#and why not - when he's so good at making bone prosthetics and braces? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alrightberries · 4 years

Text

“may i?”

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff & angst. ❈ word count: 8k

❈ summary: you’re the medic assigned to take care of captain levi as he heals from the explosion. you’re also the only person he tolerates.

alternatively: in which you create prosthetics for humanity’s most war torn soldier.

❈ trigger warnings: manga spoliers. profanity. mentions of violence, blood, gore, and death. mentions of sexual themes.

a/n: levi’s kinda ooc bc i couldn’t write the progress of his relationship with reader without making it longer than it already is. also this is medically inaccurate (re: healing time of broken bones and amputations) for the sake of the plot so pls no one throw hands.

Levi doesn't like looking at mirrors.

There was no tragic backstory behind his distaste for the reflective surface, no deeper meaning or hidden symbolism as one would expect from a man with his past. The reason behind it was simple: he just saw no reason to.

He wasn't vain, wasn't too concerned about his face, didn't care much to look at his physical appearance aside from when he had to cut his hair or get ready for the day to look presentable to his comrades. He knew he was attractive, and effortlessly so. The little letters and gifts he’d received from fans and admirers proved as much, and his title of “Humanity’s Strongest” only added to the appeal. Really, there was no reason for him to always be looking into a mirror.

But now... Levi simply couldn’t understand why that mindset had vanished. It was replaced with the fervor to always be staring at his own reflection— not out of vanity but out of disgust.

The disgust of staring at his mutilated face.

He warily lifts up the small mirror he held in his hand, features contorting into a grimace at the man staring back at him. Scars and cuts littered his cheeks— some deeper than others, but none as terrible as the long jagged scar that ran down the right side of his face. It started from his forehead and ended at his bottom lip, held together by ugly black stitches the medics had hurriedly sewn on him the second he got back to the base. His right eye was split in half, completely useless, completely blind; held together by the same black stitches that donned the ugliest scar of all.

And Levi couldn’t help but think that this man was hideous.

He was hideous.

Levi reaches out with his right hand to touch his scars out of habit. He feels his heart tighten when he realizes there’s only air where his fingers should be and he nearly breaks the small mirror he held in his good hand from how hard he was squeezing it.

The mirror makes a gentle clink as he sets it down onto the mahogany of his desk. Bitterly, he stares at his three fingered right hand. His pointer and middle finger were gone, nothing but pathetic stumps protruding from his knuckles where they used to be. It was still covered in bandages and a makeshift brace so he wouldn’t strain himself when he moved, but he knew it was useless. He couldn’t move those stumps even if he tried.

He probably should’ve been thankful to have made it out of that explosion alive— not unscathed, but alive nonetheless. Though Hange had tried cheering him up (“Look on the bright side, we can wear matching eyepatches now!”) he simply couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate coming back so... useless.

His writing was as legible as chicken scratches. His right eye spasmed in pain every time he blinked. He couldn’t even try to relearn how to use the ODM gear with his new circumstance, and he mentally curses out his orders to stay put and heal.

Too many things were lost, too many people, too many lives.

All because of that damned explosion.

All because of that damned bearded bastard.

Levi is pulled from his thoughts when three soft knocks reverberate throughout his otherwise quiet office, and he rushes to put his eyepatch on and hide the mirror in his desk drawer. He attempts to sit in what he hopes was a seemingly ‘professional’ position but his stiffness gives away his discomfort.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

He feels himself release a breath he didn’t even know he was holding once he hears the voice. Your voice.

“Come in.”

The wooden door creaks open before it closes with a soft click, floorboards making minuscule sounds at the weight as you make your way to his desk. Levi pretends to look busy as his good eye scans the document he held in his hand.

The sound of porcelain clinking against porcelain grabs his attention.

“Brought you tea.” You murmured. “I figured it won’t be up to your standards again but I did try my best.”

Levi still doesn’t look up as you set the tray down on his desk, and his good hand reaches for the steaming cup to take a small sip. His eye twitches at the taste.

“If you were going to bring me shit tea anyway then why bother.”

He hears a gentle chuckle but doesn’t see the way you smile at his contradictory words and actions. He made no move to throw the “shit tea” away, something he was infamous for with teas that didn’t meet his standards. Instead, he keeps sipping, gently placing the cup down onto his table once he finished.

“I thought that maybe distracting you with terrible tea would keep your mind off me changing your bandages.” You explained, and Levi nods but doesn’t speak. When silence once again filled the room, interrupted only by the occasional crumple of documents you knew he wasn’t reading, you take it as your cue to pick up your pen and clipboard to start the checkup.

“Have you felt any discomfort or pain in any of your extremities such as your right eye or your right hand?”

“No.”

“Have you felt any throbbing or other sensations in any part of your body?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any fevers, headaches, dizziness, or sudden spasms in any part of your body?”

“No.”

He hears you set your clipboard down and his skin tingles from your doubtful stare. He didn’t have to look to know it was there. He risks a glimpse at the papers attached to the wooden board in your hands but just as he expected, you didn’t write down any of his answers.

“Have you lied to any or all of the questions I’ve asked during your routine checkup for today?”

“...yes.”

A soft sigh escape through your nose and your eyebrows furrow in disappointment. “Captain, lying to your medic won’t get you to the battlefield faster. You’re of no use to anyone when you’re injured.”

Levi clicks his tongue at your reply but he holds his smart ass comments back. He knew you were right, and it infuriated him so much.

“Fine,” he grits out. “My right eye’s been twitching all day. The fucking stumps on my right hand don’t feel like stumps. It feels like I still have fingers there, and I know it’s complete bullshit since they were lying next to my face when they got blown off.”

His angry glance finally lands on you. “That the answer you were looking for, oh medic of mine?”

It was now your turn to click your tongue. “Not quite,” you mumble, writing down his answers onto the file in your hands. “Feeling your missing limbs even after they’re amputated is normal. It’s called phantom touch.”

You place the clipboard back onto his desk and reach into your pockets, pulling out pristine white gloves before gingerly putting them on.

“Your right eye still spasming though, that’s concerning.” You add. Your hands slowly reach out to his face, and Levi momentarily flinches away out of habit. But you made no move to touch him.

He eyes you warily, tense muscles relaxing even just the slightest as he sees your gentle stare.

“May I?” You ask softly, a caring smile on your face.

Levi only nods, not trusting his words, and he once again tenses up as he feels your hands unbuckle the leather straps of his eyepatch before setting it down onto his table. He keeps his bad eye shut.

Your hands are gentle as you touch his face, touch nothing but a soft caress in such a way that his tender stitches felt no pain. Your eyes are focused on his stitches, lacking any judgement or ill will, and Levi’s suddenly aware of how close you actually were to his face.

Your eyes were beautiful, he noticed. They always were. The little furrow in your eyebrows as you concentrated was cute, and the soft caress of your hands on his cheeks as you inspected his face felt... nice, and dare he even say relaxing. Momentarily, when he finally lets himself adjust to the atmosphere, he lets his tense muscles ease.

“Can you open your right eye, Levi?”

“Y-yeah.”

FUCK.

What the fuck.

Did he just fucking stutter?

Levi’s surprise is only painted on his face for a few mere seconds before he schools his expression back to one of stoicness and neutrality, and he prays to all the existing gods he knew of that you wouldn’t notice.

He risks another glance at you. One of your eyebrows is arched and the corner of your lip is quirked up in a small smirk, but you dared not comment on the captain’s speech mishap.

Fuck. So you did notice.

Before he could try to save face by dishing out some bullshit reprimand of being disrespectful for calling him by his name and not his title, the words die on his tongue as you lean in impossibly close and oh god your noses were almost touching, your eyes are even more beautiful up close, and what the fuck is—

“Captain,” you repeat. “Can you open your right eye please?”

Oh, right.

He doesn’t speak as he does what he was told. He feels his eye open but no vision comes to his senses.

“It’s looking... not so good.” He hears you mumble, face contorted into one of concern. “It’s actually looking pretty bad.”

Levi scoffs. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you.”

You roll your eyes, the small smile once again returning to your lips.

“How long have you been keeping the eyepatch on?” You ask. Your hands are holding his head in place now, grasp a little more firm but not enough to hurt.

“An hour at most.”

“Are you lying again?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

You nod but made no further comment, leaning back to grab the clipboard once more to write down your observations.

“So,” you start. “Are you going to tell me the truth or do I have to poke your bad eye?”

Levi’s lips turn into a frown at the notion. “I’ve kept it on the entire day. And I know you’re probably lying about poking my eye, but in case you’re not, no. I do not want you poking my eye.”

You nod your head again, writing more things down onto your little clipboard.

“You should let it breathe. Keep it on for an hour or two at most but take it off when you sleep. Too much friction with the eyepatch might cause irritation.”

As the consultation draws on, Levi tries (keyword: tries) to be as honest as he could. Not that he could be dishonest when you were so good at snooping out his lies, though. You were already used to his stubbornness.

He wasn’t lying, however, when he tells himself that his heartbeat did not speed up when your hands gently held his own as you changed his bandages and cleaned his amputation; he wasn’t lying when he tells himself that the tips of his ears were not burning a bright red, cheeks flushed as you asked him to take off his shirt; and he definitely wasn’t lying when he tells himself that his dick did not twitch in his pants when your hands caressed his abdomen and back, accidentally hitting sweet spots he didn’t even know existed, to inspect his still purple bruises and healing ribs.

Yeah, he definitely was not lying.

“Okay, I think we’re done for today.” You say cheerfully. “I’ll be back same time tomorrow for another checkup.”

He glances up as he finishes buttoning the last buttons on his shirt. The gloves from your hands are taken off and tucked back into your pockets, and you hand him a small vial full of pills.

“Take one of these, twice a day at most, whenever you feel pain in your right eye.”

“I’m not feeling any—“

“Sure you’re not.” You cut him off with a smile. “I believe you. But feel free to contact me for any pain or discomfort you feel at any time of the day. I’ll be more than glad to find you.”

Levi says nothing, opting to instead stare at you as you gather the now empty teacup and kettle, placing them back onto the tray along with your clipboard and pen.

“Oh, by the way.” You speak, walking towards the door and opening it. You don’t spare him another glance as you finish your sentence. “I don’t think I can prescribe any pills to lessen blood flow to your dick.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and Levi’s momentarily mortified as he processes your words. He risks yet another glance, this time down to his lap.

Shit, he thinks before he sighs. His hands readjust the hard-on in his pants.

Nothing goes past your observant eyes.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Levi doesn’t bother to look busy like he did last week, you noticed, because this time he was actually busy. Which was odd considering he was taken off paperwork duty until he could write again.

“What’re you up to?” You ask, setting the tray down onto his desk and pouring him a cup of tea. Your eyes curiously glance at the papers scattered about his usually clean desk, each filled with indiscernible writings of his name.

“Trying to write. I’m useless until I can.” He mumbles before he scoffs. “This would be easier if I had all my fingers.”

You nod along to his replies yet made no move to stop him. You picked up your pen and clipboard to write things down as well.

“You’re not supposed to be using your right hand, your amputation is still too tender.”

“Tch, what do you expect me to do then?”

“Uh... use your non-injured, complete left hand?”

Levi blinks at your words, and he has half a mind to slap his forehead for being dumb and not thinking of that. Which he undoubtedly would’ve done had you not pushed the steaming cup of tea closer to his sitting form.

“Have some tea. You look like you’re about to pop a vein.”

Your smart remark is met with silence and a steely glare, and surprisingly, as Levi drank the tea you prepared, he notices it’s not downright terrible.

“Your brew’s better.”

“Yeah. I finally took your advice of using a thermometer to get ‘the perfect temperature’ after you complained about my ‘shitty tea’ for the nth time that week.”

Levi hides his little smirk behind the teacup, silently reveling in his small triumph before setting it down. From the corner of his eye, he notices you eyeing something, and his heart drops as his gaze follows your own.

The mirror. He forgot to hide the mirror.

Discreetly (or as discreet as he could) he takes the mirror and shoves it back into his desk drawer. You had many questions, that much he knew, but he was thankful when you didn’t push it further.

“Shall we begin?” You ask instead.

“Yeah.”

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Levi’s been trying to write again, you surmised, as you glanced at his focused eyes and the tenseness of his shoulders. Scattered papers still littered his desk and he was still trying to write his name. This time though, you were relieved when you saw he was using his left hand.

“Finally took my advice?” You asked, pouring him a cup of tea.

“Regretting it.” He doesn’t look up from his task as he answers, something you noticed he always did. “It’s been three days since I took your advice and my handwriting’s shittier than it was then.”

You smile, hand reaching out to hold his incomplete one that was clenched into a fist on the desk. He immediately stops writing, opting to instead stare at your hand atop his before glancing up at you.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you relax. You might tear your stitches.”

He feels you give his hand a gentle squeeze, and the warmth of your hand is suddenly gone from his own. You reach for the cup of tea you prepared, and he wills his cheeks to not show his blush at the small gesture. You slide the teacup across the table.

“What makes you think holding my hand will make me relax?” He asks snarkily. He reaches for the tea with his good hand.

“Are you relaxed?”

Levi ponders the question in his mind, noticing how his muscles were no longer tense, his shoulders were now slumped down, and his eyebrows were no longer scrunched. He sips the tea.

“Your brew’s still shit.” He replies instead.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I came here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Your head peaks out from behind his door as you enter, closing it with your foot and making your way to his desk. You were no longer surprised when you saw him still writing and scribbling messily at his desk as he’s done for days now, and you discreetly eye the papers as you pour him his tea.

“You don’t have to keep bringing me tea.” He comments, still focused on writing.

“I know.” You reply. “But how am I going to perfect your brew if I don’t practice?”

Levi glances up, and he raises his eyebrow as he sees you sat on his table, a cheeky grin on your face. He makes no move to scold you for being so casual in his office and instead reaches out to take a sip of the tea. He notices your expectant eyes, the grin on your face widening as he nods in approval.

“Your tea’s not bad today.”

“Really?! You think it’s good?”

“I said not bad, I didn’t say it was good.”

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

The first thing you noticed as you entered Levi’s office was, of course, the scattered paper around his desk, face focused as he continued to practice his writing. The second thing you noticed was that he was no longer using his left hand.

“It’s barely been two weeks. Did you give up already?” You ask as you pour his tea.

“I write better with my right hand.” He simply replies, not even glancing up as you slide him the beverage. He uses his good hand to reach out for the cup, silently preparing his tongue for another unpleasant attack.

He takes a sip and his eyebrows shoot up from surprise. The tea was... delicious, absolutely delicious, and Levi couldn’t find anything to complain about. The temperature was right, it wasn’t too bitter but wasn’t too sweet, and the aroma was delectable. He takes a sip once more to double check if his taste buds were deceiving him, but the second sip was just as good as the last.

His suspicious eye makes contact with yours, a shit eating grin painted on your face as you eagerly awaited his feedback. The porcelain makes a sound as he sets it down.

“You bought this from the tea shop across the barracks. That’s cheating.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

Three soft knocks reverberate through the door to Levi’s office. The captain hastily hides the papers with your name scribbled on, shoving them inside his desk drawer. A shiny glint catches his eye before he could close the shelf and he pauses as he realizes it was his mirror. He hadn’t taken it out in a while. He was always too distracted with criticizing your piss poor tea to even think about his appearance.

“Name and business.” He calls out, still eyeing the shiny object.

“Hange Zoe. Y/N asked me to do your daily checkup.”

Levi's eyes widened, heartbeat stopping for a second as he heard Hange’s voice. Where were you?

“Come in.” He closes the drawer as the door opens and Hange walks in.

Levi couldn’t help but notice that he was becoming uncomfortable the closer his friend got; skin prickling, hands sweating, his collar feeling a little too tight. Little by little getting more conscious of himself as Hange walked closer.

Was this what insecurity felt like?

He briefly wonders why he didn’t feel it with you, but his mind answers him with a simple fact: you were the only person who’s seen him mangled and bruised, and each time, you showed nothing but gentleness and care. Yet even with this knowledge, the notion that a person other than you would be doing his checkup today didn’t sit right with him.

He pushes his discomfort to the back of his mind, telling himself to remain objective. But it didn’t stop him from subconsciously adjusting his eyepatch and hiding his incomplete hand underneath the desk. He eyes the tray in Hange’s hands, spotting the kettle and teacup.

“I don’t want your shitty tea.”

Hange doesn’t look up as they pour him a cup, humming a tune Levi doesn’t recognize as they hand him the warm beverage.

“It’s not my shitty tea.” They reply. “It’s Y/N’s shitty tea. They made you a batch before they left for the mission.”

Levi’s good hand pauses for a brief second as he reaches for the cup, mind still processing the fact that Hange said Y/N and mission. You hadn’t mentioned anything to him, and since he wasn’t allowed paperwork duty until he could write legibly, he wasn’t aware of any missions.

“I see.” He takes a sip, and he immediately squints his eyes in doubt once his tongue caught taste of the flavor. “This isn’t Y/N’s tea.”

Hange looks up from the clipboard they were writing on, eyebrows are arched in curiosity. “What?”

“This isn’t Y/N’s tea. This is from the tea shop down the road.”

Hange’s confused face stays still for a few seconds, silently assessing whether Levi was being serious or not. A smile cracks on their face, turning into a grin as small chuckles left their lips, before finally turning into full blown laughter. The captain waits for the eccentric soldier to stop cackling and start explaining, but Hange’s answer only serves to confuse him more.

“Nice try, shorty. You crack me up.”

Levi ignores the remark about his height. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N owns the tea shop down the road. Made the recipe for the black tea you love so much, even.”

The captain’s good eye twitches, and if Hange notices, they don't comment. Levi takes a sip of the tea once more, a little more doubtful this time, before sighing in content as the drink makes its way down his throat.

“Why did Y/N go on the mission? I thought they were to be my caretaker until further notice.” He chooses to ask, placing the cup down and pretending to busy himself as he absentmindedly starts practicing his writing.

“Y/N is our topic medic, their skills are more valuable on the battlefield than in an office with you.” They reply, and the captain pretends that the truthfulness of the statement doesn’t sting the slightest.

“Besides,” Hange pulls out white gloves from their pockets, sliding the cloth over their hands to prepare for the checkup. “Y/N personally asked to be reassigned.”

Levi sputters and chokes on his tea at the sudden revelation, and he feels Hange’s hand patting his back as he tries to compose himself. You asked to be reassigned? But why?

“Why?” He manages to choke out before once more descending into a coughing fit. Hange silently hands him a napkin.

“They didn’t say.”

Perhaps you were done with his incessant criticizing of your tea making skills (if so, then why’d you keep brewing him a crappy batch? Clearly you could’ve made good tea whenever you wanted.) Perhaps you grew tired of watching over him everyday when you could’ve been attending to more injured soldiers in the medical wing or the battlefield. Or perhaps you felt a little cooped up in the office with him, hating that you were confined when you could’ve gone on missions to help the wounded.

Whatever your reason may be, Levi finally gets himself to stop coughing and wipes his mouth. Any questions he had, he would ask you. For now, he pushes his feelings to the back of his mind to ask a more important question.

“Why are you here and not on the expedition, Commander?”

Hange shrugs.

“I wanted to bond over eyepatches with you.”

Levi was trying, okay? He was really trying.

But god, the new caretaker assigned to him was nothing short of a complete and utter noob. His bandages were always either too loose or too tight, his touches every time he tried to inspect Levi’s scars were always an ironclad grip, and worst of all, his tea was pure and utter shit.

“Watch it!” Levi barks, and his caretaker jumps about two feet away from him at his yell. “What’re you trying to do?! Are you inspecting my broken ribs or trying to give me a broken rib?”

Oh, that too. His caretaker was the hands on type, something Levi wouldn’t have minded if not for the fact that his caretaker was also heavy-handed, and Levi had had enough of this bullshit.

“Stop it, just stop. Get out of my office, right now, and find me a new caretaker.”

“B-but, Captain, there’s no one else who can—“

His caretaker is cut off when he makes eye contact with the enraged captain. Levi’s eyebrows were knitted together in anger, and the glare on his left eye was nothing short of terrifying. The fact that he only had one good eye left did nothing to lessen the intimidation of his glare; if anything, it made it even more intimidating.

“I will not repeat my order. Go.”

The boy in front of him nods nervously, head bowed down and metaphorical tail tucked between his legs as he quickly scurries out of the room. Once Levi hears the soft click of the door shutting, he takes a deep breath and lets his body slump into his chair.

That was the fifth caretaker he’d kicked out this month. He wasn’t picky, he tells himself; he just had standards. Standards that apparently these damned amateurs they kept sending him couldn’t meet.

Briefly, his conscience contradicts him; the image of a certain top medic popping in his mind, one that he hadn’t spoken to in almost a month since they dropped him out of the blue. Maybe, just maybe, he was being picky. With a dash of passive aggressive and a sprinkle of butthurt. But Levi quickly brushes that thought aside when he remembers the incompetence of all his recent caretakers.

That was definitely it. He wasn’t petty, all his caretakers were simply idiots.

The captain hears three loud knocks on his wooden door, and he grits his teeth as he mentally prepares himself for whatever fuckery the clown caretaker they assigned to him was about to do this time. True to his words, Levi did end up breaking a rib from how heavy handed the last one was, and though he knew it was partially because his body was still quite fragile, it didn’t hurt his request for a new medic.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here to do your daily checkup.”

Levi feels his eyes widen and heart speed up, and he once again rushes to hide all the papers scribbled with your name as he shoves them into his desk drawer. He composes himself, trying to appear uninterested and professional as he speaks.

“Come in.”

The door squeaks open and Levi doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes soften and his shoulders slump in relief as he sees the familiar sight of you. A soft smile dawned on your face as you gently kicked the door close, walking towards his desk and setting down the tray you held in your hands.

“Heard you fired everybody who came after me.” You mused, eyes teasing as you poured him a cup of tea. He didn’t think he’d miss someone pouring him a cup of tea as much as he did now.

“Their tea was shit.” He replies, taking a sip of the warm beverage and holding back his sputter at the god awful taste. “Yours is too.”

You chuckle, picking up the clipboard and pen to start writing for today’s checkup. “Can’t help that I suck at brewing tea.”

“You don’t have to keep making me shit tea anymore. The secret’s out.”

You freeze in your spot, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before you nervously clear your throat. Levi definitely noticed.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you own the tea shop, Y/N. Stop lying.”

You let out an irritated sigh. “Hange told you, didn’t they?”

“Yep.” He replies, popping the ‘p’.

I’m going to fucking kill Hange, you think to yourself, silently gathering your composure once more. Levi watches you intently, continuing to sip on the terrible tea before deciding that he’d assaulted his taste buds enough and placing it down.

“Why’d you do it?” You hear him ask. “And don’t lie to me. You’re not the only one who’s gotten better at spotting lies.”

Why’d you brew shitty him tea? Is he that affected by it?

Your reply was already on the tip of your tongue, head glancing up from your clipboard to say your answer. But your words don’t come out and your mind suddenly cleared when you saw the look in his eye.

Levi’s eyes were nothing short of gorgeous; a beautiful gunmetal gray with a gaze deadly enough to kill a man with one mere look. But right now, even though they were schooled into his usual look of disinterest, you could see him... wavering. A mix of unanswered questions, curiosity, and— for the briefest second you swore you saw— hurt.

“I take it you’re not asking me why I brewed you crappy tea for the past three months?”

Levi clicks his tongue in irritation. “No, you idiot. I’m asking you why you left out of the blue. If you had a problem you could’ve brought it up with me—“

“No!” You quickly interrupt. “No, god no, you’re perfect.”

The captain’s eyes widen, and you suddenly realize the words you’d spoken as you quickly try to explain before Levi could interject.

“There was no problem, okay? I didn’t request to be reassigned because I had a problem. It’s quite the opposite, actually.” You murmur.

He eyes you curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I have a solution. May I?” You gesture, asking if you could sit on his desk. Levi nods, not understanding why you needed permission now when you’ve done it of your own volition countless times before, but he suddenly understands when you sit directly in front him and not across from him like you usually would.

He watches as you pull a small brown box from your jacket, placing it down onto his desk before opening it. Levi is quiet as he eyes the item inside.

“It’s just a prototype for now. I was hoping to carve out a better one in my free time, one that would be a custom fit, but my free time kinda went flying out the window when you started firing people left and right until no one would accept you but me.”

You pick up the wooden prosthetic fingers and gently place them onto his desk. Your hand opens palm up, waiting for Levi to be comfortable enough to lend his hand to you, and he does so silently.

“The prosthetic’s made from redwood and the joints are connected by small metal rods. It’s light and durable, and I weatherproofed it so it wouldn’t break down so easily when you use them.” You explain, unwrapping the bandages around his hand. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out the concept, actually. I just took a pair of standard issue Survey Corps gloves and cut out all the fingers. Then, y’know, attached the wooden fingers to where the pointer and middle should be.”

Levi could only nod. You weren’t sure if his silence was good or bad and you couldn’t read his look. But Levi— Levi was speechless. In his mind, he dared not speak in fear of looking like a fool. Especially not in front of the person who gave back a piece of himself (quite literally, at that.)

He tenderly looks at the way you fitted the prosthetics onto his own hand, fastening brown leather straps around his wrists to secure the glove. The minute the glove is on and he sees all five fingers for the first time since the explosion, he feels like he’s about to cry.

“I had Hange help me with the anatomy so you could still bend them as you would normal fingers. I couldn’t figure out how to make them move on their own though, so you’d have to manually do that yourself.”

To demonstrate, you bend one of the prosthetics, the wood imitating the bend of his finger but not springing back up despite his brain commanding it to do so. You watch intently as he fumbles around with his hand, moving the fingers about. The wonder and astonishment in his usually unimpressed eye didn’t go unnoticed by you, and it spurred you to continue on.

“Unfortunately, it’s not strong enough to flick the switches on ODM gear. You still have to relearn how to hold your blades when you’re cleared for training again.” You say regrettably. “But it’s strong enough to hold a pen.”

Your hand reaches for the forgotten quill across his desk, dipping it in the inkwell before offering it to him with a small smile. Levi slowly takes it, still speechless, as he readjusts his prosthetic to hold the quill and write.

His writing is still shit, undoubtedly; still no better than chicken scratches as he messily writes down the words. But god, the sight of the indiscernible handwriting next to five fingers brought tears to his eyes as he finally finished writing his name. The slightly legible letters of ‘Levi Ackerman’ stared back at him.

Levi couldn’t hold it back anymore. He immediately set the quill down before standing up to engross you in a warm embrace. You tense in his arms, not used to Levi willingly initiating any form of physical touch at all. But as he tucks his head into the curve of your neck and his shoulders start shaking, splotches of wet dripping onto your collarbones, you feel your arms encircle his waist, bringing him closer as you whisper sweet nothings into his ear and let him cry in peace.

Your hands ran through his scalp, willing him to calm down. Though normally the sight of a crying Captain Levi was something you never thought you’d see, you couldn’t help but feel honored he chose to share this rare moment of vulnerability with you.

You let him cry, still holding onto him, giving him his time. Briefly, you wonder what he was thinking. What pushed him to tears? Did the captain ever let himself mourn his losses? Does he mourn his friends, his family, the little pieces of himself that he’d lost along the way?

Though you had a million questions in your mind you dared not pry as you continued to comfort the weeping man in front of you.

Finally, after a few moments of nothing but silent sniffles and your sweet words, Levi finds it in himself to finally speak.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

Night had fallen around the base, encasing the world in darkness that beckons slumber. Levi continued to stay awake, still in his office, staring at the prosthetic you had given him hours before.

Curiously, he feels himself form his right hand into a fist, not surprised that the two wooden fingers didn’t comply like the rest. It was imperfect and he himself thought it could use some tiny adjustments for the sake of comfort— something he definitely would bring up to you as requested.

And yet, despite knowing his ‘fingers’ were nothing but wood, leather and metal, he couldn’t help but think it was the best thing he could ever ask for.

