You're safe now, I'm sorry for what you went through and what you additionally had to see but it was the only way to safely get you out of their hands. They can't hurt you anymore, you're free to go, you should be safe in this village.", she explained as kindly as she was capable of.

The party scattered pretty quickly only one boy remained, slightly younger than Tierney going by pure appearance. He looked like he wanted to say something. His gaze wandering over the open cut from the whip, exposing her wings to the dozens of tiny cuts on her legs and arms, to the nasty burns everywhere on her body and face. "Thank you for saving us. But how-How are you even still alive? With everything you just-I don’t know how anybody could survive that."

They looked at the boy, shaking on his legs. "I've had worse." , "I'm used to pain." Both answers they could give, both truthful. But instead they simply said: "I wasn't gonna leave you guys there to suffer." And with that they dissapeared into the shadows of the villagek, searching for the nearest fountain to clean their weapons and wounds and a place to rest.

Taglist: @ailesswhumptober, @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt

@shattermind-8

[galactic-star-bruiser]

Work song x Din (request)

Din Djarin x f!reader

work song- Hozier

ahhhh I wish I could tag the anon who requested this bc it was just too good of a song for our protective boy.

no warnings except slight cursing and minor violence

Work Song request x

Boys, workin' on empty

Is that the kinda way to face the burnin' heat?

I just think about my baby

I'm so full of love, I could barely eat

I had been on a bounty for two weeks now...much longer than expected. 

Any time I had to spare I stole away to my hotel room and thought of her hands on me. It was the only thing that kept me sane. 

Every day we got closer to the bounty was one more day I was away from her. 

Double edged sword. 

There's nothin' sweeter than my baby

I'd never want once from the cherry tree

'Cause my baby's sweet as can be

She'd give me toothaches just from kissin' me

I would’ve done anything to feel her lips on mine again. 

What if she was gone when I was back? What if I couldn’t protect her like I promised because I’ve been away too long....

The work was brutal, the suns of the dessert beat down on me and there wasn’t a time that I didn’t feel sweat dripping down beneath my armor. 

I was forced to take a mission with another bounty hunter as per request of Karga. He was a bastard for that.

She thought touching me unexpectedly and calling me ‘Mando’ was cute. It wasn’t. 

She wasn’t my girl.

I couldn’t give up the bounty though because the credits were high and I wanted to be the provider I set out to be. 

I wanted to make a family. I only wanted my baby who was waiting for me alone in the razor crest. 

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

The grueling hunt began wearing on me as we hit our third week. 

Three weeks of hearing high pitched ‘Mando’s’ and another woman’s presence surrounding me. 

If I were to be shot on this god forsaken mission I swear I’d drag my fucking body to the razor crest myself. 

I’d come home to her like I promised. No matter what. 

As if something in the galaxy was listening, my fate came to me all too quickly. 

I was in the bar beneath my hotel, sitting in a dark corner where no one could see me knock back the drinks I was ordering. The burn felt good against the pain of missing her.

I was caught off guard... that never happens 

unless I’m thinking about her

I thought I was dead. I let a cold ring drag me under and gave way to unconsciousness.

Boys, when my baby found me

I was three days on a drunken sin

I woke with her walls around me

Nothin' in her room but an empty crib

I felt my body being carted somewhere. 

I couldn’t open my eyes but I knew my helmet was still on. 

I didn’t even care at this point. All I cared about was getting back home to her. 

And I was burnin' up a fever

I didn't care much how long I lived

But I swear, I thought I dreamed her

She never asked me once about the wrong I did

I could feel everything even if I couldn’t open my eyes. 

I heard everything. 

The fucking hunter I was sent with had double crossed me. Bad mistake. 

My hands were tied against what felt like a wood beam and wherever I was smelled dark and damp. 

My eyes were slowly starting to open and I set my vision on the woman who was supposed to be my partner, circling me like a shark. 

“Let me go before this gets ugly”

She chuckled mockingly. “Please, Mando. Did you really think I’d share this bounty with you? No fucking way.”

A blaster was lifted to my neck, touching the cowl that laid on my throat.

“I won’t ask you again.” I said with a vicious tone. 

Her last laugh sent me over the edge. My hands had been freed from their weak ties full moments before. 

The thought of her made me want to act more rationally. Come home safe rather than risking my life.

In one fell swoop I was standing and held the woman’s own blaster against her head. 

“Why shouldn’t I blow your brains out right here?”

“Heeeey, mando” she chuckled nervously and raised her arms “It was just a joke, you know how it is. Working with someone as handsome as you makes it hard to control myself. “

I pulled the trigger. 

My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

If the Lord don't forgive me

I'd still have my baby, and my babe would have me

She’s never once asked me what I did to come home in the shape I was usually in. 

I was grateful for that.

Speaking to her of the cruelties of the galaxy felt as though I were staining her. 

I must’ve been walking for miles, blaster hanging limply in my hand.

When the crest made its way into my sight I dropped it and used whatever strength I had left to sprint.

I made it to the door. I knew I had lost blood in the attack but I was losing adrenaline now and I could feel everything. 

It was as if an angel had opened the crest on some orphan who had been left at her door step.

Her cry and gasp were the last things I heard before succumbing to my injuries. 

When I was kissin' on my baby

And she put her love down, soft and sweet

In the low lamplight, I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me

I dreamt that we had a Home. Children. Safety. 

We were older and our bodies were allowed to age rather than be brutalized by bounties and fights. 

We were happy. 

I could’ve died if it meant living in that dream.

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

Small, delicate, hands were tracing the outlines of my face when I finally opened my tired eyes. 

“You came back to me” she sobbed. 

“I said I would. I would’ve dragged myself back to you.”

[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2024 No. 10 - Passing out from pain

07/31/2018

For a moment of sweet delusion, he wondered if it'd all just been a particularly detailed nightmare.

This was how all this had started, wasn’t it? A certain blue-colored, over-enthusiastic doctor by his side, tampering with his veins, leaving more unpleasant sensations than doing any good as so often while Scott was trying to get his goddamn job done … Sure, that was it. Hank had probably just been particularly generous with the narcotics dose this time, and Scott had dozed off a little on his IV, simply dreaming up atrocities like multiple betrayals from close allies, a U.S. metropolis under siege, with the government just watching courtesy of a President on Brotherhood strings, a sword in his daughter's chest, his wife's dull eyes as one of the most powerful telepaths on this planet wielded Katja's newfound powers through her to almost tear the defenses of that new Mutant heaven and start World War III single-handedly … Weeks of standing still, at a loss about how to make this catastrophe right instead without leaving the planet in ruins … And then this reluctant grasping at the straw of a peaceful solution against every instinct and conviction, promptly followed by being proven right in the shape of a stun dart in his … Right. Not a fucking dream. The more Scott's dazed mind fought its way out of artificial sleep though, leaving his perception open to the sensations truly wrecking his right arm until he wished for that harmless stinging and tingling from some useless pain therapy back … He soon couldn’t help but wonder if his unconsciousness maybe hadn’t been far off about one thing, conjuring up what had been the last day of this shaky but hopeful peace established after the Phoenix crises. That conversation in his office with Hank before everything had gone to hell once more … It was perfectly possible, that self-ironic quit about how statistics were against Scott regarding making it out in one piece of this new global threat once more, might have been closer to a self-fulfilling prophecy than he cared for. It was as much awareness as what the attempt of his subdued brain to get in control of the situation ��� which he was pretty sure was not the first one – achieved before a voice in the back of his mind shied away from the surface suddenly, letting him know, nothing good was waiting there. A cowardly whisper he pushed back where it belonged with gritted teeth, forcing himself, somehow, to finally open his eyes for more than a sluggish wink … The overwhelming light and intensity of a color spectrum he'd only very rarely perceived in his life since mutating pierced his head like a power drill, at least that a familiar sting smoldering behind his forehead inhibitor because of course they would even while his recovering thinking finally understood for good, that certain blue-skinned shape next to him was the furthest from a friendly as could be. That he was a long way from his goddamn Principal's office indeed.

Said slender, scaled shape far too close to some sturdy metal chair that Scott finally found himself immobilized to, moved at last, a strong hand with razor-sharp nails somewhere close to his neck raising.

What had only been a slowly building discomfort in half-numbed nerve endings so far exploded in every inch from his right shoulder down to the last fingertip, so intensely from one split second to the next that it had the world around him go right back to black instantly.

*******

His STEM-wired brain, reliable even in a condition bordering closer to delirium than he'd have liked to admit, counted no less than six more times of that soon tiresome game of trying to properly wake up at last, only to pass right out again before he'd even really been able to fully make it out. When Scott finally managed to make a deal with his compromised condition – namely that he'd stop stupidly trying to free himself from whatever crap he'd managed to get himself into thanks to his naivety of believing Mystique of all people even for one second, and in turn he'd get to at least take a look at what that had earned him –, he promptly wished he hadn’t. Turned out he wouldn’t have needed to worry that much about moving anyway, with a couple of dozen metal and leather pads and straps keeping his half-naked shape restrained to Mystique's newest little shop of horrors. As much as he hated himself for the mere thought … Scott should probably be grateful for that mercy, seeing as he could at least finally keep himself afloat with a lot of effort now – as long as he avoided every smallest motion on the right half of his body. At where a certain limb felt with every second of orientation more as if it had been filled with molten lava. His own ongoing groans of pain that kept on waking him up in spite of his increasingly anxious mind being no fan of the idea, he wasn’t anywhere close to curb though, as little as the sweat breaking out on his skin in droves or the irregular panting hurting his throat. But at least after a few tries, he managed to stifle them long enough to grit out a few words, when he saw that certain red and blue shadow move again from the corner of his eyes. The pressure of the narrow metal band around his neck keeping him from blasting that bitch into particles dug into his Adam's apple when he arduously swallowed a few times, to at least let his enemy know verbally, this place would earn a scathing review on yelp if he happened to make it out of here with his head still attached to his body. Truth was, if he'd known it would be like this? Then he'd definitely have enjoyed the more subtle attempt of his foes earlier for far longer, to get from him what they wanted. A certain power replicator mutant whom Mystique had been keeping company in her entourage for a couple of years now, copying probably either Jean's or Emma's gift of telepathic illusions, from how Scott knew Mystique's questionable sense of taste, that had at least only messed with his mind. "Can I see the Maldives again?"

