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lonesome-witching · 6 months

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I'm Right Here

A continuation to Full Moon requested by @robincityofsilver. We dive back into the Robin is a werewolf world with this one. Quick disclaimer: my knowledge of werewolves is not that great so I adapted it to whatever the hell I wanted to be. Still a werewolf though, no worries.

You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.

Robin was pacing the floor of her bedroom. The full moon was rapidly approaching. Nancy had marked the date on the calendar that she had gifted Robin. It was probably the only thing marked on it. But with only a few hours until the next transition, Robin really couldn’t be bothered to care.

Somehow there was one thing she still cared about, one thing she couldn’t forget. Nancy Wheeler’s lips attached to her cheek. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could still feel them pressing against her skin. It might have been the only good thing that had come from this whole ordeal.

Although she did also appreciate how close she and Nancy had become. Even if it gave her this illusion that maybe she wasn’t completely insane for liking Nancy like that. Which was ridiculous because Nancy could never like her back.

But that was hard to remember when said girl was sitting on her bed.

“Robin, you need to calm down,” Nancy said. She was leaning on her elbows, slouching back, as if this was her own bedroom, as if she felt right at home.

“I should start heading out.”

“Your parents are still downstairs.”

“Nance,” Robin whimpered. Her canines were growing already, it was hurting her jaw.

“Alright.” Nancy stood up carefully. “Alright, we’ll get going. We’ll just tell them that we’re going for a walk. We’ll go to Lovers Lake, like last month.”

“We? No, Nance, you are not coming with me,” Robin protested.

“Like hell I’m not.”

“No, I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Nancy placed her hands on her hips.

“How can you know that?”

“You didn’t hurt me last time.”

“Last time was the first time. It might be different now. I can’t— What if I can’t control it?”

“Robin, I trust you and I know you. You said it yourself, you were able to recognize my smell. I know you won’t hurt me, Robin. I know it. I can feel it.” Her hands moved from her hips to Robin’s upper arms where they softly stroked the bare skin.

“Nance,”

“No, I will not hear any of it. I will go with you and I will stay with you until tomorrow morning. There is nothing you could say that will change my mind.”

“I can think of something,” Robin muttered under her breath, almost inaudible.

If Nancy had heard it, she chose to ignore the comment. Instead, she let her hand slide down until it grabbed on to Robin’s hand, and she softly pulled her along.

“Robin? Is that you?” a voice called from the living room as they passed it.

Robin poked her head into the room. “Hi, yeah, we’re just going for a walk.”

Her mom nodded her head in acknowledgement. “Enjoy!” her father called after them.

The drive to Lovers Lake felt longer than it usually did. Robin kept bouncing in her seat with the agitation and discomfort that the transition brought upon her. Her nails were growing causing her to be unable to clench her fists like she usually did. Her eyes were changing causing her vision to go from normal to distorted to… better. There was hair growing all over her body that caused her skin to itch like crazy.

The second Nancy stopped the car, Robin jumped out, rushing towards the edge of the woods.

“Robin!” Nancy ran after her.

Robin fell on the forest floor, crawling into a ball as her back started breaking and morphing into something new. Nancy crouched down next to her, combing the hair out of Robin’s eyes even when it continued to grow longer and longer.

“Shh, I’m right here, Robin. I’m right here,” Nancy whispered softly.

Robin could barely register her own muffled cries as she pushed her face into the moss. She could feel Nancy pull her head into her lap. She could feel Nancy’s hand sliding through her fur. It felt nice.

And then everything went blank.

Robin hadn’t rushed away to transition back. She had simply cuddled closer into Nancy’s body as the pain went through her once more. It didn’t hurt as much to turn back. Her spine settling back like it was supposed to. Her nails retracted, much like her canines. The hair fell out in clumps, covering Nancy’s lap in a carpet of fur.

“Welcome back,” Nancy said with a smile as she started cleaning her pants. Robin’s head was still laying in her lap.

Robin shivered. She was vaguely aware that she was naked. She was very aware she was cold.

“Robin? Are you alright?” Nancy’s hand felt hot against her bare shoulder.

“Cold,” Robin croaked out.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

When Robin looked up at Nancy’s face, she saw a deep red blush. It made Robin want to cover her body. But as she looked at her discarded clothes, she saw nothing but ripped pieces of cloth.

Nancy shuffled from under Robin and took of her jacket. “Let me get you home.”

Robin barely noticed that she got up, that she followed Nancy to the car. She crawled into the backseat. Nancy’s jacket was wrapped around as much of her body as it could cover.

“Robin, are you alright?” Nancy’s eyes caught Robin’s in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Th— thank you. Thank you for staying with me.”

“Of course,” Nancy replied.

A silence fell over them. One that burned in Robin’s ears. She wanted to say something, anything. But the words just wouldn’t come, and her throat stung.

“Robin, can I ask you something?” Nancy looked over at her friend.

Robin nodded.

“Earlier, you said something. You said you knew a reason why I wouldn’t want to come with you. I just— what is it?”

“I— Nance.” She didn’t want to talk about this. She had hoped Nancy hadn’t heard. She had forgotten she said it.

“It’s just that I can’t really imagine there would be any reason for me not to go with you. It’s just been swirling in my head all night.” Nancy tried to laugh it off.

“Can you drop me off at home?” Robin tried not to look at the girl.

“Sure.” Nancy sounded slightly annoyed.

“Nance, don’t be upset.”

“I’m not.”

“I can hear that you are.” Robin finally lifted her gaze. Nancy didn’t look upset.

“I’m not upset. I’m a little worried though. I’m worried that you don’t trust me. I— Nevermind.”

“I’m falling in love with you.” The words slipped over Robin’s lips. She expected the car to come to a standstill. She expected Nancy to take a deep breath, continue driving, drop her off at home, pretend it’s okay and then she expected Nancy to never speak to her again.

The car came to a screeching halt. Nancy turned around, her eyes locked on Robin’s face.

“Are you serious?”

Robin nodded. Maybe she had expected wrong. Maybe Nancy would kick her out of the car right now.

“You love me?”

Robin nodded again.

Nancy opened her car door, got out and slipped into the backseat, right next to Robin.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Nancy shook her head.

“Okay,” Robin breathed.

Nancy leaned in closer. “Tell me to stop.”

Robin wouldn’t. She would never tell Nancy to do anything or to stop with anything. She would never stop Nancy from leaning in. She would never stop Nancy from softly kissing her, gently moving her lips against Robin’s.

Her skin was buzzing and this time it wasn’t because of the full moon, this time it was because Nancy’s palm was resting against her skin and her lips were on Robin and it felt incredible. It felt so much better than the kiss on her cheek. Robin knew she’d be thinking about this none stop for the next month. Maybe even two. Maybe she’d think about it for the rest of her goddamn life.

Nancy pulled away with a sigh and a soft smile. “I have been wanting to do that since last month.”

“We should do again next month,” Robin replied with a smile grazing her own lips.

“I’m not waiting another goddamn month.” Nancy dove back in.

#prompts #ronance #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #my work #stranger things #fanfic #robin x nancy #nancy x robin #werewolf robin buckley #werewolf robin

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envysnest · 3 months

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Pity the Mayfly (ch. 3/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

AO3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

The human druid crosses her arms. “Absolutely no outsiders.” She jerks her chin towards you. “And certainly not to some wayward wood elf with ridiculous paint on her eyes.”

You knew you shouldn’t have done your makeup again. You rub your forehead. “Terribly unkind of you, saer.” It's a struggle to keep frustration out of your voice, but there’s a literal, actual bear snarling at you right now, and you'd rather leave with all of your limbs intact. “We wish an audience with your healer.”

Wyll puts a hand on your shoulder. “Please,” he says to the druid. “She is a worshipper of the Oak Father. She offers medicine.”

Annoyance flares in you. “Wyll—”

“It’s still medicine,” he whispers to you.

A dwarven druid, who has been silent this entire time, finally speaks. “You must be the wood elf Kagha mentioned.” He beckons to the human. “Jeorna, this one knows about the viper bites. Let her through.”

Jeorna rolls her eyes at you. “Fine. You’re apparently wanted, woodling.” She looks down at the dwarf. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses.

The dwarf ignores her and beckons you forward. When Wyll automatically follows behind you, Jeorna shakes her head. “No.” She points to you. “Just the alchemist.” In a low, warning tone, she adds, “Behave yourself.”

You look back at Wyll. He raises both hands in supplication. “I’ll be near the training rings,” he says. “Come right back when you’re able.”

The dwarven druid— Mino— all but frogmarches you through the Grove. It's a small, almost claustrophobic place. Wayward animals doze, graze, and wander through the grass. You feel an odd shiver of recognition when you pass a stone statue of Silvanus. Fox’s Keep had a larger idol near the Elders’s Hall, though it had long since mossed over with time. This statue, however, looked nearly new. The prayers around it are in a language you can't place. Magic hangs thick in the air, teasing at your skin like humidity on a summer’s day. A few druids meet your eye as you pass them; none are wood elves, and you feel relief.

Mino leads you down into the caves, deeper still than the tiefling camp, until the rock opens up into a large alcove. Your eyes need several seconds to adjust. A wolf, dozing in the corner, lifts its head, regards you with its dark orange eyes.

“Kagha,” he calls, and his voice echoes through the chamber.

Two other druids-- the only other residents in the chamber-- are focused on something in the center of the room. At Mino's voice, they turn to regard you.

A human druid steps aside. “A woodling,” he says. He isn’t smiling. “You’ve wandered far.”

You remove your hat. “Blessings of the Oak Father be upon you.”

The man’s eyebrow raises, but he still doesn’t smile. You clear your throat, look away from him. The wolf’s lips curl into a snarl. You look down at your feet.

Mino speaks beside you: “This is the one Kagha asked for.”

You look up at the other druid. With a start, you recognize her as a wood elf. It's too late to run, but your legs itch all the same.

It seems she's recognized you in turn, because she speaks to you in Elvish. “Welcome, sister.”

You feel vaguely dizzy. You take a step backwards and clear your throat. “Well met, sister,” you respond in turn. Your Elvish is clumsy, unpracticed: Even in the keeps, you preferred Commonspeech.

“Are you the one going by a child’s name?” the woman asks in Common. “Is there any particular reason why?”

Fuck, you think. Fuck fuck fuck.

“It’s my preferred name,” you answer. “What might I call you?”

Mino steps away from you. The human druid looks between you and the other wood elf, his curiosity plain. You feel cool sweat trickle down your collar, into your undershirt.

The other wood elf tilts her head. “You may call me Kagha,” she says. “What is your elven name, sister?”

“Just Tav is fine,” you say, though your mouth is dry.