Silently, under the lone glowing light of his oil lamp, Levi pulls out a blank sheet of paper and begins to turn his feelings into thoughts, thoughts into words, and words into sentences as his quill meets the white surface.

Hours later, he finds himself in front of your quarters, a candle in his left hand while his right held a pristine white envelope. The envelope containing unsaid words, unspoken wishes, and hidden feelings.

Your eyes are sleepy when you answer the door, half lidded and hair a mess when his knocks had woken you from your slumber. You rub your eye, adjusting to the light as you stare at the person in front of you.

“Captain?” You ask, stifling a yawn. “What’re you doing here so late?”

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he opts to look at you with an unreadable expression as he asks, “Can I come in?”

You stare at him for a few seconds more, and the thought of you slamming the door on his face crossed Levi’s mind; but that didn’t happen. Rather, you nodded and ushered him inside your bedroom, closing the door behind him as you once again flopped onto your bed.

He places the candle down on your bedside table and now he was unsure what to do. He had a plan— or, he thought he had a plan— but awkwardly standing in your room in the middle of the night wasn’t part of it.

Quietly, you chuckle at the sight of Humanity’s Strongest looking so odd and out of place, unsure and slightly panicked. You pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit, and he complies.

Both of you had your knees pulled up to your chests and you were thankful when you noticed Levi had taken his shoes off before sitting on the bed. A comfortable silence encompasses the atmosphere in the dimly lit room. Shoulders touching, heads not daring to turn because of the close proximity.

From the corner of your eye, Levi looked like he was deep in thought. Not the kind you saw plenty of times in the battlefield or in strategy meetings, not the kind you saw when you entered his office as he hastily tried to hide his mirror. But the kind you saw when he quietly suffered through his own living hell.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, finally breaking the silence. He shakes his head.

“Well, what brings the mighty Captain Levi to my humble little room?”

“Levi.”

“What?”

“Call me Levi.” He murmurs, downcast staring intently at the envelope on his lap. “In this room, I’m not your captain. I’m not your patient. I’m not Humanity’s Strongest.”

You feel your eyebrows scrunch as surprise and curiosity paint your face, but not because of the captain’s offer to call him so casually. No— the surprise you showed was because he unclasped the prosthetic you made, not even sparing it a second glance as he carelessly threw it to you, and you barely managed to catch the limbs you’d spent countless hours and sleepless nights to create.

“Levi, what are you—“

“But I’m not a broken teacup for you to fix either.” He says, eyeing the stumps on right hand. “I’m not a doll who’s missing some parts. I’m not a charity case accepting donations.”

You were looking at him now, head turned in his direction as he unclasps his eyepatch and lets it fall onto his lap. He raises his head, eyes making contact with yours.

“I’m just Levi.”

A few moments of silence pass but neither of you look away. The reason why the captain continued to stare wasn’t something you knew. But the reason why you never looked away was because of his eyes.

Levi’s eyes were still as gorgeous as you remembered them to be. Though his right eye was a different shade from his left, a lighter and paler shade of gray; though it lacked the light and emotions his unharmed eye bore; though it had a jagged scar running through it from where he was hit, you couldn’t help but think that his eyes were still the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen.

Gingerly, you lift up your hand to touch the right side of his face where his battle wounds lie, the prosthetic forgotten as it falls somewhere in the sheets. He doesn’t flinch like he did the first few times you did it, when you reached for his face during checkups to inspect his scars. But it didn’t stop you from asking.

“May I?”

Levi doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings your hand to rest on his cheek as his head leaned closer to your touch. His eyes closed momentarily, almost as if he were reveling in your warmth. But they opened once more, and you willed yourself not to get lost in the sea of gray.

“You were never a charity case to me, Levi. Or any of the things you just said.”

“Then what am I to you?”

Your heart stops, eyes widening ever so slightly at his question. Would you tell him? No, you couldn’t. Not when—

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N.” His grip on your hand tightens a bit, not enough to hurt but enough to distract you from your thoughts. You realize the hand that held your own against his cheeks was his broken hand, his mutilated hand.

...would you really tell him?

You sigh, eyes finally leaving his. “You’re just another soldier who got hurt from a battle, asking a medic to take the pain away.”

Your hand slips out of his grip and goes back to your side, and you turn away from him once more.

“Are you lying?” He asks.

“No.”

“Then look into my eyes and tell me what I am to you.”

“I can’t.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly, hesitant but determined to stick to your words. And Levi knew that he was never going to get an answer. He sighs, shoulders slumping down in defeat. It was now his turn to look away from you, gaze falling to his lap. The envelope holding the letter crinkles and he’s reminded why he’s here.

“I know.” He whispers back. “But do me a favor.”

He doesn’t look your way as he hands you the letter. He doesn’t look your way when you silently took it, eyeing the red wax seal that bore his initials, fingers tracing over the edges before—

“Don’t open it yet. Open it tomorrow morning before you come in for my checkup.”

You only nodded in response. You reached out, placing the envelope on your bedside table before once again sitting next to Levi. Just as you had started, a comfortable silence blankets the atmosphere. Shoulders touching, heads not daring to turn because of the proximity.

But this time, it was he who breaks the silence.

“I don’t know what the future holds.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what the future holds.” He repeats. “I could die in action tomorrow and be one of the bodies they wheel back from war, or you could die trying to save someone in the battlefield. Even if neither of us die tomorrow, there’s always a possibility that we’ll die the day after that. And the day after that and the day after that. Such are the risks of our jobs.”

He takes a deep breath. “But tonight, I don’t want to focus on tomorrow. I don’t want to focus on what the future holds. I don’t want to focus on titans or enemy troops or looking after my team.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You.”

Your eyes soften. “But what am I to you?”

You didn’t know what to expect, what his answer may be. But you know you didn’t expect it when Levi’s fingers gently grabbed your chin and coaxed your head to look in his direction. You didn’t expect it when you opened your eyes and met his, his warm palm resting on your cheek. And what you didn’t expect most was for his eyes to look at you with so much love, so much care and adoration. Gone were the facades of boredom and disinterest; the stoicness and detachment they always seemed to reflect. All there was left was softness, warmth, and what seemed to be the unmistakable swirls of vulnerability.

“You’re just another medic too busy putting other peoples’ lives before your own.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.” He whispers. “But you make me want to plan for a future I know we won’t have— a future we can’t have.”

And for the first time, you knew he meant it. You knew what he meant.

In your line of work full of death and violence and risks almost too big to take. In what you once thought was your little world, turning out to be too big for you to handle. In your personal brand of hell where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, and loss was the only constant— it was enough. This small moment was enough.

“You have the most beautiful eyes.” You whispered, entranced. A soft chuckle leaves Levi’s lips, eyes turning into crescent moons so fitting of his gray orbs and your heart twitches at the sight and sound of his melodious laughter.

His thumb brushes over your cheek and your eyes meet his once again, the beautiful shades of gray staring you back. You didn’t know who did it first but at this point you didn’t care enough to find out because slowly, you both leaned in. Slowly, you both closed your eyes. And slowly, you both tilted your heads.

He pauses.

“May I?” Levi asks, lips merely inches away from yours. You nod.

“You may.”

And suddenly, the distance between your lips was no more.

There were no fireworks, no explosions in your heart or butterflies in your belly. There was no feeling of cloud nine, no feeling of want or need. There was only warmth in your chest, the feeling of a small fireplace crackling and glowing in the coldness of the night. The feeling of warm sheets and warm bodies cuddled up in an embrace.

Home.

The feeling of home.

Because that’s what you were to Levi, and what Levi was to you.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your routine checkup.”

“Come in.”

As the door opens and you set the tray down on his desk, hands gently holding the kettle to pour him his cup of tea, you noticed that Levi was still trying to write. But what caught your attention wasn’t the fact that it was no longer his name he tried to scribble, opting to write down complete sentences. What caught your attention was that he was wearing his prosthetics, and his eyepatch wasn’t on.

“Did you read the letter?” He asks. His hands were still writing and his eyes were still staring at the papers in front of him. But you could tell he was anxious.

“Yes.” You simply reply, and he nods.

“Good.”

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#the bit where levi visits oc #is my favorite part to write #and the lil banter at the start too #i love banter but i also love sweet little words #this is proof that i can be romantic without calling someone a dumbass #writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine

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synchlora · 3 years

Text

HELL YEAH alright

gonna divide this up by his various lives bc otherwise it's a Mess <3

some warnings ahead for descriptions of intense wounds, necrosis, body decay, and general infection. be careful pls

Prior to first death

rly likes robotics work and engineering so he has made his own little robots and such in the past

designed his own headset bc he is hard of hearing, wanted something to help him be able to discern noises better and also adjust volume bc Overstimulation

got a major injury to his right hand that ended up severing tendons and causing injuries that were not heal-able so he had to get it amputated. decided to work on a robotic hand to replace it and eventually finished it (he was right handed so it was a bit of a struggle)

First death

got his heart punctured in battle and it was basically useless. ponk gave him what was essentially a pacemaker and jack later adjusted this with more. robotic things (very technical wording I know /s)

basically had a large plate of metal over the left side of his chest leading to the robotic heart

u can kinda see the mechanism from outside. not super well, but he did use some glass that makes seeing it a little clearer

Second death

very badly burned his legs and left side of his body especially

ended up with a major infection in both legs and his left arm

needed to amputate his left foot and needed a permanent brace for his right

left shoulder to his hand was entirely burnt down practically to bone, also needed that amputated

decided to build off of the mechanism on his chest and made a fully robotic left arm connecting to a shoulder socket he'd also made

made a pretty basic foot prosthetic that was also robotic but not very. his left leg is now surrounded by wire/metal supports that move his leg bc it can't move well on its own

his left eye was burned out in the lava, so he built more onto his headset. made a visor to help him visualize things better and fix his depth perception w only one eye

the 3D glasses design was a bit of a dark joke on the fact that he doesn't have the depth to use 3D glasses

also fixed his headset to be able to adjust volumes better. would've done it ages ago but he just never found the time until the need was forced upon him

Third death & revival

most of him is metal/robotics by now and that's what he looks like headed into the doomsday battle

but techno blade kills him by basically shattering his skull with his sword, killing him and sending him to hell :]

literally clawed his way out of hell out of pure spite

when he made it back, he was very faded and his body was Not stable enough for him to last long

so he spent all of the time he had immunity (y'know like when u log in and ur safe from attacks for a few seconds? he had that for a few hours bc it's an Exceptional Case) trying to. fix himself

basically, he had healed somewhat from respawning but respawning doesn't fix ur issues (as jack has learned in the past) and so his skull still has a massive hole in it

so he spends several hours trying to fix up his own head with various parts and pieces until he's not on the verge of immediately dying again

this is also, despite immunity, Very fucking Painful

but he manages to Somehow make himself stable enough to live

and no one else realizes he's died, they just think he got injured and once again fixed himself back up the only way he knows how

Post-revival

everything is going relatively smoothly. he now has massive chronic migraines but that makes sense. he did have a good amount of trauma to his skull and it's not exactly. healed in a way that is "correct"

but he starts to notice some strange things

his skin is darkening in places, turning unnatural colors that really don't seem pleasant. he's starting to constantly smell rot, like there's something dead following him around. his his skin is getting uncomfortably loose almost and he's not sure what's happening

until it starts to actively slough off

and then he realizes the rotting, dead smell is him. the unnatural color of his skin is necrosis. and his skin, muscle, even bones are starting to necrose

and he is (reasonably) terrified. why isn't this killing him? how is he alive?? how in the fuck can he stop himself from literally decomposing?????

and he sticks to the same solutions he always has. he starts building

and every time he seems to have made a solution for one thing, another part of him fails. he makes a better stomach (or rather "energy core" bc who needs food anymore?) and right when he finishes that, his liver fails. he supports his spine as the nerve endings start to decay, but right as that project comes to a close, his shoulder dislocates from it's socket. etc etc etc

his current big project is basically making a hard drive to replace his brain because ooh boy it's going fast and he's not sure how well it'll work but he's gotta try

so we get to current day jack, an emotional wreck because he's always left behind and a physical wreck because he is literally falling apart as the days go by.

#i woke up this morning and was like how can i fuck up c!jack manifold and this was the solution </3 #but yeah! hes literally falling apart and that is very Distressing so hes going through some shit man #this is a result of me being conflicted on jack being a robot initially or not and this is what i decided on :]#this way he can br fully human and fully robot. much more internal conflict #anyway im gonna make a tier list of the stinkiest dsmp characters and jack will be at the top #dumbass thots #dsmp tag #jack manifol??#infection tw #decay tw #ask to tag

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alittlewhump · 3 years

Text

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 4

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: fantasy violence, death mention, fantasy religion

They had travelled for another half a day before reaching the remains of the little town. It had been thoroughly sacked, most of the buildings now just burned out husks. Blaise was staring down at the body of what had presumably been one of the inhabitants. Morgan could tell she was distressed, and she was also sending signals of anger. It was becoming apparent that anger was a standard underpinning of most of her other emotions. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides.

"He was just a kid."

Morgan didn't know how to respond. The boy had been prepubescent, the small size of his body accentuated by the large and ungainly prosthetic leg still partially attached under one knee. The forces of darkness did not discriminate, equitable in their ruthlessness. That would not be the correct thing to say right now. He ventured a soft "Yes," to which Blaise did not respond. He raised a hand, thinking to lay it on her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy he'd seen many times, but then let it fall back to his side. She would likely only take offense, not comfort, from that action. He didn't particularly like touching other people anyway, if it could be avoided.

Morgan squinted instead toward the ruined town, looking more with his mind than with his eyes. There were more like the boy, all adults but recently deceased, their bones partially scattered above the ground. It was most often undead that left their victims this way, torn asunder carelessly. They were slow enemies whose movements were easy to predict. Should be simple enough. Hopefully the scholar they sought had been fast enough to hide himself away or make an escape.

Morgan's skeletons turned in unison, raising their swords in challenge. He often relied on their perception to fill in the gaps where he wasn't paying attention. There was a yelp, and a small red demon scampered out from behind a ruined building. It didn't make it far. Before the skeletons had a chance to charge, Blaise had planted an arrow between its shoulders. Its dying cry echoed through the remnants of the town, prompting a rush of activity. It seemed a number of demons had settled in. The undead had simply been scavenging, then. That could complicate things.

Morgan urged his skeletons forward, taking a step back as he started on a clay golem. He'd managed to get the time down to about thirty seconds, but it was evident that wouldn't be fast enough for most combat situations. He would have to keep working at it.

Blaise was proving to be an extremely skilled archer. Her shots were both quick and accurate, devastating to the smaller demons. It wasn't just the imps, though; there was a group of larger demons as well, goatlike bipeds wielding wicked-looking glaives. They moved to flank the invading humans, but Morgan spotted the maneuver and commanded his minions to intercept the closest ones. Their awareness was reasonably comprehensive, but his own let him down. If the goatman behind him hadn't bleated as it raised its weapon to strike, it could easily have finished him with a single blow.

He twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the strike. Drawing his sword was easier from the far hip after all. He plunged it blindly into the demon's middle before it had a chance to raise its weapon a second time. Accuracy wasn't paramount at the moment, just so long as he got the point far enough in and wrenched to the side with sufficient strength. He jumped back, avoiding the spray of viscera that followed his blade as the demon fell.

He should have been checking for other threats instead; if he had, he might have noticed the small one creeping up behind him, emboldened by the presence of the stronger demons. It swung its blade with a battle cry, slicing into the flesh of Morgan's thigh. He cried out in surprise and pain, lashing out with his shield to gain some distance. The demon was already backing off, its fit of courage fading. It was watching him so intently that it didn't notice the skeleton behind it. A single well-aimed thrust saw it fall with a gurgle.

Morgan pressed a hand to the cut on his leg. The blade hadn't severed anything crucial, but the pain would hamper his mobility and the wound was deep enough to warrant treatment. He ordered the skeleton closer as he felt around in the pouch on his belt, fingers seeking a familiar shape - there. He uncorked the small bottle with his teeth and downed its contents. The taste of the potion lingered on his tongue, but it was mildly sweet and herbaceous, not at all unpleasant. It would only be a few minutes before the injury was fully healed. It already felt a little better.

The few remaining demons had incapacitated the other skeleton but they were fleeing now, not that it was doing them much good in the face of Blaise's arrows. She was merciless and efficient. Morgan could see why Kashya had chosen her for the task. Something was amiss, though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked around again, and his eyes fell on one of the deceased civilians. That was it - the body showed signs of undead interference, but they had slain only demons. The two types of creatures often coexisted peacefully, so it wasn't likely that one group had driven out the other.

"That's the last of them," Blaise announced, lowering her bow. "Now let's hope we can find this guy quickly so we can leave. I don't like this place."

"It looked like there would be undead, so be - oh, look there-" Something was stirring, far enough away that Morgan couldn't make out exactly what it was, but the movement wasn't promising. He pointed with his sword, his minions already on their way to investigate. Blaise nocked another arrow and raised her bow.

An enormous zombie staggered toward them. Had it been... hiding? Or just somehow unaware of the skirmish? It was surprisingly fast for its size. It was also unexpectedly strong, Morgan realized as it shattered the skeleton's skull with a single powerful strike. Blaise was on the retreat, peppering it with arrows that didn't seem to be having much effect. The clay golem made it stumble with a blow to its side, but it struck out in retaliation with such force that the construct crumbled to pieces. Morgan weighed his options quickly. It was too fast for another golem. A new skeleton might be fast enough, but it would only be able to serve as a momentary distraction. With his injured leg he wouldn't even be able to outrun this one if he fled, never mind what that might mean for Blaise. He had to find a way to separate the head from the body, or destroy the brain. Not ideal, given his limited physical capacity, but then again neither was dying.

Blaise called out, "Some support would be nice!" Yes, it - oh, she meant from him. The zombie was focused on her as the only aggressor. He did have the weaponry better suited to dispatch it, if only he could reach its head. He struck the hilt of his sword against his buckler and shouted, hoping the noise would get its attention. It did not. If it was going to ignore him, maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Morgan darted in, intending to strike at the zombie's knees. Joints were always vulnerable, good targets for incapacitating an enemy. He was too slow - it finally turned toward him with a fierce swing of its arm. He managed to get his shield up in time, but the blow still lifted him off his feet. The uneven terrain and his injury made for a poor landing but an idea sparked as he stumbled, falling into a crouch with one hand braced on the ground.

He sent a tendril of magic shooting forth through the soil, just a small one for the sake of speed. If this didn't work, he might not have the time for a second try. The earth in front of the zombie rose up and curled back to cover its feet. It was not coordinated enough to avoid the crude trap. Morgan picked himself up as the undead fell to its knees, finally bringing its weak point within range. He quickly positioned the tip of his sword at the base of its skull and gave it a hard thrust, pushing with the force of both hands. There was a snap as the spine gave way, and the body collapsed.

That had felt a little too close for comfort. Morgan summoned another skeleton and sent it to scout for any more undead. Another surprise like that would be disastrous. If he kept a steady trickle of magic flowing between himself and the skeleton, he would be able to tell immediately if it had been damaged or destroyed.

"All right, now let's look for your man Deckard. Carefully. There had better not be any more of these big fuckers lurking around." Blaise nudged the body gingerly with her foot.

They moved through the town warily at first, growing more relaxed as it became apparent that they had fully cleared out its new inhabitants. A few of the buildings had cellars dug out beneath them, but they had all been empty. It was starting to look like there had been no survivors at all when Blaise spotted something.

"Wait, is that him?"

Morgan followed her gaze to a crudely constructed cage leaning up against a building. He had assumed the prone figure inside it, half hidden by rags, had been another body. But when he reached out, first with his mind alone and then with an extended arm to better direct the magic, there was no response - no bones he could use, unlike the rest of the unfortunate townsfolk.

"That one's not dead," he said, moving in closer. The pale figure was unconscious, yes, but still living. It looked like it might be an old man.

"How do you - ugh, I don't want to know, never mind." Blaise made it to him first, reaching through the bars of the cage to check for a pulse at the old man's throat. She must have found one, since her next move was to shake his shoulder gently.

He startled awake, eyes wide. "Back! Back, foul demons!" he cried out.

"Whoa, hey there, it's okay. Don't worry, my name is Blaise and I'm here to help you. The demons are gone. Are you all right? You hurt at all?" Her voice was reassuring, soothing. Her features had softened into an expression of genuine concern.

"You... oh, thank heavens! It's so good to see a friendly face. No, my dear, I'm a little worse for the wear but I'm not injured. I don't suppose you might have some water to share, would you? I'm absolutely parched."

Morgan had reached the cage by that time, and passed his waterskin through the bars. Blaise moved to examine the lock on the cage, giving it a very brief examination before fishing out two slender metal tools from her pack. "I'll have you out of there in no time," she reassured him as she began working at the lock.

The scouting skeleton hadn't encountered anything of note, but the earlier surprise was still troubling Morgan. He decided to raise another golem to join the perimeter guard, just to be on the safer side. To his surprise, the old man brightened as the shape began to take form.

"Ah, geomancy! It's been a rather long time since I've seen that particular school of magic. And so sombre, too - would I be right in guessing you to be followers of Rathma?" The old man pulled himself upright, leaning on the cage bars for support as the lock cracked open in Blaise's hands.

"Just me."

"Just him."

Blaise seemed surprised by their response in unison, but it didn't appear to faze the other man at all. "Well," he said, "whatever your origins, I'm grateful for the rescue. My name is Deckard Cain." That was excellent news. A stroke of luck that the sole survivor was the man they had been looking for. He kept talking as he stepped out of the cage. "When the demons descended, I was sure I was not long for this world. I can't imagine what possessed them to lock me up in there, but it certainly saved me from sharing a fate with everyone else here." He looked sadly at one of the human bodies, a woman who appeared to have died in the street, reaching toward the door of a house. "I only wish there was something I could have done to prevent this tragedy. These were good people. They didn't deserve this."

"I could give them their final rites," Morgan suggested. Nothing could undo what had happened, but at least the dead could be laid to rest properly. It might give some measure of comfort to the old man as well. All things considered, it felt like an acceptable delay.

Cain laid a hand on Morgan's shoulder. He flinched only slightly at the unexpected contact. "Thank you, friend. It is kind of you to offer, and I can think of no one better than a priest of Rathma to lay these people to rest."

Blaise coughed. "Are you sure about that? You... you know what they do with skeletons, right?"

"My dear, I assure you there are none more suited to care for the dead. I visited a temple of Rathma once for several months in my younger days, far to the southeast..."

Morgan half listened as he stowed his shield. It was a simple enough line to draw, though it seemed unlikely that Blaise would be interested in the particulars: bodies that had been consecrated, no matter the particulars of the faith that informed the process, felt different than ones that had not received that treatment. They were easy to sense and avoid, and besides that, they were considerably harder to raise. Powerful practitioners were capable of such feats, but despite their reputation, priests of their Order gave the dead every courtesy they would afford the living. It wasn't uncommon to meet resistance even in the dead that had passed on unremarked; in these cases, a necromancer could either leave the spirit be or pass it through the veil as they deemed appropriate. Morgan preferred the option of assisting with the passing on, though he hadn't ever personally had the opportunity. It felt like it would be better than just leaving them to linger.

The first stages of preparation for this particular ceremony didn't require much concentration, just some physical effort to collect and lay out the deceased. Including the boy from the outskirts of the town, there were six bodies to inter. There was a good spot near the central part of the town, likely once a market of some sort. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be rushing to rebuild the town any time soon, he reasoned.

"Excuse me, young man." Morgan stopped to look at Cain, who was wearing an apologetic smile. "I hate to be a bother, but..." He gestured toward the remains of the enormous zombie. "This gentleman is... or was, rather... Griswold, the town blacksmith. Stone deaf but a heart of gold in him. He did great things, in life. Is there any way you could include him as well?"

"Yes, of course." Morgan considered the body for a moment before calling his golem back over from where it had been patrolling the area. Even with its help, it was difficult to maneuver the corpse over to the others. But they managed eventually, making him the seventh in the line. Cain chattered on to Blaise the entire time, but clearly he was also paying some attention to Morgan.

"That's everyone," he confirmed before Morgan had even opened his mouth to ask. "It saddens me to see this lively town reduced to so little. Rest well, my friends."

That was a recognizable cue. Morgan began by consecrating the zombie, drawing a small phial of oil from his chest pocket and anointing its head and hands. The oil glowed faintly as he said a brief incantation, an ancient prayer. The first step completed, he switched to a different oil and drew a simple sigil on the forehead of each of the deceased. This anointment was to help guide the spirits up to Anu. As he recited the liturgy, he was surprised to hear Cain's voice joining his own during the repeated segments. He filed that away to consider later. Right now he needed to concentrate.

Seven was a lot of bodies to inter, but if he let the constructs fall and paced himself he could probably manage. He knelt by Griswold and touched the earth. Carefully, slowly, it parted beneath the giant of a man. Once the body was several feet deep, the dirt filled in on top of him, leaving a small mound on the surface. The effort left him slightly winded. It had been a good idea to start with the largest. The next two were easier, but the cumulative strain was growing faster than he'd anticipated. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he'd lost his breath again. Better to pause now than to have to stop in the middle of an interment, he decided.

He took a small bottle from his belt, uncorked it and tossed back the bitter bluish liquid in one motion, kneeling again before the dizziness set in. The familiar buzz of magical energy crackled through him. It itched under his skin. He would have preferred to rest instead of taking the potion, but interrupting the ceremony was not an option. The whole point was to respectfully lay them to rest; stopping for a break would have felt disrespectful. He had to press on.

Despite his measured approach, Morgan was trembling with exhaustion by the time the last body was safely entombed. Seven had turned out to be too many. The potion had helped, but its borrowed energy left as suddenly as it came, and the body shakes it left in its wake were uncomfortable. He fell into a cross-legged position, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging as his chest heaved. Meditation wasn't going to cut it after this. He was going to need real sleep. Still, it was satisfying to feel he'd done a good job of the burial ceremony. He was also grateful that Blaise had elected to keep watch during the proceedings. He'd been forced to abandon his minions to save energy. Had he been alone, safety would have been a serious concern.

Blaise cleared her throat. "Not to kill the moment or anything, but we need to start going before it gets dark. It's a long way back to the Sisterhood."

"Perhaps I can help with that," Cain said. Morgan raised his head to see him produce a small scroll from the pockets of his robe. "This is a scroll of town portal. Have you ever used one before?" Blaise shook her head. "Oh, it's very simple. You just need to picture a place in your head as you read it, and it will open a portal to that place. It only works for human settlements, and the place has to be within a certain distance. But if your description is accurate, as I'm sure it is, the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye should meet those requirements." He held the scroll out for Blaise to take. "I must admit I've never visited, so I can't use this to get to our destination."

Blaise took the scroll and opened it, peering at its contents. Nothing happened. She turned it sideways, then upside down. No portal materialized. She looked up at Cain. "Am I missing something here? I thought this was supposed to be easy."

He frowned. "It should be. Let me look - no, no, the scroll is in order. It should work for you if you're following the instructions. Unless - well, there are a few reasons it might not be working. It could be a matter of lineage, for instance. Were your parents both human?"

Blaise stared at him as though he'd just grown another head. "What else would they be?"

"I've used those scrolls before," Morgan said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He had used the portals fairly regularly, running errands during his training. A throbbing ache was building behind his eyes, and he wanted very much to rest. He was seriously considering curling up in one of the ruined buildings at this point. But that wouldn't take the other people into consideration. Assuming the portal scroll worked, it would be the best course of action to take.

Blaise held it at arm's length. "If you can make it work, go ahead. But if not, we start walking."

Morgan took the scroll, scanning the familiar runes. It wasn't reading, exactly, but they started to glow all the same. He thought about the rogue encampment, focusing on the spot just outside the gates where he'd first waited for Blaise. A shimmering blue circle materialized in front of him, the image of the camp faintly distinguishable in its centre. It stretched until it was big enough to walk through. No problem with the scroll, then.