"I’m afraid that ship has sailed." His enemy finally deigned to step into his full field of view, her blank expression distorted by an intense corona of some foreign radiation engulfing Scott's right arm and hand where it was demonstratively suspended with the help of several brackets and spreader clamps. Shi’ar tech, again; Mystique had really wasted no time, making the best of the resources and information she'd gotten her hands on thanks to recruiting a former member of the Defenders of the Earth in her army. Whatever it was that they had injected Scott's limb with, that allowed not a single movement of it as if it wasn’t even fucking part of him anymore, but what still had every single nerve in it on fire, his captor obviously didn’t want it in the rest of his body …

And that, too, he probably should be very thankful for, no matter how much he despised the notion. He had a funny feeling, it wouldn’t last for long.

"But you can choose for yourself how many muscles you want to lose before you start talking."

"Oh, so you changed your mind about needing a waiter in a speedo?" Scott asked as dryly as those unbearable sensations allowed him to, from the corner of his eyes trying in vain to make out what the fuck that bitch had done this time. What kind of alien substances her new acquaintance could possibly have provided her with that made even fucking thinking about how the hell to get away from it an adventure through that haze of agony throbbing in every inch. Or about how to find out where the fuck the mutant was who had come to this enemy fortress with Scott and who would have been even more helpless to Mystique's psychotic sadism … Fuck, he really needed to get a grip on his wheeling mind, and soon. When his half-veiled, blurred gaze finally managed to focus properly and make out more details of this damn room, including the dozens of mirrors doubtlessly meant to drive the point of his depressing helplessness home, nausea coiled in his stomach that didn’t come from the pain or hyperventilation this time. A wide open cut, doubtlessly coming from that diamond sharp blade that Mystique had turned her left index finger into, had opened up the top of his shoulder like a bizarre zipper, gaping, sickening … but neither infested nor bleeding. Whatever was inside his veins had completely stopped all circulation in that part of his body, turning his flesh into petrifying dead matter. Well, that explained how this felt at least. "Gonna be a bitch, serving drinks like that, you know."

"We can talk about that in case they have no more use for you at Westchester after our little chat." Mystique pulled herself up a chair far too close to his tied-up body again once more for his liking, with an almost thoughtless feather-light tap of two fingertips against his elbow that had the room resound with a yell so piercing, Scott needed far too long to understand it had come from his own lips. "You guys do push those away who are no longer of use to your team, don't you?"

"You're thinking of the Brotherhood, I'm guessing," Scott gave back when he could talk again, the syllables increasingly scorching in the back of his throat … a sensation he was arduously clinging to, focusing his mind on these palpable damages. On what in one way or another, he'd been through more than once in his career, fighting crime ever since he'd been a teenager. That kind of hurt, he could handle, that stuff he could process and leave behind, unless what his enemy was trying to get into his head with. The one thing he'd always been a stranger to in the field because it tended to get you and the people around you killed. Scott wasn’t being afraid, he couldn’t afford to be afraid, never had. But he had a dreadful hunch, this time his enemy might bring him a lot closer to that certain dangerous abyss inside than he'd thought it possible. The prospect alone almost had him throw up with that perverted gratefulness again when another scream tore from his lips because pointed, inches-long nails were digging right into that hole into his shoulder without as much as a warning.

"Always am, One-Eye. You should know that by now. That it's never personal. Might wanna remember a little sooner this time depending on how much you really love pain." Mystique pulled away again surprisingly quickly, probably sensing that the darkness had been threatening to cloud Scott's senses again already and apparently sick of waiting for him to come around again for the moment. "Now, how about we talk about whatever you people think you read in some data trash stolen from my living room?"

Somehow, Scott managed to let half a bitter grin curl on his lips. "20 years, you still don’t get, you're wasting your time."

"20 years, you still don’t get that if there's one thing I got enough of …" A flash of reshaping silver in the reflection on the opposite wall threatened to tighten Scott's throat again as blade turned into hook before he averted his gaze for the sake of his already compromised mental health which he had a feeling wouldn’t do him any good though. "… unlike you …" He only thought the renewed stab was the worst before the flesh-shaped new tool found whatever it had been looking for and ripped, the noise coming from him this time leaving copper in his mouth. "… it's time. Tell me, Summers, is this how you want to spend yours for the next few months or so?"

"Fuck you." There were some words, thankfully, that seldom failed even an increasingly damaged voice.

"Not my methods," Mystique reminded him with a brief grimace of honest disgust before she stared down at the dried-out but very much still living and especially feeling piece of tissue wrapped around her instrument. Giving it just the slightest tug was more than enough to tear Scott right back to that increasingly tempting-looking nothing of renewed passing out. "Doesn’t mean I can't make your life a living hell. Are you still doubting that?"

"Knock yourself out." The relief to hear his hoarse-turned voice already slurred and very far away, with senses that were closer to drifting off than reality, was very short-lived.

"Now, now, don’t be hasty." An injection of what at this stage must have been pure adrenaline on the side of his neck tore him back wide awake quickly enough to go through the renewed torture of no less than six staples pulling that damn entry wound close. The inches-long patch of tissue was still reaching out from between the halves of half-dead flesh that had been robbed of every capacity to mend and renew, like a sickening tail. Obviously satisfied with her work for the moment, Mystique got back in her chair and produced a phone from one of her flesh pockets in her thigh, unlocking it with a quiet hum on her lips. "Told you I'm in no hurry. How about you? How long until those losers on your team try another remarkably stupid stunt, sacrificing a couple of your people for you? You sure you want to lie around here, waiting for that unhappy occurrence?"

It was almost calming, finding while there wasn’t a lot of strength left in his voice five minutes in already, his words had lost nothing of the same. It would have been a shame if he'd run out so early of enough spite to let his enemy know how short-lived her little triumph would once more be. "I shouldn’t be the one between us praying they won't come, Darkholme. When you sign a declaration of war, you should be ready to see your people's blood in the street."

Mystique snorted, yellow pupils narrowing at Scott in a first hint of annoyance that was better than nothing, he supposed. "You really think between you and me, I'm the one who won’t do the sacrifice play?"

"You might find you're in for a surprise." Scott stared down coldly at what he had no way of knowing if it would ever be an even halfway functional limb again, no longer granting Mystique the satisfaction of avoiding the sight.

"That's alright." That leisurely, almost playful touch against his elbow again, this time in the shape of silver shining pliers. The defensive tension tightening Scott's spine only had Mystique's satisfied grin grow. "You see, One-Eye, the good thing about all this? I am taking pleasure in ripping you to pieces, no matter the outcome."

"You should probably find a new lover if that's the only thing you can get off on these days," Scott replied harshly.

The renewed agony from one of these staples after another pried from his skin elicited too many, too loud new screams to be entirely sure, but Scott was almost sure he could hear his tormentor husk something against his ear that sounded like "Oh, that’s the plan".

The next blackout came too quickly to wonder what the fuck she was talking about this time.

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

[madefate]

The fact that Stolas is meeting Blitz's joke with a parry of his own does more to set his nerves at ease than anything else. He grins, relieved to feel the weight of Stolas' very alive body in his arms, and it gives him the confidence to help Stolas stand once they're able to duck behind their newly made cover. He still doesn't know what Stolas means by powerless except for the obvious ( permanently? totally? is it an injury, something Ice Fuck did? ) but they're together and that - that counts for a hell of a lot.

The feeling clicks into place, the kind he gets when he's back to back with Moxxie - that inherent, implicit trust. It's the fledgling version here, born not of them choosing to train together and go slowly, through years of training like he's had with the team, but thrown into the trial by fire. And yet, like a baby ember, it's starting to glow in Blitz's chest.

He wants to keep it safe, and let it grow.

❝ You have no right to lecture me on talent when you have done nothing but disgrace this family, dear brother. ❞ Ice Fuck's voice carries cleanly over the sound of rushing magic and the manifesting sheets of ice - brother? Oh shit, is this Stella's bitch ass brother? That makes fucking sense - and it makes him want to punch the bastard's beak down his throat.

Blitz is tired of this fuckass family insulting Stolas - one of the only two good things that have ever come from it. Stolas, who's had every reason to give up hope, turn cold and bitter, bow to the cruelty of the Goetia but never has - who's stayed kind and loving and gentler than anyone Blitz has ever met. It's Stolas who taught Blitz that softness isn't weakness - that there is immeasurable strength in letting your walls down.

Apparently, Ice Fuck is pissed at the comparison; thank Satan he's an idiot, trying to flatten them with another ice wall that they dodge - though not before Blitz feels the icy rush at his back and grimaces at how fast he is. It feels uniquely unfair for the shithead to have magic and be fast with it - particularly when Blitz doesn't even have his gun. But at least this wall is bigger, letting them duck to the side and try to get a better angle.