There’s a heavy pause after that. Kagha’s smirk widens, and for a moment, you think, I’m not going to get away from this, I can’t—

“Tav it is, sister,” says Kagha. To something— someone— at her feet, she says, “And where do you think you’re going?”

There’s a tiefling girl at her feet, no taller than Kagha’s waist. She’s crying heavily. “I didn’t…” she gasps, “I wasn’t— trying to— I’m sorry—”

Something on the ground moves, and you bite your tongue to keep from exclaiming. A horned opalite tree snake rears its head high in the air. You blanch when it turns to the girl. The child wails and turns away, as if to escape, but the human druid grabs her wrist and forces her upright. Even he looks a little ill as he catches Kagha’s eye.

“Please, Kagha,” he says quietly. He spares an uneasy glance at the snake. “Even Halsin wouldn’t—”

“Halsin,” Kagha snaps, “isn’t here, Rath.”

The tiefling girl is nearly incoherent, struggling in Rath’s grip. The snake sways back and forth as it stares at her. You know an intimidation display when you see one.

“Don’t,” you shout, and both druids turn to you. “That snake will kill her.”

Kagha narrows her eyes at you. “That’s the plan.”

The girl doubles over on herself, pushing at Rath’s hand around her wrist. “Let go!” she screams. Rath looks uncomfortable for a moment as he instinctively bats her hand away. At the last second, his face stills, and he yanks the tiefling girl upright again.

Kagha laughs.

Anger flares in you, red-hot. You stride forward and snatch the snake by the neck, just behind its head.

Rath gasps. The horned opalite tree snake makes an abortive little sound as it writhes in your grip. As you loft it in the air, away from the tiefling girl, its body curls around your forearm. It squeezes, hard—

You turn the snake’s head to face you. “Oh, no, little one,” you say to it. “You’re no constrictor. You can’t fool me.”

Was it you or— was there a flash of indignation in the snake’s eyes?

From your side, Mino draws a blade. Rath takes a step forward, dragging the tiefling girl along with him. “How dare you—”

Kagha raises a hand. Both men hesitate.

She addresses you in Elvish: “Unhand Teela immediately, sister.”

You reply in Common: “You can’t let her bite the child.” Staring Kagha down is difficult, but you try anyway. “At her age, she’ll die. Painfully. That is not the way of the Oak Father.”

The snake’s— Teela’s— tail flicks against your arm. Kagha scoffs. For a moment, you worry you've overstepped, that the snake will be turned on you--

“Do not harm the child," Kagha says to the snake. "Return to me.”

Teela begins to unwind herself from your arm. You guide her to the ground. Teela's species could lunge several feet, and so you leap back in anticipation.

Luckily, Teela ignores you entirely. Kagha kneels, and Teela crawls her way up her waiting arm.

“What know you of the Oak Father?” Kagha asks, her voice ice. Before you can answer, Kagha waves at the girl. “Begone, thief. Stay out of my sight.”

The girl hesitates. She stares at you, her dark eyes wide and wondering. Teela settles on Kagha's shoulders.

You kneel to her level. “Go on, little sprout,” you whisper.

It’s as if your voice shocks the child awake. With a cry, she shoves past you and sprints up the stairs. Her sobs follow her all the way up until, finally, they disappear.

Kagha strokes Teela’s head as you straighten up. “You haven’t answered my question," she says.

You grit your teeth. “Tav is my name.”

“We’ve established this.” Kagha briefly turns to Rath, who bows. “Go and fetch Nettie.”

Rath nods and walks further into the cave. Kagha continues: “Where is your home?”

“My mother is Fox’s Keep.” The words are beginning to exhaust you. “I live within the Gate.”

“Far from both,” Kagha replies. “You seek a healer this far east?”

“I and my party—” This still feels surreal; you’ve never had a party. You’ve always walked in proximity to other groups, or you hitchhiked on other people’s carriages. You clear your throat. “We’re all trying to get home, but we have a…parasite. We seek assistance from your healer, but it seems he’s missing.”

“She’s right here,” says a new voice. Rath has returned with a dwarven druid in tow. He steps aside, and the woman puts her hand over her heart. “I’ll take her, Kagha.”

Kagha wordlessly gestures to Nettie and steps aside. Teela stares intently at you; her tongue flicks incessantly, scenting the air. Her neck curls into a small s: ready to bite, should you come too close. You don’t plan on it.

As Nettie leads you into the back of the cave, she speaks to you over her shoulder. “A tadpole, then?”

“Yes!” You rush to keep up with her. “Can you remove it?”

Nettie pauses to give you a strange look. “I’m going to be honest—”

The two of you step up into a wide library. It's completely empty, and you realize Nettie has repurposed it into a study. You would kill for space like this. The animal statues appear to stare at you as Nettie weaves past tables. “Master Halsin would’ve known what to do with you," she says, "But I’m interested in trying.”

She stops at a small apothecary along the back wall. As she rummages through a shelf, you glance over the potions sitting around: Potion of Hill Giant Strength, Potion of Angelic Reprieve. Several other plant species sit around in haphazard piles. A salt of something-or-other sits, paste-like, at the bottom of a mortar.

Nettie shoves a small stack of books out of her way. “As far as I know, there’s a cure for the mind-flayer tadpoles. Everything will be fine in no time, but this cure doesn’t come cheap.”

“Gold is no object—”

Nettie looks over her shoulder at you as she rummages more. “Gold isn’t of use to us.”

I beg to differ, you think bitterly. What you say is, “Fine.”

You shrug off your pack and open it. You tilt it forward so she can see the bottles inside. “This is Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom," you say. "I can make some for the Rosebush viper.”

“We have rosebush viper antivenom already,” Nettie says, exasperated.

What? Why were the druids keeping it for themselves? You point to the cave ceiling. “Do the tieflings know this? Because they’re getting bitten left and right.”

Nettie throws up a hand and turns back to the apothecary. “Then that’s their problem. It’s a difficult recipe, besides. Pain in the arse to make.”

“Let me look at it, then,” you say, pressing both hands to your chest in supplication. “Please, Nettie.”

She spins on her heel to face you, frustration in every line of her face. “The arrogance about you— rosebush viper antivenom is hard for any alchemist, and the yield is low. You’re not going to be any different.”

“Then I offer one more set of hands. All I need is the recipe. I can milk the viper myself.”

Nettie puts both hands on her hips and shakes her head. “Then that’s two things you ask of me.”

“If we can find Halsin— if we can get you your archdruid back— then will that repay our debt?” You’re begging now, but the tadpole aches behind your eye. Nettie’s jaw ticks. She stares down at the floor.

A thought occurs to you:

—steal it steal it steal steal steal take steal it steal--

It’s a tiny, hissing voice: insectoid, high-pitched, like the Intellect Devourer from yesterday. It feels like you, or it feels like a you that’s been buried deep inside you for decades, one just awakening now. Something pops behind your eye, and you hiss in pain. Even the low light of the cave becomes excruciating. You cover your eyes and turn away from Nettie.

“Poor thing,” she murmurs. “Let’s cure you now, and we can haggle later.”

You feel her grab your forearm. Thankfully, the tadpole stops squirming, and you open your eyes. Nettie holds a long thorn in one hand. As you watch, she lines it up with your radial artery. The plant smells acrid, almost like grave dirt.

It's a briar from a Kelemvor’s Kiss. You know: you’ve handled it yourself, dozens of times. It burns the skin open as surely as wildfire. You writhe in her grip. “No!"

“Hold still,” Nettie grunts. Her fingers tighten painfully around your wrist.

“That is poison.” You twist your own arm, struggling to escape Nettie’s grip, but the druid is stronger. “Nettie! Absolutely not!”

“This is—” She grunts again, yanks you towards her, “—the only way—”

“I have antivenom for that, too,” you snap. It isn’t wholly a lie, but said antivenom is miles away from the Grove. “I’ll just cure myself and be on my way.”

Nettie glares up at you. “Not for this strain, you don’t. Hold still—”

The thorn brushes against your skin; you can already feel a hot itch start from where it touches you. Panic flares in your brain, and the tadpole squirms again. If you don't get out soon, she will let the briar's poison eat you from the inside-out.

You raise your other hand. “Let me go!”

And Nettie stumbles backwards, coughing. You’ve only thrown up smoke, just enough to disorient her, but you must’ve been desperate enough to overcast: it obscures the air, and no matter how much Nettie waves, it doesn’t dissipate for several minutes. The briar drops to the floor.

You draw your staff—

“Hold,” Nettie wheezes. Her silhouette holds up both hands. “No need for violence. A fight doesn’t cure you any faster.”

You can barely hold the staff straight. “You don’t have a cure,” you say.

“The cure is death.” Nettie coughs again, waves around on a shaky inhale. You can finally see her face paint again. “You’re going to either die a mind-flayer, or die with your wits about you.” She points an accusing finger. “I know which I’d choose.”

“If I’m dead, you’ll never find Halsin.”

You expect Nettie to laugh in your face. It’s a flimsy bluff; surely she knew that. To your surprise, Nettie merely sighs. “I know. And I’m not enough to serve the whole community.” She clears her throat. “People keep getting themselves in messes.”

You remember her accusation around the antivenom: the arrogance about you.

You lower your staff. “You literally can’t keep up,” you say quietly.

“I’m one person.” Nettie puts both hands on her hips. The smoke is gone now, and she suddenly looks exhausted. “How am I meant to cure every idiot who wanders into a snake den?” She pinches her fingers together, points them at herself with emphasis. “It’s meant to be Master Halsin and I,” she says. “We’re meant to work together. Now it's just me."

You’ve strained your hands trying to keep up with orders before. This is an exhaustion you know intimately; you can almost hear the screaming voices reverberate in your shop. It was all the worse when you hadn't been able to sleep for your pain.

You holster your staff across your back. “All the more reason to get him back, Nettie.” You hold out a hand. “You don’t deserve this.”

Nettie waves you off. “Maybe I don’t, but it’s the way of things, so.”

“I’ll see what I can do, yeah? Give me the antivenom recipe and a few hours.” You look meaningfully at her workbench. “And past that, we plan on looking for Halsin.”

Nettie scoffs, but she lets her arms hang limp. “Go on, then.” She jerks her head towards a shelf a few feet away. “Second scroll from the right.”

"I won't let you down," you say.

When you move towards the bench, she grabs your wrist again. You balk, but Nettie has nothing in her hands to threaten you with, and you breathe in deeply, trying to calm yourself. Her voice is low, conspiratorial: “Look at me, woodling, and listen well.”

You meet her eyes; they’re fierce, determined. Nettie continues, “You have to promise me you won’t let yourself go illithid.” She snatches a dark bottle up from her workbench, presses it into your palm. “Take this before you turn. Promise me you will.”