"Magnificent!" Cain clasped his hands together. "It will be wonderful to be amongst people again. Please, after you."

Morgan would have preferred not to be the first one out of the portal, but Blaise wasn't moving to enter and he didn't have the energy to try to sway her. He stepped into the portal. It was like walking down a short hallway, the distance to the destination collapsed into a few steps. As he stepped out of the portal, he found a sword pointed at his face. His hands came up automatically in a gesture of surrender. Of course the rogues would be suspicious if they weren't accustomed to using this type of magic. That was precisely why he hadn't wanted to lead.

"Oh, it's you." Kashya lowered her sword. "Where's Blaise? Did you find Deckard Cain?"

"They are following," he said, letting his hands fall as he stepped to the side of the portal. He hoped they were following. He was too tired to explain if they weren't.

Sure enough, Cain emerged a few seconds later, peering around. "So this is the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye! I've heard much about you. I wonder if you would indulge an old man's curiosity. I have some questions for you..." He had honed in on Akara without hesitation, taking her by the arm. She appeared surprisingly amenable; something about him seemed to put people at ease.

Blaise came through shortly after, straightening when she spotted Kashya. "Ma'am."

"Give me a full report."

The commander turned on her heel, going back into the encampment, and Blaise followed her. Good. That meant nobody wanted to talk to Morgan, and he could get some rest. He tore the scroll in half, disrupting the magic holding the portal open. Only living humans could use these portals, but it still felt safer to close it behind him. Unlike the others, he did not enter the encampment. Now was not the time to solicit an invitation. He'd noted a large, sturdy willow tree outside the northern corner of the rogues' camp. He dragged his weary body over to it, nestled in against its trunk, and promptly lost consciousness.

#my writing #story: unbidden #fantasy violence tw #death mention tw #fantasy religion tw

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bluescluelessly · 4 years

Note

Deception arc AU where Anakin, desperate to avenge his brother, horribly mains or even straight up kills “Rako Hardeen”

[Rating: Mature] || [tw: mild body horror/gore, canon-typical violence]

He isn't stopping.

Obi-Wan's heart thuds in his chest as Anakin stalks towards him, the dark side of the force shrouding him. He's so lost to his anger, he can't even feel it when Obi-Wan tries to reach out, to tell him who he really is without words.

The mission comes first. If Anakin isn't getting a hint, Obi-Wan can't afford to say the truth out loud, not where Cad Bane and Moralo can hear. He'll just have to make Anakin back off some other way.

He takes a few shots, not at Anakin, but Ahsoka instead. Anakin would take a hit if he needed to; but he'll protect Ahsoka with his life.

"Back off, Jedi dogs!" He snarls, making sure not to aim anywhere that woukd leave any lasting damage on Ahsoka. He knows she can block them easily, but he doesn't want to be sorry just in case she misses.

It goes against every fiber of his being to attack either of them, but he has to do something. If Anakin knew, if he knew what was at stake-- Palpatine, his friend-- he would understand. He will, eventually.

Ahsoka easily dodges and parries, as he expected. He reaches out to her in the force, projecting his shots to make it easier, and he thinks she understands. Hopefully she'll know, and she can tell Anakin the truth.

He's distracted by her, so when Anakin does the unexpected, he isn't ready.

He's so close, backing away to the ship. Almost there.

But as Obi-Wan-- or rather, in Anakin's eyes-- Rako Hardeen, changes targets to his padawan, it's like something in Anakin snaps.

Darkness clings to him like a cloak as Anakin sticks out his prosthetic hand, gripping 'Hardeen' with the force so harshly that Obi-Wan feels as if he can't breathe. He can't so much as twitch a single muscle. Even his eyeballs feel frozen in place.

A vicious shout leaves Anakin, and he hurls his lightsaber at Obi-Wan.

The undercover Jedi can't even close his eyes or try to brace himself, just frozen and forced to watch the spinning blade of light fly toward him.

This is it, he thinks. It's over.

A searing pain cuts through him, and he screams through locked teeth. Ahsoka shouts something, but Obi-Wan doesnt make out what she says through the star-bright pain lacing through him.

He wishes he could fall unconscious.

Instead, he feels it as his body thuds to the ground. Anakin's aim, in his blind rage, was off. He feels it as his left leg buckles, and the stump of his right leg slams into the hard, unforgiving durasteel. He feels the shock as his cleanly sliced bone and muscle hits the surface, and then the rest of him topples over.

The ship takes off, leaving him behind. He almost laughs as he realizes he's definitely off the mission now... but he doesn't, because the next second, Anakin is there, hauling him up by the front of his disguise to face him.

The lightsaber is held to his neck now, and Obi-Wan wishes he had the strength to form words.

Anakin is yelling at him, spitting his anger over the death of his master, how Rako Hardeen deserves to die like the filth he is.

"Anakin-" Obi-Wan manages to gasp out, fighting for focus.

"Don't you dare say my name!"

"Anakin!" This time it's Ahsoka shouting, and just in the nick of time, she stops him, pulling on his sword arm to keep his saber away from Obi-Wan's neck. "Master, stop! Look at him, in the force, don't you recognize him?"

Anakin growls, looking unhappy to be interrupted from his revenge. "Of course I recognize him! I don't need the force to know he's the the karking e chu ta that killed Obi-Wan!"

"No, look! He is Obi-Wan, can't you see?"

Anakin blinks. He looks back at Hardeen's face, and when Anakin's force signature reaches out for Obi-Wan's, he drops his shields, even though it means Anakin will feel his pain too.

His teeth are grit in pain, and he shouts again as Anakin drops him, letting him fall back to the ground as his former padawan reels back in shock.

He's safe, for now.

With that thought, and the smack of his head against the ground, he slips into unconsciousness.

°|●.*•

When Obi-Wan next opens his eyes, he's in a bed. A sterile white one... a medbay.

It takes him a moment to remember why, but the metal limb attached to his knee is a pretty good reminder.

He runs a hand over his face, and can tell that his features have been returned to normal. The mission is over then, for him at least.

Seconds after he manages to sit up, his door swings open, and Anakin comes storming in.

The younger Jedi looks to be equal parts apologetic, frightened, and angry.

"Why didn't I know?" He demands, tone just short of accusing.

And well. Obi-Wan is officially too tired for this. "Because, Anakin," he starts harshly, "as you demonstrated so thoroughly, you can't follow simple orders."

Anakin wilts under the weight of Obi-Wan’s disappointment. "Simple?! Was I just supposed to let your killer go loose? Where's the justice in that?!"

"Yes, Anakin!" Obi-Wan states, exasperated. "You need to learn to let go. You need to trust the Council's direction!"

"I can't!" Anakin shouts back, his voice breaking. He's right in front of Obi-Wan now, gripping his arms. "I can't. Not you, Master."

Obi-Wan... he wants to be upset. He wants to tell Anakin off, he wants to push him away, the man who sliced off his leg and nearly killed him.

Instead, for Anakin... only for Anakin... he gives in. He sighs, reaching up to put one hand over Anakin's flesh one.

"Padawan," he starts, more gently this time. "I'm grateful that you care. But you must learn restraint, and you must have more faith in the council. They told you not to go after me, and now you see why."

Anakin looks down, feeling like a student again under his former teacher's firm tone. "They don't care about you like I do. It seemed like they just didn't want to waste the effort." He drops his mechanical hand from Obi-Wan's arm, most of his anger drained. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Obi-Wan huffs slightly, leaning back. "I had to infiltrate a collection of deadly, suspicious bounty hunters suspected of hatching a plot to kidnap the Chancellor. If I was to fake my death, it needed to be believable, Anakin, and no offense, but you're a terrible liar."

Clearly, Anakin wants to dispute that, but doing so would mean he has to reveal his "secret" relationship with Padmé, so he decides against it.

Obi-Wan is tired. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wanting to stand, but the new, much heavier leg is already putting him off balance.

"We match now," he jokes dryly, reaching down to knock on the metal.

Anakin has the decency to look ashamed.

"How did you even find us?" Obi-Wan asks, baffled. "No one should have known my location but the Council and the Chancellor, and neither of them would give me away and risk the mission."

Anakin looks a little struck. "Wait, the Chancellor knew you were undercover?"

Obi-Wan blinks, assuming that Anakin is upset about someone else knowing that wasn't him. He's careful as he responds. "Well, I didn't personally tell him, but I assume so. The mission was devised to protect him, after all. I can’t imagine he wasn't informed on the measures being taken to interfere with the kidnapping plot."

Anakin looks troubled. "... Palpatine is the one who told me where you were."

Obi-Wan frowns in confusion. "That makes no sense. Why would he send you after me, jeopardizing his own protection? If he knew my location, he must have known the plan as well..."

"Why would he send me to kill you?" Anakin asks, looking even more troubled. "He said I could get revenge..."

They share a look with one another, the earlier fight forgotten in the wake of this new, strange revelation. Something doesn't add up.

"I need to talk to him." Anakin decides.

"We will," Obi-Wan agrees tentatively. "Together. Now, help me stand. You're my designated crutch until I can walk on my own, as penance for cutting off my leg."

Anakin does, without complaint. "I am sorry."

"Sorry doesn't get my leg back, unfortunately," Obi-Wan barbs his friend, not seeming all that upset about it. "My kicks are going to hurt quite a bit more now, though."

Anakin smiles a bit, and he knows it's going to be okay.

Everything will be fine.

#anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars #scoobscribbles #ahsoka tano #fanfic #deception arc #rako hardeen #angst #mild body horror #graphic violence #amputee Obi-Wan #They're gonna fuck Palpatine up

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holy-honeybees · 3 years

Text

Snowdrift

AO3

Rating: T+ (for swearing)

Summary: Three friends and their dog get lost in a snowstorm while investigating the paranormal. Amidst swirling flurries of white, some lose their way and get lost in their memories, others lose sight of their friends and loved ones, and an unforgiving winter quickly fills in the footprints one would follow to get back home.

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Chapter One

Chapter Eight

Arthur struggled through the ever-deepening snowdrifts, hunched over as he braced himself against the wind. The fingers on his right hand were already frozen and stiff, and the metal of his prosthetic was so cold it burned where it met the remaining flesh of his arm. He cursed his stupidity for having gone outside in a blizzard with no coat or hoodie. Even with his vest zipped up and his hands tucked under his armpits, he shivered so hard the mechanic felt he might shake apart at any moment. Arthur wondered just what had prompted him to leave the safety of the van without proper protection from the cold. He’d like to think he had some self-preservation skills, though his recent actions had done little to support that claim, and he was sure Vivi at the very least would outright challenge the statement.

I have to find Mystery, he reminded himself. He couldn’t remember why it was so urgent that he find the kitsune though, only that it was. He’d long ago lost sight of the white shape in front of him, and Arthur had to wonder if he was even going in the right direction anymore. Still, he pushed onwards, compelled to keep moving forwards even if he didn’t understand why.

I have to find Mystery. The phrase had become a mantra he repeated with every step, a reminder of his single-minded purpose. Between the wind shrieking in his ears and the constant chattering of his teeth, he could hardly put together a cohesive thought outside of trying to locate his friend. He knew he should try harder to figure out what was happening and why he was out here, but he was so tired, and the cold was mind-numbing.

I have to find Mystery. Something nagged at the back of his mind that besides being hopelessly lost and half-frozen, something else wasn’t right. Some unnamed threat which loomed in the darkness. He just couldn’t recognize what it was. The temperature outside plummeted even further, and a particularly icy blast of air seemed to freeze him to the very core. Arthur shivered, not just due to the bitter cold, but from memories he’d buried long ago as they began to resurface.

---

It had been a long drive to reach Uncle Lance’s home in Tempo, and the hours spent under the summer sun had caused the temperature inside the car to climb to an almost unbearable degree. His dad had told him that rolling down the windows was just as good as running the air conditioning, but Arthur was unconvinced. He was beginning to suspect that Uncle Lance didn’t call the old station wagon his father drove “lemon” just because of its bright yellow paint. For the first half of their trip, Arthur had done his best to distract himself from the heat by playing with his Game Boy Color, and after its batteries had died, he’d resorted to trying to keep cool by letting the wind blow through his hair, his arm dangling out the open window. At least, up until his father had laughed and said that was a good way to lose a limb. Arthur had promptly yanked his arm back inside the car and, despite the sweltering Texas heat and his dad assuring him he’d only been joking, rolled up the window for good measure. By the end of the journey, they were both covered in sweat and even his dad’s sunny disposition had begun to waver.

As the door to his uncle’s home swung inward, the blast of cool air that washed over him made Arthur shiver in relief. Lance usually accepted his brother’s unannounced visits with practiced ease, welcoming them in with a rough “get in here before you let the cool air out” and strong-armed, back-slapping hugs. They would come by when his dad was between gigs as a roadie sometimes or when the car needed repairs. This particular visit felt different though. There were no bone-breaking, lift-you-off-the-ground hugs between the two brothers, no boisterous laughter as they greeted each other. Instead, Lance had merely met them both with a dark, raised eyebrow, the stout man nearly eyelevel with his scrawny, preteen nephew. Maybe it was because it was so hot out and they were both sweaty, or maybe they’d come at a bad time. Either way, the tense situation made Arthur shift uncomfortably, the added weight of his heavy backpack threatening to throw him off balance. They must be staying for a while this time. Arthur had almost everything he owned crammed into the old bag he lugged around, the zippers threatening to burst under the strain. As usual, his dad hadn’t done any packing of his own, and would probably end up heading out to the car half a dozen times throughout the night to grab various items, Uncle Lance grumbling good-naturedly the whole time.

“Hey, buddy,” his dad said, ruffling his hair, “Me and your uncle are going to go check out the car, take a look under the hood. Why don’t you go get settled in? We can order some pizza for dinner later.” Arthur meekly nodded his head and shuffled past his uncle in the doorway, eager to escape the tense atmosphere that no one was acknowledging. The old mechanic twitched his lips up into a brief smile as Arthur passed, which the young boy nervously returned. His uncle’s serious, gruff nature was intimidating at times. When Arthur had first met the taciturn man, he worried that Uncle Lance didn’t like him. His dad had laughed off his concerns though and told him that’s just how Lance was, and without kids of his own, his uncle would simply need some time to get used to him.

Arthur passed through the familiar hallways of his uncle’s home until he reached the spare room he and his dad usually stayed in. Normally, it served as a kind of office or storage space for Uncle Lance’s business, with instruction manuals, receipts, and spare parts scattered amongst a few personal items. There was an old wrestling belt and a framed picture of Arthur and his father on the wall above the sleeper sofa they used. The bed was already folded out and made up with clean sheets and pillows, and Arthur wondered if their spontaneous visit had truly been unexpected. His dad had announced their trip a couple of days ago, and they’d been on the road driving to their destination ever since. Arthur had gone out to get some ice for their motel room and come back to see his father deep in conversation on the old telephone the room came with. Arthur didn’t think he’d ever seen his dad so serious. His father had cutoff midsentence once he’d spotted Arthur, looking inexplicably guilty before saying a hurried goodbye to whoever was on the other line. The young boy could only make out the speaker’s agitated tone of voice, distorted by the crummy receiver, before his dad hung up the phone. With his father’s usual smile plastered back on his face, everything seemed to have returned to normal, and Arthur was told to pack his things because they would be leaving first thing in the morning to visit his uncle.

Now that they had arrived, Arthur couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong, like he was missing something. Some vital clue he should have picked up on that would have helped him to make sense of what was going on around him. He shouldered his backpack off onto the bed, intent on starting to unpack his things. Instead, he only worried at the zippers, his thoughts too troubled to focus on the task at hand. He felt as if there was an answer right in front of him that he just couldn’t see. After several fruitless minutes, Arthur gave up on unpacking his bag and left to find his father and uncle. He wandered through his uncle’s home, searching for the two adults, before being drawn to the garage door by the sounds of an argument. Despite being nervous about being caught eavesdropping, Arthur pressed his ear to the door to listen.

“Just think about what yer doin’ for once, Percy,” Uncle Lance said in a low, dangerous voice.

“It’s just going to be for a little while,” Arthur’s father replied, his usual cheerful tone sounding strained.

“You an’ I both know that’s not true!”

“This latest gig will last a month or two, tops,” his dad said, and then, after the slightest of pauses, so small Arthur could almost convince himself he’d imagined it, “Then I’ll be back.”

“No,” Lance insisted stubbornly, “I know that look in yer eye, I seen it before. Saw it when my baby brother up an’ dropped out of high school, hit the road, an’ didn’t drop his family a line for a full year to even let us know he was alright!” Arthur’s dad sighed heavily.

“Look, Arthur’s starting to grow up, you know? The whole ‘on-the-road’ lifestyle isn’t really doin’ him any favors. He’s smart, but there’s only so much I can teach him. Kid doesn’t really have any friends, either. He could really benefit from going to school, meeting kids his age and getting a real education.”

“If this is really about his best interests, why don’t you stay here with him?” Lance pressed, “Settle down finally. Get a steady job in town. Hell, I’ll hire you.” The only response was silence.

“Yer not leaving Arthur here so he can ‘grow up’,” Lance growled, “Yer stickin’ me with yer kid so you don’t have to!”

“I don’t know what I’m doing! I didn’t plan on becoming a parent!” His father shouted angrily.

“You are one though, an’ yer not gonna figure this one out by runnin’ away from it!”

“I’m trying, okay? If it was just about keeping him fed or entertained or whatever, it’d be fine, but…he’s different. I thought he’d outgrow it, but that last show I worked, you know, with that rock band? He had one of his…fits halfway through the set. He kicked up such a fuss they had to stop the show and everything. The guys on stage were cool about it, but, well… Would do him some good to have someone like you help toughen him up.”

“Percy, I know you’ve got yerself convinced yer doing what’s best for him, but that’s not what it looks like from my perspective, and that certainly ain’t what it’s gonna look like from his. Of all the selfish, irresponsible—”

“I love my son!”

“I’m not the one yer gonna have to try an’ convince if you go through with this.”

The rest of the argument was lost to the ringing in his ears as Arthur quickly backed away from the garage. So there was something wrong. What was worse, it seemed like it had something to do with him. He retraced his steps to the spare room, his breath coming in progressively shorter gasps. He’d had episodes like this before. “Fits”, his dad called them. It happened from time to time at the concerts his father worked, like when the music was too loud or there were too many strangers crowded around him, though those hadn’t been the only incidents. One time had left him feeling so dizzy and lightheaded afterwards, his dad had taken him to an emergency room. The doctor who had given him a checkup had called it a “panic attack”, suggesting they reach out to a specialist to talk. He never got the chance though, their transient lifestyle requiring them to leave town the very next day. His dad tried his best to help, telling him to relax and dismissing his fears as silly, but Arthur just couldn’t do the same.

With his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest, Arthur closed the door to the spare room behind him and promptly dumped out the contents of his backpack onto the bed, frantically searching for anything that might help calm him down. His eyes settled on his Game Boy and he snatched it off the bed before sitting down on the floor. With its batteries run down, he wouldn’t be able to distract himself by playing a game, but there was something comforting and familiar about holding the small dandelion-colored console nonetheless. He ran his thumb over the control pad—up, right, down, left—again and again. Gradually his breathing slowed, and the fuzzy edges receded from his vision. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and Uncle Lance entered the room, frowning as he did so.

“You alright, kid?” his uncle asked, “Yer lookin’ kinda pale.”

“Y-Yeah, just cool-cool-cool—” Arthur shook his head, trying to dislodge the word he’d gotten stuck on.

“Cooling off,” he finished lamely.

“…Alright. Well, pizza’s on its way. Should be here in about thirty minutes. Yer dad ordered the usual,” Lance said gruffly. Arthur gulped and nodded his head. His stomach felt as if it was twisted up in knots, and the thought of eating anything made him feel vaguely queasy. His uncle paused for a moment, as if to say something else, before giving up with a sigh and walking away.

The pizzas arrived right on time, and long before Arthur was ready. He, his dad, and his uncle all sat around the small kitchen table Lance owned, paper plates loaded up with hot, greasy pizza slices. His dad joked and laughed, smiling the whole time, as if nothing were wrong. Uncle Lance barely said a word, only letting out the occasional grunt, while Arthur nibbled half-heartedly at the pizza in front of him. They’d ordered the Meatzilla and Atomic Aloha, with extra pineapple and jalapeño peppers, Uncle Lance and his father’s favorite pizzas respectively. Normally, Arthur was happy to share with his Uncle Lance, the Atomic Aloha being too spicy for him to enjoy, but now the pizza he did force down sat heavily in his guts. When they’d all finished eating and Lance cleaned the paper plates and used napkins off the table, his dad had asked him to stay behind. His father told him that he had a new gig, but this time, Arthur was going to stay behind with Uncle Lance, just for a couple of months while he was gone. Arthur wanted to tell him not to go, but he simply nodded along, his thoughts muddled and his stomach churning unhappily.

His father left within the hour, assuring him that he would be back soon and that he loved him very much. He ruffled Arthur’s hair as walked out the door, leaving the young boy behind to sit on the couch with his uncle in the living room. Uncle Lance opened his mouth as if to speak several times, but always closed it with an uncertain look in his eye, the silence instead filled by reruns of old wrestling matches playing on the TV quietly. Eventually, Arthur excused himself, saying he was turning in for the night. He entered the spare room and flopped down on the bed, not even bothering to clear away the contents of his backpack he’d haphazardly dumped on top of the sheets. He curled up and cried, tossing and turning miserably as the pizza he’d eaten failed to settle in his stomach. The harder he cried, the worse he felt, and the sick feeling grew until Arthur had no choice but to rush to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He was still kneeling by the toilet, the cool tiles of the floor pressed against his hands and knees, when he felt a hesitant hand, rough and calloused, pat him on the back.

“It’s okay,” Uncle Lance said, “I’ve got you.”

---

Released from the grip of his memories, Arthur found himself kneeling in the snow. The cold seeped even deeper into his bones with his arms and legs sunk way down into the snowbank. The mechanic struggled back to his feet and scanned the horizon for his forgotten destination.

I have to find Mystery, Arthur reminded himself, tucking his arms tight against his body as he resumed his steadfast march. His breath fogged before him, looking like a silver mist that disappeared just as quickly as the memory had. He couldn’t even recall what it was he’d been thinking about despite the tears frozen on his face. Something about when he’d come to live with Uncle Lance. But hadn’t he always lived with his uncle? He just couldn’t remember. He pushed the doubts and confusion from his mind as he continued to trudge numbly through the snow.

I have to find Mystery.

He felt raw and weary, like an exposed nerve. Where were the others? Why had he been left behind? Abandonment had always been an issue for him, though he didn’t understand why. Uncle Lance had always been there for him. Still, whatever had caused that fear to take root was only exasperated after Lewis and Vivi had started dating.

I have to find…

It had been hard seeing them so happy together. It left Arthur with a complex mix of emotions where he was glad for his friends yet jealous at the same time, which gave way to shame for feeling so awful when he should have been excited and supportive. He was just waiting for the day they’d tell him they didn’t want him around or need him anymore. He’d been distancing himself slowly so that when the time came maybe, maybe it wouldn’t hurt quite so much. Instead, it just made him more miserable to see how happy his friends were without him. Then there was the cave.

I have to…

His weakness had let whatever that thing was take control of him. He could still only remember bits and pieces of what happened, even months later. Everything was hazy up to the point he woke up in a hospital bed without his arm, jumping out of his skin if Mystery so much as twitched an ear. Vivi was like a blank slate, and Lewis was missing.

I…I have to find Lewis.

Arthur watched as another thin stream of silver left his mouth, whirling away into the wind. He felt drained, his mind foggy. He must have found a lead to his missing best friend out here, wherever this was. Still, he’d wished he’d brought a coat or something. But if he could find his friend and bring him back, it’d be worth it, whatever it took. Arthur called out for Lewis as loudly as he could, the name broken into pieces by his stutter and chattering teeth. He had to be close by if he’d made the decision to leave Vivi and the van behind. Arthur kept shouting, his voice becoming hoarse as he sucked in deep lungfuls of frigid air, trying to be heard over the howling wind. A desperate sense of urgency fueled him, tinged with a guilt and remorse he couldn’t quite place, which nonetheless helped propel him onwards through the snow.

I have to find Lewis!

#mystery skulls animated #msa #msa fanfic #mystery skulls animated fanfic #arthur #lewis #vivi #mystery #uncle lance #arthur kingsmen #lewis pepper #vivi yukino #Snowdrift

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spaceskam · 4 years

Text

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s bleach,” Alex laughed, mixing up the solution in the the little bowl, “Which you would know if you did any fucking research before you dyed your hair last time.”

Forrest pouted for all of two seconds before it slipped into his smile and he rolled his eyes. The color in his hair was starting to fade back into brown and he’d mentioned to Alex that he was going to redye it. Which would’ve been fine until he said the shitty routine he had for doing so. So now Alex had taken over and he honestly didn’t seem bothered by that.

“You sure you’re good with this towel being ruined just in case?” Alex asked as he turned to face him, gloves and bleach brush in hand. Forrest looked up at him with those fucking eyes and nodded.

“I don’t actually mind what you ruin,” Forrest said. Alex rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at him, both men laughing as Alex started just putting the bleach on him.

It took awhile to saturate it enough because his hair was ridiculously thick, but he eventually did and peeled off his gloves before setting a timer. Alex pushed himself to sit on the counter in front him, giving Forrest a little smile as he braced his prosthetic against one of the drawers.

“We should get dinner after this,” Forrest said, reaching out to touch his bare thigh. It took awhile for him to get comfortable around Forrest, but now that he had, he was obsessed with the way he touched him. It was almost constant, always finding some excuse to touch him with his soft hands that had been smoothed with touching paper every day of his life. It felt like an incentive for Alex to walk around in nothing but briefs and a cropped t-shirt all day. It meant skin to skin contact whenever he wanted it. And he kind of wanted it always so that was a plus.

“Agreed,” Alex nodded, “Maybe we could order takeout?”

“Are you gonna be too embarrassed by whatever you do to my hair?” Forrest teased, squeezing his thigh gently. Alex shook his head, extending his foot to rest on Forrest’s own thigh.

“No, I think you’re gonna look hot as hell,” Alex promised, looking between his sweet face watching his hand slide down to grip his calf in a way that felt far too hot to be legal, “But I think I’d rather make-out on the couch than go out.”

“Oh yeah?” Forrest laughed, shaking his head before carefully pressing a kiss to Alex’s knee, “Well, at least you’re honest.”

“I am. I really, really am,” Alex insisted, both of them laughing a little harder as he said so, “But what do you want?”

“Mmm, Chinese food maybe? Lo mein sounds good,” Forrest said. Alex nodded, glancing over to the timer as Forrest continued to rub his leg.

“Can I get something else and then steal some of yours?” Alex asked, reluctantly pulling his leg away from his boyfriend so he could stand back up. Forrest watched him, hands to himself but ready to steady him if he needed it as he put his prosthetic on the ground. He didn’t, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“Absolutely,” Forrest said, “As long as you get something with friend rice.”

“Why would I not get something with fried rice? Do I look like an animal to you?” Alex asked as the timer went off. Forrest stood up from his chair.

“Well, I mean, not right now.”

“Shut up,” Alex laughed, “Can you wash it out yourself or do you want me to try to help?”

“I got it.”

Alex stood in the doorway as Forrest hunched over the bathtub, using the removable shower head to spray it out. Alex liked looking at him even when he was all hunched over and trying not to get bleach in his eyes. He was warm and inviting and Alex didn’t think there was enough people like him.

Eventually, he stood back at and dried his hair in a half-assed way before he just shook it out like a dog. Alex scoffed as water got on him and swatted him in the stomach. Forrest caught it easily, pulling him a little closer and pressing a kiss to his lips. Alex breathed him in as he kissed back, smiling easily when they parted.

“Sit down and I’ll get the blow dryer, okay?” Alex said. Forrest nodded, pressing one more kiss to his lips and then his cheek before doing as he was told. Alex felt that newly-familiar wash of being loved genuinely come over him at the small little moment and, instead of pushing it away, he let it sink into his bones and didn’t even try to hide his smile as he plugged in the blow dryer.