From the corner of his eye, Blitz sees the faintest glow of Stolas' signature magic, and he exhales a sigh of relief. ❝ You back online? ❞

He doesn't wait for an answer, just signals the other side of the wall, and then motions for Stolas to look and copy. As quietly and subtly as possible, he starts chipping away at any points on the wall, trying to find ones hefty enough to use as projectiles. They don't have quite the flair of hand grenades, but beggars really can't be choosers.

Once he has a few in his more useless hand - but now very useful as a convenient carrying case! - he crawls to the other side of the wall and barely peeks around the corner, grinning wide.

❝ Uh, wasn't the disgrace your limp dick in the sack ?! That's what your little boy toys say in the Lust ring! ❞

Blitz has a hand on Stolas' arm and drags him back as a volley of razor sharp ice rockets towards that side of the wall with a very unimaginative, ❝ You insolent imp scum! ❞ Which is perfect - because now his other side is wide fucking open. Without missing a beat, Blitz tosses one of the larger spikes up and whacks it with the broad side of his sword.

He rarely misses a shot, and with the element of surprise Blitz watches in satisfaction as the spike connects with the side of Ice Fuck's head and makes him stumble on his fancy little icy platform. Suppressing a triumphant laugh, he indicates for Stolas to run with him in the opposite direction as this side of the ice wall is practically blown to smithereens, shards flying in every direction.

They can't afford to slow down so Blitz can't jump on Stolas to cover him, so he tugs Stolas down by the arm to try to provide whatever cover he can before they have to start running again.

❝ He gets real fuckin' sloppy when he's mad - this is great. ❞ Blitz's voice is a low, heavy whisper - for Stolas' ears only. ❝ If we keep this up, we can - ❞

And then the ground shifts beneath his feet.

No, it rises.

Before he can finish, before he can blink, Blitz watches the world around him drop away and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it's ice under him - a pillar shooting up, taking him with it. It's all he can do to drop something and hold on, and he sure as fuck isn't giving up his weapon. His bad hand stings but he digs his claws into the ice, keeps himself from slipping right off the side, and bounces hard against the platform when it jerks to a stop, bashing his jaw.

Stolas - he's been dragged away from Stolas -

❝ Stolas !! ❞

He drags himself to the edge, the desperate scream scraping up through his throat, as he catches sight of Stolas and Ice Fuck yards down below him.

Even from here, Ice Fuck looks smug as shit. That bastard.

❝ It's no contest between us if you're cheating, Stolas. ❞ Ice Fuck's voice is dripping with condescension, the double meaning clear as day - meant to hit as sharp as any icy projectile. ❝ I would like my victory to be undeniable. ❞

Another projectile came shooting their way, and Blitz deftly moved them both quickly out of the way, even as he's practically carrying Stolas further from Andrealphus. Which gives the owl a moment to take stock of his own state of being: he's got a few gashes that have mostly stopped bleeding, the worst being the one on his side, where Andrealphus had caught him with what had been practically a spear, but even it was only oozing, at this point. All things considered, it could have been much worse. The biggest concern was his powers, and that didn't seem to be something he could do much about yet.

❝ Y'er family's a piece of work. I'm gonna skip the next reunion if that's okay. ❞ Blitz's voice cuts through his quick inventory, and Stolas can't help the short laugh that leaves him. He always knew how to lighten the mood, to keep Stolas from even starting to slip into the despair that had been second nature to him for so long.

"I'll make sure to RSVP 'no' next time," he responds, but before he can say anything else, Andrealphus' voice interrupts them. He feels Blitz hold him tighter, notices the way he puts himself between him and his former brother-in-law, and he feels his heart leap into his throat. What a fucking time not to be able to portal them out of here, away from Andrealphus, so they can regroup.

Blitz levels a sword at the peacock, and Stolas doesn't have time to wonder where he got it as the other Goetia approaches, looking down his nose at them, an expression that Stolas is all too familiar with; he'd been on the receiving end of it for more than twenty years.

Andrealphus manages to sing his own praises among the insults, even as Stolas' mind is working quickly. He'd been instinctively reaching for his powers this whole time, attempting to see if maybe he could break through whatever Andrealphus had done to him. And while that wall feels like it's still in place, Stolas has been chipping away at it, his body working to metabolize and dismantle whatever had happened.

The exchange between Blitz and Andrealphus makes his blood boil; the peacock had always held far too high an opinion of himself, looking down at everyone around him. Hearing him insult Blitz, hearing him say that he was slated to die brings every screeching, protective instinct up in him, even as his feathers lift and then quickly retract in his rage. Andrealphus would not lay a talon on Blitz; Stolas would rip him apart with his bare hands if he had to before he would let that happen.

He sees the shard of ice rocketing towards Blitz, and he reacts instantly, lifting a hand to try to catch it, to keep it from impaling him, but Blitz is faster, especially with Stolas' powers still mostly unresponsive, and knocks it out of the way. The assassin wastes no time in shooting an insult right back at Andrealphus, who appears to be losing his temper, sending a wall of ice in their direction.

But with the way Blitz gathers Stolas against him, deftly leaping out of the way, he'd been anticipating that outcome. Which is only confirmed by his words, whispered instructions that Stolas takes very seriously, nodding to show he understands. They were going to use Andrealphus' own hubris, his own need to feel powerful against him. With the two of them there, fighting together, they would get out of this; Stolas refused to entertain any other outcome.

He flexes against whatever was keeping his own powers in check once more, trying for anything. And finally feels something respond as the smallest of lavender-blue galaxies appears around his hand, and a tiny sliver of ice skitters at their feet, pulled their way by his mind. Telekinesis is nowhere near the full array of what he can do, but anything is better than nothing, right now. And this way, he can at least help block incoming projectiles, can do something.

"You always did have trouble keeping up with me, especially in our studies," it's Stolas' turn to taunt, and it feels good not to bite his tongue as far as Andrealphus is concerned, "Finally get tired of coming in second? It's a shame that this was the only way you could level the playing field; we both know you're no match for me."

And it is very clear that Stolas has struck a nerve with those last words. Andrealphus had made it perfectly clear over the years how much disdain he had for Stolas, for the fact that the owl was more powerful than he was, especially because he didn't do anything with all that power. So to hear such a thing from Stolas himself gets in under his skin, and he practically roars as another wall of ice moves in their direction.

Stolas follows Blitz, dodging this one as well, and keeps behind the assassin, determination flowing through him. Andrealphus had underestimated them, would keep underestimating them, and they would use that to their advantage. While Stolas still didn't have his full powers, he had Blitz at his side, along with the tiniest sliver of defense; there was no way he was going to give up without a fight, especially not now that Andrealphus had threatened Blitz and Octavia, the two people Stolas would do anything to protect. There was no way they were going to let such a fucking bastard get the better of them.

[nicohischier]

geh...

[javisjeanjacket]

The Knights in the North - Part 2

A/N: howdyyy y’all!! I’m taking baby steps to maybe eventually start writing more and to rejoin tumbletown! I felt some inspiration for Robb and his hot knight wife so I thought I would share! :)

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: sword fighting, blood descriptions, yearning :’)

As hard as I pushed against it, the smell of it, that tempting, honey-sweet scent of desire, became trapped in my nose again. I had been fighting it since I was a teenager and was subject to watching Robb grow into his pointed nose and pouty lips. 

Only the cold, cruel air of the winds off of the backs of the northern mountain range seemed to be able to loosen the tightness in my chest.

Day broke over Winterfell and the gentle light filtered down through the mountains and over the sleeping streets. Guards chatted to themselves near the gate in front of the castle entrance and their laughter reached me near the blacksmith’s shop. 

With a heave, I lifted a thick handled axe onto my shoulder and, letting out a deep exhale as I did, I swung the tool downwards and onto the plank of wood below me. The wood splintered and broke under the weight of the axe. The breaking provided a momentary sedative for the swelling in my chest and the tightness in my throat. I bent down to pick up the wood pieces and throw them onto the pile of castle firewood. 

As I worked, my mind traveled backwards through the years, through the blurred past filled with the razor sharp edges of yearning and the brief warmth of satisfaction, to a memory of Jon, Robb, and I. I thought of when we tried to run with the direwolves, over fallen trees and through wooded glens, only to lose sight of them. I thought of the three of us building castles in the snow of the forest and the feeling of smearing mud on Jon’s face. He told me I wasn’t pretty enough for a king and I struck out at him instead of sinking within. I smirked as the scene replayed in my mind. I remembered the way my heart pounded in my throat the first time I noticed the curve of Robb’s lips, the strength of his hands, the power in his eyes. 

I swallowed against a dry throat. 

As unsightly and unconventional as it was for a knight to harbor feelings for their lord, I could not help what I felt. Robb was not just my lord and king, he was my friend.  

I felt that I was standing just an arm’s breadth away from complete happiness. Reaching, vying, and straining into nothingness. 

I sighed and set up the next chunk of wood upon the cutting stump. 

Unwillingly, I thought of the first time Robb talked with Jon and I about a girl he was courting. I remembered the lift in his cheeks when he spoke of her and how his eyes glowed with anticipation. I remembered feeling defeated, the heavy loneliness in my chest. 

He had suggested the three of us go on a day hunt with him. I remembered both Jon and Robb looking at me, waiting for my answer, and the way my tongue grew heavy in my mouth.

I remember the smile on Robb’s face when I said I was excited for him and the deep burning, the aching, in me to run away. 

Moisture welled in my eyes. I cleared my throat and swung the axe. The wood splintered unevenly. 

I remembered my hands shaking and how my palms grew clammy when I saw Robb in his ceremonial robes for his coronation. 