It’s wyvern poison, judging by the label. The viscous black fluid sloshes around as Nettie folds your fingers over the bottle. You have no intention of taking it— you know all too well how it works— but you can’t say no to her, not when she looks so desperate. Besides, would you even want the risk yourself? Hadn't you just spoken to Astarion about this?

“I promise, Nettie,” you say.

------------

You purposefully don't tell Wyll about Kagha's race: about how she was a wood elf, about how she saw right through your name. Everything else, however, you report to him.

Wyll doesn't take the news well. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Tav.” He rubs his forehead. “We’ll be squids before we find that druid.”

Screaming children run around your feet, waving wooden swords at each other. You keep your voice low. “She gave me wyvern poison and told me to take it. We’ve hit a dead end here.”

Wyll shakes his head. He watches the tiefling children with a keen eye. “The druid it is then,” he sighs. He puts both hands on his hips. “There’s got to be another way,” he mumbles to himself.

You proffer the scroll. “At least she gave me an antivenom recipe,” you say, but it’s half-hearted.

Wyll looks to you. “For the tadpole?”

You wince. “For the, um. The vipers, actually.”

Wyll exhales, hard, and shakes his head. He wanders a few steps away, stares at the ceiling, breathes deeply.

When he returns to you, he points to the scroll. “That will help. Those bloody things are all over, and their bite stings worse than a devil's tongue."

“I don’t think anyone deserves to get bitten.” You unroll the recipe, skimming it for the first time, and— oh. Nettie was right. This will be a pain in the ass to complete. At least you’ll have something to do. “She’s doing all this by herself. No wonder she’s antsy.”

When you look back to Wyll, he wears a soft smile. “Kind of you to offer your help,” he says, and it isn’t sarcastic at all. You smile back.

“Who’s training these children?” comes Lae’zel’s voice from the other side of the ring. She looks at the excited children with blatant disgust. “They are unsupervised.”

Wyll unsheathes his rapier. “Go make your witches’s brew,” he says over his shoulder. “Looks like I’m due to supervise.”

------------

Later in the afternoon, Wyll, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart leave to scout to the west. Gale returns to your little camp to study. This leaves you and Astarion alone.

He eyes you up and down, and then he smiles. “Let’s stay away from each other."

“Agreed,” you say. You have to find ingredients for the antivenom, anyway. The last thing you needed was Astarion in your ear, whining about charity.

There are merchants all over the tiefling camp. It’s a wonder how anyone ekes a living at all, given lack of coin and resources. Asking around points you to an older, human woman in one dim corner. You have to pass a tiefling loudly bragging about his internship with Lorroakan, and you shove the jealousy down.

The human lights up as you approach. “Hello, petal!” She clasps both hands together. “You look like you’re in need of something.”

You have to fight to be heard over the wizard tiefling. “I'm in need of quite a bit of somethings.” You unfold a small piece of parchment from your pack. “I have quite the list.”

“Let Auntie take care of you, then.” The woman tilts her head. “Tell me everything.”

The merchant, it turns out, is knowledgeable and well-equipped. Speaking with her feels easy; the tension of the Grove melts off of you as you card through her wares. She even has rosebush viper venom ready. For this, you trade off the last of your Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom. After all, you could always make more when you got home; you need to survive to do that, and Nettie needed the antivenom immediately. Having something to do— someone to talk shop with— calms your anxiety, if briefly.

If you weren’t illithid yet, and if there was truly no cure for the tadpole, you might as well work to distract yourself. It wasn’t the first time you had worked your way through pain: you’ve done plenty a late-night horizontal study in your bed, using Mage Hand to hold your books aloft. Judging by the blood in your smallclothes this morning, it was only a matter of time before it hit you again.

Hesitantly, you ask the merchant— who insists you call her Auntie— if she has any Yellow Gnoll’s Ear.

She hums in thought. “For pain, dearest? What ails you?”

“Inflammation, actually.” You recall the Upper City healer’s explanation. “I…I struggle.” You lower your voice. “With my—” You cough, averting your eyes. “My cycle.”

The woman holds her hands up high. “Ah,” she sighs, “the curse of being a woman.”

It’s a little more than that, you think, but you stay quiet.

The women shakes a finger at you, smiling. “I’m fresh out, unluckily for you. But if you come down to my cottage, I know I’ve got a box-full, and more besides. We’ll get you fixed up in a shake of a lamb’s tail.”

You perk up. If the cottage wasn't far, you could try convincing the group to go. “Where?”

“Why, just south of here. Down the path, where the river splits.” The woman waves a hand. “You can’t miss it, petal. Let Auntie Ethel take care of you.”

You push away the voice in the back of your head, the one saying, Something is wrong. “I’ll try to make time,” you say. You kneel to close your pack, which now bulges with bottles and raw ingredients. Ethel had been unfairly generous with you, and you had more than enough supplies for your party. You’d surely be up all night for Nettie’s antivenom, but maybe the recipe was faster than it looked. You fumble with your pack’s latch and curse under your breath.

“Allow me,” Ethel says, and she snaps her fingers. The air crackles with magic— brief, smelling like ozone and wet leaves— and your pack snaps shut.

“Thank you,” you gasp. As you stand, you heave it onto your shoulder with a grunt. “I didn’t think to do that. Perhaps that Yellow Knoll's Ear is needed more than I realize."

“Don’t worry yourself a whit, petal.” She waves a hand. “Off you go, then. And visit your Auntie soon, won’t you?”

You hesitate. Something was definitely wrong.

You stare at Ethel for a moment, but her smile only grows— impossibly— wider. The tadpole twitches.

You nod at her. “Be well then, Ethel.”

“Please, dearie,” she simpers, with that too-wide smile. “Call me Auntie.”

You clear your throat and turn away from her.

The pack is heavy. At least you were getting some well-needed exercise; wasn’t that what the healer had suggested? The last thing you wanted to do when you were screaming with pain was exercise. Better to get it in while you were still well.

But if you didn't get that Yellow Gnoll's Ear...

You try to distract yourself at another merchant’s table. This one is piled high with clothes of all colors and fabrics. You slow as you pick through, gently nudging shirt sleeves and robe collars out of the way to look at the wares hidden below. Your other set of robes was still that embarrassing, dirty orange. You set your pack down on the floor. You didn't have much money, but you could try to haggle.

Astarion’s voice floats to you: “—and really, who was I to say no, with them looking so delectable—”

You scan the crowd for him. After a minute, you spot him at a potion seller's booth several tables away. The merchant's red cheeks have turned a dark violet shade with embarrassment. They giggle, averting their eyes from him. Astarion carries on with renewed vigor, gesturing wildly.

“Welcome, stranger,” says a voice in front of you: a drow in a long black robe. They steeple their fingers as they look appraisingly at you. “Might I be of assistance?”

You realize you still have a fresh set of robes in your hands. They’re a rich blue velvet; you eye them with envy. “Oh.” You set them down and try to smooth out the wrinkles. “Just browsing, unfortunately."

The drow makes a thoughtful noise and nods at the robes. “A pity,” they say. Their voice is tranquil, almost musical. “Those would have matched your eyes quite splendidly.”

Well, that was a change from the druids; maybe it was worth doing your face after all. You shrug and rub the back of your neck. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Another victim of the Nautiloid, I presume?”

“You presume correctly.” You press your hand to your chest. “Tav.”

The drow bows to you. “Xane,” they say. “Pleasure.”

Folded among Xane’s wares is a white ruffled shirt. You hesitate. The construction is sturdy, stitched with care. Embroidered roses trail up one side of the the chest in off-white thread; you run your finger over them.

Unbidden, you think of Astarion mending his clothes. His shirt had been so thin, and he was wearing the very same doublet with it this morning. You remember his knobby spine, his shaking fingers on the needle. How long had he owned those clothes?

“May I?” you ask, gesturing to the shirt.

Xane nods. “Be my guest.”

You skim your fingers over the shirt's ruffles. Cotton fabric: durable, yet soft on the skin. You shake it out and hold it up to your torso. It’s a little oversized, but you figure Astarion’s a little broader than you, anyway. It would fit him perfectly, and it would last longer, too.

Xane hums with approval. “That looks good on you.” They pinch the shirt’s waist, tilting their head thoughtfully. “Perhaps it will need taking in. For a small fee, I can do it for you by nightfall.”

“This isn’t for me,” you say. “It’s for my…”

You glance at Astarion, who has leaned entirely over the table to flirt with the potion seller. The story he tells would make a whore blush, and the tiefling claps her hands with delight.

Astarion puts his hand behind his back. Something shiny and golden glints between his fingers: a ring, pilfered from the merchant's table. As he laughs, he tilts it between his knuckles and slips it onto his pinky.

You look back at the drow before they can follow your gaze. “Friend,” you say to Xane.

Xane raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Why don’t you bring your friend here? Let’s see how it fits them, yes?”

You turn again. Astarion’s back to browsing the potion seller’s wares as they attend to another customer. His right hand, now sporting the stolen ring, makes a fist behind his back. A twitch of his thumb, and the ring slides into his back pocket.

“Astarion,” you call.

He jumps. His head whips around to you. “Yes, darling?”

You jerk your head towards the drow. “Come over here and give me your opinion on something.”

Astarion grins. “Oh, finally. You’ve come to your senses and decided to wear something nicer than those beaten-up old robes.” As he approaches you, he presses his fingers to his lips. “Mm.” He stops at your side and shakes his head. “No.” He points to the shirt in your arms. “That’s all wrong for you.”

“It’s not for me,” you say.

“It’s not?” Astarion leans into you, his grin turning a little smug around the edges. “Oh, tell. Who’s it for?”

You unfold the shirt and hold it up to Astarion’s chest. All at once, Astarion’s smirk disappears, and he goes very still.

Xane smiles, makes a noise of understanding. “I see,” they say, clasping their hands together. “A better fit for the gentleman.”

The drow was right: the shirt is just to the width of Astarion’s shoulders. You feel a little bit of pride, seeing Astarion so speechless. “A perfect fit for him,” you say.

Astarion stutters. “I…for me?”

You nod at Xane. “I think that does it. We’ll take it.”

“Fifty,” Xane replies. They’re already reaching for their coin purse in anticipation.

Fifty gold pieces: steep, but it was less than such a shirt would cost in the Gate. You open your own purse to dig out a fifty-gold piece. You were running low on coin; perhaps you could sell off some ingredients to make up the difference. Before you can second-guess yourself, you hand the coin off to Xane.

“How much?” Astarion asks you quietly.

“Think nothing of it.” You push the shirt into his arms. You gently pat his shoulder. “It’s a gift. It’ll look good on you.”

He stiffens under your touch. You look up.

Astarion—

Astarion is white as a ghost. His lips press into a thin line as he stares at you.

You take a few steps back, your smile falling. “Oh. I’m sorry, Astarion.”