For the next ten minutes, Alex tried to dry his hair, continuously running his fingers through the newly bleached locks and being annoyed when it seemed to hold water like a sponge. His annoyance was bled away each time Forrest reached out for him, never pulling him closer since he was doing something, but just touching him because he could. That was nice.

“Stop it, that tickles,” Alex told him over the sound of the blow dryer as Forrest dragged his fingertips right above the hem of his briefs. So, Forrest listened, moving his fingers down a little bit more to trace over the seam of his underwear. Alex giggled, moving his hips just a little bit out of the way. “I’m never going to finish if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, I really think you will.”

“Get your mind out of the fucking gutter, Jesus,” Alex said, but he laughed harder and his face felt warm. His cheeks hurt from smiling. “Okay, it’s dry enough, time for the dye.”

It carried on like before, small touches being dispersed as he worked the bright blue dye into his bleached hair. Alex sat back on the counter after setting another timer to wait, smiling at him helplessly.

“Aren’t you excited to fully explore your young Manic Panic desires?” Alex asked. Forrest rolled his eyes with a laugh and pulled Alex’s good leg back into his lap. He pushed his thumb into the bottom of his foot, slowly started to massage it for no fucking reason. Alex shook his head. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Forrest said innocently, winking at him as if he didn’t look a little wild with the dye in his hair. Alex shook his head again and huffed a laugh, leaning his head back against the mirror as Forrest continued. “Does that feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, rubbing this part of the foot is supposed to help your heart.”

Alex snorted, “Is there something wrong with my heart that I don’t know about?”

“No, just making sure it’s taken care of.”

“You’re so cheesy,” Alex laughed, but his stomach ached from the attention and his skin started heating up all over again. Forrest shrugged and pulled his foot up to his mouth, kissing the bottom without any hesitant. Alex laughed even louder. “Ew, that’s fucking gross!”

“What?” Forrest said, holding back his laughter as best he could, “My floors are clean.”

“Still,” Alex said, still shaking with laughter. Forrest rolled his eyes and didn’t let go of his leg as he got up and moved closer. He stepped between Alex’s knees, entering that space where he was more than welcome. “I am not kissing you after you kissed my foot.”

“Fair enough,” Forrest agreed, carefully placing kissing on his shoulder over his shirt and then over his heart. He made sure not to angle it any type of way that he might get dye on Alex’s skin. Maybe Alex moved his head to the side to give him more space. Maybe Forrest noticed and that’s how he ended up kissing on his neck.

“Can you brush your teeth please because I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” Alex breathed, overwhelmed with the need to kiss him but really not interested in the idea of his own foot in his mouth.

“So picky,” Forrest teased, tapping his index finger against Alex’s nose as he moved to the sink.

Alex sat, feeling a little restless at the lack of contact as Forrest did what he asked and made a point to wash the bottom half of his face for extra measure. He pulled him in for a kiss by his shirt before he could even dry his face off, kissing him. It was a little awkward, both of them trying not to get the dye in his hair on Alex, but it was hard when he just wanted to get his hands on him.

When the timer went off, they both groaned which made them both smile.

“Go wash it out,” Alex urged. Forrest hummed, giving him another peck before peeling away to go to the tub again.

“I’m just gonna take a shower,” Forrest decided. Alex carefully pushed himself off the bathroom counter again.

“Can I watch?”

“Oh, and I’m the weird one,” Forrest laughed. Alex smiled his way and shrugged. “Go order food, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Vegetable lo mein?” Alex clarified.

“Yes, please.”

Alex hung around just long enough to watch him strip before leaving him to stain the shower curtain with his hair. He used his phone to order them both food, relaxing on the couch as he waited for Forrest to finish up. The longer it took, the more antsy he got which simply had him smiling to himself so wide it hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unrelentingly happy with someone else that he felt clingy and it wasn’t even a problem. Forrest was the same way. That was something otherworldly.

“Okay, so, you may have been onto something with the bleach,” Forrest said as he came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Alex gave him his full attention.

His hair was actually blue now, a few shades too light to be navy. It went to his roots and didn’t look like the shitty dye job he’d been rocking. It looked good. Alex stayed on the couch, smiling up at him as he came closer.

“It looks fucking great.”

“Yeah, I know I didn’t dry it or anything, but,” Forrest said, shrugging his shoulders.

“It still looks way better, I did a great job,” Alex bragged. Forrest didn’t even deny it.

“You really did, thank you.”

“No problem, now come here,” Alex said, reaching for him with grabby hands. Forrest gave him a fond look and blew him a kiss.

“Give me one second, I need to go get a pair of shorts so the delivery guy doesn’t get scared,” he said. Alex pouted a little exaggeratedly. “I’ll be right back.”

And he was. He all but ran to his bedroom and Alex laughed a little bit. Within a few seconds, he was running back out with a pair of shorts on and jumped onto the couch and onto Alex. Their laughter mixed in the air as they kissed, Alex pulling him as close as he could. He smelled good, his flowery shampoo and the scent of the dye making something just tasteful enough that Alex couldn’t get him close enough.

“Thank you,” Alex whispered against his lips.

“For what?”

“For making me happy,” he said honestly. Forrest smiled, bumping his nose against Alex’s.

“Thank you for doing the same.”

They had to apologize to the delivery guy who had to knock three times before they heard him.

#forlex #forlex fic #alex manes #forrest long #roswell new mexico #my fic #did i really just write 1.5k of straight fluff?#yes i did #here you go friends

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arthurtristankingsmen · 4 years

Text

BOO

Some more rusty writing, but this time some fluff \o/

Ugh—another Sea Bass.

Arthur continued to tap at his switch screen, lounging on the couch on his stomach. Over the quiet ambiance from the game, he could hear Vivi rummaging in the kitchen. She had announced making a sandwich after the two of them had finished playing a game she’d seen online, and by the sound of it, the meal was well underway.

A scattering of papers was strewn over the coffee table with scribbles ranging from halfway decent to downright awful, and a pair of markers dangled just over the edge of the table. They wiggled precariously atop art rendering the vague approximation of a cat by someone who’d never seen one in their life. The cause of their distress was Mystery, who kicked at the leg of the table while dreaming in front of the couch. Every time he did, there was a soft thump and the sound of an under-the-breath yip.

Arthur enjoyed the quiet calm, catching another fish and making a face at an olive flounder. At least, he did until something semi-heavy dropped on him and draped itself over his back.

“Oof—hello big guy.” He looked over his shoulder at Lewis, who took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. His grin widened. “Fancy seeing you here.

“Mmm… I’m always fancy.” Lewis hummed against him, arms moving to curl around his waist. Lewis nuzzled into his hair. “How’s fishing going…?”

“No rares yet.” Arthur grumbled and let the Switch lean against the arm of the couch. He touched Lewis’s arm with his own, squeezing his wrist and using his prosthetic on the joystick to continue walking. “Make the coelacanths come out for me, Lewis.”

“Hmmm. No. Suffer.” Lewis kissed the back of his neck.

“Ha—" Arthur shivered at the feeling and aimed a smirk his way. “Is this your new plan for revenge?”

Lewis’s own smile was tender as he leaned a cheek on his shoulder. “Maybe. Is it working?”

“I am distraught and will never recover.” Arthur touched his forehead with the back of his hand with all the drama he could muster, and Lewis rumbled with a laugh.

After a minute, when he’d found another fish, he let go of Lewis’s arm to play again. Lewis stayed where he was, but one arm did readjust to touch his waist beneath his shirt. He could feel Lewis’s finger moving slowly in a pattern on his skin.

“Did you see me and Vivi playing that game earlier?” Arthur asked, frowning at another sea bass. He punted it into the ocean on principle.

“Yeah.” Lewis nuzzled him again, clearly in a loving mood. “She was drawing on your pack and you were copying her, right?”

“Yep. I was not good. But I like to think I got better. After a few dozen tries. It was fun.” He laughed, and Lewis hummed in his ear.

“Better, huh…?” He started tracing his finger slower. “Can you tell what I’m making, then?”

Arthur closed his eyes to concentrate. “Hmmmmm… feels like…. A heart?”

Lewis laughed and it made his heart dance. “You did get better.”

“Are you surprised?” Arthur leaned his head into his into him, and his voice twisted to a teasing one. “This is me we’re talking about. Clearly I’m amazing at everything.”

“You are.” Lewis smirked as his face twisted in protest of the compliment. “And you said it, so it must be true.”

“You should know by now that everything that comes out of my mouth is bullshit.” Arthur snorted, a hint derisive. “Trying to be all sappy and throw me off. How could you Lewis?”

“You’ve seen through my other master plan.” Lewis laughed again and kissed behind his ear and then his temple. He hummed at Lewis’s ministrations before looking at him.

“Your hand changed again. It’s uh…..I think a star?”

“Close. A flower. Guess you still need practice.”

Arthur puffed. “Well—you wanna play a bit with me and help, then?”

Lewis leaned up, bracing on the hand that’d been drawing on him. “What about your game?”

“Meh.” Arthur shrugged. “I’m just fishing and it’s near full battery. It can sit for a bit on standby.” He moved the switch to the coffee table and when Lewis had ease off of him, he sat up. “Let’s do this.”

“So you just—turn around, and I draw on your back? And you try to draw the same thing?” Lewis asked, already moving into position on the couch behind Arthur.

Arthur snagged the markers and two sheets of blank paper from the table. “ Yep. We did it standing, but you should be fine to do it here. I’ll use the table.”

“Alright.” Lewis waited for him to be situated. He felt the marker move in a long line down his back and to the left. He replicated it.

The next feeling was weird. It felt like—two humps? Near where he’d felt the line.

The next thing was pretty clearly a circle. He added it easily.

It looked like the start of a word. But what sappy thing would Lewis put that started with a Bo? Bodacious? No room, with how big they were both drawing on the paper? Was this one of those big H A P, little p y happy birthday situations? Bold? That was Vivi. Bawsome—why did he think that it didn’t even make sense--.

He felt another circle on his back.

BOO

Arthur stared at it for all of one second—before screaming hard. Lewis warmed and he heard the whoosh of flames and say the glow of purple on the table. Mystery kicked the table in a scramble to get up, and papers haphazardly place rustled as they fell and scattered on the floor. Vivi showed at the doorway to the kitchen, half-eaten sandwich in hand and mayonnaise smeared on her cheek and lips.

“Whuh happn?” Concern reflected on her face and Mystery’s.

Arthur sheepishly smiled and held up the paper, before it shifted to a pout. “Lewis scared me.”

The three of them were dead silent for a few moments, before a snicker cracked the silence. Then another, and then like a dam, they all burst out laughing at once.

“Arthur—you’re awful!” Vivi wiped at her face. “I thought something happened!”

“I thought something did too!” Lewis ruffled his hair. “And I was right next to you.”

Arthur cackled. “Sorry! I couldn’t not.”

“My revenge shall be swift and merciless.” Mystery puffed at him, but a smile was on his face as well. “I was just having a pleasant nap too.”

“Sorry, sorry. The way you failed was pretty damn hilarious though.”

“Merciless.”

Arthur laughed again. “I guess I deserve that. Think you’ll probably really disarm me with whatever you do.”

Mystery gave him a sour look, and the both of them spat their tongues at one another before laughing again. Vivi huffed and flopped down on the couch beside him and Lewis.

“I might just help Mystery with this plot after the frighten you gave me.” She pouted.

“Well—I can make it up to you.”

“Oh? Better have something good planned.” She pouted at him.

“I will.” He said it like a promise. “But first—you have something on your face.”

“What is it? Some must—?” She started to speak but Arthur leaned forward, bracing on Lewis’s leg and pressing a kiss to her cheek and then lips. She hummed after a moment of surprise and kissed him back. He enjoyed the way their lips brushed against one another and the gentle touch of her fingers to his face when she framed his jaw and the way she seemed to melt and close her eyes. He held out as long as he could until they separated for air.

“It was me.” Arthur grinned while panting. “And some mayo. But I got that. Does that make up for your earlier frighten?”

“Hmmmmmm…. I guess.” Her grin was doubly wide and there were sparkles in her eyes and god he loved her so much. “But I might still ask for more later.”

“What about me?” Mystery puffed, and Arthur glanced at Vivi.

“Hey Vivi… can I have the rest of your sandwich if I give you another kiss?”

“Hmmmmmm…..I suppose.” She sighed in a put upon way, and passed him the sandwich, which he passed to Mystery. Mystery inspected it with a gastronomer’s eye, before nodding. “Very well. You are safe. For now.”

“Thanks buddy.” Arthur grinned, and he returned his attention to Vivi. This time when he kissed her, he cupped her cheeks and leaned into her a little more, fingers curling into the soft blue strands of her hair. She hummed her appreciation and clasped his hands over her face, and he could feel the smile on her lips.

When they broke away they both sighed, and he was sure his expression was just as pleased as her own. He kissed her forehead with a grin. “Sweet as always. And a little bacon-y now.”

“Some sandwich flavoring.” Vivi giggled. He laughed too, though it stopped short when he felt a tug to his shirt. He glanced at the bone-patterned hand on his sleeve, and then up at Lewis.

His face was soft and wanting. “….Can I have one too?”

Arthur grinned in answer. “It’s only fair.” And before Lewis could answer, he leaned forward to capture his lips as well. Lewis was more ready for him, and immediately moved into the kiss. His hair took on a sheen of pinks that glittered like flame, and his body seemed to warm at the touch, before tilting his head so their noses didn’t touch. His hands came up, curling into Arthur’s hair to cup the back of his head and cradle him close.

Arthur had to pull back after long enough to breathe, and Lewis looked half flustered, half sheepish as he panted. “I forgot you need to breathe….”

“That’s okay—I enjoyed every second.” Arthur grinned, and leaned into his chest.

“I did too!” Vivi purred. “Though I think if Mystery got his sandwich and Arthur got kisses, I need one from you too. So everything’s fair.”

Lewis rumbled with his laugh. “I suppose I did scare Arthur. So I should apologize too~.” He leaned forward to kiss her too, gentle and sweet as she kissed him back. Arthur hummed in approval while watching the both of them. The way Vivi giggled as Lewis rubbed his nose against hers bloomed warmth in his chest, and the way Lewis’s hands touched her with the tenderness of one holding a priceless treasure made a smile pull at his lips. They were both so amazing, and somehow they both loved him.

When they parted as well, Lewis gathered both of them in his arms and settled into the couch. Arthur glanced at the switch, but then he turned away, laying his arm over Lewis and Vivi both. Instead he enjoyed Vivi’s fingers curling into his shirt, Lewis’s arm around him, and Mystery’s warm fur at his legs from where he jumped up to join in, sandwich thoroughly defeated.

He sighed in contentment and closed his eyes. He could keep playing and stay like this….

…but he had better things to do.

#lewvithur #mystery skulls #lewis pepper #vivi yukino #arthur kingsmen #mystery yukino #fanfiction #my original writing #my original stuff #ot3 #fluff

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whitleyschn33 · 4 years

Text

RWBY Volume 8 Episode One: Quick Thoughts

Or not so quick, seeing how long it took me to write this and how much I ended up having to say. Spoilers (duh) under the cut, as this thing got insanely long.

So we open with a maid scrubbing a floor, a shot that lasted long enough I was starting to wonder where it was going before we cut to Cinder. So, Cinder backstory - interesting way to open the volume, but I’m not sure if it’s a good way. At the very least, I would have cut it a couple seconds, or have it flash between Cinder’s face and the flashback. Same information, but given in a quicker manner that lets us know exactly what we’re seeing instead of wonder who this random maid is for 10 seconds.

Whale aircraft carrier. The design is interesting, if looking a bit too clean for my taste. I would’ve liked to see the bones and muscles of the Grimm incorporated into the design a bit more, the surfaces less smooth and more textured, but it looks good.

Facial acting on Neo is good - I appreciate being able to see what’s running through her head, even if it also makes me wonder why Salem isn’t picking up on the obvious tells.

Emerald and Mercury are back and with new outfits; I can hear the diehard EmMerc fans screaming from here. Would’ve liked a better look at the whole outfits (I don’t think there’s even one close up of their entire bodies), but I like Mercury’s! Emerald’s model feels off to me for some reason, like it’s wider or more padded (?) than before, but it’s not a big deal and is probably just a result of her wearing a jacket now.

Oh, yeah, Hazel got one too, don’t care.

Why does the whale have a screen? A connection to one of those seer orb Grimm?

Cinder is still not interesting to me, but I am curious - can one woman hold multiple maiden powers? What happens if one woman holds them all? If they can hold multiple powers, what happens when they die? Do they both/all go to the same person, or would they split?

I like the Faunus that gives Oscar the soup. His design is pretty cute to me (I think he’s a mole Faunus?), and I feel like he’s based on something, but I’m not sure what. Getting a Narnia vibe for some reason, which I’m always on board for.

How did Ruby know where Oscar ended up? Did he call?

Weiss’s braid looks much better! I’m still not a huge fan of it, but this model is an enormous improvement - it actually looks like hair instead of rope, it’s slicker, and doesn’t look as heavy. Nice job, animators. Blake’s looks better, too, more fluffy, but it’s not as drastic a change to me.

Nice to see the Happy Huntresses actually doing something to help Mantle, and having Joanna(? that’s her name, right?) take charge and be helping Ruby get Oscar back in exchange for their aid is nice. It feels realistic for a situation like this.

And more secret keeping, but in this case, dropping the Oz bombshell would actually probably be a bad idea. There’s enough going on, bringing up Oz being back can wait until tensions aren’t as high.

Why would Ironwood stop evacuation? That makes no sense for his character, and there’s no reason to stop them. Until he gets Penny back, Atlas isn’t going anywhere. Might as well keep evacuating until you can find here, get as many people to safety as possible before getting away. I’d assume the Doylist answer for this is that Mantle still needs to be a factor in any decisions made after this and it can’t be that if we can get everyone evacuated, but that doesn’t make the Watsonian explanation make more sense.

Actually a good plan, getting everyone into the crater if it is in fact warm (why, I wonder? Thermal vents? Heat coming off of Atlas?) solves the cold problem (that people should’ve probably already died from) and having to defend one smaller location is strategically a good option. Corralling people would also make any eventual evac to Atlas easier. There is the small problem of, you know, Atlas literally crushing anyone in the crater if the staff is used on anything else, and Salem is known to be after that Staff, sooooooo -

Okay, maybe a nitpick, but I thought Pierto’s specialty was prosthetics and robotics. Doesn’t seem like something that necessarily overlaps with what’s needed to convert Amity into a satellite. I guess maybe the engine/whatever is going to propel it into the air could be similar to Penny’s boosters/whatever lets her fly, but it doesn’t seem like something that he would be involved in raising Amity. Whatever - I know we need a scientist person to tell these things to RWBY+Co and Pierto is the most likely candidate to be in a position to do that.

It seems like, from Ruby’s dialogue, she both wants to warn the other kingdoms and ask for their help. This has been trampled to death, so I won’t rant, but - there is no one that’s going to be able to help. Argus is hours away, will take time to assemble, and isn’t a very large force to begin with. Mistral is still weakened from V5 and has next to no huntsman, and is even farther than Argus. No idea what’s going on with Vale, but they’re probably still nursing their wounds from the Fall. Vacuo is the only kingdom likely to be able to muster up a force, but they’re on the other side of the map and will take hours, if not days, to get together an army - and that’s if they decide they want to help at all. The other objective was warning the Kingdoms about Salem. Ignoring that Salem is immortal and can just throw as many Grimm as she pleases until the defenses fall, ignoring that the other Kingdoms might not even believe Ruby, what’s to say they won’t go “F*ck Atlas, they’re on their own” and recall every available Huntsman and Huntress to shore up their own defenses? Or what if the other kingdoms just fall into anarchy? Learning an immortal witch with an endless supply of Grimm will come knocking on your doorstep soon tends to cause chaos. Or is Ruby going to leave the whole immortal part out again? I just can’t see what this will accomplish.

Holy shit, it’s actually happening. Dissent from WBY, and it’s coming from Yang of all people - I love it. I wish Yang had gotten to finish her sentence, say something along the lines of “Maybe if we’d told the truth immediately things wouldn’t have gone this way” since that would fit with her “hate secrets” thing she had going on in V5/6, but the fact that Yang is actually questioning Ruby’s leadership and choices - yes yes yes, more of that please, less of the hive mind. I wish it’d come a little earlier, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

I’m slightly confused at the sides that Ren and Nora are taking here. I like that we’re splitting them up here (we never get to see them separated, and after last volume, I am more than on board with letting Ren get some breathing room), but Ren going with Yang, Jaune, and Oscar to help evacuate Mantle while Nora goes on the “bigger picture” team to get Amity up and running seems weird considering where they were last volume. Nora was always screaming about how the big picture stuff was hurting Mantle, while Ren was pushing to keep training, keep working, support Ironwood and try and work at the big picture problem, so it would seem like they should be on opposite sides. I’m not saying it makes no sense - I can absolutely see Ren feeling protective of towns under attack from Grimm with no Huntsmen in their corner - but it feels like a bit of a 180 from their last positions.

Did Oscar just call Jaune “John”?

Yeah, if nothing else, don’t let Penny get anywhere near Salem or her cronies. Salem can absolutely not be allowed to get her hands on the Staff, especially with the whole “get everyone to the crater” plan. Squish.

Yang and Blake splitting up, maybe we can actually get some conversations on what the hell is up with them that we should have gotten in V6/V7 instead of petty showing off and Nora projecting.

“But what about Mantle?” “Oh, I’m helping Mantle.” with the same thing you spent all last volume complaining about. Uh-huh, that’s not annoying.

Weiss has an idea on how to get up to Atlas - Winter’s ship, maybe? That one she came in on in V3 was her personal ship, wasn’t it?

Ironwood calls Penny. From the music, it sounds like they were aiming for foreboding and manipulative, but Ironwood just sounds tired, the poor man. Love how Ruby doesn’t even try for a comeback for Ironwood’s argument, really convincing.

Dead Clover, and I hope that he stays that way, because if he’s brought back to life, so much of V6′s themes of life and death and the natural cycle is just going to be spit on (again). Clover is dead, and there should be no way around that save interference from a literal god. Any attempt at bringing him back needs some kind of drawback - some prevision of life, a body that moves but his soul isn’t there, something, please RT, don’t double back on your “Death is permanent” thing again.

And Ironwood did lose his arm completely. It’s an awesome looking prosthetic, but the fact that it’s black when the rest of his prosthetics are silver, combined with the comments made by the CRWBY about Ironwood’s humanity, make me very afraid they’re going to go for some sort of bullshit parallel to Cinder’s black Grimm arm. I do like the orchestral version of Hero playing here, though.

I like Winter’s new hair style - similar enough to her previous one, but looser. Not exactly happy about what that might symbolize, but it looks really good. It looks like she might have nerve damage, though, which would mean she might be off the battlefield until she can get her hands (hah) on some sort of brace to help her move her hands (which might be hinted at in the OP~)

I do really like Ironwood and Winter’s relationship, please don’t f*ck it up, CRWBY.

Is the only thing CRWBY knows how to do to make Ironwood seem like the bad guy shoot people for no goddamn reason? Ironwood was surrounded by loyal soldiers after declaring martial law, there was no reason for him to not just order Slate detained (that one was Slate, right? Not that it matters). The man’s annoying and probably in cahoots with Jacques, but shooting him is out of character, excessive, and makes no sense when he could just be arrested. “It shows he’s slipping -” No. It’s lazy writing meant for shock value and to give characters a reason to go “Oh, he’s going evil now, I better question my loyalty to him” (based on the look Winter and Harriet share) rather than any actual flaw in his plans maybe because CRBY realized that Ironwood’s plans are rational and the best one on the table right now, so they can’t use that to turn people against him. F*ck that.

Salem sends a bloodhound or whatever after Oscar, we already saw this bit in the trailers. No comment.

TLDR: Once again, RWBY sets up a lot of stuff that I find interesting and want to see more of. However, their treatment of Ironwood doesn’t make me optimistic for them to treat him right, and RWBY has a track record of setting up good concepts/plots/characters/arcs and then failing to execute them well or at all. We’ll have to see if V8 actually lives up to the promise or falls flat due to the issues that plagued V6 and V7 .

Going to make a whole new list for the OP because dear Lord, this thing is dense.

This song is definitely more in line with RWBY’s usual sound than Trust Love, and I’m all for that. The beat is a little hinky to me - it’s going to take a few re-listens to get used to it - and once again I wish the lyrics were clearer, but I know people that weren’t as happy with V7′s sound will be happy with this return to form.

Establishing shots of Mantle going to hell, nice use of red and contrast, but I wish there was a bit more use of shadow to really sell the red coming from fires and emergency lights.

Ruby standing alone, turning to find the others standing at the ready to fight, but away from her and with their backs turned. Any chance of more dissent? Will we actually get some growth from Ruby, in regards to her leadership in particular? We can only hope.

The four girls, on a blackish/blue background with floating warm lights, with images of their V1 selves in their clothes/hair/weapons. I really love the animation in the portion, the girls look so good. It also makes me wish we’d get some sort of flashback to V1-3, because I want more of their Beacon designs in the new animation style. The fact that this background/setting shows up again later in the trailer makes me wonder if it might be what the interior of the Atlas vault looks like. No basis for that, just a random thought. Couple minor nitpicks, focused on Yang. The fact that she’s the only one not in a more dynamic pose (and this is Yang of all people) seems odd, and the way her hair flows looks weird to me based on the angles and whatnot. Putting her in a different pose like a charge would fix this, letting her hair flow more naturally and giving them the space they need to to add in her past self. Otherwise, gorgeous.

Ironwood with Atlas inside him, slowly being overtaken by the red as he looks up. No real comment other than beautiful.

Clover dropping his pin, with the AceOps and Qrow in the leaves, before transitioning to Qrow taking Robyn’s hand in prison. It looks like Harriet will be taking over as team leader. I don’t have a lot to say here - Marrow’s the only AceOp I’m interested in, and Qrow and Clover’s relationship has never been compelling for me. Robyn, similarly, is not a character I like, so a Qrow/Robyn team-up jailbreak isn’t something that I’m interested in unless Watts is involved. Already teamed up with one villain, Qrow, why stop there?

Oscar in pain holding his head, while Grimm eyes surround him and then Salem with wyvern wings comes out and looms over him preparing to grab him. I like the visual of Salem as the Wyvern at Beacon, but her face looks almost doofy in this shot. I think it’s the lack of expression mixed with the eyes. If she had a more menacing expression, I think this would work a lot better.

The falling weapons of the girls, Crescent Rose with Myrtenaster and Gambol Shroud with Ember Celica. Cue the shippers.

Jaune with his sword in front of his face, pulling it down to be at the ready, with Nora and Ren in the far background, their backs turned on each other but looking sad at their positions. I know Jaune’s thing is probably generic, but it gives me Mulan vibes, which is funny considering. Hey, hint that Martial Arcs will become canon now that Renora is on the rocks? fingers crossed More of Ren and Nora’s rough patch, and I really hope that that gets some focus. Their kiss last volume left a bad taste in my mouth with how it went down, and getting into these two as separate characters and their relationship. Ren not requiting Nora’s romantic feelings towards him would be a really interesting place to go with these characters that everyone’s pegged together since episode 4 (in no small part due to their lack of interaction with anyone else, but I’ll get to that).

Winter and Weiss walking towards each other on the Schnee symbol, passing each other by with Winter getting her new hairstyle and a brace of some sort. She’s actually wearing this brace in the hospital, but on the other arm, while now it’s on the arm she couldn’t bend her fingers with. Interesting, and it looks all looks really good!

The Schnee snowflake falls between Whitley and Willow, before shattering onto a chessboard. YESSSS, Whitley’s in the intro again! That’s more than I could’ve hoped, and I really really hope that him looking contemplatively like that means something - that’s he’s figuring things out, coming up with a plan, something! Still no new design though T-T CRWBY, what do I have to do to get my boy some new clothes?