The chipped part of the wood went sailing and collided with my shin. “Fuck.” I whispered. I bit the inside of my lip and moved the bigger piece of wood towards the middle of the stump again. 

Unwillingly I recalled how my heart soared when Robb had kissed my cheek after I was officially knighted. I still remember the smell of him, the softness of his lips, how my breath caught and my chest thundered just from his closeness. 

My heart now in my throat, I swung the axe again, cutting the log down the middle and hastily throwing it onto the firewood pile. 

Who was I to confide in? Who could truly hear me when I spoke of a knight's unrequited and unending love for her king? What would they say? Would I dare chance it? 

Suddenly, a low rumbling began to sound. I looked towards the front gates and saw in the distance a tightly formed lined of men and horses. 

My pulse quickened. I dropped the axe, wiped the sawdust from my hands, and began to sprint towards the eastern battlements.  

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

“Your Grace, there are Karstark and Bolton men lining up near the eastern gate!” The guard rushed into the throne room, breathless, red-faced, eyebrows pinched. 

Robb glanced from the man, to Jon, and then back with a concerned expression. “My brother will go with you and tell us how to best prepare.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The guard bowed and waited as Jon rose from his breakfast seat beside Robb. 

“Nice of you to volunteer me, brother.” Jon joked.

Robb smirked as watched after them. They stepped quickly through the castle and towards the eastern battlements. 

Robb took in a deep breath to steady his pounding heart and stood from his plate of bread and cheese. He motioned to one of his kingsguard, “Where is Alise?” 

The man shrugged, “I don’t know, m’lord. I’ve not seen her yet this morning.”

“Maybe she finally found someone willing to go to bed with her.” Another knight joked, earning a quiet laugh from the rest of the Kingsguard near him.

Robb steeled his jaw as he saw a group of archers running towards the Great Hall, “Get to the eastern battlements, now.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

Robb was never afraid of being a king. He did what he felt needed to be done and did what he thought was best for his people. But standing on the battlements, flanked by a Kingsguard on one side and Theon on the other, he felt like he was wearing another person’s clothes. 

Lords Bolton and Karstark sent two men to the gates of Winterfell to negotiate, and Robb sent Jon down to meet them. 

“We have fond Lady Alise. She is with the rest of the Kingsguard, putting on her armor.” Theon relayed to Robb. Robb’s blue eyes remained fixed on his brother below.

“Thank you.” The king replied with a heavy sigh. He swallowed against a dry throat and could faintly make out Jon say the word “never”. With pursed eyebrows and the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, he turned to Theon, “I’m afraid we are about to be under seige.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

My heart pounded in my chest. I drew my sword. 

“Steady now!” Robb called over the din of nervous men and horses from the front of the line of Winterfell’s warriors. 

The gates of the North were thrown open and the whole of us charged forth as one. A righteous shout erupted from Robb’s mouth that was echoed by Jon, Theon, the rest of the Kingsguard and I, and then ignited in the mouths of every man and woman charging behind us. 

Spears and swords peeked out from around the opposing men and horses. The glinting weapons looked as if they were teeth bared; growling and hungry for us. Our horse hooves thundered across the earth, kicking up wet grass and creating a path of mud behind us. 