A beat. Then—

Astarion throws his head back and laughs. “Aren’t you polite?” He rubs the shirt’s fabric between thumb and index finger, looking down on it with a critical tilt to his head. “I suppose it’ll do,” he muses aloud. “Though I’ll have to take it in, slightly.”

Xane tsks. “I firmly disagree, saer—”

“Ah.” Astarion holds up a finger. “I know what I’m doing. But,” and here he gives Xane a pinched smirk, “Thank you.”

You bow to the merchant “I’m so sorry about him,” you say. “Moon elves, you know.”

Xane shakes their head as they hold your coin up to the light. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, unfortunately.” They're as placid as ever.

Astarion huffs indignantly. “Rude girl,” he snaps at you. “If you hadn’t just spoiled me, I might’ve had to do something about your attitude.”

It’s just a shirt, you think. How were you spoiling him? Surely he could afford it.

Couldn’t he?

You pocket your coin purse and wish Xane a good day. As you turn to go, someone grabs your wrist.

“Wait a moment,” Astarion says, sounding frantic. He drapes the shirt— carefully— over his forearm. “Fifty, was it?” As you turn to face him, he digs out his coin purse from his pack. It’s beaten around the edges, just like yours. “I wish you’d warned me,” he grumbles. “We’re not exactly high rollers out here.”

You wave a hand at him. “No! No. Astarion, it’s…”

Astarion scowls at you. “Absolutely not. I don’t do debts.” He retrieves a few coins, holds them out in a closed fist. “Let me give you the gold and be rid of it. Then we can put this behind us.”

You make a gentle pushing motion with both hands. “I’ll not have it.”

“I’ve got to pay you back somehow,” Astarion snaps, but there’s a desperate edge to his voice. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it.”

Astarion looks livid. You inhale sharply. “Um.”

You look around. You needed something concrete— something you needed, just as badly as he had needed a new shirt. There are a few tieflings having a meal just feet from you. Above them, radiant sunlight filters down from a crack in the cave wall.

“Name it,” Astarion says, “But don’t you dare hold this over my head.”

“Just…you can...” You think back to the awful, watery coffee from camp that morning, and it clicks.

“You can…buy me coffee!” You give Astarion your brightest smile; you’re sure you look faintly manic. “How’s that?”

Astarion withdraws his hand, raises an eyebrow at you. “Fifty gold pieces buys an awful lot of coffee,” he drawls; suspicion laces through every syllable. “I’d rather take coin, myself.”

His words feel familiar; you’re hesitant to acknowledge why. “Just the one cup will do,” you say. You tuck your hands behind your back; you’re the very picture of nonchalance. “One cup of good coffee, yeah? And we'll call it even.”

He’s still staring at you as if you’ve transformed into a Candlekeep dart frog, but he drops each coin, one by one, back into his purse. “Aren’t you a cheap date?” he murmurs.

“If you’re going to survive the chill at night,” you say, nodding to the new shirt, “You need something more durable than what you’ve got on. This isn’t the Upper City, you know.”

Astarion huffs again. “No,” he says. “I suppose it isn’t.”

------------

True to Nettie's word, the rosebush viper antivenom is dastardly. You stay up as long as you can and only eke out two bottles's worth. When the sky begins to turn navy, you slip into a quick trance.

You wake to the smell of hot coffee in your tent. A large wooden mug sits just outside the entrance, steaming with black coffee. You sniff it experimentally, but you can smell no poison.

Your first mouthful tastes thick and heady, almost burnt. You hum with satisfaction.

Astarion is on you the second you step out. “There,” he says, nodding to the coffee in your hands. “We’re even now.” He sneers at you, waves a hand dismissively. “Put on your face, won’t you? You look exhausted.”

You note, with satisfaction, that he’s wearing the new shirt.

#astarion ancunin #tavstarion #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #pity the mayfly #look at me posting fic in the middle of the night lmao

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thenopequeen · 3 months

Note

*throws more newsiecraft!Spot lore at you* Brain is weird and has decreed that I must document the things one (1) angry bird goes through. This is a bit of a long one, longer then expected honestly.

Sparrow doesn't join the newsies until about a year after Spot does, however if Sparrow was there before Spot, he'd 100% be the one dragging Spot into the chaotic family that is the newsies.

---

It's been about a year since you were sent to this place, a place you now know is called a lab. You just turned seven. You only know this because upon falling from an attempt to climb up a book case, you held yourself in the air for a fleeting second. One of the few things your parents told you was that at seven, you'd be able to start flying. There's someone (or something, you don't know anymore) new in the room Demon was kept in. The crack in the wall, once your only source of comfort, is now a personal torment. All you can hear beyond your own thoughts is the wails and cries of the thing in the room behind you. You try to block it out to sleep at night, but it just makes it into your dreams. Things have gone from mildly annoying to bad. Your skin itches where the black stuff spreads, your head hurts from the brightness, you can't see clearly from one eye (it got infected by the black stuff a few weeks ago, you've already gotten used to it.), and you think your wings are slowly growing weaker. You feel trapped in your own body, something that is caused by the black stuff. Whenever you feel any kind of emotion, the bit on your head turns into either horns or new ears. Your tail provides no comfort, being cold to the touch. You still don't make a sound, because the thing in the room behind you has vanished like Demon. Your name tag and sign on the door have been updated. It now reads 'sp07-F'. You don't know what the 'f' means, and nobody is left to ask.

You are seven and a half when you are woken up by an adult with a black mask and kind eyes. He doesn't let you speak, but he takes the collar off. He tells you that you are going to be terminated in the morning, and that he's bringing you somewhere else instead. You want to ask what 'terminated' means. You don't. You aren't sure you want to know. It's cold outside of your room, the lights are almost blinding, and you stand out like a sore thumb. Kind Eyes tells you to hide your hybrid features, to make it easier to get away. You comply, feeling as you become almost human, aside from the glowing green eye and the feathers around your ears. It's good enough for now. You are brought to a portal, just like the one you came to this lab from. Kind Eyes messes with it for a second, before sighing. You already know he isn't going with you. You wonder why it bothers you.

You're eight when something good happens again. In the months since getting out of the lab, you've gotten actual clothes (a red and black shirt, as well as some brown pants), you finally have more control over making yourself appear as human as possible, and you can eat something when you want. You're lonely, though. Your heart aches for anybody to talk to, but you've already seen how dangerous that is. You've seen hybrids, some avians like you, dead in alleys. You've watched as people claim to care about children, only to throw them into a man-made hell. You already know that trust is dangerous. You now know what you are. You are something sold by the people who were suppose to care for you. You are something twisted and failed. You are something that barely escaped death. You wonder if choosing death would've meant you'd get to see Demon again. You meet him in a dark alley, just an hour before the sun would set. He finds you curled up on a bit of moss and scraps of fabric you've found, and he Knows exactly why you're here. You don't find out he Knows for years. You don't care much by that point. "I'm Racetrack, although the others call me Racer." He says, holding a hand out. "You wanna come meet my friends? I've got some bread to share." You hesitantly take his hand, and look at his face. He's grinning, and there's a warm light in his eyes. You figure that you have nothing left to lose. "I'm Spot." You say, the words strange on your tongue. You can't remember the last time you've spoken out loud. A last look into Racetrack's eyes seals the deal. You'll go with him, and maybe it'll turn out alright in the end.

Nooo, he is baby! No bad things should happen to baby.

Deep Spot Lore

Does anyone know what all they did and what all he is? Including him?

#a rambling nope appears #newsiecraft

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 1 year

Text

Chapter 32- Alois

***

There was a big difference, he decided on the fifth day out, between ranging through the wilderness on elk-back and tromping through it on foot, in muggy late-summer heat, battling not just sweat but clouds of stinging, biting gnats that wanted nothing more than to drain him of his fluids. Niive, noticing his misery, had chewed a mouthful of bluish moss and spat out the resultant goo onto his bites, and that eased the itching.

When he tried to say thank you, she tossed her head and strode off, hair glimmering in the swirl of cool breeze she'd summoned.

"I was growing weary of your endless moaning," she'd called back, and Alois, heaving his pack higher on his shoulder, stifled a smile.

Then he slapped a gnat on his wrist before it bit down.

Cereza led them like a bird tied to a string, pulling her toward some distant unknown. She sometimes seemed no longer in control of her body, her limbs; she walked like a dreamer, her eyes closed, her lips fluttering. Her path took them along the aqueduct- it snaked beside them, rising and falling and crumbling away for long stretches before looming from the forest gloom again, pale and overgrown with vegetation. Like its shadow raced the little stream, coursing down from some hidden mountain source.

They were headed upslope and into the foothills, the mountains drawing closer day by day. Alois took it in wide-eyed, wishing he could somehow gather and preserve the sights around him like bottled specimens in spirit, to be returned to, in full sensory splendor, after they were gone to him. For all the Lapidaean mountains' annoyances, the landscape was beautiful, wholly distinct from barren Estara. Here all was lush, all was green and gold and deep bark-red, abundant moss lending a brushstroke softness to the fortress boulders looming amidst the forest. Shadows were blue and deep as wells. The trees here were unlike any he had elsewhere seen, so massive that to be amongst them was like walking between slumbering giants. Their hush seemed a holy thing, profound as any he'd experienced in Bellana's cathedral, back in Pavaloir.

"These are some big trees," he said, running his hand over a rough crust of bark. They'd passed a few that could comfortably house the Tower's entire throne room within. The cones littering the forest floor were huge as elk heads. It seemed impossible such a thing could grow and live at all.

Luca had laughed. "Big indeed. I suspect no one's taken an axe to these giants since the Sundered Empire, or before. These aren't even the largest or oldest I've seen up in these mountains, not by a long shot."

"You've come here before?"

"I used to do work for the magisters at the Academy. Looking for reagents, surveying, collecting samples, observing wildlife and plant growth."

"Cooing over flowers, you mean," Cereza sang back.

Luca smiled. "I suppose I wanted to become Grand Magister one day. Or maybe be lost up here, and not come back until centuries had passed, and my beard was past my knees, and all had turned to dust, like some enchanted troubadour in a cradle song."

"Lapra," Alois said suddenly.

"Come again?"

"That's the word for trees in Old Estaran. That's what gave Lapide its name. Daval taught me that in one of his history lessons." He tipped back his head, letting the sunlight fall dense and golden over his face. "To see this place for the first time must have felt like a dream."

"You'll make a linguist yet," Luca said, sounding impressed. Alois flushed, but Luca had already gone on, singing some taberna song off-key.

Alois knew what he meant by enchantment. There was power here, but it wasn't mighty, no lightning bolt nor vengeful goddess. Sometimes the group's conversations died, and they walked in silence for hours at a time. Alois was overcome with a feeling close to tears, close to ecstasy, wavering always in between. When he did, he felt himself flinch inside, an instant of panic- would someone see? Would his father know? It always faded, though, as he let himself calm again, as he reminded himself there was no one here who would be ashamed of him. Daval was dead, however strong his ghost. These ancient trees, who had lived through so many wars and so much silence, watched him, and then he moved on.