From the chessboard, Salem rises up, turning the other black pieces into Grimm to attack the white where Ironwood stands. His pieces turn to dust, the board blowing away entirely. Nice callback to V1. Ironwood stands alone - no allies, and no space to move forward. He’s a king with nowhere to move - check or checkmate.

Smug Watts hacking while leaning against a mirror, rotates to show Pierto doing the same, his reflection looking over its shoulder at him, then a pan to Penny to show the same thing before the mirror breaks. I’m not sure what this might symbolize. Inability to trust yourself, maybe?

A snowflake flies through the air and lands in Ren’s palm. It turns into a flower petal, (or scraps his hand, I can’t quite tell) then Yang, Jaune, and Oscar join him, Ren smiling to Jaune. Another flower petal flies by to transition to Nora, who reaches out but can’t catch it, looking dismayed until RWBP comes in to join her. I assume the symbolism is straight-forward - the snowflake turns to a petal when caught by Ren (lotus guy), then flies to Nora who can’t catch it. Really living for the Ren focus in the op~

Pans to a shot of the whole group in the middle of everything - Atlas and Mantle overrun with Grimm on one side, Salem’s whale and Grimm army on the other, and Amity in the middle, which Penny flies up to hover below. Penny is going to be vital to launching Amity, and probably for reasons other than the terminal.

Then Ruby and Yang looking at each other with a smile and nod before the girls jump into fighting some Grimm. Interesting bit when the volume opens with the sisters starting to have disagreements.

The entire thing freezes, Cinder strolling cockily past the crew to walk in front of a bored/disgruntled Neo and Emerald who starts to wave but looks dejected when Cinder ignores her. Not much to say here - I don’t really like the freeze frame for some reason, no idea why. This also doesn’t give us any new info on the dynamics between these three characters.

Cinder grabs her Grimm arm in pain as fire flares up behind her, transitioning into Merc, Tyrian, Hazel, and Salem with the lamp in her eyes, transitioning to the lamp and staff twirling around each other, both emitting smoke like they’re being used as they come together. I wonder if this means that the last question and the Staff are going to be used, and maybe together? Once again, though - Atlas falling, people in the crater die.

Smoke clears up to reveal Ruby, looking up to Atlas first in invasion mode, then peaceful. Turn to a shot of the group standing looking to the left, Yang and Ruby looking like they’re posed but the others just kind of standing there. It’s a weird shot, and I’m not sure what to make of it, honestly.

The ice breaks beneath Ruby’s feet, sending RWBY falling into a void, their bodies trailing those lights that we saw before. Ruby opens her eyes to see the brightest light, the Staff. She reaches out to it, but Grimm paws and hands drag her down. V6 callback?

The word Happy? flashes only to be crossed out, a sketchy Grimm roaring, then the words Ever then Never as it’s crossed out, with a sketchy Penny lifting her head and her eyes then face going red, then the words After Again being crossed out. I’m not really of the words - I think it’s going for a Happily Ever After Happy? Never Again thing, but there’s no Happily that I can see, and it just kind of comes across as a bit emo to me. I like the sketches of the Grimm and Penny - I think it might be a Wyvern Grimm or something like that, and the red spreading from Penny’s eyes to her entire outline is interesting. I wonder if it’s connected to the Maiden powers and how she’ll use them.

Sketches of RWBY’s weapon fall into the snow, Crescent Rose falling with the tip stuck in the snow, then a flash and a pull out to Crescent Rose in the snow in full animation, framed by the broken moon as rose petals fly by with the “Created by Monty Oum” credit appears. I really like this as a reference to the Red trailer, and compared to the very cluttered ending shot of V7, this is a nice change of pace.

I like this OP. It’s definitely above V7′s for me, with a good song and some beautiful animation in it’s visuals. If I had to criticize it, I would say that it feels very long and cluttered. My breakdown of the opening feels as long as everything I mentioned in the actual episode. I realize one was going almost shot by shot, while the other summarized, but the point still stands that this things feels longer than it needs to be (I’d have to check time stamps to see if it is actually significantly longer).

A more promising start, all in all, than I’d hoped for. Things irritate me for sure, Ironwood’s treatment, Ruby’s plan, all that stuff, but I know I would have those bones to pick going in. The shake-up of the usual teams and the promise of inter-group conflict is enough to get me to want more, and I look forward to seeing how my favorite characters will be utilized.

What are your thoughts on the episode? Reblog and comment down below, and we’ll start a convo.

Until next time~

#rwby #rwby8 #rwby volume 8 #rwby8 spoilers #rwby 8 spoilers #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xioa long #episode breakdown

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planetsam · 4 years

Text

In hindsight, he probably should have expected this.

Another countdown, another life or death situation measured by a stupid timer that echoes the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart. Flint’s presence is a nice touch. Of course some part of him is furiously, brokenly resentful at the absence of his mother, but he shoves the thought away and tries again to get at the glass.

No dice.

On the other side of the barrier, Alex works. Michael can’t see what restrains him, but Alex is another story. The bruises, the cuts, they’re all painful obvious. To say nothing of the sleepless shadows and pallor of his skin. His hands aren’t steady but he keeps at it, bracing one hand against his knee or the husk of the bomb Michael made.

“Stop, stop,” Michael says finally, trying to put authority into his voice, “Alex—“

“No.”

“Alex!”

He gets a dagger filled glare before Alex turns back to the bomb. Stubborn, stubborn asshole. Michael feels every part of him tense at the dismissal. Of course Alex is going to stay and try. Stay and die, he corrects himself. There’s no saving both of them, no more than there is a them.

“Why then?” Michael challenges instead, “what are you trying to prove?” He sees Alex’s shoulders tense and he digs into the wound, “you’re not like them if you leave,” he says, trying to make his voice steady, “Alex, listen, you’re not another Manes,” Alex says nothing, just goes a little tenser. The beeping seems turn more frantic, “damn it Alex, don’t do this!” He says slamming his hand against the glass.

“Nothing is going to happen,” Alex says, his voice infuriatingly calm and his hands still working, “if you stop distracting me.”

Michael hates how much he wants to believe that. It makes him feel like this is another parallel to an earlier time. When he wanted to believe in someone’s words so damn badly. No matter how much the world kept telling him it was a stupid fucking thing to do. He wants to believe when Alex says it’ll be okay, that al he has to do is something so simple and everything will be fine. There isn’t much Michael wouldn’t do for Alex, but the small stuff has always been whatever kryptonite is on the planet he came from.

“You know dying here with me still counts,” he says instead, “it means you never moved past the tool shed, or the alien bullshit, or any of it,” he tells him, “whatever comes next they’re gonna know.”

“I’ll worry about that when I get there,” Alex tells him switching to a different angle, “someone redid your wiring.”

Michael’s stomach bottoms out. He tried to make the bomb easy, because he didn’t want to blow anyone up. Sure he had plans to follow but there were tweaks he could make, tweaks that only someone smart would see. Was he hoping that someone smart was going to be Alex? Maybe. But he was also hoping Alex would have nothing to do with his bomb. He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. His fists clench and he gives the glass another hard shove. His mind and his fist betray him equally as he feels a crack in his hand and the glass says furiously untouched. Alex glances at him through his lashes before refocusing.

“You have to go,” he says abruptly, “I can’t convince you, I know that okay? But please,” the word slips out, “don’t make me go out knowing I killed you.”

Alex’s hand falters. His brows knit together and Michael holds his breath for the cut to break. It seems stupid but he’s not sure he can handle seeing Alex bleed. Hell he can’t handle any of this. But he also can’t do anything about it. The drug might be out of his system but there’s more than one way to keep an alien down apparently. Finally Alex looks up at him. Just that makes Michael realize Alex isn’t sure he can diffuse the bomb. It’s the first hurdle to getting Alex to leave. It takes a lot to make Alex give up but Michael’s got a knack for it, they both know it.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Alex says.

“Yes you are,” Michael shoots back. It’s a mistake because Alex seems to rally, “just go, I was looking for a way off this planet anyway remember?”

He’s hoping that bringing up their fight will remind Alex that they were done with each other, that he was over it and walking away. It seems to remind Alex of something but Michael knows in his bones it’s not what he wants him to remember. Alex still isn’t getting up. Or moving away from the bomb. Or any of the things that Michael is desperately willing him to do. He hasn’t turned into Isobel though so Alex just keeps doing what he wants.

“Why did you stop?” He asks.

“Now isn’t the time for questions!” Michael snaps, cringing at the surprised laugh that comes out of Alex’s mouth.

“Really?” Alex asks, “now’s not the time?” Michael rolls his eyes, “why?” Alex presses, “what made you change your mind?”

Michael didn’t think he’d die lying like this. He tries to focus back on Alex. Getting Alex out of here is the only thing that matters. All he has to do is be a selfish ass for another few minutes and this can all be over. The thought makes him laugh because there’s no better description of what he’s been the past few months. And none of it has worked because they are right back here. The laugh that escapes his lips is twisted and despite everything, concern shoving it’s way past Alex’s calm, solider energy. Stupid fucking emotions. He doesn’t have a shot in hell of lying to him.

“If I tell you, do you promise you’ll go?” He asks, “no matter what I say?” Alex hesitates, “get up,” Michael says, his voice somehow steady, even as he feels sweat drip down his back, “get up and I’ll tell you.”

Alex is smarter than him though. There’s no bargaining with him. Michael sees the calm and determination shine through and knows with a sinking feeling the door is closing. Alex would deny what he wants, he’d pull his own heart out of his chest, to do the thing he knows is right. Because that’s Alex, it always has been. He shakes his head to clear it and grabs the tool he dropped, checking the timer briefly and wincing a what he sees before refocusing.

“Forget it,” Alex says and turns back to the bomb.

“You were back,” Michael blurts out, “I couldn’t leave while you were back—“

“You could date someone else though?” Alex questions.

“So could you,” Michael points out.

“I’m not dating anyone.”

“You want to though.”

Alex stops working and turns to look at him. He’s not his father or his brother because Michael’s never really been terrified of the looks they’ve given him. Except on Alex’s behalf. The look Alex gives him though is the look of a man who could easily burn the world down. Michael’s seen it directed at him maybe once before and just like then it makes him feel about two feet tall.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Alex tells him.

“Or what?” Michael challenges, “what are you gonna do?’ He taps the glass as a reminder but Alex remains unmoving, “what are you gonna do, Alex?” He challenges, firmer this time, “you asked and I told you—“

“I wanted the truth,” Alex tells him.

“That is the truth!”

“Then why?” Alex is suddenly on his feet but he’s at the glass instead of leaving, going in exactly the wrong direction. Like always, “why did you do—“ he shakes his head like he doesn’t know where to start, “any of that?”

“Because I wanted to stay, I wanted you to stay,” Michael says and it’s as simple and as difficult as that. His voice doesn’t crack, his emotions lay calm for the first time in—he can’t remember how long it’s been, “and I couldn’t handle the thought of losing you again,” he continues, “not like that, not for good.”

Alex stares him down for a moment, if Michael was better, he thinks he would try to unpack the emotions that shoot across Alex’s face. But there’s time to do that after Alex goes. After he gets somewhere safe. Alex’s one foot has already moved in that direction, because apparently the 3/4 of Alex that’s still him is a stubborn ass but the prosthetic is a survivalist. Statistically Michael knows the 3/4 will win out but he prays to whatever deity is listening that a miracle makes the 1/4 sentient so Alex gets out of there.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he continues, “now you gotta go,” he doesn’t know why his eyes are burning but he shoves the impulse away, “get out of here,” Alex opens his mouth and closes it, “I told you why now go—“

“I didn’t agree to that,” Alex cuts in sharply.

“Come on!”

“No I didn’t agree to that,” Alex repeats, “I didn’t agree to any of what you just said,” his determination start to burn through and the fear is right back in Michael’s bones, “I didn’t agree to any of what you just said.”

“It’s not up to you,” Michael says.

“It should have been,” Alex tells him and his voice is so firm that even if Michael hadn’t known he was right, he would have believed him, “I thought we were past taking choices from each other.”

“Please!” It comes out harsher than he intended but Michael is past caring, “I know you loved me, if any part of you still feels anything for me you gotta go,” he stumbles over the words, “Alex, come on, don’t make this all for nothing. I built that thing, if it kills me it’ll be—“ he fumbles, “justice. It’ll be fine. It’s not gonna be fine if it takes you too.”

“Michael—“

“Go,” he says but the word doesn’t even sound like him. Alex opens his mouth, “Alex,” he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “come on.”

Alex stares at him, still unyielding but Michael doesn’t have to be in his head to know the words he said are still there. If he ever loved him, if any part of him still does, Alex will go. The world’ll be right again. No big gestures like building a fucking bomb, all Alex has to do is walk out a door. For him it’ll be a big gesture but Michael knows he’s up for it. Or he’s truly past him and this will all be for shit. Michael tries to think of something, of anything he can possibly say.

“I’ll find another way to get you out,” Alex says, “you’re not taking this choice too.”

“I’ll wait here,” Michael says, trying not to go weak with relief. Someone’ll see him. Someone’ll get him out. Or he’ll be far enough away. Michael thinks he at least sabotaged the bomb enough for that. Alex looks at him sharply and Michael tries to grin back at him, “you should probably get a move on.”

“Just—“ Alex looks at the glass. Michael wants to laugh because he’s been hoping for the same miracle.

“No dice,” he says.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Alex tells him, firmly enough so Michael almost believes him, “Michael—“

“If you walk out that door, I’ll know,” Michael says simply.

It’s hard to turn his back but if he keeps looking at Alex, he’s gonna lose it. And he can’t. Not if he can get him to go. He hears Alex press his head to the glass and he has to force himself not to look. To once again take another choice from Alex. He can only pray that Alex forgives him for it one day. He listens to the sound of Alex’s feet taking up a solider’s tempo to get away. He listens to the pause and can picture the annoyance on Alex’s face before they continue.

When he’s sure it’s just him and his bomb, he lets the pain double him over. He lets the stinging take over his eyes and the lump in his throat break free. He’s gonna be toast in a minute anyway so what the hell does it matter. Going like this is okay. It’s right. In it’s own fucked up way. He’s going out alone but he’s got the answer to if Alex loves him. Life’s never been fair as far as Michael’s concerned but this, this he can live with. Or end with, he corrects, as the world goes pink and white and hot.

And then it’s done.

#michael guerin #alex manes #malex #Michael x Alex #roswell new mexico #malex fic #roswell nm #roswell nm fanfic #its been so long forgive me this is awful I know #dips toe in and then runs away

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border-spam · 4 years

Text

Maw

Troy inspects his latest body modification prior to a planned reveal to his followers in a horrific LetsFlay, and considers how heavy the price he’s paid to change his appearance may really be.

Part of my Leech Lord AU series, some OC mentions. Long post. TW - Terminal illness, body image / mental health issues, gore, violence, death

He hissed sharply inwards, then held the breath in his lungs. Futilely willing his heartbeat to calm as he began to mentally count down from 10 like the surgeon had taught him. Every session had been a little better than before, he’d get through it. Stay focused, stay calm, and count from Ten...

Nine… Same as he’d had to do twice a day for the last month, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the rim of the stone basin. Eight… Same seemingly endless 10 seconds he’d endured over and over. They would end, keep breathing. Seven… Eyes screwed tightly closed and brow furrowed as the burning pain shot through his gums and jaw. Six… Slowly exhaling through his nose as the fire traveled down his throat and into the root of his tongue. Five… The surgeon had said this would take weeks, not a month. Four… Lower lip trembling as the pain faded into a throb, faster than last time, good. Three… He’d known it would need this care. He’d researched. He’d known. No regrets now. Two… He’d just overestimated how fast he would heal, that’s all. It was major surgery. It would be worth it in the end. One … It would be worth it.

It would be worth the pain.

Letting his head drop forward as he shuddered in a slow breath, Troy slowly opened his watery eyes and took in his reflection in the mirror he faced, softly illuminating him in the dark comfort of his ship’s washroom.

He looked haggard. Cool blue eyes bloodshot and beginning to spill over with the tears he’d held back as the pain subsided, normally rich sepia skin faded to a sickly pallor and glistening with sweat. Some king he was.

“F-fuck..” He sputtered, watching in disgusted fascination as the antiseptic wash gushed over his lips and into the sink under him, leaving strings of blood tinged saliva trailing under his chin. Deep crimson swirls mixing through the blue medical fluid as it splashed up the sides of the basin.

The reaction to the cleaning was a little better than last time, he thought with a sigh as he turned the faucet and watched the medical fluid swirl down the drain. It was healing, and he probably only had another week or so to go before it was fully functional, but shit. It hurt still. A lot.

Running a thumb gently over the swollen reddened seam in his lip, he decided to remind himself why he’d done this as he stared at the dribble of fresh blood it had leaked onto his finger.

Why he’d spent months researching, contacting body mod experts, surgeons, flaunting his name and infamy to reassure them that yes, he was serious. Yes, he had given this plenty of thought. Yes, he understood how major this would be. Yes, he appreciated how much of his jaw and tongue wouldn’t actually be him anymore. That things may not taste the way he remembered after. That his mouth would never be the same.

He had done it, because he didn’t like his mouth in the first place.

It was too soft. Too big, lips too full. It smiled too wide and drew the eye to his delicate cheekbones, he was so sick of being delicate. Troy had been delicate enough his entire childhood, he didn’t want to be as a man too. He wanted respect. He wanted power.

He’d never given it much thought before Pandora. Never really thought about how he looked at all. It had just never been something that required any attention. Why would either have them had even considered their appearances? How they looked had no affect on how well they scavenged, or helped his twin on the nights she was overwhelmed with the reality of her gifts, or change how Pop had acted around him..

It just had never mattered. They were them. They were each other. Why would they need to ever look different? How could it change anything?

He hadn’t cared till Pandora, till other people started to care. And comment. And they had commented plenty in those first few months he and his twin had spent trying to form what was now the planet consume behemoth known as the Children of the Vault. Tyreen had quickly been accepted after he’d designed her imposing outfit and she’d started styling her appearance, but he hadn’t been.

The tattoos had helped for a while, the gauges and piercings he got after too, but he’d had those years now, and he still wasn’t intimidating enough. He was still pitiful. That quiet, stammering, gut wrenchingly gentle voice in the back of his mind reminded him of that often enough on nights when he’d be unable to sleep. When he’d lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling of his bedchamber for hours, and feel his skin crawl while he pretended he couldn’t hear the whispers.

Their rapidly growing follower count had been plenty vocal about which of the twins was the more impressive. Which of the twins they mocked more. Which of the twins had fail collection echo vids of stumbling and looking sickly, and devoted fan forums offering pity and love for the clear underling.

He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want love. He wanted fear, so he changed it. He changed his face.

Troy Calypso is not Troy DeLeon. He does not make rash decisions and be hopeful for the best outcome, everything is planned, everything is schemed. A month out of public eye while he healed? That was fine. He preferred to not be in it that much recently anyway, not while he knew he looked soft…

That had changed now, he reminded himself, watching as his reflection slowly split its lips into a wide, vicious grin that didn’t quite reach its exhausted eyes.

His mouth was razor sharp now.

As the smile melted away, he let his jaw drop open, angling his head slowly from side to side to check the alignment with his skull. Perfect, so much better now that there wasn’t any swelling. Even and balanced, with no lingering stiffness like it had in the last week. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the seams that ran along the center of his chin and the width of his cheekbones were cosmetic, and man... he couldn’t wait to show the galaxy that they weren’t.

Bracing himself with a deep exhale, he lifted his arms, hooked his flesh fingers and prosthetic’s metal digits over the line of teeth on either side of his lower jaw, and snarled deeply as he pulled downwards. The sensation of this exercise had changed dramatically over the weeks. The agony of tearing apart the healing tissue had originally been so bad that the intensely powerful painkillers he’d been doped with for the first few days couldn’t mask it, but now it was more just.. strange. Like the tension of stretching a thick piece of elastic, but inside him. Muscles complained as they shifted unnaturally, despite weeks of training with them daily, but it didn’t hurt anymore. It just felt intimately wrong. Almost arousing in a way, and he noted with an amused snort that this could be a lot of fun in bed once healed up. Well, fun for him. Then again, he was all that ever mattered in that situation anyway. He stored it away as something else to look forward to after the reveal. Slowly easing the jaw downwards, he felt his upper lip curl into a smile as the latches on either side of his cheeks popped open, responding smoothly to the downwards movement on cue. No pain, no stiffness, an improvement at last. It really had been worth doing these exercises. Tilting his head back slowly to allow the jaw to distend fully downwards, he counted to three, a deep breath through his throat for each digit, and slowly… gently… began to pull outward. The shuddering crack that ran through his jawbone as it disconnected at the front seam reverberated up though his skull just like last time he’d done this, and he winced at the sharp jolt of pain. Bad, but nothing unbearable. He’d been through far worse. It still wept blood as it split apart and stretched to either side, but it was clean, and healing, and it looked monstrous.

It was perfect.

Holding each part of his split mandible outwards, he let himself relax, focusing on the muscular movement needed to force the modified tongue out from the depths of his throat and to hang beneath the open maw. This had healed really quickly, he’d been honestly surprised, but the damage in his neck had taken time. The torn and reattached muscle at the connection to his original tongue’s root in his throat still burned and ached like a healing bruise as he forced the slithering length outwards to lol between the jaws, and he slowly removed his hands from them. Keeping the jaws open like this with just muscle control had been something he’d only managed a day ago, and the difference in strength already was incredible. He watched the undulating waves of the extended tongue as it coiled, drool rolling down its writhing length as the mandibles above it twitched with the effort of holding them open without any support. The modified row of secondary teeth hidden inside the line of his natural jaw bone were exactly how he’d wanted them, serrated fangs pointing inwards like barbs. They knit together into a solid plate and rested under his tongue when the mandible closed, but open like this? Beautiful. Terrifying. His mouth looked like a weapon. It looked like he could eat you alive. Let’s see them laugh at him now, let’s see them call him soft when he could crunch their bones between his fucking teeth.

Troy gargled a crackling laugh over the pooling drool in his throat, smile creasing his eyes in the mirror’s reflection as the light caught his distended golden canines, inhumanly long tongue curling at the end in mirth. This was his mouth now. No one else in the universe had a mouth like this, this was unique! This was - “b-broken.”

That voice again...

“… Kkrrokennn... ” he slurred against his palate, tongue grotesquely twitching towards his chest as it attempt to form the word.

Now there was a memory he’d prefer to have not surfaced right now, swallowing the tongue slowly back into his throat as the mandible began to close.

It had been a long time, huh. Long time since he’d first noticed. Long time since he’d last asked why… He lifted his left hand and carefully pressed the lagging right mandible upwards, feeling the click as it connected and realigned with its twin. His eyes locked on his mouth in the mirror’s reflection, and absolutely not on the shape his peripheral vision insisted was standing in the darkness behind him. The one that he was aware was now speaking once more…

“Maybe it was j-just easier for her to not say the truth. Maybe you were less of a burden on her that way, huh. She m-must have been so tired of looking after you, Pop too. They must have been counting the minutes…” He heard it whisper in the back of his mind, that sickening, gentle voice it was getting harder and harder to tune out recently.

“Shut the fuck up.” He muttered under his breath, slowly leaning over the sink and resting his elbows in the rim, watching the water spiral down into the darkness of the drain. He’d made himself.. he’d made himself even more different now. Hadn’t he. Even more broken. What would she think now.

He treasures the memory of Leda. He loves her completely, and he knows that’s true, because damn.. the feelings never changed. He’s never stopped. When he thinks about his mother, he feels the exact same way he did last time he saw her. He was what, 8? Yeah. They were 8 when it happened, that’s right. They were 25 now… They had decayed from children into monsters and still, the exact same warmth blossoms deep in his core when he thinks of her now as it did when he was a little boy.

He feels the twinge of a smile pull at the seam on his lip as he focuses on letting his mind wander back to when he last saw her, but he wishes, in a festering way, she could see him now. Not because it would make her proud, no. God no. He knows she would be repulsed by what he sees in the mirror now, the thing with the metal fangs and hatred inked into its skin, but because he could show her how broken he really had been.

That he knew all along when he’d asked over and over as a child. That she should have just told him and not wasted her love and care on something that would become so disgusting.

He closes his eyes, listening to the running water gargling down the echoing pipe below him, and leans heavier onto this arms. Remembering.

God. He had been so sick.

-----

Day after day, unable to leave his parent’s bed, watching Tyreen’s tantrum’s towards Momma and Pop because Troy couldn’t come explore, or Troy was coughing too much, or Troy got to sleep with them when she didn’t, and it had really hurt to see her sad because of him. It had been his fault she was lonely.

He remembers the guilt, wanting so much to get up and go play with his sister, but not being able to stand for too long before the shakes would start, and then the seizures... Remembers being bundled up in Leda’s arms and bouncing against her hard shoulder as she ran back to their home, screaming at Typhon for letting Troy out of his sight. Troy was sick. Troy needed to rest. But he rested for so long that he forgot what it had been like before, and he never got any better.

He remembers the endless questions, and that they never gave him real answers, even though deep down he knew it was just because he was...

“Why do my stripes not glow, but Ty’s do, Pop?”

“Ty-die, how come you can make those sparks but I can’t do anything?“

“Momma how come everyone else has two arms and everyone else isn’t sick and I’m...“

“Broken broken broken BROKEN”

He remembers the gentle jostle of Leda shifting over onto the bed with him, the heat of her big strong hands against his ribs as she helped prop him up against the pillow as he weakly reached for the little wooden Knight he had left behind on Nekrotafeyo when they escaped. The one Sparrow had made for him. He remembers the frustration of not being able to hold it tightly enough to lift it, and how that seemed so very important at the time. Like it was the most unfair thing in the world. He remembers the comfort of her long fingers sweeping the hair back from his feverish forehead as he glared down at the faded wooden Knight with it’s snapped leg and peeling green paint, and the exhaustion in her voice as she wearily answered -

“Well.. not everyone is the same, Moonbright. Some people are sick sometimes, some people have shapes that might not look like other’s. Some people can sing, some people are clever, some people are kind, some people are terrible. Everyone’s different, babe. ”

And he remembers how dumb that answer sounded, trying not to be angry as he frowned, rolling the little wooden Knight on his lap as he stared down at the dull red markings across the fingers that gripped its broken leg.

“Yeah but Momma.. Why am I so different. ”

---

They never answered it. They never just said the truth. "Everyone is different" is obvious, of course he knew that. Kids aren’t stupid, and he had been a clever kid.. he had spent so many days in that bed wondering why they never just told him the reason he was so.. wrong. So many more as an adult wondering why did it take 13 more years of thinking back and questioning for Tyreen to matter of factly state “...Cuz they were waiting for you to die.” while filing her nails one evening in their shared quarters.

He knows now that they did it out of love, but he also knows he harbors some deep, toxic frustration with his parents because of it. He knows they were trying to keep him happy, that they thought the truth too cruel, but… he spent so many nights sick and alone and in pain, wondering that same question over and over as a child.. and they never told him.

Ty did. Ty does. Ty knows he’s just fucking broken.

They had tried to lie, to keep him from the cruel reality, but it had been true, and he wishes Leda could look at him now, see him hunched over a bloody sink having defiled his face, just so that she could turn away from him in disgust. Then he could know she hated him. Then he could stop holding on, just give up. Just let it go. Become this thing he’d crafted himself into, instead of holding on to dying threads of who he wished he still was inside. He lifts his hand to his face and presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose, pinching, the swirling water background noise now against the pressure inside his head.

How much of him was even left, really. How much of him was metal now, how much of him was the God King.

Years ago, when they had first arrived, Seifa had said he could become anything he wanted to make himself on Pandora, that he had a fresh start. A life. That it could be his choice, and that he had as much a say in it as Tyreen… and look at what he had made himself into in the end.

Exactly what she’d sworn to him that he wasn’t.