A second wave of shouts sounded as Robb used his sword and the speed of his horse to skewer the first man to die in the siege of Winterfell. 

~~~~~~~~

My braid fell from where it had landed on my shoulder to behind my back as I swung my sword through the neck of a wild-eyed man wearing the flayed man's symbol. Blood spurted from his wound and splattered over my face and breastplate. I spat out what had landed on my tongue and turned just as another man charged towards me, a shout leaving his lips and his bloodied hands choked up high on his sword hilt. I braced myself for his attack, but he outmaneuvered me, using his sword instead to swing in a wide arc and force me to fall backwards onto the earth below. I grunted with the impact and then gasped as the stranger straddled me and held his blade above my neck. I held it from reaching me with my armored hands, my biceps quivering with effort. The man laughed and pushed more of his weight onto me. I grunted and tried to wiggle free, but it was no use. He kicked my sword from my hand and it went careening across the dewy green grass. My mind was racing as I desperately searched for something to free me from his grip. 

There was a spear lying forgotten not too far from me; if I could hold him back with one hand I could reach the weapon and stab him from the side.

I took in as deep of a breath as I could and readied myself. Just before I was about to release one hand to reach for the spear, the sound of hoofbeats grew louder and louder and suddenly the man was knocked off of me. I let out a deep exhale and sat up straight. The Karstark man lay dead beside me, blood pooling around him from a wound on his back. I looked after the horse and my savior, and I was met with my favorite pair of blue eyes. Robb flashed me a half smile before surveying the battle and shouting instruction to his men.

A lightness overwhelmed my heart and all I wanted to do was bask in my affection and adoration for him. I watched him as he yelled instructions to the men near us, but I couldn’t hear a word.

EVERYTHING TAGLIST: @mndalorians​ @over300books​ @autumnleaves1991-blog​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @ntlmundy​ @myheart-pedro​ @intu-witch-tion​ @frietiemeloen​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @amneris21​ @disasterhann​ @aana4664​ @freeshavacadoooo​ @prostitute-robot-from-the-future​ @maievdenoir​ @heyitsjaybird​ 

[lovesick-panmess]

Rapture

A part two to my Armageddon AU. Warnings for depictions of blood, gore, and self-depreciation.

Levi's hand stayed pressed against the metal door, if he leaned in enough he can hear the footsteps of his younger brothers running to what he hoped was assured safety. His legs felt like jello and that he could barely hold himself up, anxiety pumping through his veins as he rushed downstairs. There was no courageous bone in his body, he was just a shitty pathetic otaku and all too eager to hide away in his room and wait for an attack to be over, for this fucking nightmare to be over. He watches Mammon continuing to fed of the doorway, trading punches and blasts to those who tried to come in. God, he was all too aware of his tail and horns, the clothes of his demon form feeling all too tight. "Levi! A little help here?!"

Mammon's shout brings him back to the despair of reality, getting a running start as he pulled the angel off of him and began to tug at its wings before completely ripping it off with his tail. The angel cries fall silent and the two brothers meet each other's eyes as the blood begins to reach their feet. "..They're just newborns, why the hell would the Celestial Realm send newborns to try and attack us?" Mammon spoke, effortlessly gutting one that attempt to fly overhead and turning away quickly, his own claws digging into the palm of his hand and it's hard to tell which of the dripping blood is his own or an angel. Levi doesn't want to think about it, it's clear when he closes his eyes and ripping apart wings like paper. He can't bear to imagine each one that he kills being around Luke's age...he just can't. "This is just for a distraction, we gotta give them time to get to Dia's castle," Mammon speaks in plan in their shared language while twisting the angel's wrist, and Levi is unable to hide his grimace from the loud crack that followed.

He keeps sinking, deeper into his own thoughts and trying to ignore the way his heart clenches at the painfilled screams and his eyes constantly shifting so he can kill on sight. There was a brief pause but sadly no relief from the attacks as he screamed, "Mammon look out!" The window of the living room shatters as an angel now armed with a sword tackles the eldest brother, Levi turns to help but finds himself surrounded with similar swords that he knows he can't let them touch him. He breathes in deeply, despite his own self-doubt, he knows that there is a reason why he is part of the most powerful in Devildom though he is at a territorial disadvantage. He snarls baring his teeth now soaked with blood and fire pooling into his gut as some of them back off in fear.

His tail acts first, grabbing an angel behind him by the throat and viciously digging his claws into their eye sockets and watching in crazed delight as the blood oozed out. He looked at their fortified expressions and found himself completely void of pity, where was that hesitation when they so eagerly attacked? Where was that fear that could have driven them away from this house? Their home...his brothers..all split apart because of this attack made anger bubble in his throat. It was feral and ugly, Levi leaving gaping holes in the bodies of already dead angels and the growing thirst for more carnage-

"Are ya done yet? Talk about overkill, Levi."

He blinked as if awakened from a long nap, removing his knee from the angel's back as he stood. They were both panting and clearly becoming exhausted, but he couldn't look away from Mammon's cocky grin and wiping off the remaining feathers. Too many questions flooded into his head, how long will they be able to defend their home? What more they could handle before eventually passing out? Were the younger brothers safe and sound? And why did Mammon look so cool at this very moment? He had watched Mammon so effortlessly fight angels that even he was struggling with, looking so strong and willing to defend their home while Levi's first thought was to run away. He wasn't brave like Mammon, he wasn't strong, even weaker angels put up a fight. He was so weak it was disgusting, he was disgusting and stupid to think that he would be worth anything in comparison to fighting with Mammon.

Bitter admiration and malicious jealousy dances in his chest, he pants and stumbles into the wall as his vision blurs. Now only showing the pure white of his eyes and the last thing he hears is Mammon distantly calling out his name...and Envy taking over. There is an orange glow emanating and pulsing as Levi's form shifts and changes, he grows larger as the scales covering his entire body are now sharp like razors. He's more snake-like, hissing and gurgling deep within his throat, and makes his way to the streets of Devildom, quick to attack any demon or angel that gets in his way.

Mammon curses as he runs after his brother and racking his brain for any way to bring him back but the sight in front of him made him stop. Watching a multitude of angels continue to stab their blades into Levi's tail and this untamable rage begins to take hold of Mammon. The mocking laughter of those surrounding him, filling his ears and drowning out any conscious thought out the window. "We'll kill you and all your brothers too! Devildom is ours for the taking." This sort of desire to make them shut the fuck up leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, black feathers completely decorating his arms as he stumbles back, trying his best to calm down. To think clearly, Lucifer would want him to keep his head on his shoulders, he would be so disappointed if Mammon couldn't keep it together from some small taunts. But such needs...were growing to be too much, the desire to protect the ones he loved became something he could no longer suppress as he let himself transform and sink deeper into this kind of greed.

The greed that the only annihilation can fulfill.

Violence.

---------

Ahhhhh I am so happy that so many people fell in love with this au! Thank you for all the likes and excitement, it really means alot ❤ and once again a thank you to the fabulous @asterronomical for not only helping me review ideas for this part two but also giving visuals into the brothers (Levi and Mammon) current forms!

I'd also love to hear some theories on why the Celestial Realm is attacking 👀

[rinzis]

what your favourite genshin impact character says about you: no holding back edition

i’m finally allowed to post again!!! great joy

aether/lumine: you’re basic as hell sorry . also stop fighting over who the better twin is they’re literally the same person but different genders. you’re pretty fun to be around ig but i feel like you eat food off the floor. 5 second rule not 5 hour rule ok

amber: ok i’ve actually met a bunch of people whose fav is amber and you guys are actually really sweet but pls learn when to stfu you’re so loud . also you guys go feral whenever someone (everyone else in the fandom) says amber sucks like chill bae

kaeya: jesus fucking christ your horny is off the scale. every kaeya stan i’ve ever met cant keep it in their pants. and we know the only reason you like him is bc of his giga bouncer supreme ultra man rack 3000. stop saying you want him to smother you with his tits. get some help.

lisa: YOU GUYS ARE COOL AS HELL!!!!!! as someone who relates to lisa you’re very cool. most chill people to be around and you’re definitely super smart. not lazy but just reserved. 11/10. oh btw do you use her for climbing?

diluc: do you have daddy issues? you guys definitely have a thing for the tsundere archetype and you probably like zhongli too. just admit you want diluc to do the kabedon thing on you and move on. we know what you’re like. also how does it feel being so short? i swear every diluc stan is small as hell

jean: YOU GUYS are so sweet pls whenever i play co op with a jean main it’s just like wow you’re so strong and nice and thanks for healing my entire team wow........ however although you’re so responsible you probably enjoy cancelling people on twitter for fun . sorry

venti: VENTI STANS. I LOVE YOU. is it partially because i myself am a huge venti stan? yeah no. you probably missed out on his first banner and are saving for his rerun..... same......... anyways you guys give off the best vibes n it’s always so fun to be with you. i love you all

razor: i have one question for you guys . did you either like warrior cats or were you a wolf kid?

albedo: you guys are so smart wtf !!!!!!!!! you’re so rational in co op mode too and if you have albedo you probably use him as a sub dps for your teammates bc you’re so good at reading situations........ then again you also have some weird shit going on like cmon it’s milk after cereal you psychopaths

sucrose: you either kin sucrose or are creepy sorry . ok but she’s so underrated like her passive 3........ WOAH.............. you definitely use her in spiral abyss,,, also are you a burnout successful kid who used to kiss teachers’ asses and middle school was a breeze before getting to college/university and realising that professors don’t give a shit anymore? wow who would have guessed

diona: wannabe catgirls assemble! please move on from your warrior cats phase you’re almost as bad as the razor stans but you’re adorable too. you probably want qiqi or klee but don’t have them so you’re settling for diona

barbara: thanks for healing my team in co op barbara stans !!!! you guys are genuinely so nice omg thank you for being so reliable all the time,,, do you highlight your notes so it’s more art than notes? yeah that’s what i thought

mona: ok if no one else is gonna say it i will,,, no one understands shit about your astrology thing going on. i’m a caprisun? great

bennett: YOURE ALL ADORABLE. thanks for helping us out in co op!!!! you definitely advocate for bennett rights and yes pls do,,,, we all love benny deep down!!!! you either don’t have him or have him at like C218372

fischl: jojo stans

just kidding but you all probably act like fischl irl. also did you have an emo phase

klee: ok if your favourite is klee you definitely don’t have her . waiting patiently for klee’s rerun!!!! shes just so adorable and so are you guys,,,,, so fun to be around !!!!! you probably have diluc and hate him

noelle: you guys....... the rarest of the rare. you love trying to convince people that she’s a great healer dps n everything else...... no bae you probably use her because you like geo and claymores like hmm yes i will now hit things hard with my big sword and rock power

ok onto liyue now sweats nervously

childe: you guys are ALL simps. ALL OF YOU. go n touch some grass bro!!!!! you either think he’s super sexy or you bully him and make the ed sheeran jokes (not funny) . you follow griffin burns on tiktok too dont you

zhongli: you either love him for his gentle demeanour or you want him for his fat giga dumptruck 3000. make up your minds!!!!! you guys are so clueless in co op mode but you’re hilarious. you probably have his energy recharge at like 200% so you can use his ult and hear I WILL HAVE ORDER every 4 seconds