Eventually, the aqueduct ended in a soaring incomplete half-arch, the rest crumbled away into nothingness. The stream remained, sometimes no more than a trickle, sometimes a torrent spraying down a rockslide, all rapids and icy spume. When the treeline thinned Alois glimpsed of the ocean, cobalt-blue and seamed with whitecaps.

Cereza steered them away from the roads, and slowly their ascent steepened, taking them ever higher into the mountains. Valeris was visible for a few days, its spires glinting in the sunlight, before the foothills claimed it. Here, the only signs of civilization were the occasional trails of smoke from some croft on the lower hill or a distant fishing village clinging to the rocky coastline, patches of yellow that meant lillem groves, shimmering with pollinator beetles.

Once, Luca hushed their conversation and held his finger to his mouth, staring off into the shadows between the trees. Something huge moved back there, snapping twigs and stripping the vast ferns of their fronds: a massive low-slung beast with a broad, flat tail and humped back bristling with quills of white-banded black, saber fangs flashing as it curled its tongue around the next mouthful of vegetation. Cereza let out a silent laugh, while Sirin knelt next to Luca, arms folded over her knees. Luca himself watched the creature with the same kind of rapt wonder with which he watched Sirin, and only stirred when Alois crept close.

"It's a mogo-beast," he whispered. "Precious rare. See those quills? Each full of enough venom to stun a wild gholiant."

"Does it see us?"

"Doubt it. But it smells us, I'm sure."

"...Smells us?"

"They eat plants and cedar-bark, not islanders. See the tusks? Cantankerous beastie, but it won't attack, not if we let it be."

Alois didn't move. He stood there, silent, watching the creature as it moved on, leaving a stripe of broken ferns in its wake, vanishing once more into the deep gloom of the forest.

Hours passed, sun-drenched and sticky, relieved only by the wind off the sea. They were winding along the spine of a ridge, one side sweeping upward into a mountain flank, the other a sheer fall of white cliff struck blinding by the sunlight, when Alois stumbled. His vision darkened, like a moth-nest veiling his eyes.

He put out a hand against a tree, heart racing, his breath tightening in his throat. Calm down, he urged himself. Breathe.

"Need me to chew you more moss, Belmont?" Niive called.

"Give me a moment," Alois muttered.

"Or I could carry you, if you'd prefer."

"I said wait," Alois snarled.

He went to the cliffside and stood, staring out over the edge, into the vast emptiness. Birds drifted on the wind- not gulls, but forest birds he couldn't name, vast-winged and fantastically-crested, riding the air currents like a ship rides swells. He made himself breathe, made himself close his eyes to come back to his own body, not be swept away on a wave of his own terror. He heard voices murmuring behind him, then a scuff of boots against dirt, and a presence. Alois opened his eyes again as a shadow fell over him. Luca stood near him on the cliff, staring out to sea, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim.

Alois followed his gaze, and cold plunged through him like an axe stroke. Darkness massed at the horizon, the waves there vast ship-breakers, towering like hills. Blue light shone through them, and as lightning speared the storm, Alois glimpsed the warp-slither of the Leviathan's long body beneath the ocean surface.

It was out there, swimming, matching their pace. Following them.

"Drink?" Luca said after a moment.

"Yes."

He passed Alois the canteen. Alois took a swig.

"I wish this weren't water," he said.

"A man after my own heart."

They watched the Leviathan. "Strange," Alois said, after a while. "Isn't it."

"Yes, I'd say that out there is rather strange."

"Not that. Well, yes, that, but...strange we're standing here sweating our skin off and not standing in Pavaloir's Cathedral of Bellana, bound by blood as brothers."

"Ah."

"I know...I know it was all a lie," Alois said. "But I didn't want it to be. Maybe if I had wanted peace less, maybe I'd have seen into my father's schemes, maybe..."

He shook his head. "I suppose that doesn't matter so much anymore. It's over. It's done."

Luca nodded, his gray eyes narrowed against the sunlight. "You know," he said. "I thought you'd be an almighty ponce."

Alois laughed mid-swig, snorting water. He flung his hand up to catch it. "A what, now?"

"I figured you'd be arrogant, dreadful. Strutting about like you were planning the annexation of Lapide yourself. Believe me, the reality is a great relief."

"I figured you'd be crouching around a sacrificial altar, muttering to the pagan gods and waving witch-feathers."

Luca grinned. "You're not far off."

Alois laughed again. It felt good: a loosening of the fist that seemed forever clenched in his chest. "Your particular witch doesn't seem to like me very much."

"I think she's jealous."

"Jealous? What by all Saints would she have to be jealous of?"

Luca gave him a sidelong look. "Take your pick," he said. "For an immortal creature she's not particularly rational. You'd look and her and Cereza and think my sister the one awestruck, but I think it's the other way round. Cereza's cannier than she lets on. Worse, too. She can be unbelievably vexing in matters of the heart."

"What?" Alois spluttered, in the midst of taking another drink from the canteen. At this rate there wouldn't be any water left.

"One time I caught her kissing the daughter of some visiting foreign dignitary in a broom cupboard. It was by the skin of my teeth I prevented an international scandal."

It took a moment for Alois to realize he was joking- about the scandal, at least. He tried to imagine Cereza flirting her way into a broom cupboard, and couldn't. It was difficult to reconcile that girl with the girl he'd met first in the throne room of Valeris Palace, dressed in blue and seed pearls, pretty as the flowering tree that was her namesake. How little he knew her. How little he would have known her, had they been married as planned. As little as his father had known his mother at their own wedding, two strangers bound together for a cause.

She isn't bound to you anymore, he told himself. It stung a little.

"I never told you," Luca went on. "I didn't believe you, before, when you said you had nothing to do with Cereza's curse. I wish I had."

"I think you made it up to me by saving her life."

Together, he and Luca stood, watching the monster at the horizon as it swam round and round, wreathed in lightning. At last, Luca glanced up at the sinking sun and sighed.

"We'd best get a move on," he said, and with a last smile at Alois, retreated back to the group. Alois took a moment longer, taking in the cliffside, the country below, the glimpse of coastline and field. It would be good, he thought, to vanish, like Luca had said- to wait until the weary hurts of the world had spun themselves into dust. But he couldn't live that way. He couldn't abandon it.

Besides, he didn't have to be alone in it anymore.

He took a last drink of water and rejoined the others.

***

"That's it," Luca announced as he rummaged through his pack. He produced the object in question: a twist of touga jerky. "That's the last of it."

"That's it?" Cereza echoed. "Are you serious?"

"Unless you're stockpiling jerky in your skirts, there's nowhere for more to be, my darling." He tossed both pack and jerky to the moss. "Here, you lot fight over it."

They had come to the end of their already-meager provisions from Lapide, and while they'd scavenged all the tubers and berries and tortoise eggs they could, such things had a tendency to spoil in the muggy heat of the day. Alois sat on a nearby rock, his stomach snarling, not wanting to be the first to reach for the jerky.

"Give it to Puppy," Cereza suggested. No one protested. Alois watched as Luca fed the last of the jerky to the little creature, bit by bit.

Sirin signed something.

"Have you seen any animals in these woods?" Luca said.

She signed again, sharper.

"Fine, fine," Luca said. "Just don't draw any attention to yourself, all right?"

"I'll go try to find food," Alois said, standing and making for the edge of the clearing. They'd stopped at a bend in the stream, where the water pooled and stood still, shadowed by an overhanging thicket of thorn bushes and bitter-smelling mudlily, their blossoms white with delicate starbursts of pink at their centers. "I can...I don't know, catch fish, or...dig for roots..."

"Have you ever dug for a root in your life?" Cereza said.

"How difficult can it be?"

She stood, too, dusting off her skirts. "I'll come with you. You might need some protection." She patted the oyster knife at her belt.

"Don't go too far," Luca called.

"Stop worrying over me!" Cereza yelled back.

"Never!"

She smiled and shook her head, the forest shadows closing over it, dousing the brightness of her blonde hair. Alois stuck his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet- so he wouldn't trip over hidden roots, he told himself.

They walked in silence for a while, picking at the bushes, nosing under ferns, as if someone might have stashed a banquet under there. Alois found a cluster of berries clinging to a bush, but they were overripe and oozing, much-abused by the birds.

"I'm not that hungry yet," Cereza said.

He poked at a remarkable growth of shelf fungus sprouting from a cedar. "You fancy this is poisonous?"

"Almost certainly." She smiled. "I'm glad we're out here together. I...I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Me, too."

They fell silent again, not making eye contact. They hadn't spoken much since leaving Valeris- first out of shock, the disaster rendering them numb and mute, attuned to little more than escape and survival. Afterward she was occupied with leading them, or with Niive, or joking with Luca, her voice always a little too bright.

Now it wasn't. Her face looked older in the shadows, her eyes dark-socketed, wisps of hair straggling from her braid.

You had chances, Alois admonished himself. You're just too much of a coward to approach her. Now he'd manufactured a chance, and he was reduced to monosyllables.

They kicked on, coming to another, smaller clearing. Here, the break in the canopy had come at the cost of a cedar, huge as the collapse of a temple. The great fallen tree lay angled, one end lifted on its roots, the undergrowth already begun to swallow it back into the earth. Shafts of sun reached down from above, green and full of cyclones of insects. A small rill bubbled up from the crater beneath the fallen cedar's roots, plashing through the glade and filling it with drifts of mud lilies.

Alois stopped, marveling. Cereza wasn't nearly so reverent. She moved past him and scrambled onto the log, standing balanced on its lower end. The sunlight fell across her, suffusing her. The fine hairs on her arms seemed gilt.

She faced the mountains, their peaks visible above the trees. Alois felt a chill. What did she see? What did she feel like, to have a shard of the Leviathan's power inside her, to be within the shadow of the divine?

"See any food from up there?" he asked.

"Oh. No."

Alois shifted his weight. "What...what happened to you, out there? Really? Are you witchborn, like Sirin?"

"I don't think so. I don't think this is my power." She lifted her hands, turning them over. "I'm more like...a lens, and this- my dreams, my visions- they're the light. All I do is focus, amplify."

"And this? Now?"

"It's a pull, Alois. More than that. It's like I've walked here before. Like I've been here before. It's me, and it's not me. It's my eyes, but not my sight." She shook her head. "I can barely make sense of it myself."

"It takes a lot of faith to trust in it like that."

"Faith in myself, mostly. Without me, where do the dreams have to go?" She smiled a crooked smile down at him. "They'd be lost in the dark without me."