Less than 6 months since she’d dropped him like the burden he was, and he’d done this. He’d betrayed them both. Would Mom cry, or not have the tears to waste on what he’d chosen to become after everything she did to try and hide it from him.

A broken, monstrous thing.

He sighs, squinting at the faucet before reaching out and turning it off, then rubs at his eyes in the quiet of the dark washroom, smearing eyeliner further across his cheeks. He’s tired. He could have done without remembering this. It’s hard enough to sleep nowadays without getting stuck on shit like this all night. He stands slowly, stretching his back with a series of pops, and touches the tender side of his jaw gingerly. He still had a few of those painkillers, he remembers with a sniff. Couple of those should knock him out. Keep the nightmares away for one more night. He’d be making his big reveal soon anyway… With one last glance at the mirror, confirming he was alone in the room, Troy turned and walked towards the door to his bedchamber. Sleep now. Emotional bullshit later. That was for tomorrow him, he’d fix it then. He could fix everything, after all. Fixing problems was his forte. He only ever needed time.

---

The LetsFlay numbers looked gooood.

3 billion concurrent viewers and rising according to the stream data flickering in the inner forearm of his prosthetic, they were hungry for this. They were hungry to see him, he gloated, easily sidestepping the frantic stabbing of the heretic who’d been unfortunate enough to find themself face to face with God King Calypso in the wild melee of this raid. 3.5 now he glimpsed, grin wide enough to strain the clips at his cheeks as his sword crunched through the man’s torso, the weight of his prosthetic arm enough to make its downwards swing render solid bone to wet fragments. They didn’t even have time to yelp. Shame, that would have been great for the fans watching from home. He’d planned ahead to get the hype built around this specific raid, his media team working around the clock to spread articles and social updates that the King would be making an appearance, the first in the public’s eye in 2 months, and that he had a fun surprise to unveil for his followers. That he would be leading this raid, just him, all him. No Tyreen. She wasn’t needed this time.

The chaos around him is deafening, screeches shrieking over gunfire as COV marauders scream litanies to the Twin Gods while tearing the camp and its inhabitants apart. Heretics, idiots, they brought this on themselves. They should have taken the offer, joined the Children of the Vault when approached, not attacked a protected caravan in response. He laughs viciously over the raucous, grabbing a panicked bandit who’d dropped to their knees to beg for mercy in front of him, stuttering that they were a true believer as his retinue of crusaders slaughtered other heretics around them. Bullshit. Now they were just fodder, fuel for the media machine, playthings to tear apart on livestream and rile up the followers, get those sweet donations coming in, and mannn were those donations coming in, he noted with a chuckle, barely registering the wet popping of the man’s ribs puncturing his lungs as he ground him into the dirt with the monstrous robotic fist.

This was a great score. This was a game now, and he wished she could see him, blood spattering over his bare, toned torso as he marched onwards, pausing only to rip another piece of screeching meat in two, or sink metal teeth into a limb and tear it from its joint, and each new kill made the score go up:

--- 4 billion viewers. ---

His eyes burn with laughter as he crushes another throat, skin flushed and breathing heavy.

--- 4.5 billion viewers. ---

He sensually smears the blood dripping from his gilded mouth over his chest and abdomen with a obscene caress of his hand, maintaining eye contact with the floating cam circling him as he sneers, the adoration of billions of rabid followers flowing back through the flashing lens.

--- 5.5 billion viewers.

25 billion dollars in donations and it was all for HIM, for God King Calypso. ---

He wished Leda could see him now.

She can’t, but if she could, she’d really see. She’d know what he was all along. That she’d been wrong, and she should had killed him when she had the chance. Then he wouldn’t be here now, doing this to these filth.

His heart is pounding and he can’t fill his lungs quick enough, the insanity of the camp being slaughtered around him is just a blur of viscera and violence. It’s a bloodthirsty high he’s not felt in years and he’s lost to it, the carnal pulse of snapping bone and screaming faces, he’s invincible. He’s immortal, a God tearing through paper thin flesh as it laughs through bloodstained fangs. He’s Troy Calypso, Twin God, God King, he’s perf- Breath rushes out of his chest in a forced bellow as fire erupts through his ribs, and everything stops.

No sound, no movement. Just a heretic to his left, a crude bayonet, and a lucky stab. His retinue guard missed the open flank. A crusader is screaming his name but it’s not reaching him, he can’t hear them now. All he can see is this disgusting, meaningless, mortal thing staring into the eyes of a God, and the raw terror in their gaze as they realise they’ve missed anything vital. They whisper something, perhaps an apology, but it’s too late.

In one fluid motion, Troy’s maw splits and engulfs their entire head as he whips to the side.

There is a single second that feels like an infinity as the entire camp seems to draw in a silent breath, as every marauder, every crusader, every piece of bandit scum looks on in silent, horrified awe. Billions of eyes across the echonet watch in shock in that moment that seems to last an eternity. Watch as he feels the man’s muffled scream start against his tongue, as the serrated fangs lock into his flesh, watch as with a guttural roar, Troy bites down…

… and the heretic’s skull is crushed in his jaws.

Bone shards and pulped brain matter burst between the mandibles in a spray of gore, and the bloodcurdling screech that rises up from the followers throughout the camp is like nothing he has ever heard. It’s like a dream.

It’s a swelling hymn from the mouths of hundreds, all to him, to his glory. They shriek his name in a fervent prayer to their hallowed God King, and he closes his eyes as the chanting swells to a cacophony around him, blood streaming down his chest as he lets the mangled body drop from his hanging maw to the ground.

The hysterical screaming rises to fever pitch, and he stands, unmoving. Their God. Eyes closed and arms held open in triumphant welcome as the deafening noise engulfs him, heart pounding through frantic ecstasy as viscera drops from his twitching jaws.

A towering monster standing amongst the corpses of insects.

He glances down, panting, at his stream data. Letting his mind focus on the blinking panel as he yanks the bloody bayonet from his heaving ribs with a grunt.

--- 8.5 billion live viewers.

“God King Calypso” trending across all major social media.

55 billion dollars in donations to the LetsFlay stream. ---

He wishes she could see what he is now, so he could stop pretending to himself she’d still love him.

He just hopes the camera isn’t picking up the tears he can taste as they drip from his cheeks and run down his squirming tongue.

Check out the #my hcs and #my writing tags on blog for more content if you enjoyed this! Comments and reblogs appreciated. :)

#borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #my writing #my hcs #ocs #seifa

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sunagirl · 4 years

Text

CalypSog drabble (Take 2)

Let’s hope tumblr doesn’t fuck this post again. So, I wrote this a few months back, based on an ask @border-spam answered. I’ve gone back to it a few times since, and I’m still kind of unhappy with parts of it, but I’m kind of done trying to fix it, and I figure someone here might be interested in my dumb Gurjin-redeems-Troy crossover AU. There’s a bit of angst, but I don’t think any real trigger warnings apply. Anyway, drabble under the cut, and if I’m lucky, I’ll remember most of what I wrote earlier today for the last paragraph.

(Did I ever mention previously that I dubbed this pairing CalypSog?)

“You know…” Gurjin sighs, laid across Troy’s chest, fingers lazily tracing the intricate tattoos across the siren’s body, hand drifting closer to the titanium brace across his shoulder, “In all our trine together, I’ve never seen you without this.” His fingers pause, feeling the cool metal.

“Yeah, well,” Troy brushes away the gelfling’s hand, “you know I gotta keep it on.” He wraps his arm around Gurjin’s waist, gently moving him to his left side.

“But why?” Gurjin reaches up, cupping Troy’s face in his hand. “It can’t be comfortable like this, lying in bed with that big piece of metal on you. But you always do. And you’ve always said you designed your prosthetics to be removable for maintenance.”

“Exactly, maintenance,” Troy clears his throat as he looks away, hoping to change the subject.

“But you’ve taught me how to do maintenance on your other prosthetics,” Gurjin grumbles.

Troy rolls over with a grunt, leaving Gurjin to face his back. The Drenchen stares at the exposed ports of Troy’s spine, eyes tracing the familiar line of scars across his back. He curls up to Troy, planting a kiss on his shoulder.

“Troy, you don’t need to hide anything from me,” he reassures.

“This is different.” Troy’s voice is grim, barely a whisper, and he curls further away from Gurjin, burying his shoulder in the blankets.

“It’s really not. I love you, Troy, every part of you.” Gurjin sits up, leaning over Troy, his chin in the crook of his shoulder, lips brushing the siren markings on his face their red glow pulsing gently in the dim light. “I don’t want you to feel like you need to hide. I wish you could just be yourself, completely.” His hands slide under the covers to Troy’s bracer once more. “Nothing under this piece of metal changes who you are.”

“If it doesn’t change anything, then why does it matter whether or not I keep it on?” Troy snaps. The whole bed shifts as he pulls away from Gurjin and stands up suddenly, sending the gelfling reeling for a moment.

“Because you’ve convinced yourself it’s something shameful…” Gurjin crosses his legs, still on the bed, looking sadly up at his lover. “But you’re only hurting yourself by hiding.” He tries to choose his words carefully, the last thing he wants is to anger Troy about something so personal, so integral to the persona he’s carefully crafted for himself, so vitally important to his survival. “You’ve spent so long wearing this- this mask,” he pauses, his eyes glancing over to Troy’s almost comically oversized prosthetic arm on its charging dock before returning to Troy. “Trying to protect yourself, trying to put on a brave face, but you can’t hide anything from yourself.”

“Like you know anything about what I have to hide?” Troy sneers, arm gripping at his shoulder plate, knuckles white and shaking. “There’s shit you’ll never understand, no matter how hard you try, no matter how nice to try to be.” His tone is conflicted, flipping between anger and sorrow, body trembling with emotion.

“That may be, but perhaps one day I will, if you let me.” Gurjin slides toward the edge of the bed, standing up on it and hugging Troy from behind. “And if you’re ever ready to let me see that part of you, to talk about whatever it really is you want so desperately to keep hidden, I’ll be here for you.”

“Gurjin, I-” Troy swallows, struggling to keep his composure. “I’m sorry, I just…” he sits beside Gurjin, hiding his face in his hand. Gurjin stands behind him, rubbing his back gently, kissing the back of his neck.

“It’s alright Troy,” he whispers, running his fingers through Troy’s hair.

“No, it’s not, and I don’t think it ever will be…” His head droops, hair falling over his face as a dark chuckle escapes his throat, tears pooling in his eyes. “I’ve always been broken, even before I was born. Weak… Sickly… Useless…” He takes a sharp breath, his final words hissing out between his teeth, a lifetime of self-loathing slipping out: “a freak.”

“None of that is true…” Gurjin trails kisses along Troy’s shoulder, wishing he knew the right words. “You’re intelligent, passionate, beautiful.” He hugs him tight, breathing in the scent of his hair, feeling Troy’s shuddering breaths through his frail frame. “Your body, your missing arm, your illness, none of that changes who you are. None of it makes you less. Less valuable, less worthy of love, less of a person. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” he closes his eyes, kissing Troy’s hair softly, “see the man I love.”

Troy turns to face Gurjin, pulling him into a deep embrace, towering over the gelfling even while sitting, a loud sob finally breaking free, muffled with his face in Gurjin’s thick locs.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, tears blurring his vision, clinging desperately to Gurjin.

“I love you, Troy.” Gurjin hugs him, thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw mods and kissing him. They hold each other for a few long moments before Troy sighs deeply, pulling away, eyes red and tears streaming down his cheeks, eventually falling to a rather restless sleep.

The next few days pass in near silence, Troy burying himself in one of his projects, Gurjin giving him some space, careful not to bring up their previous conversation.

“Troy?” Gurjin watches Troy stand up from the bed a few nights later, as he begins to dig through his tools on the nearby table, picking up a small wrench and turning back toward the gelfling.

“This…” he swallows, tapping his brace with the wrench, “this is everything I’ve tried to leave behind.” He sits beside Gurjin once more. “When we first came to Pandora, the bandits here didn’t give me a second thought. Nobody even noticed me unless I was with Tyreen. She was a siren, so she always stood out, she’s the center of the universe, right?” he gives Gurjin a grim smile. “The only way to get respect on Pandora is to be feared.” Gurjin leans on Troy’s arm, listening intently.

“So you made yourself into something to be feared.”

“Exactly.” Troy fidgets with the wrench, pouting slightly. “Prosthetics. Tattoos. Even our clothes and personality. I designed all of it wholecloth just so we could survive.”

“But it’s not you, is it?” Gurjin’s asks.

“It is, and it isn’t.” He gives Gurjin a dark smile. “It’s what I wanted. Distract from my weakness, be big and scary, at least in front of a crowd.” He continues toying with the wrench in his hand.

“But you spent so long pretending, you nearly lost yourself. You were ready to throw away everything you had left behind, everything about who you really are when we first met, let your act take over.”

“I would have been lost for good if not for you.” Troy kisses Gurjin’s forehead. He bites his lip, taking a long look at the wrench before he starts removing the bolts anchoring his brace.

“Troy?”

“You’re right. Like always.” He smirks, lips quivering as he tries to smile for real. He drops the bolts one by one on the bedside table. “I’m not doing myself any favors being afraid.” His voice trembles, and he avoids looking at Gurjin for a long moment before taking a deep, shaky breath and looking down at the concerned Drenchen. He turns to face Gurjin fully, reaching across his chest, and with a long shuddering exhale, Troy pries the brace from his shoulder, tossing it onto the bed beside them.

His hand instinctively lingers on his shoulder, and Gurjin notices how much smaller he looks without the brace. His collarbone and ribs are noticeably undeveloped on his right side, and the socket where his arm would be is a surprisingly deep pocket above his ribs, deeply bruised from the bracer, a mess of jagged scars trail down his side and the anchor ports for the brace bolts are grafted onto the bone, causing further scarring. Gurjin’s eyes linger on Troy’s exposed shoulder for a moment before realizing that the siren is again turning away from him, eyes locked on his feet, toes curling nervously.

“Come here.” Gurjin stands on the bed, holding his hands out to Troy, who glances up, slowly leaning over toward him. Gurjin takes his hand, kissing his knuckles and gently pulling Troy closer. He plants a line of kisses up Troy’s arm, lips following the swirling, glowing markings up to his shoulder.

“I love you Troy,” he says simply, wrapping his arms around Troy’s neck, the siren kneeling down and hugging him in return. His hand drops, fingers following the nooks and crannies of the scarred flesh, taking in every detail. Troy’s hulking figure trembles against him, nose buried in his locs, hugging the gelfling tight. “Nothing will ever change that.” They embrace for a long moment before Troy pulls away with a tearful smile.

#borderlands 3 #troy calypso #gurjin #the dark crystal age of resistance #the dark crystal #crossover fic #calypsog #tdcaorreblogs

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explorationanddamnation · 4 years

Text

Glass Cases: Part 2

Dark!Steve Rogers x Reader x Dark!Bucky Barnes

After being taken life starts to become weird and uncomfortable in a new place. After Steve lost his temper you had to learn some new things in a gut shocking way.

Some Dark themes, Kidnapping and some sexual tension later…

Part 1

You woke up feeling groggy and everything hurt. You rubbed your head and tried to sit up but there was too much pain and resistance.

“What happened?” You opened your eyes but everything was dark.

“Hello Y/N it’s good to see you’re awake.” That wasn’t a nightmare it was real, you had been taken by psycho's.

“Who are you, What happened and where am I? Why can’t I see?” You felt around trying to find some way out. You felt the plastic railings of a hospital bed along with scratchy sheets.

“My name is Bruce, Steve brought you in said you ended up in an accident because he was careless while on a mission. You had a fracture in your left hip as well as a break in the top of your femur. We had to put a pin in your hip so it would heal properly and then we’ll brace your leg so the break has time to heal properly. As for your eye sight it seems that there is something inside your eyes, you’ve been out of it so we didn’t see them.” It wasn’t just a terrible dream, it all really happened. Whoever this man was he was being lied to, he didn’t know the real story.

“No, that’s not right, please,” you paused as the pain started throbbing and you let out a small cry of displeasure, “I need help. I was kidnapped. Someone took me, I…”

You hear an automatic open and heavy boots hit the floor.

“Bruce I thought I asked you to call me the second she woke up.” that was the voice of the man who had taken you. You desperately tried to push yourself from the bed you were on. Your need to get away was sparking your adrenaline forcing your fight or flight response to kick in. You fell from the bed into a cold linoleum floor as you use your hand to pull yourself away from the pounding footsteps. You felt a new pain from above your knee and the displacement of your kneecap but knew this was the only chance you had to get away.

“Hey, hey. Calm down you are going to injure yourself further.” You felt a single hand hit your shoulder.

“Let me go!” You shifted onto your uninjured hip and swing a punch out managing to hit one of them in the face. You heard two stumbling steps. “Please.”

You continued to drag yourself backwards until you're back it a wall. You felt something above your head and reached up a tray of tools rattled and you felt the handle of what you hoped was a scalpel.

“Put down the weapon.” Steve’s voice was calm and commanding, ��You could injure yourself or others.”

“Like you should talk you monster.” You swiped the scalpel around to keep him at bay. You used your other hand to start messing with your eyes in hopes of being able to see the attacker.

“Be careful, you could damage your eyes. Please calm down and let us help you.”

“Like you and James helped me before?” You heard the movement of fabric near your right ear but you were too slow to react before two hands, one flesh the other prosthetic grip your wrists. They squeezed your wrist so hard the scalpel dropped and clattered to the floor.

“Thank you Barnes, can you and Rogers get her into the bed as carefully as possible. I’m afraid that she might have worsened the injuries.” Bruce talked gently as not to set you off. The names he called them made the gears in your brain start turning. Where had you heard those names together?

Your body was hoisted as if it was as light as a feather and you tried fighting against the strong arms and thick wall of muscle. That's when it all came together. Steve Rogers, that was the name of Captain America.

“No, no, no,” You started muttering to yourself in denial all the small details you didn’t connect started to find their way into the puzzle. Your mind raced as the pounding of your heart died down. The pain of your injuries as you were placed on the bed started to register. You started to whining from the pain reaching out to the closest thing and started gripping.

You heard one of the men hiss as your nails dug into the flesh of their arm.

“Doc can you give her something, she is clearly in pain.” You heard James’ voice as a cold metal brushed hair from your face as sweat started beading from your skin.

“If she caused further breakage in the bone and there is any chance of internal bleeding pain killers could worsen the problem.”

“I’m sorry,” you started mumbling apologies, if they were who you said they were thought you would never evade them. You started pushing against the hands on your shoulders that held you to the bed. You cried out as someone pushed against your left upper leg.

You started fighting against the hands on your shoulders trying to get away from the pain that Bruce was probably causing. He pressed in a different spot and you howled in pain.

“I’m sorry!” Tears started streaming from your eyes at some point and you felt them running down your cheeks. “Please, I apologize. What I did was wrong. Just please make it stop.”

“Is there anything you can do for her Bruce?” That was the voice for Steve. “If we’re not careful she could lose consciousness again.” was that regret you heard in his voice. Could this man have regret after what he had done to you?

“We can sedate her but that is the only thing I am comfortable with until I can fully assess her injuries.” You felt conflicted, you were afraid of what could happen while you weren’t conscious but you couldn’t take the pain anymore. You felt a pinch in your arm as someone held it down to the bed.

You woke up again on a hospital bed but as you opened your eyes you were blinded by the light you hadn’t seen in days. You tried to reach out but realized that your arms were strapped into a straight jacket. You looked down to see that your left leg was strapped into a brace that extended from your hip down to your ankle locking your leg straight.

“Hello?” your voice sounded raspy and quiet, “is anyone there?” You looked around the room for anyone. You pushed your body towards the edge of the bed with you other leg until you were able to swing your leg off the bed so you were upright leaning against the bed.

You looked to the glass wall across from the bed hoping you could find someone and beg them to help you. Maybe, just maybe you could get away from this nightmare.

You tried to push yourself so weight was on your legs but there was a flair in pain. You leaned back against the bed.

“Doll, what are you doing up?” you whipped your head around to see Captain America standing in the doorway. He quickly walked over to you placing a hand on your shoulder. Tears started to brim in your eyes as you looked him in the eye. They were the blue eyes that haunted your mind since you had temporarily lost your sight.

“How could you…”

He pushed and arranged you in the bed so you were reclined on the hospital bed. He pulled the blankets up before reaching to the buckles of the jacket.

“Can I trust you?” you nodded to him, any hope you had of getting away was gone. He was enhanced and had access to state of the art technology. He undid the buckles helping you out of the jacket you felt tense and over stretched muscles protest movement causing you to wince slightly. “Are you sore?”

You looked up at him before you let your eyes fall to your hands sitting on your lap. You couldn’t look at him, you knew what this man was capable of. You hoped if you didn’t talk he would lose interest and go away.

“Ahh Y/N you are awake and you seem better. How are your pain levels?” You looked over to Steve as if to ask permission to speak to Bruce. He reached out and rubbed his hand on your shoulder to comfort you.

“It’s more of a dull throb, if I move it gets worse more like a sharp pain.” he listened to your response holding a tablet in his hands.

“That is good to hear. I am certain that in just a handful of weeks you can be on your own but for the time being Captain Rogers here volunteered to watch over you.” he leaned in closely, “Between you and me I think he feels guilty because of the accident.”

Guity? How could the man who managed to break your bones by beating you feel guilty. Bruce continued to tell you the further injuries you had sustained including dislocating your knee cap causing a tear in the tendon of your knee. You then shuttered when your mind wrapped around the idea of what would happen when he was ‘watching over you.’

“Let’s get you onto some crutches and moving around.”

“Umm.. sir, I'm no doctor but isn’t a little soon? When you explained what happened it sounded like it would be something that wouldn’t let me walk for a while.”

“If you are doing okay with the pain we should get you moving to keep you from having muscular dystrophy.” Steve helped you readjust in the bed again so you were leaning against the bed as Bruce handed you crutches Steve walked to the other side of the bed to grab your hands helping you stand upright. You tucked the crutches under your arms and let them take some of the weight off.

You took a tentative step forward almost losing your balance before a set of hands were on your sides.

“Take it slowly, I don’t want to see you hurt yourself again.” Steve continued helping and encouraging you the way one would assume The Captain America would give.

After you managed to walk to the door and back to the bed Bruce left you with Steve saying you could go when you felt ready.

You sat in silence as Bruce left the room. You were afraid of what was going to happen, the man next to you seemed to have different sides that you had experienced. You felt more tears stream down your face as you held in the rest of your emotions.

“Let’s get you changed so we can get you home.” he walked around the bed and pulled out some sweat pants along with a t-shirt with a worn shield logo. He pulled off the gown that you had been placed in to help you put on the shirt. He started undoing the brace so he could pull the pants up before placing the brace back on your leg. You looked to the glass wall wondering how easy it would be to cause a scene. He pushed you your head to look him directly in the eye. “Just because you are hurt doesn’t mean that the rules have been thrown out the window, if you run I will still follow through on my promise.”

He threatened your friends and family.

“No, please.” you whimpered at the thought of all that this man was capable of.

“Then don’t try to run.” You nodded as he helped you out of the room. You screamed internally, hoping that someone would see the truth behind your eyes and save you.

Much to your dismay you made it from the medical room you to where Steve had parked the car out the main doors. He helped you into the back seat and closed the door. He got into the driver's seat while making a comment about your seat belt. The ride was quiet and you got lost by all the twisting and turning roads as you were drove upstate.

#dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #dark!au #dark!captain america #dark!steve x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!steve #dark!steve rogers x reader

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leviathans-watching · 5 years

Text

Klancetober 2019

October 17/18: Costume Party

I’m weak

the song is from here:

From @monthlyklance

Lance downed his drink with a grimace. It burned sliding down his throat, but whatever.

So far the party hadn’t been that bad. Team Plunk had decided it was worth hitting up, so of course they went all out, hoping to be best dressed. In all honesty, Lance was a bit disappointed. Sure, he saw slutty teachers and bunnies, but they all began to blur together, one after another.

He saw some good costumes; a guy who made it appear he had been run over, a girl rocking an alien princess look, but all-in-all, Lance thought Hunk, Pidge and him looked the best.

Pidge made a robot costume out of salvaged pieces from the scrapyard and their old computer monitor, so after they welded the pieces together the outfit was complete with blinking lights and whirring gadgets.

Hunk had kept his costume a secret until the last minute, then rolled up in a crazy awesome wizard costume. His robes were adorned with symbols and gold lining, and he had a staff etched with runes. His belt had a knife, powders, and bones on it, and when Lance saw it, he was speechless.

Lance had decided to go as a siren, but rather than a traditional one, his own version. Instead of a tail, he focused on making scales out of makeup, and detailed them so they shimmered up one leg, around his side, on his collarbone, and edged his face. They were a sparkly blue/green, and silver lined in certain places.

He had fashioned a shift of sorts using gauzy blue material, one that left little to the imagination, and dyed the tips of his hair as well.

On his face he had used a dark purple lipstick, covered by a shimmery gloss, then used the same silver eyeliner to complement a complicated blue look. His cheeks were shadowed in shimmer, and his best falsies were glued on tight.

Due to the unseasonably warm year, he wasn’t cold. It was hot inside, the pulsing music and swinging lights giving him a slight headache, and the shots he was pounding weren’t helping. Deciding to go outside, Lance pushed through the people, and out the front door.

“Oh, shit!”

Lance fell back, in such a way that he wasn’t able to catch himself. Preparing to slam into the ground, Lance braced, eyes squeezed shut.

But the slam never came. He was caught by two strong arms, one around his shoulder and the other secured around his waist. Lance’s fluttered his eyes open, his voice breathy.

“You saved me! You must be a hero!” He stared up at the attractive cyborg, blushing.

The man laughed. “And you,” He swung Lance up onto his feet. “You’re tipsy.”

Lance pouted. “Maybe, but what I said still applies. I’m Lance.” Lance took a moment to assess the man in front of him. He was dressed as a cyborg, and it looked like he had used his prosthetic for a starting base, which Lance thought was pretty smart.

Also, he was gorgeous.

“Shiro. And sorry bout that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Shiro laughed. “This is Keith.” He stepped aside to reveal a younger man, someone more Lance’s age.

“Hey,” Keith nodded, and Lance swooned.

“Oh, you are so much better than him. Why didn’t I meet you first?” Lance flirted, and Keith blushed. He was wearing short black shorts and a red crop top, high waisted fishnets paired with combat boots. His hair was swept into a messy ponytail and motorcycle goggles sat perched in his head.

“Oh my gosh!” Lance gasped. “You’re totally Akira from Lion Force, aren’t you? I love that show!” He stumbled when someone jostled into him and glared at the person for a moment before returning his attention to Shiro and Keith.

Keith shrugged, instinctively steadying Lance. “Yeah. I didn’t have a lot of time to get a costume together, so I just went with this.”

Shiro laughed. “Don’t let him fool you.” He gave an affectionate look to Keith. “He’s a huge nerd.”

Lance smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but Pidge interrupted.

“Heyo! This is where you went! Me an’ Hunk been looking for you.” They giggled, swaying.

Lance patted them on the head. “Okay, Pid-pod, I think you’ve had enough.” They gave him puppy dog eyes, but Lance ignored them.

“This is Pidge-” Lance introduced. “-And this is Hunk.” Hunk smiled, joining the circle. “Guys, this is Shiro and Keith.”

Pleasantries were exchanged, then Lance found himself alone with Keith.

“Want to go outside?” Keith shouted, and Lance nodded, weaving through the people. They spilled onto the cool deck, where it was a lot less crowded.

Lance hummed, looking up at the stars.

“What are you dressed as?” Keith asked, leaning against a railing, and Lance sat on one of the benches before answering.

“I’m a siren. You know, like the kind that lures sailors to their deaths?” He slumped against the wood, studiously looking across the yard as Keith took a seat next to him.

“Sing something for me?” Keith softly inquired, and Lance swallowed.

“La da da da da,

I’m going to bury you in the ground.