xiao: STOP GROWLING AT PEOPLE. every xiao main is so aggressive not joking . yeah the only reason you saved for him is because you want to stare at him all day n listen to him growling . you guys genuinely scare me . no he would not hold ur hand and do cute things with you,,,,,, if given half the chance he’d probably decapitate you

ningguang: alright jeff bezos, hand over the cash. yeah so you’re either rolling in it or want to be her sugar baby. but you guys have such an intimidating aura like playing with ning mains is just .... you always build her so well she’s an absolute tank!!!!!! thanks for scaring the shit out of me but also protecting me

beidou: YOU GUYS. you’re fun to be around but i also feel like you could probably destroy me in 3 seconds flat !!!!!!!! do you hate diluc too? i love playing with you guys because all i hear is TO ASHES every 2 seconds and she’s just cool as hell so yeah i really like beidou stans. i feel like you all have her so congrats

qiqi: you’re so cute,,,,, best healer !!!! you probably love playing qiqi because her skills look so cool and you prefer playing heal/support,, if you don’t have her you just love her bc she’s so tiny . spoiler alert but do you have a thing against xiao for killing her lol

xiangling: you’re so chaotic help,, you definitely pair her with xinyan too because you give off the most uncontrollable vibes,,,,,,, did you level her to use her in the spiral abyss or do you just think polearms are neat and don’t have xiao or zhongli

xinyan: please reread xiangling paragraph but replace polearm with claymore . you like either bring me the horizon or bubblegum pop there’s no in between

chongyun: you’re all the nicest people ever and you’re so chill . you love chongyun with your whole hearts and i adore you !!!!!! the animation of him eating the popsicle melts your hearts (no pun intended) and you just think he’s really cool :( ily all

xingqiu: chongyun vibes but make it kinda unnerved . burnout successful kids 2.0 ,,,,, are you clever too? you also love xingqiu and believe he’s worthy of being a 5 star with his heal and damage reduce !!!!! he’s so helpful wtf and so are you . please stop going on about his legs though it’s highkey weird asf

keqing: COOL PERSON SYNDROME! i main this gal so i love you all . do you get as mad as i do when people say she doesn’t deserve to be a 5 star? yeah . are you a procrastinator and try and take lessons from keqing but are just so lazy? do you use her teleport because you can’t be bothered to climb mountains? yeah that’s what i thought

ganyu: you’re all the nicest people alive and i adore you all . thanks for being so kind in co op mode . every ganyu main i’ve met is so sweet and you’re all so powerful too woah....... you hate the cocogoat jokes too >:( pls mihoyo give her more attention !!!!!

scaramouche: you have rights guys we know you exist. also we know you want him to be playable. we know that you think his hat is neat. we know you love this shawty but please be quiet.

signora: wait you guys exist

hu tao: you prank people for fun like pls stop im so on edge when youre around . plus i feel you laugh at videos of babies falling over n shit,,,,,,, you cant wait for her banner but also please shut the fuck up

dainsleif: please leave me the fuck alone we did 1 (one) quest with him and you’re all obsessed with him . ok second hand dmitri from fire emblem you want a medal for being a fucking simp?

[eponymous-rose]

Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E121 (Jan. 19, 2021)

Aaaand we're back! The epic pet montage at the start is still the greatest thing ever.

Tonight's guests? Matthew Mercer and Marisha Ray!

We begin with an extensive discussion of waffle farts. As you do.

Matt is asked what it's been like to get to build out the characters in the Tombtakers. Lucien is Matt's favorite, but they've all got some fun traits to them. "It's one of those rare experiences as a dungeon master where you get to watch your players combat with the necessity of playing along. The instinct is: fuck these guys, I want to fight them, we'll take their shit... or I guess we have to play nice. And they begrudgingly grit their teeth and I smile internally."

On the Lucien accent: "You guys are all so mean to Taliesin!" Matt knew his own take would be a "weird mutation" of Mollymauk's accent anyway.

How's Marisha feeling about a lot of her predictions panning out? "Aw, I mean, gee, me? What? Noooo. It's definitely vindicating, I'm not gonna lie, and rewarding, but I also know that I write a lot of shit down in that notebook that's never relevant ever again. It's definitely a good feeling to know that I didn't go on that fifteen-minute deep dive and was utterly wrong about everything I said." Matt: "I was super proud. I was just silently cheering you on as you went on these long tangents."

What does Lucien think of the Mighty Nein? "Lucien is definitely curious about why they're getting involved in his shit and what they're planning alongside them. One, he hates Beau because he doesn't like people who challenge his authority. He gravitates towards Jester to an extent because she's the most open, which from his standpoint makes her easiest to manipulate. He loves toying with curiosity, and so between Jester and Caleb, those are the two people that he's the most comfortable interacting with. Caduceus makes him feel a little weird. He's amused by them. Fjord to Lucien is one of the more guarded and less accessible at the moment."

Is Beau enjoying getting under Lucien's skin? "Beau's picking and poking still kind of stems from her defensiveness and guardedness and her feelings, in a lot of ways, and the way that she's coping with things. It's a few steps removed from her default and what she often resorts to when she starts throwing up those barriers. She still has in the back of her head that she's looking at her dead friend. It's her way of protecting herself if she can go, fuck you, I don't care about you. This isn't too dissimilar to the way she reacted when Yasha was brainwashed." Matt: "It's a unique social sparring match the whole time they're traveling side-by-side. It's unique to have an antagonistic force that you're--" Marisha: "That we're going camping with."

Navigating the Tombtaker/M9 relationship as a DM is "challenging. At any given moment, a wrong statement could escalate matters one way or the other. It's having to pay attention to a lot of things at all points in time to be ready for how those chain reactions can happen and where it might go." He likens it to trying to follow and participate in two different conversations simultaneously at a party.

On the note from Yasha: "Oh man, you guys. Oh, it was so sweet. I don't think Beau was expecting Yasha to be so forthcoming with everything, and so complimentary and eloquent. Beau is awkward with healthy relationships, so she doesn't know how to handle them. She's still processing that and wants to not ruin it. No, it was magical." Ashley told Marisha after the episode that she was trying to think of what to say and wound up basing it on what she would say about Marisha.

Cosplay of the Week: an amazing Vax (by stormfeather_cosplay, photograph by travi_b, both on Instagram)!

On using variations on the Wild Magic table: "I wanted to give it some variation to consequences. They took some of the tooth out of it from earlier editions. I knew it would be fun once I gave them the specifications of when these things would happen - players are just waiting for someone to roll a 20 or a 1 at all times."

Why is it so important to Beau that she and Yasha have a proper date? Part of it is a fresh start. "So much of Beau's past relationships have been rooted in some toxic behavior. Beau feels like, well, maybe we should just start from the beginning in the most us way possible: fighting through the tundra with our dead-ish friend."

The sci-fi-ish theme came toward the end of developing Aeor, but it mostly comes from rationalization. Matt is intrigued by how all these different societies want to usurp the gods... which has parallels with modern society. He notes that focusing more on the science of the magic means the aesthetics pull away to "instead facilitate the utility or the most direct route to the answers you want. You streamline as opposed to focusing on the aesthetics."

Beau’s reaction to all the weird magic stuff? “I think Beau’s just so focused on the pragmatic aspects of it all right now. There are greedy people with motives and the will and want to corrupt across all spans of cultures and times. She’s trying not to get lost in the magic, both proverbially and literally, of it all, and just trying to focus on the motives of these people at hand.”

In some ways, Matt was surprised by Caduceus’ strong reaction to the creepy woods. “It was the first major reveal that there are some other sides to the coin that he hadn’t learned about. I had no idea how he would react. It pushed him away more in ways than I expected.”

Fan art of the week: an amazing Lucien! (by oratorkayla on Twitter)

What’s Dagen’s motivation? “He’s definitely a man of his word when it comes to fulfilling a contract and getting the other half of his pay, but it’s not hard to see they’ve grown on him a little bit. He’s really good at getting around the tundra unseen and unnoticed.”

Brian: “In true Sam fashion-” Marisha, instantly: “OH MY GOD.”

Marisha: “Here’s the thing. Here’s the tea, okay? If I ever hear one more fucking person trying to claim that I’m ruining things by metagaming, I’m going to point to Sam. I’m expected to respond accordingly to Veth being a Sam troll. Gods damn him! Raven Queen curse upon him! Let chaos reign! He made me pull out my earphones, I can’t hear anything you’re saying. It’s frustrating because I’d be mad at it if it wasn’t so god damn funny.” Matt notes that at a different table this wouldn’t be great behavior, but they all know each other well enough (and check in with each other enough) that it’s comfortable teasing.

With a bit of a deeper pull, Matt is asked whether he knew Avantika would return someday? “I knew she was a fun, interesting option out there. The M9 still have in their grasp the single most important artifact, in Uk’otoa’s opinion, at the moment. As long as they carry that artifact, his eye of Sauron is upon them.” Matt notes that he has more encounter tables going, so a lot of the time even he’s not sure what’s going to happen.

Caduceus suggested contacting Essek, but Beau and Caleb nixed that idea. Does Beau trust him? “Gods no. Absolutely not. She can like Essek personally. As a person, he’s fine, I guess. But I think a lot of people might be forgetting that he’s kind of a war criminal and kind of set off a lot of bad things in motion with this war with the Empire and the Dynasty, because he wanted power and to know things. So now here he is, also in Aeor. Yeah. Just kinda putting two and two together there. It is another one of those things of, you’re walking that line on trying to keep him on your good side and having a mutually beneficial relationship before it could easily go completely south.”

On the Star Razor being a Vestige: “I don’t want this to be--- the Vestiges aren’t always a thing where it’s like, you get a Vestige and you get a Vestige! I want them to be still considered special and rare. This is one that had to be earned, it had to be reforged. I didn’t know the circumstances that would involve it coming about.” He based it on the circumstances of Fjord’s evolution into a paladin. “In essence, not only did he finish the creation of the sword, but he Awakened it at the same time as he made this transition. It is Exalted at this point, it’s in its final form.”

What does Beau think might lie ahead? “I have no idea. I am trying to abandon expectation when it comes to that. I know what we don’t know, and that’s it. Beau is trying to compensate for the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns. I hope we can keep this tenuous relationship through to Aeor, because we need more answers before it explodes in our face. Beau, and Marisha, is hoping for a little more information before shit hits the fan.”

[asweetprologue]

my burden to bear

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Piggyback Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets hurt during a hunt and Geralt has to carry him back to town. Jaskier has mixed feelings about this. ao3

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said. Jaskier groaned from his position on the ground, more at Geralt’s tone than any amount of pain.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. When they’d come to the woods, they’d been working under the assumption that the creature plaguing the nearby village was nothing more than an overactive godling or maybe a hag. Neither of them had been expecting a leshen, and no amount of staying back from the fight did any good when your opponent could sense your location through the ground. While Geralt was valiantly slaying the beast, Jaskier had been darting away from roots shooting up from the ground and attempting to impale him. They’d not succeeded, but they had managed to send him sprawling as he tripped over an exposed root. He’d feared he was done for when suddenly the writhing plant life had collapsed. Though he was pleased to be still in one piece, his ankle throbbed traitorously where the root had tugged his feet out from under him. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously and offered him a hand up. 