"I wish I could be as confident as you."

She looked away. "As do I, Alois Belmont."

He pointed at her knife. "You're good with that thing."

"Oh. Yes. Your- er. Captain Azare showed me a thing or two on our journey to Lapide."

"You can say my father. I know."

Cereza nodded, too quickly.

"He grew fond of you, I think," Alois went on.

"Yes, well," she said archly, walking heel to toe up the fallen log with her arms spread like wings. "I'm easy to grow fond of."

"Yes," Alois said. "You are."

She stopped above him, staring down. One heartbeat, two. She knelt, hugging her knees to her chest, her expression subdued.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"What for?"

"Us. It all went so wrong."

"That is hardly your fault."

"No. But can anyone apologize enough for it?" She paused again. "I didn't want to marry you. But I would have. And...Alois, I think I would have been happy. It would be easy, to be happy with you."

"I-" Alois began. He thought of Luca standing by him in the sunlight. "I don't- Cereza, I don't mean to give you insult-"

"Enough of the formal Lapidaean, Alois. Say what you want to say."

"Yes. Yes." He drew a short breath, heat creeping up his neck. "If I were to marry, it would be another...sort."

"What sort?"

Alois paused. Then- "A sort like Luca."

Cereza gave a guffaw that was half a shriek, loud enough that a pair of birds burst from a nearby tree and went clattering off. Alois winced, but after a moment he realized, with a strange wash of relief, that she wasn't laughing at his feelings, but how he'd conveyed them.

"Luca?" she echoed. She laughed again, tossing her head back. "Luca...specifically?"

"No. Not- stop laughing."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just imagining you and- I'm sorry. Please go on." "Not just- not just Luca."

"Another man, then? So find one." A thought seemed to occur to her. "Or do they not like that in Estara?"

"There's nothing in Bellana's books against it. Simply...if I am to be king, I would need heirs." He let out a short breath. "We each in Estara have our part to play."

Cereza gave a flick of her hand. "Many Lapidaean regents got around it. Creatively. Spectacularly."

"It's not so simple as that. My father and mother were such terribly-matched people," Alois said. "So terribly-matched it might've split Estara in two."

"Didn't it?" Cereza said softly.

Alois managed a laugh. She really was right, and it really was a bit funny. "Didn't it," he agreed, with feeling. "I never want their misery inflicted on another, especially not you. I can see how you and Niive are together. She's...beautiful, she's-"

"She's a terror," Cereza said. "But I think I need that. We're very alike, you know."

"Very alike," Alois echoed. And he was not. For a moment he felt the familiar pang of shame- a bastard, a blinded thing, cursed by Bellana, no true Belmont at all. But what use was that? He was the same man he'd been before, no matter his name and the chains that came with it. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He did not need to be ashamed of himself.

He met Cereza's eyes, the gray of stormclouds. "I would have been happy with you, too."

She gave him a soft smile. "Then let's be miserable apart."

Cereza stretched out her hands, and he took them, and she slid down the log and into his arms. Her skin was cool and soft, her hands bunching in his curls. For a moment he held all of her to all of him, her hair tickling his throat, her feet dangling inches above the ground. Then he let her go. She slid down him and alit.

"Here," Alois said, plucking a nearby mud lily. He threaded it into her braid, by the long black feather she kept woven there. "It suits you."

She turned her head this way and that, preening. "You suppose we can eat it?" she said, and he laughed with her.

A snarl rippled from behind them.

Alois whirled. Cereza gasped, reaching for her knife. An animal paced toward them, out from a hollow underneath the fallen tree. A den. Alois recognized the beast in an instant: brush-tailed and long-bodied, its head slung low, its ears flat back against its skull. Short spike horns jutted before its ears, gleaming like jet. Its sleek summer pelt was black, too, rippling with faint spots, its eyes pale blue and fixed on him.

It let out another snarl, baring sharp cuspids. A fellfox. He smelled its sharp, musky scent as it paced closer, footfall silent on the moss.

"Oh," Alois breathed. His heart hammered. Fellfoxes were vicious creatures, all the more reason they were Estara's sigil. If only Daval were here- he'd find the prospect of one killing Alois hilarious. "Saints- Cereza, the knife-"

"No." She pointed. Several sets of round blue eyes stared back at them from deeper in the den. "It's protecting its kits."

"It'll feed us to its kits if you don't-"

The fellfox lunged with a yowl; its teeth clashed shut inches from Alois's face. He stumbled, falling hard to his hands and knees. "Cereza!" he cried, but his voice died in his throat. All he could do was stare.

Cereza stood before the fellfox, her hands by her sides, staring into its eyes. The fellfox stared back, its gaze bright, its teeth still bared. It didn't attack. Why didn't it attack? Alois took a sharp breath, and tasted it: the bitter tang of magic. He felt it, then, its pulse coursing through him from Cereza.

Her lips fluttered. The fellfox gave a softer snarl and paced back- one step, then two, its head lowered, its bristled fur relaxing. It turned and trotted off, slipping into its den without another glance. Cereza let out her breath, staring after it with huge eyes.

Alois scrambled to his feet. "How," he panted, "did you do that?"

"I...I'm not sure," she said. "I felt its anger. How dare we threaten its kits? It felt like...like one of my dreams. So I refocused it. To not harm us. To go back to its kits. And it did." She shook her head with a nervous laugh. "That's it."

"Whatever you did, it was-" Alois started.

He cut off. Voices echoed through the trees, alongside the sound of clanging metal.

Alois looked up, but didn't see the others approaching. The sound came from the wrong direction, anyhow- ahead, not behind. Alois stepped past Cereza, moving toward them. He heard her follow, her knife a glint of steel in her hand. They crept toward the treeline, which ended in a fall of jagged boulders. The rocks plunged down, an abrupt descent into a spreading meadow of wildflowers and windswept grass and road. It threaded down the mountainside: a narrow dirt track cut into the meadow, and on it were people.

"Hells," Cereza whispered, but Alois held up his hand, quieting her. The people looked like farmers, dressed in roughspun: a pair of young women driving a snuffling touga between them. It wore a bell- that was what made the clanging sound- and a yoke laden down with baskets.

"Look at that," Alois whispered, and pointed. The touga's baskets were full of fruit, knobby-skinned and bright yellow. "Food. You don't suppose-"

"I do suppose," Cereza said. "There's a village nearby."

Alois chewed his lip. "We can't stop. Suppose Isabella's soldiers are there, searching for us. Suppose-"

"No." Cereza looked at him. The sunlight fell in her eyes, and they were bright, their gray ghostly, touched with the same faraway brightness that had filled them in the hidden library's depths. "No. We have to stop."

She caught his wrist and held it, tight. "This is where the trail ends. This place is what we came to find."

#grave of the great leviathan #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 32

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careless-with-your-heart · 2 years

Text

The Air She Feeds Me is Damned (Barry AU - Original Female Character)

Chapter One is: HERE

It's been three years since Barry bolted, leaving LA after the breakup, disappearing before Moss started asking questions. Now, he's living on the East Coast, under a new name, working a string of shitty, under-the-radar jobs. Oh, he's still quietly falling apart, but at least his hands are clean. Barry Berkman's perfectly fine, thankyouverymuch, until he witnesses a murder - and he can't stop fantasizing about the woman who committed it.

Chapter Two:

The second time, she actually sees him first—technically, Barry never sees her at all.

Things haven’t been working out so great for him lately; the expense of living in this steel-and-neon anthill, the sheer number of hours that he needs to be bent over some menial task just to survive, the loneliness that does nothing but give him time to reflect on what happened in LA, it all weighs down on him, wears at him. Barry is startled to find that, sometimes, when he is just at the edge between asleep and awake, his right hand curls around an imaginary, crosshatched grip. His trigger finger physically itches.

He tries video games. He tries junk food. He tries target shooting. He even tries picking up a woman in a bar, as pathetic as it sounds, because he isn’t sure that the heavy pressure low in his gut isn’t just the result of almost three years of celibacy. A woman walks in, average in every aspect, but there is something in the way her dishwater hair falls just to her shoulder, and in the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs at something the bouncer says, that makes Barry’s stomach turn with acid. He slams down his vodka soda—his third in the past hour—and bolts from the bar.

He knows what the itch is. And he knows what has caused it. All it had taken was locking eyes with her for the briefest flash, and here he was, everything in his body strung so tight that he feels he might snap. Barry wants to know who she is, why she killed the man at the bus stop, and what she tastes like in the dark. He doesn’t even care what she looks like under all that black, only that she knows how it feels to take a life with her own hands. He wants those hands on him.

But he’ll never have them. And, really, he shouldn’t. He knows that this fixation is ten toes over the edge, and advancing, and he knows that it’s unhealthy. As much as anything else, he knows that he won’t be able to stop. The universe is not that fair. If it were fair, then Sally, and Gene, and even Hank would have never crossed his path—and they would have been so much better for it. And so, Barry drudges on for as long as he can, emptying trash cans in the park, standing in a sandwich board in the hot, noisy stream of a million morning commuters, being led down that same dark, fateful street by a pack of dogs more financially stable than he is.

Rent is late for the second month in a row when Barry lets the excuse break the dam. He feels flushed, hot, out of breath as he lets the urge take over, and he feels the same tremble that he did that first night as he presses “send” on a text to the number listed in the Craigslist ad.

Three and a half hours later, he’s crouched in a copse of bushes outside a cheating COO’s upstate house, her husband’s measly six grand in his bank account and that same drugging buzz in his head that has always come before a kill.

The scent of vanilla and deep, heady spice fills his nose. The barrel of her gun presses, cold in the hot summer air, against the nape of his neck. Just as she does so, he feels a bead of sweat roll from his hairline, trickling down to meet the digging steel. Then, she’s in his ear, and he lets his eyes slip closed.

“Hey, dog guy. Keep your eyes ahead and keep your fucking hands where I can see them.” Her breath is warm, even warmer than the outside air. Still, Barry shivers. “You take money for this gig? Nod or shake your head.”

He nods. Maye she’ll end him. What a blessing that would be.

“Looks like Mister Mom wants to make sure his cash cow gets to the chopping block. He bought two of us.”

Barry nods.

She continues. “You have about twenty seconds to pack up your gear and go. Normally, I’d blow your fucking head off and leave your body here to be discovered by an insufferable suburban housewife, who’ll soak up all the attention she gets at her next MLM meeting when she describes how your face was caved in to her neighborhood friends, but…”

He laughs. It’s probably not what she expects, but she lets him.

She digs the gun in harder at his nape. Barry feels himself harden painfully behind his jeans zipper.

“But what?” he croaks. She didn’t say he wasn’t allowed to talk to her.

“But I kinda like your face,” she says. “And I can tell you’re out. So, stay out. Don’t be a fuckup.”