La da da da da

I’m going to bury you in my sound.

I’m gonna

Drink the red

From your pretty pink face,

I’m gonna…”

Lance trailed off, and Keith nudged him. “I guess you picked the right costume, because sirens have irresistible voices, and so do you.” He smiled, but in the dark, Lance could barely tell, as all Keith was was a silhouette of darkness in the already dark night.

Lance smiled softly, nudging Keith back. “Thanks. And I guess that you picked the right costume too, because Akira is irresistible and so are you.”

#MonthlyKlance #klancetober #klance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #shiro #takashi shirogane #hunk garret vld #pidge #akira #costume #party #drinking

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Note

If you're still taking prompts, could you write maybe a Nurse!Killian taking care or badass Emma? You're the best

I remembered I had this prompt started the other day when I got an eerily similar one that was super along the the lines of what I had written. This was supposed to be a small one, but it’s most definitely not. I hope you guys enjoy!

The gif doesn’t really have anything to do with the story’s plot, but how could I pass this opportunity up?

She comes into the emergency room once every few weeks with some kind of minor injury that either needs to be scanned or stitched up. It’s never anything serious, but it’s not minor enough for her to treat herself at home. After her first few visits, he worried that she was in an abusive relationship, the black and blue bruises marking her otherwise smooth skin a clear indication of the signs that she needs help, but after following protocol and asking if she did actually need help, she laughed, her head thrown back and hair cascading down her back while her stomach moved, causing her to cringe from where she thought she might have a broken rib (she didn’t, but it was bruised). She’d then told him that she was a bounty hunter and often got injured while working.

He’d quirked an eyebrow, not entirely believing her story, but then she’d pulled out her phone and shown him proof of what she did, apparently having gone through inquiries like this before. He acquiesced, choosing to believe her but staying wary just in case, before sending for an x-ray and moving on to his next patient.

He’s checking the computer, scanning through the patients when he sees the name Emma Swan in bed seven. He didn’t see her come in, didn’t hear her call for him, and even though he’s only got thirty minutes left on his shift and should be transferring his patients to Ariel, he makes his way over to Emma, slinging the curtain over and finding her laid out in the bed with her leg propped up on a few pillows.

“Hello, Swan,” he greets, grabbing her chart off the end of the bedframe and hooking it over his prothesis, “what’d you do to your ankle?”

“I fell down the stairs while chasing this bastard who would have handled my rent for six months, and he got away while I got,” she motions to her foot, “this. It hurts like hell.”

“Do you think it’s broken or sprained, love?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, throwing her head back against the bed and closing her eyes while her chest heaves as if she’s controlling her breathing to regulate the pain, “but I’ve never felt anything like it. I usually wouldn’t come in for a little sprain, but I can’t walk.”

“That sounds broken or seriously sprained, but we won’t know until you get some tests done, okay?”

“How long is that going to be?”

“Probably a few hours. We’re a bit backed up tonight despite all of these empty beds, and broken bones aren’t high priority.”

“Fuck that. Can I say my heart hurts to get faster service?”

He chuckles under his breath before sitting down on the rolling stool next to her bed, scooting closer to her and patting her hand, squeezing her soft palm before releasing it. “No, you cannot because that’ll only charge your insurance more, and we don’t want that, love.”

“Jones,” she groans, throwing her head back again and slinging her arm over her eyes, “you’re killing me here.”

“Technically, I’m in the business of saving lives.”

“Okay, McDreamy,” Emma laughs, moving her arm so he can see the green of her eyes that are somehow not washed out by these awful, florescent lights.

“So you think I’m dreamy then, love?”

She rolls her eyes when he waggles his eyebrows, and he feels a little sense of pride getting her to smile. It’s not that they’re all too rare, but she doesn’t give them as freely as a lot of the people he sees. Of course, he works in an emergency room where people are freaking out ninety percent of the time, so he’s usually the one smiling trying to get everyone to calm down and feel better about things that often aren’t okay. He’s just glad that he doesn’t work trauma down here. Even with all that he’s seen while deployed, he doesn’t want to do that day in and day out. He prefers things to be calmer. Fewer car crashes, more fevers.

Mostly, he doesn’t want to see most of the trauma. You’d think that for a man who had his left hand cut clean off, he’d be okay with helping others deal with horrifying events, but the sight of intense traumas make him queasy…which is obviously a great characteristic for a nurse.

“Don’t you have other patients, Jones? I feel like you shouldn’t be sitting here with me when you’re literally not even examining me or whatever.”

“Eh,” he grimaces, reaching up and scratching behind his ear before checking his watch, “I’ve got about ten minutes left on my shift, and I’ve been working twelve-hour shifts for, like, three days, which is definitely not up to code. But someone is buying out the hospital, and everything is a mess.”

“Is that why it’s going to take forever for me to get treated?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He gets up from the stool and taps her shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Swan. I’m going to go finish out my paperwork and see where you are on the list. How much pain are you in?”

“About a four, but definitely a six if I move or put any pressure on it.”

“Got it.”

He walks out of her curtained area, leaving it open as she’s not having anything done, before walking back to the nurses’ station and sitting down at his desk, finishing checking out and trying to figure out a time estimate for Emma before she gets seen. He’s not supposed to have favorite patients and he really doesn’t, but there are people who come in more frequently than anyone should. He gets to know them whether they like it or not, and that’s pretty much how he’s gotten Emma not to snap at him every time he tries to talk.

That happened for the first six months of her wandering in here, but she’s come around to not despising him.

“Hey, A,” he calls out, grabbing Ariel’s attention from the other end of the station, “I’m off the clock, but can you make sure Emma Swan in bed seven isn’t here for an unnecessarily long time? I’m already pretty sure she just has a bad sprain and not a fracture, but there’s really no way to tell yet.”

“What? You don’t want to stay and take care of your girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes at Ariel’s teasing before twisting in the chair and scooting over to where she’s sitting and reading over her patients. “She is not my girlfriend, and you are far too cheeky for it to be six in the morning.”

Ariel slants her eyes and looks him up and down before patting his cheek. “You look like shit, Killian. You need to go home and sleep.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, but you keep distracting me.”

“I know, I know,” she laughs, straightening her scrubs. “I’m reading over everything, and I promise I’m going to take care of your girlfriend.”

“Not my girlfriend.”

Ariel winks before rising from her chair and patting him on his shoulder as she walks away. “Whatever you say.”

When he comes back to work two days later, it’s eerily calm. There are no pressing needs to be taken care of, and he’s able to sit down and drink his coffee in the lounge while scrolling through his iPad to see how all of his patients ended up. They’ve either been discharged or admitted to a room, and he makes a note to check on Mrs. Lucas when he gets a break. She’s having issues with her cholesterol even if he keeps telling her to watch how much she snacks on her diner’s food.

It’s damn good food, so he can’t really blame her. Well, he can, but he’d likely do the same surrounded by everything she serves.

He’s just closing out everyone when he gets to the end and sees Emma’s name. He reads through her report, checking all of the tests she had done, and he was right to think that it was a bad strain. But it’s apparently bad enough that she has to stay on crunches and come in for physical therapy. He may not know a lot about her, but he already knows that she’s going to hate that.

He hated his own physical therapy for his prosthetic and his injured leg after the accident, and he likes to think he’s a hell of a lot less stubborn than Emma Swan.

Sure enough, Emma comes wandering down to his station later that afternoon. She’s walking with crutches and a boot, but the most noticeable thing about her is the sour look on her face as she marches (hobbles) right toward him.

“Hi, Swan,” he cheerily greets, bracing himself for whatever it is she has to say.

“Can you take me home?”

Well, he wasn’t expecting that.

“I’m sorry, what now?”

Emma looks up at the ceiling and clenches her jaw while her fingers fidget over her crutches. “Look, I know that this is a weird request and probably totally inappropriate, but I can’t drive and have no way to get home.”

“Have you ever heard of an Uber or bus?”

“I don’t have a phone. It broke when I got hurt, and I’ve just been using my laptop to text my friends until I get paid again for some old cases. So I can’t use Uber. And the bus stop near my apartment is too far away for me to walk with this damn leg.”

“How’d you get here?”

“My friend best friend’s boyfriend works here, and he gave me a ride. But he’s not getting off until seven tonight, and it’s literally ten in the morning.”

“Ahh,” he sighs, wondering how the hell she hasn’t lost it when she’s seeming to have horrible luck. “Well, I don’t get a lunch break for two more hours. Can you wait until then?”

She nods her head up and down, a small smile gracing her face. “Thank you. Where can I…do you want me to wait in the…waiting room? I feel like that’s a little too on the nose.”

“Well, as long as you’re not on the foot.”

“Wow, that’s horrible,” she groans even as amusement sparkles in her eyes. “So I guess I’ll just go wait in there.”

“Hey…why don’t – you can…Bloody hell, I’m going to get you a chair in here, and I’ll let you keep me company while I go through some discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

He finds an empty chair and carries it over to the nurses’ station. He’s not technically supposed to let her behind the counter, so he lets her sit right outside while he goes through his paperwork. She’s pretty quiet, but that’s what he expects. They don’t spend much (any) time with each other outside of him treating her when she’s getting hurt, so this is brand new territory.

But after about fifteen minutes she cracks and complains about how the only thing she has to look at is the floor cleaner that’s running up and down the hallway and she needs something to entertain her. Thinking on his feet, he hands her the chain of paperclips he’s been collecting over the years and asks her to unhook them. She looks at him warily, but she eventually accepts. It’s his only solution for her boredom when he really is supposed to be working.

It’s after she’s finished and has all of them divided up into separate piles for the colors that an idea sparks in his mind.

“So, I’m a right idiot for not offering this earlier, but I can call you an Uber or a cab with my phone.”

Her lips part and her cheeks flush a wonderful shade of pink before she covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God. We’re idiots. Seriously. How the hell did we not think of that?”

He chuckles under his breath and shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, I had a beautiful woman asking me to take her home. I wasn’t about to complain.”

Like the mature adult Emma Swan is, she sticks out her tongue at him and grabs a pen off the counter. “I know how to use this pen to hurt you, Jones.”

“What are you going to do? Stab me?”

“Fill out my care card as having bad service. I hear that’s how you guys get your bonuses.”

“Mighty brave of you to threaten a man’s bonus there, Swan.”

“Well, it’s likely not very…big.”

She winks at him, and all he can do is shake his head back and forth in disbelief that they’re even having this conversation. “It can be big when the time calls for it, love, but best of all, I know how to use it.” He returns her wink before adding, “But seriously. Do you want me to call you a car or are you good waiting an hour more? I don’t mind either way.”

Emma seems to take a minute to think about it, weighing her options, and he braces himself for the not surprising disappointment that will come when she asks for him to call her a car. But then maybe he’s surprised in another way. “I can wait. I literally don’t have anything to do. It’s not like I’m working anyways.”

So she stays while he finishes his paperwork and checks on a few patients, requesting tests and administering medicine when needed. There’s a particularly nasty wound he has to clean out from a patient who doesn’t wash himself regularly. It’s gruesome and disgusting, but he deals with other people’s bodily fluids every day. At some point you become immune to certain things.

When it’s time for his lunch break, he makes sure his patients are covered before heading back to the nurses’ station to find Emma and Ariel chatting…which absolutely cannot be a good thing. He and Emma do not have an Izzie and Denny situation (don’t get him started on how inaccurate Grey’s Anatomy is because he may never stop complaining), but they are friends maybe. He’s not really sure. They chat, they tease, they give each other ride’s home…this one time. But it’s completely platonic. It’d be unprofessional otherwise.

But he does like the lass. She’s a spitfire and could kick his ass even with her sprained ankle if he were to ever do something she didn’t appreciate.

“Wait. He brings baked goods in every week? Is he some kind of saint?”

“I don’t think someone can be a saint and flirt with women quite that much, but he makes a damn good peanut butter cookie.”

“Huh,” Emma sighs as he tries to keep his cheeks from going red even if he can already feel them heating, “I guess I’ll have to time my next accident better so I can come in on a baked goods day.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d give you whatever you want no matter what day you come in.”

“Alright then ladies,” he interrupts, clapping his prothesis down on the counter so Ariel will shut the hell up, “I’ve got to get Emma here home because I’m sure my lunch break will somehow get cut short.”

Ariel winks at him while Emma is leaning down to pick up her purse, and his eyes bulge while he mouths for Ariel to shut up. She’s going to be the death of him. If there was any way for her to be embarrassed, he’d do it. And teasing her about being named after The Little Mermaid because she has red hair does not work at all. He would know. He’s tried.

Emma questions him about his goods, baked that is, on the walk to his car. He’s parked a bit far away, but she seems to be handling the crutches well. It’s casual, easy conversation, and it takes out the awkwardness that he thinks would usually surround a situation like this. It’s only about a fifteen minute drive to Emma’s apartment building, and when he pulls up to the street parking, he lets out a low whistle. It’s a nice place in a good area, and he wonders how the hell a bounty hunter affords a place like this when he lives with two roommates in a crappy apartment. Of course, he could live somewhere else, but he kind of likes not having to carry the rent on his own and being able to save up for whatever his future may hold.

“This is a swanky place, Swan.”

She shrugs. “I get a good deal.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

“You were wondering.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’ve spent hours of my life staring at your face while you stitch me up. You learn to read a guy. It helps that your face is more expressive than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“So you’re staring at my face a lot then, love?”

He waggles his eyebrows, and she rolls her eyes, something he’s seen her do more times that he can count. Two can play at whatever game this is.

“You’re impossible, Jones.” She reaches behind her to get her crutches before opening the door and stepping out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait, do you have a way to get to your next therapy session?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, tapping his open door, “I do. I’m getting a new phone before Friday, so I’ll just call an Uber then.”

“I thought you said you had to wait until you get paid?”

“I get a payment on Thursday. Don’t worry about it, though. I’ll be back to normal in no time. And Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“My favorite kind of dessert is anything with cinnamon.”

He’s not exactly sure when he becomes actual friends with Emma Swan, his favorite frequent flier to the emergency room, but he thinks it happens somewhere between him driving her home and her visiting him after her therapy appointments. Or maybe it’s because he brought in snicker doodle cookies as well as several other dishes with cinnamon in the month where she was visiting the hospital three times a week.

They only really see each other in the hospital, but he does manage to snag her phone number when she asks for the recipe to a cinnamon coffee cake. Most recipes he finds online, but that one is his mother’s, something she left to him before she died, and so it’s at home stored in a box of all of her things. He doesn’t tell Emma all of this, not wanting to load her down with the emotional implications of something as small as a cake, but he does take her number to text her the recipe later.

Actually, that’s probably where their real friendship starts. He texts her the recipe, and she texts back saying thanks. But then a few hours later he gets several texts in a row accompanies by pictures talking about how “fucking awful” baking is and how she never should have tried this. He laughs when he sees them, especially when he opens the picture of Emma with flour spilled down her t-shirt. How the hell did she manage to do that?

So they start texting and stop seeing each other in person. He can’t really complain about that because it means that Emma’s ankle is healing and she’s not getting hurt while at work. He feels like he takes a physical beating after every shift. He has no idea how the hell she manages to take an actual one.

And he’d really hate to see the other guy.

He’s sure that is rough because if he were to describe Emma Swan in one word, it’d be badass.

It’s a Friday evening, one he’s thankfully got off of work, when his phone rings and Emma’s name pops up.

“Hello?”

“I need your help.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m fine. It’s a…baking emergency.”

He barks out a laugh that causes Will to give him a side eyed glance from his spot on the recliner in front of the TV. He’s not about to anger the beast while he’s watching a football game, so he stands from the couch and walks to his room, shutting the door behind him.

“What the hell is a baking emergency?”

“You’re British. Don’t you watch the Great British Bake Off? They have baking emergencies all of the time.”

“Oi, that’s stereotyping to assume I watch.”

“Killian, you’re British and you bake. There’s a pretty good chance you watch the show.”

“I neither admit or deny anything. I’ve got to keep some parts of me mysterious. Now what’s this so called emergency?”

Emma sighs on the other end of the line before he hears a loud crash and several muttered curses of shit, fuck, shit, fuck, damn. “Okay, so it’s stupid, but my friends and I have this…tradition.”

“Go on, love.”

“It’s…back when we were broke and needed to give each other gifts for holidays, we would make them to save money. And, I mean, we’re older now with a bit of money, but we still do it.”

“And you were trying to bake for your gift?”

“Yep. It’s my friend Ruby’s birthday, and I decided to get a little more complex than cookies and make your cake even though I spectacularly failed the first time. But this one tastes like…it’s inedible, and I need you to talk me through the steps because her party is in three hours.”

An idea forms in his head. It’s kind of risky considering the tentative tight rope he’s walking with her, but as he’s learning, it can’t hurt (or maybe only hurt a little) to ask…or to offer.

“Do you…I can come over to help.”

When she’s silent on the other end of the line, he thinks he’s pushed her too hard, offered too much. But then she sighs and mutters, “you would literally be my savior, Killian Jones.”

“Bloody hell, Swan,” he curses under his breath when he walks into her apartment and sees the mess she’s created as well as inedible cake that’s sitting on the counter. “Why are you always creating such a mess?”

“Because I am a messy person.” She shuts the door behind him and ushers him further inside. “Now tell me what the hell I’m doing wrong.”

He walks into the kitchen and looks over Emma’s mess of a kitchen, and before he does anything else like clean the place, he takes a bite of the cake before immediately spitting it out and into her sink, rinsing out the taste with the water from her faucet. “Good God, that’s awful.”

“I know. I already told you that.”

“But I hadn’t tasted it. That’s…something else.”

“Just help me please.”

They have to clean out all of her bowls and pans first, scrubbing everything down. He doesn’t have his usual kitchen set up, so it’s a bit awkward moving around with Emma and handling things with his prothesis. But they figure it out, and Emma, like always, doesn’t make any kind of deal out of the fact that he only has one hand. Most people aren’t as tactful. They either blatantly stare or just ask what happened. Some patients rude enough will even ask for a new nurse. And maybe that’s one of the things that’s endeared him to Emma. Yeah, she’s a spitfire and keeps him on his toes, but she never makes him feel like less of a human being for only having one hand. She simply treats him as he is, which is something that’s been rare when meeting someone new.

After they clean, he starts the process of baking, walking her through each step even if he’s not one to be much of a teacher. He’s not sure if she actually leans anything, but he easily sticks the cake in the oven while Emma cleans up their mess.

“Um, so,” Emma begins, wiping her hands on her shorts, “I’m going to go get ready for the party. You can make yourself comfortable. I don’t care if you look around.”

He nods while she walks off, her long, tan legs on display to him until she disappears around the corner. He’s always known she was attractive, been attracted to her, but damn. Those shorts have nearly killed him the entire time he’s been here. He’s become pretty acquainted with her kitchen in the past hour, so after checking on the cake, he wanders into her living room. She’s got floor to ceiling windows that look out onto a park, lush green trees decorating the ground. He can’t help but compare it to the way his bedroom looks at an another brick building. Maybe one day he’ll have a view like this if he ever decides he doesn’t want roommates.

All of her furniture is cozy, soft whites and grays covered with plaid blankets and fluffy white pillows. Emma’s got such a hard exterior, but as he’s gotten to know her, he knows those are just walls she’s built up over the years from whatever has happened in her past. But she’s really made this apartment feel like a home, somewhere she can obviously relax. After looking through her bookshelf, he sees a telescope that’s sitting in the corner. He picks it up, the dust on it showing that it’s obviously unused, before adjusting the scope and looking out at the park.

“You see anything you like, Jones?” Emma asks, her voice shocking him so that he nearly drops the telescope. But he doesn’t, catching it and turning to see Emma bending over and slipping into a pair of heels that extend her legs in the black skinny jeans that she’s got on. Her tank top dips down, showing the tops of her breasts, and he has to look away before he does something stupid.

Something stupid like kissing her.

He knows she’s talking about his view with the telescope, but all he can think about is that he very much likes how Emma looks…that he likes Emma. Gulping, he pushes all of his thoughts down while trying not to look like an idiot. “I was just…you’re fantastic. I mean, this is fantastic. The view. With the telescope. Not you. Though you do look fantastic.”

Yeah, there goes the not looking like an idiot thing.

“Thank you, Killian.” She seems to hesitate for a minute, bringing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Look, so I know this might be a bit awkward, but you just came over and helped me, which is something you didn’t have to do. So, like, if you’re not busy, would you like to come with me to my friend’s party? It’s super low key. It’s just at her boyfriend’s house. You might know him. Victor Whale?”

Heat rises to his cheeks at the prospect of spending the night with Emma. He should say no and go home, but he wants to go, to spend more time with her. The past hour has been wonderful, and he’s not sure if he’s quite ready to give up her company.

“Aye, I do know him, and I’d love that.”

“No, I’m serious,” Killian laughs, taking another sip of his beer while Emma does the same. They’re sitting in Victor’s living room with all of Emma’s friends who he’s gotten a crash course in over the past few hours. “The craziest thing I’ve ever seen at work was a man with a python head attached to his side.”

“Where the hell was the body?” David asks, his voice incredulous. It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe this is a true story, but he thinks David might just be naturally suspicious. He’s been eyeballing him all night.

“The guy cut it off to try to get the snake to let go. Obviously it didn’t work.”

“And this dude just had a freaking python as a pet?”

“Yep.” He takes another slow sip of his beer, letting the liquid wash down his throat, while wrapping his arm around the back of the couch so that his prosthetic lands on Emma’s bare shoulder. He swears that she leans in a bit closer to him, their thighs already touching, but he’s probably imagining it. “There’s some weird shit that happens.”

“Why don’t you work trauma, Jones?” Victor asks. “You’re a hell of a nurse. You’d be fantastic at it.”

He gulps, not prepared for this question. He’s never had to explain his reasoning to anyone, and he doesn’t want to explain to a group of perfect (almost, he has known them for a few hours now) strangers. So he shrugs and fakes a smile. “It’s not something that I want. I prefer broken bones and cut fingers with the occasional snake head. I like to be low key.”

Emma must hear something in his voice because her hand finds his knee and squeezes before she speaks. “So Rubes, let’s talk about that rock on your finger. That was not there yesterday, and I can’t believe you haven’t been squealing about being freaking engaged all night long.”

He and Emma have both sobered up by the time Ruby’s birthday party is over, his cinnamon coffee cake (which was much more edible than Emma’s) soaking up the little alcohol they’ve had, so she drives him back to her apartment, finding a spot just behind his car. They don’t linger while inside of her bug, but they do when they are both get out and wait next to his.

“Thanks for tonight,” Emma finally says, swaying into his space. Her heels make them nearly the same height, and he can still smell the cinnamon on her breath. “For the cake and for coming to the party.”

He sways a bit into her space as well, feeling bolder than usual when it comes to her. “Perhaps gratitude is in order.” He’s not sure what possesses him to tap his lips, but he does.

Emma snickers under her breath. “That’s what the thank you was for.”

“Is that all saving you from a baking emergency is worth?”

“Please,” Emma laughs, her voice lighthearted even as they move closer into each other’s space, “you couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Emma’s grabbing onto his jacket collar and smashing her lips into his before he can take a breath. It wouldn’t matter anyways because she steals his breath from him with the way her lips move over his and her body melds into his. Her lips are soft and warm, and he can taste her Chapstick when he finally returns the kiss and slides his hand into her hair while his prosthetic rests on her waist just under her shirt. Her hair is just as soft as her lips, if not softer, and the little groan she emits stirs him on to run his tongue over her bottom lip.

This is everything he didn’t know he wanted. Or really, he did know he wanted it, but he never really allowed himself to think of being with Emma as anything other than a fantasy. It’s been a long time since he’s been with a woman he actually cared about, and as they really begin to settle into the kiss, their lips moving in harsh but perfect sync, he knows that he wants to be with Emma Swan more than he’s ever wanted to be with anyone.

And that’s exactly what makes it so hard when she says her next words.

“That was – ” he stutters, trying to catch his breath while his forehead presses against hers.

“A one time thing.” She pulls back, taking a step away from him, “Goodnight.”

And then she’s practically sprinting into her building and out of sight all while he wonders about how many ways Emma Swan can steal his breath away.

“What’s up with you today, Jonesy?”

“You know I hate when you call me that, Lil’.”

“Yeah, well, you know I hate when you make fun of my name.” Ariel knocks her shoulder into his. “Seriously, Killian. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he lies, eating another forkful of his salad. “I’m fine.”

“I have worked with you for half a decade, and you only get all dark and broody a couple times a year. It’s not one of your usual times.”

“You’ve been watching me too closely, A.”

“It’s what friends are for.” She puts her hand on his hand then, squeezing and encouraging him to look up at her. He does, and all he can see is kindness in her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I kissed Emma.”“What?” she basically screams, excitement dancing across her features that he’s going to have to crush her spirit. “When? Was it good? I bet it was good. You guys are a very attractive couple, so I imagine the making out is fantastic. Not the I was really imagining it.”

“Ariel,” he sighs, managing to chuckle under his breath, “calm down.”

“Sorry, sorry.” She’s still bouncing in her chair, and he wonders how one person can be so bubbly. “I’m just excited.”

“Don’t be. It was a month ago, and we haven’t talked since.”

Her face and spirit immediately deflates, but there’s no way she can feel worse than he does. “Why?”

“She told me it was a one time thing and then walked away. I’ve tried texting her, but she doesn’t respond. So I guess she’s just cutting off communication.”“Well, I think she’s awesome, but if she’s going to lose a catch like you, she’s probably fighting some kind of internal battle. Does she have a bad history with people?”

“I don’t know actually.”“Jones, that’s something you’ve got to find out about people you’re dating.”“We weren’t dating.”

“You were basically dating.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Maybe, I don’t know…maybe text her today, ask if you can talk. You might not have been dating, but you deserve some answers.”

“Aye,” he agrees, even if he’s sure he won’t actually text her, not wanting another text to go unanswered. And he’s not even sure if he really deserves any answers. Emma doesn’t owe him anything.

But he’s a bloody fool, and he does end up texting Emma again despite every organ in his body telling him not to. If his organs could talk. They can’t. He knows this, but the rapid beating of his heart is obviously telling him something.

Killian: Hey, Swan. I know you probably won’t answer this, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk. Hope work is going well.

His day goes on as usual, patient after patient and pile of paperwork after pile of paperwork. He stands so much that his feet ache and his prosthesis is rubbing into his skin to the point of discomfort. All he wants is to go home, but he’s got another two hours before his shift is over.

The hours pass as slowly as they ever have, and no amount of coffee is helping him stay awake. He’s removing his gloves after seeing a patient when Ariel taps on his shoulder with a timid smile on her face.

“Whatever favor you need, just go ahead and ask, okay?”

“I don’t need a favor. It’s…Emma’s here.”

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling and pinching the bridge of his nose. “What does she need? Stitches, an X-ray? Can you work with her? I really don’t want to deal with her right now.”

“That’s the thing, Killian,” Ariel sighs. “She’s not in our sector. She came in with a shot to her shoulder and is up in recovery. She had to have surgery.”

His legs wobble beneath him, but he refuses to fall or feel weak. He can already feel his throat closing in on itself, emotions blocking his airway, and all he can think about is that he needs to see her. He has no right to, but he needs to.

“Is she okay?”

“Ashley is her nurse. Told me she’s fine, but she’s still a bit groggy from the anesthesia. You should go see her.”

“I don’t think she’d want me there.”

“Just go, Killian. Room 736.”

He nods before walking toward the elevator, pressing the button before deciding to take the stairs. He needs time to think, to breathe. He doesn’t know what he and Emma are to each other, if they’re even anything, but he needs to see that she’s okay with his own eyes. She may kick him out the moment he walks in her room, but at least he’ll know she’s okay.

His breathing is heavy by the time he makes it to the seventh floor, and when he gets to room 736, he pauses, taking a deep breath and calming himself down. She’s alone when he walks in the room, and he wonders where her friends are. Even after only knowing them for a night, he knows they’d drop everything to be here with her if she’s hurt. She’s only hooked up to a few machines, and as much as he’s used to her being hooked to an IV, this is different, especially with the heavy strapping over her right shoulder.