Jaskier took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only to stumble as soon as he put weight on his left leg. Geralt caught him as his knees buckled, one hand snapping out to grab him by the elbow. Jaskier’s face lit up, heat spilling over his cheeks in an embarrassed flush. “Ah, shit,” he cursed. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, looking down at the offending appendage with a stormy expression. “No Roach.” 

“So true,” Jaskier said morosely. They’d left Geralt’s trusty steed behind for this venture, as the brush was generally too thick for her to navigate. The village was a good mile or two away. Jaskier’s ankle seemed to throb even more intensely at the thought of the walk. “Well, nothing for it I suppose. I’ll manage.” He tried to pull out of Geralt’s grasp, gingerly testing the weight on his ankle. It felt like being stabbed in the tendon with a razor, but he would be alright. He had plenty of experience limping along beside Geralt on the Path. This time it would just be a bit more literal. 

Geralt did not release him, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “You’ll make it worse,” he said, mouth tightening. Jaskier’s pulse, only just having begun to settle down now that the leshen was dead, began to rise again. Angry Geralt he was plenty used to, but angry-at-him Geralt was not something he enjoyed. They both knew that Jaskier was a liability at best on hunts, and he was well aware that he was only ever one misstep from being left behind, at least for the truly adventurous moments. He hadn’t realized it would be an actual misstep that did him in. 

“I can manage, Geralt, I swear,” he protested. “What else am I meant to do? Stay here forever? I’m sure I could make a nice home out of the leshen’s abandoned burrow. House. Whatever.”

“They don’t have those,” Geralt said dismissively. “I could get Roach.”

“Sure. So I can be eaten by the wolves that ran off when you killed the beastie. I’m sure they’ll be eager to finish the fight once the huge man with the swords fucks off. I’ll walk, it’ll be fine, I’ll -”

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier blinked, and then blinked again. He must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

Geralt glared at him, as if daring him to offer up a different solution. “I’ll carry you. It’s not that far of a walk, and I still have Thunderbolt in my system. It wouldn’t be hard.”

If Jaskier had thought he was flushed before, it was nothing compared to now. “Ah, well. Um. Are you certain? I suppose - I really can walk, truly -” He took a step backwards, away from the warm hand that still cupped his elbow, only to nearly drop to the ground when a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. Even his knee ached with it. Geralt caught him around the waist, hauling him upright again and, unfortunately, directly into the witcher’s space. Jaskier gasped at the contact more than the near tumble, though he hoped Geralt thought it was just the surprise. 

“I can see that,” Geralt said dryly, their nose barley inches apart. Jaskier swallowed. 

“I take your point. How, uh, how do you want to do this?”

Geralt released him, allowing Jaskier to take a deep, fortifying breath. Leaning all his weight on his good leg, he waited while Geralt turned around and knelt down on the mossy forest floor. Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Put your arms around my shoulders,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier ran a hand along his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “This is so infantilizing,” he grumbled, but he leaned over and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders. He was extraordinarily grateful for Geralt’s armor, separating him from the heat of his body. As it was, he still felt like he might spontaneously combust when Geralt’s large hands came up to grip under his thighs and raised him effortlessly into the air. 

Holy fuck. “Melitele,” he said, “do I weigh anything to you?”

“No,” Geralt said with an amused huff. He began to take sure steps through the clearing and back the way they’d come. Jaskier shifted to find a more comfortable position for his arms, and found that he could lift them away entirely without Geralt dropping him an inch. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he groused. 

“Next time watch your step,” Geralt grunted. 

They made their way through the forest slowly, Geralt carefully navigating the underbrush. Jaskier was aware that he was being more delicate with his footwork than he typically was, avoiding any areas that might throw him off balance or land Jaskier with a face full of branches. He was being nice, Jaskier realized, not even getting back at him for the fact that he had to carry Jaskier’s sorry ass through the woods. Always so chivalrous. 

That was Geralt though. Even when he was grumpy and upset and probably worn out from a fight, he was always going out of his way to be kind. He wasn’t always nice, Geralt, but he was almost always kind. It was a miracle, honestly, that he didn’t lose hold of his temper more often than he did. They would bicker, often, and fight, sometimes. But even when he was mad, Geralt was often still considerate, still worried about Jaskier’s safety and comfort. He was always taking absurdly underpaid jobs, even taking payment in a simple meal or a roof over his head sometimes, just because there were people in danger. This village, for example, had scraped together a tiny purse to offer a passing witcher, desperation writ on their faces. Seven people, including two children, had disappeared in the last season. It was a small village, only a little cluster of houses, and such a loss must have been felt deeply. Geralt had looked at the purse, a frown maring his features, and pushed it back into the alderman’s dirty hands. The job had ended up being even more dangerous than he’d assumed, but Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t take payment beyond maybe a warm loaf of bread and some hearty stew from the alderman’s wife. 

It was wildly unfair that the reputation of witchers remained so heavily tarnished. That Geralt’s reputation still suffered so. It was starting to mend - in the decade since Jaskier had begun traveling with him, the White Wolf ballads had become popular, enough so that many towns they passed through were already ready to throw their crowns and orens at his feet. But the further north they went, the closer to Blaviken, the less people were swayed by his songs. People didn’t always see what Jaskier saw. Not everyone felt the depth of affection swell in their breast at the sight of his silver hair and golden eyes, regardless of how many times Jaskier tried to put it to words. Maybe it wasn’t something he would ever be able to capture. This haunting, aching thing inside him that just loved and loved and loved Geralt of Rivia. 

He wished he could do more, more to alleviate Geralt’s pain and stress. And instead here he was, only putting more weight on his shoulders. Literally. Jaskier rested his forehead against the leather of Geralt’s armor with a sigh. That was the story of his life, though. Try to help, get in the way, get pushed aside. An infallible cycle. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked suddenly. Jaskier blinked back to himself, attempting to shake off the shroud of self pity that had settled over him. 

“Hmm?” he responded, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright what?”

“I’m asking,” Geralt said. “You’re quiet. That only ever happens if you’re writing a song or you’re dying.” He paused. “It’s only your ankle?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, stirring the hairs at the base of Geralt’s neck. The silver strands were pulled back into a short pony, leaving the pale expanse of skin beneath exposed. Jaskier had to tamp down the swift and overpowering urge to tuck his nose into the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, to press his lips to the scar just above the line of his armor, where some monster must have gotten in a lucky hit. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Just the ankle, I swear. I’m only thinking.”

“So it is a song,” Geralt said darkly. 

“A great ballad about how the White Wolf of Rivia once again saved a humble bard,” he agreed, eagerly latching onto the half lie. “You’ve made a bit of a habit of it.”

Geralt grunted, sounding unamused. Suddenly there was a burst of sunlight across Jaskier’s vision, warm on his face. They stepped out of the forest and onto the small dirt track that led to the village, which Jaskier could just barely see peeking out over the rise of the next hill over. The sky was a sprawling blue tapestry above them, not a cloud in sight. “I don’t like it,” Geralt said, stopping to scan the road briefly. 

Jaskier’s throat felt tight. “Saving me?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative and began walking again, towards the village. 

Jaskier let out a long breath, equal parts annoyed and hurt. “Well no one’s asking you to,” he snapped. “I know it’s, I don’t know, part of your job, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

Geralt shook his head, nearly hitting Jaskier in the face with his short ponytail. “It’s not a fucking chore, Jaskier. I just don’t - I wish you didn’t need saving.”

“Well, you and me both,” Jaskier said. “I know you think I do it on purpose, but I don’t actually want to get in the way.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gritted out. Truly annoyed now. “Nothing you do could keep me from doing my job.”

“Well obviously you always finish the fight, I wouldn’t imagine you’d just quit on my behalf -”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt interrupted, “because I don’t like this.” He moved one hand to Jaskier’s injured ankle, the touch feather light. Jaskier’s knees tightened automatically to hold himself in place, but it was barely necessary. Geralt was strong enough to hold him in one hand. It made Jaskier feel deeply fragile, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like something precious and delicate. Worthy of being preserved. It made his fingers tingle where they were latched together between Geralt’s collarbones, just at the base of his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that it, um. Well - I’m really fine.”

“I know,” Geralt said, sounding tired and a little amused. “You always are, mostly. I still don’t like it.” He tapped a finger against the heel of Jaskier’s boot, still light, and then put his hand back to support Jaskier’s thigh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like witchers.”

Jaskier laughed outright at that. “I can’t imagine how you could lose track of that piece of information. I complain about my bad eyesight and sore feet daily, as you are certainly aware. I’m the same as any other human.”

“You’re really not,” Geralt said, so quiet that it almost seemed to be said to himself. Jaskier stilled at that, startled and somehow warmed by the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village, where hopefully they would find a warm welcome with the alderman or another grateful peasant. They might be given a place to rest for the night, maybe a few, while Jaskier’s ankle healed. Maybe they would be asked to move along, and Geralt would let him ride on Roach for a few days, and in the evening he would give Jaskier the salve he used for bruises and pulled muscles. Maybe even rub it into his swollen foot himself.  “I’m sorry to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt said. Then he laughed, a dry rasp that Jaskier never tired of hearing. “Well, alright. Technically you are at the moment. But I don’t mind.” As they reached the first house, he gently set Jaskier on his feet, turning to offer support. Jaskier let him slip a broad arm around his back, Jaskier’s own stretched out across Geralt’s shoulder to grip at the rough leather there. After having Geralt’s face hidden from him on the walk back, the sudden confrontation with golden eyes and square jaw was enough to make Jaskier flustered. Their faces were close now, and it felt almost too intimate, too raw after being unable to see Geralt’s expression during the rest of their conversation. Geralt quirked a small smile at him, a fondness there that Jaskier felt echoed in his own chest. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, but I don’t mind saving you.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back, even though his heart was racing and he knew his face was flushed from their proximity. “I suppose I’ll have to let you keep doing it then,” he said, only the tiniest bit breathless. 

“Good,” Geralt said, and together they took their first steps into the village. “But for the love of the gods, at least try not to get yourself into trouble.”

Jaskier laughed even as his ankle flared with renewed pain and he spotted a few villagers stepping out of their homes, concern plastered across their faces for the injured bard. So it would be hot stew, he thought giddily, and a warm place by the fire, and Geralt would still probably rub that salve into his ankle. He could be satisfied with that. “Geralt, my dearest, just try and stop me.”

[cdroloisms]

DAY 50 LET’S GO !!

It’s been 50 days since Quackity’s first Lore Stream, and I thought I’d write a little something for the occasion. Our buddy c!dream is not doing well in the prison rn lmao

tw: torture, abuse, injuries, blood, broken bones, manipulation, gaslighting, mental deterioration, trauma, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc, c!quackity critical (again, not really, but a Very Dark portrayal of him) 