With that, she’s gone, and the only thing she leaves is a lingering trail of that distinctly heady scent.

#barry #barry hbo #hbo barry #barry berkman #bill hader #au #fanfiction #fanfic

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i-just-want-to-destroy · 2 years

Note

the uraraka wip please....?? 🙏

the actual title is In Which Uraraka Ochako Decides to End the World. And the fic is about exactly what it says on the tin. long snippet since ill probably never finish it:

First of all, it’s not completely out of animosity.

And maybe, just maybe, part of it is out of boredom. Out of curiosity, even. You know that funny little urge you get when you stare at a fire alarm plastered on the wall, wondering what would happen if you reach out your hand and press?

That kind of curiosity. Childlike and innocent, really. Harmless in intent, not so much in execution.

Though to call it curiosity isn’t quite right. You know what would happen next: the alarm blaring, the sprinkler possibly turning on, getting the scolding of your life and also a fine of several thousands yen.

Ochako knows what would happen if she nullifies gravity from earth.

It’s very simple—rocket science sort of simple in fact. What would happen is—are you ready? Okay, here we go, what would happen is:

Everyone would die.

There. Everyone, including her, her family, her mom’s pet fish and her dad’s collection of moss balls. Everything will be obliterated.

Consequences, you see. Cause and effect is very simple, as simple as people running down the halls to evacuate the building as the alarm blares on and on to a non-existent fire.

You know what would happen. Maybe not exactly what would happen, but at least a vague idea concrete enough to deter you from doing … there is a word for it, she’s pretty sure. You know, a word that describes “an act that derives from the norm of society that could possibly exterminate a large number if not the entirety of said society”. A word like ... misdemeanor? Nah, that’s a tad too light. Crime is close, but not exactly it..

Oh. Genocide.

Anyway.

So, yeah, you know. Consequences and such. The thing that stops you from misusing the fire alarm for your own entertainment. Or being the harbinger of apocalypse, for your own entertainment and otherwise.

But the itch is still there, isn’t it?

Ah. Maybe that’s it—maybe that’s the correct way to put it: the itch. There is always an itch under Ochako’s skin. Not quite a need, but perhaps some kind of want; because okay, while Ochako knows very well that she is capable of obliterating every form of life that inhabits this humble little sphere in the Milky Way called Earth—she doesn’t really know, does she? Not before she actually does it?

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

(Ochako likes to think of the end of the Universe as a thought experiment.)

Ochako felt it the first time she touched the ground.

Thumb down, and then her pointer, middle, and ring finger. Her pinky is hovering just a tad over the asphalt.

And Ochako could feel it: godhood in the stitches of mass and resonance, in push and pull, time and space knitted in a bow just for her. Just for her. Gravity is the single thread holding the entire planet together. One that Ochako can undo with just a touch of her pinky finger.

Ochako has always been able to destroy the earth. It’s just a matter of when.

This isn’t her parents’ fault, by the way.

Or maybe it is. Arguably, it could be. What’s that thing people say—nature versus nurture, something like that? Well, she was nurtured very well. Nice life. Loving parents. Not rich, but loving. She has friends. She’s got okay grades. A bunch of other terribly mundane things, you know—normal. Normal and nice.

It would be much simpler if something major and life-changing is the cause of the mysterious workings of Ochako’s brain—some tragic backstory and such, dead parents perhaps, or horrific abuse she has endured in her youth that leaves a lasting impact on her entire personality. But, eh, no. Nothing ever really happened to Ochako growing up; nothing that can be considered trauma or anything like that. Not even once. Really, Ochako wouldn’t know trauma if her parents were shot in an alley outside a cinema she begged them to walk out of because she was scared of bats.

Life, as far as Ochako is concerned, is smooth sailing. Far too smooth in fact—zero bumps on the road, not even a single pebble standing in her way. So smooth that it doesn’t feel like she is sailing at all. So smooth and unobstructed that it barely feels like she’s riding anything at all.

So. Nature, huh?

Some genetic predisposition, perhaps. A cog labeled “conscience” having slipped off somewhere in her hippocampus. Maybe if Ochako traces her bloodline to several generations past, she would encounter one ancestor of hers who was recorded as a “danger to society”—though the politically correct term would be a “certified maniac”. And luckily for this society, that very maniac gene has decided to show up once again in the Uraraka family inside a girl who is able to, superpower-wise, endanger not only this society but also this entire civilization.

What luck.

Maybe it’s always been in her, that innate coldness. Though coldness isn’t quite the right way to describe it. Ochako doesn’t think of herself as a cold person; she isn’t perceived as one either. She’s nice enough. Warm enough. She’s a good girl. She has always been a good girl. She isn’t cold. She is good.

Yes, that’s it. She is good. A good girl with a smooth sailing life—that’s her.

It’s pretty boring. Boring enough that she’s considering not to die as one.

#ask #fic stuff #bnha

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yeendad · 1 year

Text

Had a rather emotionally stressful day but was also being emotionally constipated so I waited til bedtime to listen to some sad music so I could actually cry.

The thing about mental health is..

I can still smile and laugh and joke things away

But no one else but me has to face the demons alone when everyone else goes to sleep.

No one else but me has to fight with the mirror each morning

Even if I’m surrounded by friends

It’s still just me in my head with this thing

Like a pulsating pile of dread and scorn and hate and love broken

It writhes around me with itching claws that catch in my skin and tears apart at me one little piece at a time

It speaks without a mouth in a way that I can’t escape it, even if I had the strength to run

And it says

You were born to fail and no one wants to stay to help out you back together. That’s tedious and hard and there is no payout for it

They lie to you when they say they care because they only care when it benefits them

Even if the benefit is for a single moment of peace from your incessant whining.

And I will try to barter with it

And plead and beg and even just let it be

But it doesn’t budge or parry or give me some sort of peace

It smiles without teeth but still can feel the pressure of its facetious grin. It’s fake sympathy and the taunts it releases endlessly when I try to reason with myself what should be common sense and turns it into what ifs and maybe nots

And all the while on the outside I smile for the person next to me and ask them how they’re doing and listen to them as they talk about their passions without hearing

I let them vent and try to hold back the rolling of my eyes

I hold them when they cry while screaming in my head how I barely have anyone to do the same, and it’s all my fault.

God

How unfair

How poorly treated I’ve been to myself and even when I’ve reached out and cried and screamed for help for a hand for something to hold onto while the tsunami that is my mind tries to wash me away

But in the end all I can grasp onto pleadingly is slippery moss covered rocks.

And when I finally find the strength to pull myself up for a bit and be above the rapids edge and be able to look at the fierce storm I’ve escaped

I am muddied and bloodied and bruised and ugly

And they look away in shame, of me or themselves I’ll never know

#thoughts

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muffindaddystyles · 3 years

Text

Summary: Y/N's feeling icky about her body, but Harry loves her to bits and pieces, through thick and thin, in health and sick — and he always waits for her to come back to him.

TW: Body dysmorphia.

Y/N's healthy.

All she sucks in is having a sane sleeping schedule due to her UNI otherwise she eats natural goodies, cook and bake home because it comforts her more that way and she works out every evening to stay fit.

Sometimes though, she’s lazy and lacks behind which’s proper humane but deep down it effects her and her mental health more than she admits and she isn’t able to start over again – it mostly happens after her periods.

Harry loves her the way she’s.

Even if she’s clumsy, bumbling, procrastinating, overly enthusiastic to mend her life at 3 am, snotty and sloth-y in her periods, confident and positive around people, kind and loving whenever she comes to meet him, whiny and cuddly when she’s sick, jealous and grumpy with his attention not on her —- he loves her in every way possible, to rivers and to sea his love could never stutter for her ever.

He loves how she’s not overly toned, having soft squishy spots which Harry undeniably wants to admire and kiss shamelessly amount of times -- like -- her plummy pretty thighs that Harry likes to nestle his head in-between making her wriggle and squirm under his grasp, her overly cute tummy that Harry dies to pepper sweet adoring kisses and petal his lips round her belly button, everytime they’re cuddled up his bicep’s always looped her around her tummy to feel it rising up and down in calm rhythm, and oh! her tender titties, they’re actually his favourite babies and he loves to fondle them in his big calloused palms brushing his thumb over the sensitive perky nub and basks in the glittery whimpery mewls of hers.

He loves that she’s curvy and gives zero fucks if she’s skinny or not.

He thinks his baby’s perfect.

So perfect he actually feels the bubbling of devotion and affection filling to the brim of his heart’s chambers and leaking out and upon his ribs tickling him.

Y/N's his person and he worships her with his whole heart.

From some days though, she’s feeling devastatingly insecure about all her things Harry’s in love with and she has no-control over it how much she tries.

Harry’s observing that all with optimism (one of his great quality's that like a lion sly about his prey, he keeps an eye on everything but pretends otherwise). He has his intense gaze fixed on her when she’s taking a look of herself in the mirror for rather too long, running her hands down her body and practically shuddering.

He glances from over his laptop and drops everything he's doing watching her go monkies, sweating buckets and over exercising than her usual time.

He brings her closer and infront of him, pressing her to his chest and coiling his forearm around her shoulders whining a, “Baby..!” when they were brushing their teeth and despite of standing beside him and teasing him occasionally like she usually does she stuffs her face into the crest of his back and hides herself there to have minimal contact with her reflection in the mirror.

Her body dysmorphia spiking dangerously high.

“Deprived me of your cuddles. woke me up so early, granny.” She huffs lying through her teeth and how much his embrace was strong enough to keep her in place she still managed to wiggle out taking her previous cosy position, but he could feel her muscles tensing and an awkward silence falling over them.

He didn’t pry much. He wants to give her as much space as she requires to come back to him hale and hearty, as she always does and whatever happens he never forgets to remind her how much he loves her every night.

They were watching rom-coms on Netflix back to back with her curled up into his side with a spongy white wool knitted blanket thrown over them and his cheek was smashed atop her head popping in peanuts every now and then when out of certain she spoke pointing at the actress, “You know she got her ribs removed to get that shrinky waist.” Harry frowned at that. His face itching into disbelief and concern under the bouncing glow of telly.

He affixes his gaze down at her trying to read what’s cooking up in that genius brain of her's which isn’t being very rational and genius right now, they immediately turns soft and caring when she blinks up at him purely.

She squeaks, nose crashing against his collarbones when he scooches her up in his lap grabbing onto her knees to make her straddle his torso and he grumbles cutely when she tries not put all of her weight on him and doesn’t melts into him as his sweet lovie would used to do receiving a smack on her bum on his end.

He’s afraid that an evil version of her chomped onto his dear baby alive.

“Nothing else matters if all ye’ organs are packed safely and healthily inside you,” He tells her brushing loose frays of her hair behind her earlobe and rubs his thumb in gentle strokes over her treacly pulsing point, “Was just telling you ...” She mumbles, dotting touches on his knuckles and playing with his bare cold fingers.