“Hi,” she croaks, her voice harsh, when she sees him. It’s too late to turn back now. “Water. Can I have water?”

He nods as he checks her chart, making sure it’s okay, before grabbing the cup and filling it up in the bathroom sink. When he hands it to her, her hand is a little shaky, the anesthesia and painkillers obviously having an effect on her.

“Thank you,” she sighs, her voice stronger even though she looks weak.

“You’re welcome.” He moves to sit in the chair that’s next to her bed, scooting it as close as possible so she doesn’t have to yell. “What the hell happened, love?”

“I got shot.”

“Obviously,” he laughs, shaking his head from side to side. “How did you get shot? How badly are you hurt?”

“I was distracted, not paying enough attention to my mark, and he shot me. And it fucking hurts. I’m not entirely sure what’s been done. I know I had surgery, but that’s about it.”“That’s all I know too. Your chart doesn’t say much. I’ll ask when your doctor comes into check on you.”

“Okay,” she sighs, closing her eyes and falling back against her pillow. He thinks she might have fallen back asleep when she speaks again, “I’m sorry I ran, Killian.”“Swan, don’t worry about it. Now is not the time.”

“You’re here. I’m here. I think it’s the perfect time.”

“You’ve just had surgery. You need to rest.”

“I can talk, Jones. I’m…I’m fucked up. I don’t trust a lot of guys, but I trust you.”

“I…why?”

“Why to which part?”

“Both, I guess.”

Emma laughs a little, a small smile twitching on her face. “When I was sixteen, I ran away from my foster home. I was done with it, and as luck would have it, I met a guy. He was sweet, charming, older, and he taught me all of these things about living on the run. The thing I didn’t realize was that he, Neal, was going to run away from me and frame me for the watches he stole. So I go to jail with a broken heart, broken spirit, and a criminal record that has stuck with me for over a decade now.”

His fist curls in his lap, his skin likely marked with red crescent moons from his nails, but he has to control his emotions here. He has to be calm. Emma’s been through a lot, and not just the surgery. He has too, and that’s precisely how he knows why getting upset over the past won’t do either of them any good right now.

“He sounds like a bloody bastard. You deserve better than that.”

“I know that. But my point is, I am hard to love. Or to like, really. I’m not always broken. I can be a friend, but anything more than that terrifies me. So I run. And I ran from you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Yes, you do.” She rolls her eyes. He missed that. He missed her. “The only reason you’re even in here now is because I got shot. I’ve avoided you for weeks.”

“I care about you, Emma. That hasn’t changed.”

“It should have.”

“Hey,” he soothes, getting up from his chair and gently sitting down on the edge of her bed, taking her hand and putting it in between his hand and his prosthetic, knowing she won’t be bothered by the foreign plastic feeling, “Emma, if you think I’m not fucked up too, you’re wrong. I get running. I’ve run my entire life.”

“Does the running have to do with why you don’t work in trauma?”

If he can read her like an open book, she can do the same. “Aye.”

“What happened?”

“I was…in the Navy. With my brother actually, and there was an accident on our ship. We crashed, and my hand got jammed in crushed metal. So I lost my brother and my hand all in one day. And I lost my girlfriend two weeks later because she didn’t want to be with someone with one hand.”“Well, she sounds like a bloody bastard too,” Emma jokes, obviously uncomfortable with what he’s said, the tragedy of it all. “I’m sorry, Killian. I can’t imagine going through something like that.”

“Sometimes I don’t believe that it was real. But yeah, that’s why I have one hand and no brother and an aversion to trauma. And to women who aren’t you.”

Silence settles between the two of them while everything they just said sinks in. He’s still got no bloody clue what’s happening, but he never really has with Emma. Like always, he goes with it, seeing what happens and hoping for the best.

He can’t hope for anything else because at this point, he’s halfway in love with the woman despite everything.

Or maybe because of everything.

Emma’s released from the hospital two days later, and he stops by her apartment with baked goods after his shifts. He’s not entirely sure how Emma getting shot gets them back on the track of wherever they were before, but it does. While she recovers, he stays with her as much as possible, Ruby and Mary Margaret popping in as well, and they all binge the Great British Bake Off, leaning into the stereotypes of his roots.

Nothing is quite as heavy as the two of them spilling their guts to each other in the quietness of a hospital room, machines buzzing in the background while sneakers squeak out in the hallways. It’s more lighthearted, like it was before their kiss, and he can’t say that he hates it.

Eventually she recovers fully and goes back to work. He can’t blame her. It’s her job, and she’s damn good at it. But he’s seen every injury she’s gotten from it in the past two years, and the last one was the worst of all. But she keeps him updated when she travels to catch someone, and when she gets back home, he’s one of the first to know. Usually she just shows up at his apartment, much to the chagrin of Will and Jeff but to the delight of him. She’ll plop down next to him on the couch and cuddle into his side, her hair always smelling of the different hotel shampoos when it doesn’t smell of her regular vanilla.

He grows used to her being around and by his side. Sometimes she’ll stay over at his place despite him living in a small apartment with two other guys who don’t always clean up after themselves. Those nights are his favorite, he thinks. She’ll tell him goodnight before wrapping her body around his and falling asleep with her cheek pressing into his chest. He’s got no bloody clue what they are, but he doesn’t care. He likes it, even if he wants more.

But Emma is different in all of the best ways, and he’ll take her allowing him back in at her pace.

He wakes one morning to her hair in his face and her legs stuck in between his calves. Emma Swan is a cuddler, something he never would have expected, but again, he’s not complaining. He likes waking up with her even if he’s got to get up before the crack of dawn to go to work. He slowly slides out of bed, untangling their legs and leaving her softly breathing into his vacated space while he heads into her bathroom and hops in the shower, quickly washing himself before getting out and dressing in the scrubs he left here last week.

“Hey,” Emma mumbles when he walks back into her bedroom. Her hair is mused on one side, and she’s got pillow creases marking her cheeks. “Do you have to go to work?”

“I do. You want to get dinner tonight?”

She hums in affirmation before stretching her hands above her head, her tank top lifting all the way up to show off the hard lines of her stomach. He’s not complaining about their weird friendship, but things like her showing that much skin do make it a tad bit difficult, especially when his scrubs show absolutely everything.

The fact that he wakes in the morning with an erection pressed into her skin probably doesn’t help either.

“Actually, I was thinking we could go on a date.”

His legs feel like Jell-O beneath him when her words sink in. Is she delusional? Is she talking in her sleep? Is he delusional? Is this all a dream?

“You okay there, Jones?”

He shakes himself out of it, looking down at Emma who is timidly smiling up at him. “I’m, uh, what…you want to go on a date?”

She shrugs her shoulders while biting at her bottom lip. “Why not? I mean, hell, Killian. I can’t remember the last time we didn’t stay with the other person. It’s weird don’t you think? That we’re not dating.”

“I was just going along with what I thought you wanted.”

“I want to go on a date. Don’t you?”

He takes several steps forward and bends his knees, gently cupping her face and running his fingers over her left cheek, before slanting his lips overs hers. It’s slow and soft, and when Emma hums into it, he nearly groans at the vibrations and feeling her lips against his after so long.

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“So we’re exactly are we going, darling?”

They’re walking the streets of downtown Portland, and Emma’s leading him with her hand on his prosthetic. He’ll never get over how naturally comfortable she is with it or his blunted end. It took awhile, but in their weeks of spending the night together, he eventually became comfortable taking it off and letting her see the rough edges and red scars. His heart legitimately stuttered, something that was not healthy in the slightest, but then at the same time, a lot of things settled for him.

“We, my extra special man friend, are going on a food tour.”

“Bloody hell. Why?”

She shrugs, a smile stretching across her face. “I thought it would be fun to be a tourist for a few hours. I mean, how often do you get to explore a city you’ve been living in for years?”

“Unless the exploring happens within the walls of the hospital, never.”

“Exactly, so since I asked you out, I took the liberty of googling touristy things to do in Portland and paid for us to follow around a group of other tourists while eating. Just so you know, we’re Emma and Killian from Buffalo, New York.”

“Why Buffalo?”

“Because people would ask about Manhattan. No one cares about Buffalo.”

Emma’s right when she says people don’t care about Buffalo. No one in their group asks or seems to care, walking down the street in their weirdly white sneakers that look like they’ve never been worn and in, he swears, actual fanny packs. If he’d known he had to dress the part of a tourist, he totally would have broken out the Hawaiian shirt he has from a party he went to a few years ago…it was not his best moment. But they’re guided around downtown, walking along the port and on cobblestone streets before stopping in small hole in the wall restaurants that he’s walked by but never gone in.

There’s a hell of a lot of lobster (it is a Maine tour after all), but it’s mixed in with other foods. He likes it with the macaroni and cheese even if Emma complains that she wants regular macaroni and cheese. The lobster rolls are honestly pretty good as well, but mostly he likes when they stop in a bakery and can pick anything they want. This is more up Emma’s alley, especially when they find a cinnamon coffee cake. But Emma tells him she doesn’t want that because it could never compare to his.

“It was my mother’s recipe, you know?”

“Yeah?” she questions while looking into a display case of cupcakes.

“Yep. She left it to me when she died because she knew that I liked to bake. I’d always help her when I was a kid.”

Emma turns to look at him then, twisting on her toes and pressing up to quickly slant her lips over his. His eyes flutter closed at that contact, and he can feel her smile into it.

“Swan, the date isn’t even over yet. It is against my delicate sensibilities for your lips to touch mine.”

“Well, you screwed the pooch on that one this morning when you stuck your tongue down my throat.”

“What a horrible saying.”

He buys Emma a box of s’mores cupcakes that they carry with them for the rest of the tour. She leaves them behind in one of the pubs they walk into, but she quickly remembers and runs back to it, meeting him and the group with sweat beading at her temples and her chest heaving up and down. It’s possibly the most light-hearted he’s ever seen her when she gets back at his side and wraps her arm around his elbow, holding on tight.

The entire night is cheesy and a tad bit ridiculous, but it’s by far the best date he’s ever had.

It probably helps that he’s in love with the woman who’s been his companion for it.

So when they get back to her apartment and she asks if he wants to come up for a cupcake, he obviously says yes.

It doesn’t take long for his lips to find hers again. The moment they’re inside he backs Emma into her front door and presses their bodies together so that he can feel every inch of her while their lips move together in a slow, passionate kiss. Emma’s hands find his back pockets, squeezing his ass, and his hand rests in her hair. He bloody loves her hair.

When her tongue finds its way into his mouth, a slick wet slide of cinnamon and beer, he groans and feels the sensations all the way to his toes. When Emma makes a similar sound, he nearly loses it right there. Instead he controls himself and rolls his hips into her, making her mouth fall way from his as he traces the skin of her jaw and her neck with his mouth.

His mind is blurry with lust (and love), but he takes the time to learn what she likes. For two people who share an intimacy that he’s never quite experienced before, they don’t know much about what the other enjoys. But they learn quickly as he nibbles on her ear and she throws her head back against the wood while her hands brush against the front of his jeans.

And as they slowly but surely make their way into her bedroom, they slowly but surely learn more about each other. Emma’s glorious as she moves above him later that night, her breasts bouncing and hair falling down her bare back while she smiles down at him. He lets her control the pace as he’s always done. It’s what they both want, how they both like things to be, and he’s got absolutely nothing to be complaining about.

It’s lovemaking if he’s ever experienced it, and when he flips them over, slipping out of her for just a second, he thinks he might see love in Emma’s eyes. But then he’s sliding back into her while her legs wrap around his ass and her hands find his, and it’s forgotten as he drowns in the pleasure of it all.

He’s nearly drowned before, but in this way, he doesn’t mind.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against her lips while he thrusts into her in slow, long movements.

“You are too,” she smiles, squeezing his hand while her other hand holds onto his blunted wrist. “I…”

She never finishes her sentence because he releases her hand and rubs at where they’re joined, letting her find her pleasure before he finds his. But as he falls apart above her and within her, he does wonder what it is she was going to say.

There’s no fooling around with what they are after that night. They’re together, officially and unequivocally, and he can’t remember the last time he was this happy. He’s got a partner in all that he does. If he has a bad day at work, she’s there to comfort him, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing whatever skin she can find before listening to him spew his troubles, never judging him for how he feels. The same goes for her, though he learns that comforting Emma depends on the situation. Sometimes she likes to be held in silence, only his hand moving up and down her arm while his lips kiss her hair to make her feel better. Sometimes she needs a rough, quick fuck only to open up about what she’s feeling in the afterglow.

But she’s not just around for the bad times. She’s there for the good as well. Their living situation never really changed. They’re always together, so on mornings where he doesn’t have to be at work at six, they’ll wake up and make breakfast while blaring music from Emma’s phone (she claims that she has better taste in music, and while she does, he’s not going to admit that quite yet). Even on the days when he pops toast in the oven and Emma’s not having any of his soft kisses behind her ear or his tendency to like to talk a lot in the morning, he loves those moments. There are likely a million reasons they’re together, but really, he thinks he owes it to his mum’s cinnamon coffee cake.

When she told him she’d be looking out for him always, he didn’t quite think it would be in this way.

They’ve officially been together for four months when they’re lounging in his bed, having stumbled home there after a night out instead of going back to her place, and he can hear Jeff and Will sitting in the living room mumbling over whatever it is they’re watching. Emma’s tracing his chest her with her finger, curling it around her skin, while she breathes out onto his neck.

“I love you,” she whispers into his skin, and his breath hitches, chest noticeably moving beneath her. “I have for a while now. I’m sorry for not saying it.”

He gulps, trying to keep away the tears in his eyes. He’s loved Emma for a long time now, but really, no one has told him they loved him in years and that hits harder than he expected. She said the words. She means the words. And he feels freer than ever once his breathing settles.

His finger finds her chin, bringing her gaze up to him before he dips down and brushes his lips over hers, once, twice, three times. “I love you, Emma. More than anything.”

She smiles then, his words not pushing her over the edge, and everything in his life settles.

Eventually he does move out of his apartment, not seeing the point in staying there when they mostly stay at Emma’s for the privacy. Like everything with them, there are often rocky starts, but things progress as naturally as possible. They fit together. Maybe not perfectly, but he doesn’t think anyone truly is a perfect fit for another. But where his edges are jagged, she knows how to soothe, and where Emma is hardened, he knows how to be soft. So they work, plain and simple, and he chooses not to question any of it.

And after a year together, he buys a ring and Emma finally learns how to make the cinnamon coffee cake.

The third time is obviously the charm.

#cs prompt #cs fic #cs ff #what is a simple prompt #I don't know anymore #anyways here's a thing

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tally-kiza · 5 years

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Horrortale and Horrorfell Headcanons

After making some Horrorswap and Horrorswapfell headcanons, I decided to try my hand at Horrorfell and Horrortale hc’s!

(this is slightly edited and revised as of 02/07/2020 so if things seem different than before, thats why)

Horrorfell Papyrus (Voss)

- Years of struggling to survive have tempered his ego and grandiose. He doesn't have the energy to loudly trumpet his own greatness anymore.

- Fights with unruly Snowdin-folk have left his teeth oddly-spaced, cracked and crooked, and a collage of small cracks along his bones and skull.

- After Undyne became queen and began her tyranny, she and Pap got into a terrible fight, which lead to Sans's cracked skull and the loss of Papyrus’s hand. The loss made surviving that much harder, but makeshift prosthetics certainly helped.

- Still the responsible one. (When they’re Underground) he cooks food for himself, Sans, and Snowdin. Sets up very gorey and deadly traps to capture humans. Motivates Sans enough to keep him from dusting. Reports to Undyne daily. Keeps her wrath out of Snowdin.

- Once, when he caught a particularly fierce monster trying to steal food, he attempted to dust them, but the monster fought back and punched a section of Pap’s jaw. Those bones, being too weak from malnutrition, shattered, leaving only half his jaw, only one cheekbone, and vision in only one of his eyes. Talking was very painful for him afterwards, and even when he does get a prosthetic jaw, he never says much, and rarely if ever yells.

- The injury caused blindness in one of his eyes. He was already partially-blind in the other eye from a scar, and with this new jaw injury, it left his vision so poor that he’s legally blind.

- Generally very serious. Resting face is just (눈_눈). After all he's been through, not much can faze him. Rarely ever smiles or laughs, and is easily irritated. He may not be able to yell anymore to express that irritation, but boy does he have a glare that could turn you to stone.

- On the surface, he's still the one taking care of him and his brother.

- Gets his teeth fixed with braces on the surface--even though he hates how stupid he thinks he looks for the entire 2-year process, he has to admit he’s happy that he’ll be in less pain soon.

- Is given a seeing eye and therapy dog to help him and his brother. Voss says he doesn't need one, that's he's perfectly fine, but he can't deny that it makes his life easier and a heck of a lot nicer. Paps is also pleasantly surprised when the dog comforts Sans when he dissociates, and himself when his thoughts start spiraling and the dark days catch up to him.

- Both of them try to train it into being a guard/attack dog, but attempts have been unsuccessful (i.e. the dog is sweet as heck and doesn't have a mean bone in its body.)

- While he's not particularly fond of humans, he doesn't outright avoid them like his brother does. But he is, however, the king of passive aggression, and with his irritability, there’s no telling what untoward comments or petty revenge he may hoist upon an unsuspecting human.

- Loves filling out sudoku and crossword puzzles. They’re a nice way to unwind and stretch his brain muscles. It’s almost frightening how fast he can complete them. And he has a shockingly good track record for getting them 100% right almost every time!

- An amazing cook. Can make a gourmet meal out of food scraps. But he doesn’t enjoy it much anymore. It’s just a duty, like everything else. Before the famine, he loved cooking; it was his passion, but then it was... soured for him.

- Despises not being productive, so he works a lot, at the job that makes him happiest: a plant nursery! Weeding, watering, planting trees, etc, it all seems so very mundane but it’s just... such a nice reprieve from the stress he’s used to. He loves helping things grow and flourish instead of destroying them.

Horrorfell Sans (Rem)

- Will eat anything. A N Y T H I N G. Even if it isn't edible. He doesn't go out of his way to do it, but there were times during the famine when there wasn’t any choice.

- Basically a big ol' teddy bear. His closest friends will receive unexpected tsundere cuddles. He’s fluffy no matter how hard he denies it.

- Feels very awkward generally. He doesn't know what to do with himself on the surface. He also tends to says all the wrong things at all the wrong times. Also occassionally blunt and straightforward. Almost rudely so. Doesn’t care much about people’s feelings, he just wants them to know the facts.

- Doesn't make friends easily. Basically ignores most humans on the surface until his brother makes Sans get off his ass and be a contributing member of society. Is openly hostile to humans at first, but after a few years he relaxes around them more.

- If, by some miracle, you actually befriend him and his brother he'll defend you within an inch his life. He doesn’t take friendships and closeness lightly, and if he trusts you enough, he won’t let anything bad happen to you.

- The underground was very aggressive, and you could get attacked at any time, so napping was a no-go. On the surface, however, once he feels safe, he will nap. ALL. THE. TIME. There is no waking him before he is ready.

- He's not in the best state of mind, so he probably won't ever get a full time job, but he'll probably do odd jobs once in a while. Something easy with heavy lifting or where he can slack off.

- The hole in his head gave him memory problems worse than HT Sans's. If you tell him something, Sans could very well forget it almost 5 minutes later. Gets lost often and forgets where he is, so his brother tags around with him a lot to help keep Sans on track.

- Luckily writing things down is a pretty good solution to that, so he keeps a lot of pencils and notebooks around for when he needs to jot down notes to remember.

- Much like Red, Rem adores video games. The former prefers horror and competitive games where he can whup the asses of anyone he wants, whereas the latter likes more casual stress-free games like Candy Crush and Angry Birds -- Rem’s had enough stress for one lifetime, he doesn’t want any more of it. So the more casual ones are his favorites.

- Collects objects! Mostly little knickknacks and trinkets he finds, like marbles, tickets, stamps, even slow globes! His otherwise sparse room is filled with these and he loves every one of them.

- After Undyne smashed his skull in, it took a part of his eye socket too, so he's blind in that eye now. His other eye is bright red and dilated just like HT Sans’s eye.

- Thinking is so hard sometimes... so he doesn’t talk much anymore. And he still loves puns and jokes but making them is harder these days because of his injury. The easiest ones for him are knock-knock jokes, so he has a set of bone-themed ones that he memorized a long time ago to shoot off whenever appropriate.

- Has occasional episodes where he depersonalizes and derealizes. The world around him gets fuzzy and its hard to think and react. Those moments are... distressing. Once in a while, he’ll also have black-out fits of rage, mostly triggered by the site of heavy bleeding -- but his brother can usually talk him down from those.

- Like all the others, the famine left him really messed up. He doesn't like thinking about it, and even though he doesn’t regret doing what he had to to survive, the guilt still eats him up sometimes...

Horrortale Sans (Mars)

- Quiet and observant. When he gets to the surface, he doesn't talk much, and when he does it's usually some sassy joke or observation. Usually talks the most when his bro is around, but generally he’ll just let Pap steer the conversation instead.

- Doesn't remember much from before Frisk left. The majority of his scientific knowledge has disappeared. He knows he used to know these things, and it frustrates him endlessly that he can't understand it anymore. He tries to read scientific studies once in a while, but always ends up just throwing his phone/book across the room in frustration.

- Not very hostile towards humans, just ignores those he can. Often people stare at him and it gets... very annoying after a while. So he just ignores them and keeps doing his thing.

- Often dissociates, he spaces out and loses himself. Occasionally during these moments he’ll forget that he’s on the surface and he’s safe. So his bro made a list for him of things to remember during these, when he’s not around to comfort Mars in person. The list includes like Frisk is gone, they can’t hurt anyone; humans are good; they’re safe and well; they're not going back underground. It’s ver comforting to Sans.

- Has a weird fascination with dark jokes. They simultaneously make him uncomfortable yet he loves them. He won’t say them too often, most of the time just to unnerve someone he dislikes. (Pap groans and chastises Sans whenever he makes them, but secretly deep down, he finds them funny too.)

- On the surface, he’ll often wear a beanie or his hood to cover up the hole in his skull. Having it exposed to surface air, especially high winds, felt similar to strong winds whipping against your face, so the beanie helps with that. Eventually though, he gets a prosthetic mold that perfectly fits into the hole, so it’s all covered and he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. Mars is a lot happier with it.

- Hates sand. It’s coarse and rough and gets everywhere like his joints and head hole.

- Loves sandwiches. Passionate about them. There’s just so many possibilities to them. Makes them out of everything so that they usually end up being at least 3+ inches tall. Yet he can’t open his teeth so how can he eat them...?? Truly, it is a mystery.

- Likes listening to instrumental songs. Especially the relaxing kind. They’re such a nice reprieve from the constant, deafening silence of the Underground.

- Post-it notes are a life-saver. He has terrible memory, so he keeps a bunch of them in his hoodie and scattered all over the walls of his house so he can write down stuff before he forgets.

- Ver affection-starved. He secretly loves affection but doesn’t get it enough (from anyone other than his bro). Is surprisingly soff for cuddles and petpats. Feeling your soft touch on his bones always makes him so soft and happy.

- When Mars got to the surface, he discovered all these insanely cool weather phenomena and fell in love. They never had anything like that underground, so seeing it all for the first time, in all its chaotic, unpredictable, majestic glory left him starstruck. It’s one of the few things hes genuinely interesting in, and his face always lights up whenever he talks about the different types of tornadoes and lightning and! the aurora!! It's so awesome, he loves all of it.

- Loves watching livestreams of the sky and weather-events. Usually it’s so chill and quiet to him, even if there’s something not-so-chill-and-quiet being recorded. It’s ver relaxing to him.

- Befriending Mars is a task and a half. He assumes anyone who tries to get close to him is up to no good. But with a combination of puns, friendliness, and persistence, he will eventually trust you. Once you get past his aloof exterior, he’s a pretty nice and chill friend to have.

- Hates to think about the famine and his time underground. Even though he’d do it all over again to save him and his brother, he’s still haunted by the memories of what he had to do. Barely ever entertains the idea about doing so on the surface.

Horrortale Papyrus (Jupiter)

- Fashion icon. Like dang, can this skellie put an outfit together. If you ever need fashion tips, always go to Paps. He’ll use the opportunity to show off his wardrobe and all his cool embroidered leather jackets and boots. He even offers to embroider your clothes too so you can look like him!

- Like canon Papyrus, Jupiter is charmingly eccentric. Not crazily so, just in that usual Papyrus way. But he’s also a lot chiller, too. The famine sapped his energy, so it got harder to proclaim his cool greatness, but he still likes thinking he can still be cool and great after all these years.

- An excellent cook. Can make a buffet out of scraps. Ever since he got out from the surface, now that he has all the ingredients he could ever want, he’s taken up cooking as a serious hobby. He’s even won multiple local cooking contests! Only ever cooks vegetarian meals, but with the power of tofu, he always makes them taste succulent and delicious.

- Baking, however, is still a bit of a challenge for him, but Pap is determined to master it just like he did cooking!

- Has a giant collection of small succulent plants in his house. They’re everywhere, on the windowsills, the bookshelves, hanging from the ceiling. He loves them and their simple beauty; seeing them throughout his home always makes him smile.

- After he arrived on the surface, he almost immediately got braces to fix his teeth. The fancy kind with colorful dots! They’re kinda painful to wear, but nonetheless he’s psyched the entire time that his teeth will be better soon.

- Gets helpful glasses on the surface. He loves them; not only do they allow him to see-- which had been progressively harder underground as he became increasingly malnourished-- but they look cool too! They even fade into being sunglasses when he goes outside, so every time the sunny rays hit his face, he becomes his Ultimate Coolness Form!

- It’s... it’s harder to believe sometimes that with everything that’s happened and with the way he looks now that he’s... cool. But! He always has Sans’s and his therapist’s encouraging words to rely on when he feels down, which is always a big help to him.

- Loves wholesome memes, and will send them to you all the time. He especially likes the drink water ones, mostly because he thinks it’s an important healthy reminder. “YOU NEED WATER, HUMAN! IF YOU DON’T DRINK WATER, YOU MIGHT TURN INTO A PRUNEY, DEHYDRATED RAISIN AND DIE! AND THAT WON’T BE A FUN SITUATION FOR ANYONE. SO PLEASE DRINK YOUR LIQUIDS!”

- His favorite activity is! Picnics!! Especially in the park and with other people! They’re so much fun, he loves nomming his delicious foodstuffs on a comfy blanket while the warm sunlight shines on his happy face. It’s extra fun when there’s clouds in the sky for him and you and anyone else to find cool shapes in!

- Still gets panic attacks from time to time, when the memories get too strong and he feels like he’s still underground, starving to death... He goes to counseling to deal with his trauma. The famine really did a number on him, and even though he puts up fronts and says he's fine, it’s hard to deal with the memories sometimes.

- Really cares for his brother and always makes an effort to be there for him. The famine, even though it led the bros to be closer than ever before from seeing each other in those desperate states, put a strain on their relationship. But on the surface, after everything’s said and done and they’re getting the help they need, it’s steadily improving.

- Jupiter is hard of hearing. He has difficulty differentiating certain words, and talks loudly to be able to hear himself better. On the surface however, he gets treatment so his hearing is far improved! Apart from getting a hearing aid, he takes up learning sign language (mostly so he can be cool in more than one language!), and likes it and talking to people with it so much that he eventually becomes a sign language interpreter! It’s a great job and he loves being able to help people this way.

#horrortale #horrorfell #mine #headcanons #undertale headcanons #undertale imagines #horrortale sans #horrorfell sans #horrorfell papyrus #horrortale papyrus #hf papyrus #hf sans #ht sans #ht papyrus #sans #papyrus #long post #i love the mental image of tol prickly hf pap just sweetly watering some flowers. its so cute #taki writing

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