Quackity’s in the middle of packing up his supplies for the day when he turns over; Dream flinches, automatic, but the winged man doesn’t come closer, hands still busied with rubbing off the blood on Warden’s Will. His good eye narrows, and Dream watches, half-lucid where he’s sprawled out over the obsidian in a puddle of his own blood, breath rattling in his chest and filling the silence with shuddering wheezes.

“It’s day fifty, you know,” he says, turning back towards his sword. Dream mulls the words over as his vision blurs, refocuses, letting them settle as his too-slow head catches up with the meaning. “Of my visits.”

He tries to respond, knows better than to ignore Quackity when he’s speaking, but the words escape his head halfway up his throat and the whole thing comes out as a garbled hum through his lips. Quackity hardly spares him a second glance, sheathing the sword and moving his hand to the axe, pulling it up from the floor and watching as blood drips down the blade onto the handle.

“You know, I said I would come for as long as I fuckin’ needed, and I don’t exactly plan on making myself a liar any time soon,” Quackity’s eye slants towards him, lips pressed together in an irritated frown that Dream recognizes as the one he wears when he’s more bothered than he lets on, “So you gonna talk? Or are we gonna have to go through another fifty?”

Dream keeps his eyes on the other stubbornly, refusing to look away even with the full force of Quackity’s glare directed at him. Hey- what can he say, it’s the end of the day and he’s more than a little delirious from the pain and adrenaline. He’s sure that he’ll regret it come tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future-Dream, not now-Dream. Now-Dream has enough to worry about with trying to stay conscious as it is.

Surprisingly enough, or maybe not surprisingly at all (say what you will about the daily visits and the torture and pain they’ve brought him, but seeing the same person for hours a day every single day does mean that you end up knowing them better than most. He can say a lot about Quackity, most of which involving bloodstained fantasies of revenge and memories of agony and every excruciating moment in between, but in the end he also knows the other man, for better or for worse), Quackity shakes his head, turning back to his work, and laughs. It’s a dry, bitter thing, whatever amusement left within having long cooled and sharpened into something viscous and wanting, but it’s still laughter, the sound so unfamiliar that it makes him physically recoil for a moment before his head catches up.

“You really are a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?” Quackity’s voice dips low in wry humor even as he looks away again, and Dream closes his eyes, lets the world go dark for a blissful second. “Fifty days- I have to say. I’m impressed! It’s really…quite impressive.”

Fifty days- Dream looks up again, head lolling over limply as he tries to look closer. Quackity never brought up the time before, had enjoyed in the psychological side of making him guess how long it’d been, in giving fake times and messing with his head without a clock to keep his head straight. In all honesty, there’s a side of him that’s convinced that he’s lying, but - well - it’s not like it matters, how long it’s been. It’s hardly like there’s a time limit or anything.

“Anyway,” he stands up suddenly, reaching up to stretch his arms, wings spreading to his sides, catching the light of the lava, seeping through the feathers, “We’ll have to cut today short, alright Dream? I have, well you know, arrangements. We’re celebrating.”

“Yeah?” Dream rolls his eyes, words thick in his mouth, and he spits out a mess of blood and other gunk onto the floor beside him, recoiling at the feeling. “Celebrating what?”

“Well, it’s been fifty days, hasn’t it?”

Quackity’s voice has shifted to a slight drawl, almost fond save for the edges, sharpened to a razor point and ready to cut through skin, muscle, bone. It’s a tone that Dream’s become all-too-familiar with, the sort of way Quackity speaks when he’s about to say something that he thinks will make him hurt, when he feels like using his words alone to drive a knife between his ribs and then twist the handle. It’s unassuming, slow, and cruel in every sense of the word, and Dream blinks slowly as he waits for the meaning to register in his pain-addled mind.

Quackity must take his silence for something else, because he laughs again - this one is one that Dream’s familiar with, a hissing, mocking thing that curdles the very air. “Oh- you didn’t think they didn’t know, did you? He turns back towards Dream, moves closer, hair having fallen over his scar and lips twisted in a smile that shows off his glinting golden tooth, “You really- you really fuckin’ thought they didn’t know, prime, this is pathetic Dream, this is a new low even for you.”

Know what- oh.

“Of course they know, Dream,” Quackity kneels in front of him, hand reaching forward to grab him by the jaw, running his thumb back and forth over a fresh cut slashed over his cheekbone and putting enough pressure on it to make it sting, “I told them ages ago - I told you, too, did you seriously fuckin’ forget? Prime- the whole point of you being in this shithole is for the revive book. Once I get it we can finally just kill you and be done with it - of course they know, man! They’re fuckin’ cheering me on.”

Dream watches, waits for the betrayal to come, hot and fast as it always has before. Waits for the rage to come bubbling up, dark and angry, waits for his hands to shake feebly with desperate fantasies of revenge that will probably never make it out of the walls of this obsidian hell. He waits, and waits, and waits, even as Quackity grins and walks to the back of the cell, a triumphant spring to his steps, and disappears in a shattered potion of harming that sends another wave of agony through his broken body.

Nothing comes.

And- it’s almost funny, nearly has him laughing hysterically in the middle of his cell, still spread in a mangled pile of broken bones and limbs twisted unnaturally, drenched in sweat and blood, because - of course, of course now he finally manages to do what he’s been trying for all along, of course now his traitorous, bleeding heart that never failed to bruise and fracture no matter how any layers of netherite he wrapped around himself finally, finally hardens, of course now after fifty fucking days of torture does he finally learn the lessons that he’s been trying to teach all along.

Lesson 27, he remembers himself saying, hands clasped around each other as he paced back and forth on a mountain’s peak, grass crumbling beneath his boots, do not reminisce on what you have lost for it will weigh you down.

It’s been fifty days, and Dream laughs, because after so, so long, he finally has no attachments - and it’s the best feeling in the world.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

[jaskier-cult]

what the fuck is wrong with you

Julian Alfred Pankratz, a small noble boy of Lettenhove, runs away from his lessons to play in the woods, because he would much rather prefer being bare-footed and climbing among the trees than being in some stuffy room learning about assholes who killed their people and then themselves. And, out in the woods, he finds an egg.

He gets excited because he learned about eggs before, and they always hatch into cute little birds. And this egg is really big, so that means this is going to be a really cute bird.

That was logical, right?

The bigger the egg, the cuter the bird?

What he doesn’t know is that it is a griffin egg – not just a griffin, but an arch-griffin egg – that was orphaned by a witcher who killed the griffin and cleared out the nest, but missed this egg, which had rolled away and stayed hidden.

Julian only sees one option, and it’s to carry the egg home so he can care for it and wait for the baby bird to hatch. Because what else would he do? 

<><><><>

He’s in his room when it hatches, and eww – the baby bird is covered in slime and mucus and whatever else had been packed inside the egg, and this is definitely not cute, what were his mentors talking about – but then the baby screeches and rolls around, blind and weak, and its behaviour is cute and Julian’s heart absolutely melts. 

The baby is promptly named Alfie, and Julian uses towels and cloth to clean off the baby, and he scrunches up his nose in confusion, because this is a really weird looking bird.

And ugly.

But ugly as in cute.

So, Julian shrugs and showers the baby in coos and praise and love. 

He hides it from his parents and house staff, keeping Alfie hidden under his bed whenever someone comes in his room. 

She’s so smart, too, as young as she is. She listens so well to Julian, like a trained hound, and she loves curling up with Julian at night at the foot of his bed. To make sure she doesn’t starve, he feeds Alfie leftover scraps from the kitchen, and finds that she really likes meats. Specifically raw meats. Which makes sense because she’s a bird, right? Birds are omnivores, right? 

It’s not until the next week that Julian learns about griffins when he hears servants in the manor talking about the contract the witcher took, and something clicks in his head, and he’s like, “oh, so that’s why it looked like a weird bird. Because it’s a weird bird monster.”

He brings the baby, who is growing really big, too big to fit under his bed now – which he now knows is a griffin – outside again and plays with it and gets so proud and excited when Alfie starts to flap her wings and glide, jumping from high places and chasing after Julian. Alfie is really affectionate and likes to nuzzle and press against Julian like a cat. She even responds to her name, the clever little thing, but only when Julian calls it. 

She also hunts down small rodents all on her own, and even though Julian thinks the raw meat and the blood is kind of disgusting, he still praises her for her hunting skills. 

And she loves praise, and she’ll preen and puff her chest out whenever Julian showers her with love.

Alfie becomes protective over her human, and anytime Julian wanders into the woods with someone else, he quickly has to steer the other person away, lest Alfie mistake them for a danger to her Julian. Years after finding her, Alfie even once mauled a man who tried to rape Julian in the woods, when he was only fourteen, and Julian had never loved Alfie so much before. Immediately after, Alfie sniffed and tried to lick the blood off Julian, making high pitched whining and keening noises, like an overgrown puppy, worried that Julian was hurt. Julian gave her so much praise and coos that day, and he even brought back the best cuts of his dinner for her to enjoy. 

Within a few months of bringing her outside to stay, the griffin grows to full size, and has the power and strength to kill ten men without blinking.  

She’s still cute when she rolls over for Julian to give her belly rubs.

<><><><> 

Imagine Geralt’s surprise and exasperation to learn that the hopeless, painfully vulnerable and naïve bard who followed him, has a massive arch-griffin as a pet.

Certainly not him, who is attacked promptly after punching said bard.

<><><><> 

“Wait!” Jaskier choked out, still out of breath from being sucker-punched. “Don’t hurt her! Please!”

Geralt ignored the bard, tucking and rolling to avoid a swipe of massive razor-sharp claws. He brings his sword up, but the griffin jumps back, cleverer than most of its kin, and hisses at him, strangely subdued for a normally aggressive monster. It was weird, the way it kept glancing around and back at the bard, like it didn’t want to fight and wanted to fly away. And Geralt usually would have let it go, if not for the fact that it was between him and the bard and posed a danger.

He signed Aard, and the griffin was pushed back, shrieking as it crashed painfully into a tree. 

Geralt brought his sword down to meet it, but then he was being body-checked by the bard, being thrown with unexpected strength. 

“What the fuck –” 

Then the bard stumbled and put his body in the way. “Stop!” 

“Get out of the way, bard,” the witcher growled. 

“No, you can punch me all you want, but I won’t let you hurt Alfie! She was only trying to protect me!” 

The witcher had to blink to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating. 

Then the bard spun around and was running over to the arch-griffin, absolutely and painfully no sense of self-preservation in sight. And then, he fucking cuddled up to the monster. 

“Oh, baby, are you okay?” He asked in a high-pitched, soft voice, as if talking to a kitten. 

That was definitely not a kitten. The furthest thing from it. 

Then the griffin moved, and Geralt was ready to watch the bard’s head be chomped off, when the griffin nuzzled into his chest in what could be called an affectionate manner. 

Geralt blinked. 

The griffin fucking what? 

<><><><> 

It was unsettling to travel with an arch-griffin. It was even more unsettling to see it act like a tame overgrown puppy to a painfully naïve bard, who showered it unconditionally with love, kisses, and praise, near constantly. Jaskier would stroke and pet the griffin whenever he liked, and would fucking climb on its back to ride, and the damned griffin let him.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful! You’re so cute, such a good girl!” Jaskier crooned. “Yes, you are! So majestic! Geralt, isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve ever seen!”

Geralt wouldn’t exactly call an arch-griffin cute.

<><><><> 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Lambert said, two seconds into meeting the bard. 

The fucking arch-griffin chirped affectionately and nuzzled into the bard.