It’s true, she was rambling out facts about the movie and cast out of habit because no-way she’d ever go through any surgeries to change herself to become someone she isn’t.

“Swear!” She yawps out in convincing high pitch when Harry squints down at her with his lips scrunched, one eye twitching in doing so.

“Alrighty. I believe you.” He cradles her cheeks in his palms and brings her mighty close to him to peck her cupid bow, then her bottom lip and the corners of her smiling mouth to suckle generous amount of whines from her and then kisses her lovingly – hands streaming down her spine and then resting atop her dip.

He thought she was ready to come back to him, to share her problem with him and Harry really wanted to bug in, to not let her fight her battle alone and take half of her hardships from her fretting self but guess not.

They were about to have sex when panic seeped in Y/N's eyes and her cheeks blazed up in that of embarrassment as she rushed to switch off the lamps that were the only source of light in their room.

“Moppet.” Harry sighed, knowing exactly what’s happening and she isn’t as foxy in covering it up as she’s thinking herself to be.

“Why wouldn’t y'want me t'see gorgeous self of yours?” His tone punctured and hurt, feeling useless for not knowing how to cheer her up and break her worries down. He smoothens his hands behind her to lock his arm around her waist, fingertips making grape sized indents into the flesh of her hip-bone as she streaks the tip of her nose up and down the crook of his neck, murmuring meekly against his salty skin while he hugs her warmly.

“’M just feelin’ shy.” He giggles at her response puckering his lips against her hairline to pet tiny, tiny kisses there as she fists her hands against his taught chest.

“Not somethin’ I haven’t seen before, love bug.” He blows raspberries against the underside of her jaw and their mouths meet into a messy, giggling, teeth clanking kiss when she sinks into pillows allowing him to cocoon her in his heat.

“I love you, Y/N. No matter what.”

The last dam breaker for them was this little get together at Sarah and Mitch's baby shower.

She matched her outfit with Harry. Cute lavender coloured little sweater blouse that was familiar to the baggy baby yarn cardigan Harry was wearing, it accentuated her curves and her bosom so prettily -- her midriff peeking from where the buttons weren’t closed and their jeans were painted (they did it themselves one Sunday when it was extra boring and inactive).

Y/N felt uncomfortable in her own clothes. A bitterness spreading inside her for herself and all she wanted was to escape away from her own skin.

She knows she’s loved and welcomed and cherished by her friends and family and the love of her life, most importantly. Then why was she feeling so icky about herself? Why everything's draining her and exhausting her?

Harry obviously could see through the gloomy tenebrous energy overshadowing her as he stood in the corner of the room grabbing the sorbet he poured in two glasses for them.

A sour guzzle of tears choking his throat and his limbs weakening letting the painful heartbreak seep into him when he watches her being fidgety and fiddling with the loops of her jeans, tugging her blouse every passing second and he’s sniffling a hiccup deep in his lungs when she shrinks into herself in dejection staring out of the window without any purpose.

Harry feels awful to startle her when he plops down beside her, coodling her closer to himself and tucks her head beneath his chin subtly and cups his palm under her jaw to make her look in eyes his eyes.

“Hi beautiful,” His tone had a saddening waver in it and his irises mossed bleak when Y/N remains unresponsive, zoning in and out of her own head feeling herself prisoned into her own invasive thoughts.

“You w'na go home darling?” He gives her a wet smile clearing his throat and blinking the stubborn moisture in his eyes away when Y/N nodded without any vivid expression.

All the way back home he denounced himself of not making her feel loved enough, to not to pest her soon about what she’s feeling and letting her slide deeper into the dark hole.

He thinks he’s a piece of shit.

Y/N wanted to dig the earth with her own nails and hide into it and never show her face again, she was overly ashamed of herself.

His hand was holding onto hers tightly, never letting it go as he led them through the hallway and his head perked up in confusion when she stopped them abruptly and lunged to wrap herself around him like he’s the last silver of her hope and the reason to live.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.” There comes the first sob after ages of suffering and bottling it all in, not shocked at all he was expecting it to happen. Gently he picks her up and wraps her legs around him, keeping his support firm under her bum as she cried into his soft white t-shirt.

Carefully he sits them on the edge of the bed and tries to pry her soaky flushed face in his cradle but she refuses to show him, clutching onto his cardigan and whimpering brokenly.

“I just feel so disgusting,” Her sob scratches out of her throat and for a second he thought he heard her wrong, that her feeble crying’s playing some kind of a sick game with his heart.

“Harry do something I don’t want to feel disgusting.” But, when she pleaded helplessly a cold shiver settled in his bone marrow spreading an agonising burn in his stomach.

Gently he stirs her away from his chest to look at her, meeting their foreheads together while his thumb wiped her tears away and smoothed over her wabbly lips in profound tenderness.

“My beloved,” He whispers fondling his nose against hers and her eyes flutters into realm of calms, shaky breath falling over his lips as he brings her trembling fingertips towards them and pecks them feverishly.

“The love of me life, me heart.” He continues, “Shhh. Shh baby ‘s okay to cry but don’t tire y'self.” He hushes her when she whimpers loudly at his coy affirmation.

“I’m here with you, waiting f'you, watching y’goin’ through a stony path so I could be there to hold you whenever you trip –-,” He pets her hair, cupping the back of her neck to plant his lips bitten red from worry to her puffy damp eyelids and Y/N becomes a gooey lax of candle that’s been burning for tiring amount and finally her lover came to blew the agonising flame away putting her to peace as he coos snuggling her in his cordial embrace, “You’ve been so strong to yourself and ‘m so proud of me baby.”

“I’m always here. Never away from you, always right by y'side.” His palms bending around her ribs to smush her as intimately close as possible.

“How d'ya want your huggies babylove?” He simpers down at her darlingly, huffing out in relief seeing her relaxing -- her shoulders sinking from him massaging the knots in them.

“Tight.” She mumbles timidly. The gleam in her glossy eyes returning when Harry hugs her as she wished, squishing her in right places and not suffocating her at all – their breaths in sync chests flushed against eachother.

“I love you cuddly, and care f’you.” He kisses her on lips then goes to hug her right back.

“I love you too, Har. Thank you.” She sniffs in his woodsy scent grazing her touch up and down his back, smooching a soft kiss at his cheek.

#ME WRITING AN OVERLY EMOTIONAL AND SELF DESTRUCTING PIECE #yahoooooooo yipeee #soft tender harry lives in my heart rent free #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles dirty one shotsssss #harry styles one direction #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry angst #harry styles #cute harry #dirty harry styles imagines #harry styles fluff imagine #harry smut #fluff #hsh #dom harry

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kentos-filmcamera · 3 years

Text

10 times, 1 occasion - Inumaki Toge

9. After the Storm

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your first kiss was long and clumsy, but also rushed and strong. You giggled whenever your teeth clashed. It wasn’t perfect for anyone but the two of you. After a while, he tugged you out of the forest into your dorm rooms as it was also getting really windy. On the run back you giggled, even though the wind was making the raindrops clash against your skin in a way it itched. No one was in sight when you reached the residential complex, but you still could hear some noises coming from different rooms. The two of you clumsily walked down the hall of your dorm, hearing some giggling from Nobara’s bedroom.

“Takana” Toge gave you a chaste kiss on your lips and left for his own dorm. You stood there for a second, dumbstruck, before nodding and going inside your own room, still not processing the whole ordeal.

You knew he was going to come back, so you rushed to your bathroom, avoiding spreading the mud all over the floor. You stripped out of your dress and underwear before jumping inside the shower, sighing. You let the hot water run down your back as you slid down the bathroom wall. Reality started to settle in. You confessed your feelings and kissed Inumaki Toge under the pouring rain. It was something you probably had only dreamt about, but it was real. You still felt his thumbs pressing onto your cheeks, and the wet strands of his hair running through your fingers like fine silk. Oh god, where did that leave you now? Were you partners now? Or was it just a casual makeout session? Fuck buddies didn’t kiss under the rain. Or they don’t only kiss, for that matter.

You shook your head as you scrubbed the dirt out, watching the brown soapy suds leave your now gleaming skin to go down the drain. You sighed and exited the shower, wrapping a bathrobe around yourself, fitting your bath slippers before wrapping your wet hair on a microfiber towel. You hung out the dress to air dry before looking in the mirror, shrieking at the sight of ruined makeup. Jesus, did Toge see you that way and still kiss you? You cringed before taking the reusable cotton pads and the micellar water to remove all the makeup from your face. You decided to do your skincare routine, and left the room, yawning a bit.

“Kelp” A tiny voice greeted you from your bed. A smile arose to your lips as Toge laid there, looking at the pouring rain through your window. At this time, the sky should be starting to color in floss purple or pink, but it remained as dark as it was three hours before.

“Hi, love” You smiled and waved slightly before opening your closet, hearing Inumaki complain about the sudden light. You apologized quietly and reached in for your underwear, a pair of loose shorts, and a large pullover. You rushed to change in the bathroom and left your slippers behind, changing for the bedroom ones.

“Hi again” You muttered, laying down behind him. You snaked your hand under his shirt to hold him tight against you. You rested your chin on his shoulder and observed the rain falling as he did, but you did achieve to fall asleep first by the calming pitter-patter the climate phenomenon produced.

“Good night” He was able to mutter without being afraid of you getting cursed. He smiled happily when you didn’t react to his words, or when they didn’t echo through the silence. But what he did hear through the lack of noise was the thumping of his heart. He sighed contently and sunk into your arms, falling asleep with a smile on his face.

The next few days were a bit unproductive by the lack of space to train, as heavy rainfall dawned upon Tokyo. So, by default, you spend your days in either your room or Toge’s, and less often in the common area with the others, offering your thick hot cocoa with some of your world-renowned cookies or garlic bread. You noticed Toge kept writing all the time on your desk but cursed you away when you tried to snoop and hid the papers when anyone was near. You also noticed he observed you quite often. He observed you as you sat by your windowsill and hummed quietly, reading a book. He observed you when you woke him up by singing a little tune and organizing his room. He observed you as you vigorously whisked the hot cocoa mixture. He observed you as you danced under the rain with Itadori, singing Umbrella by Rihanna obnoxiously. Of course, people were watching you, but it was different. He had a different fondness in his face he had never looked at you with.

With the rainwater increase also increased the naps and the cuddling; you even fell asleep once with the door open and everyone barged in to stare at the two of you lovingly, Nobara almost holding back the tears while Gojo took some pictures he knew you would treasure later as much as you would argue with him for taking it. It was one of those naps that made Toge consider more things about you, how, for example, he definitely adored when you woke him up singing or humming something.

“Don’t let the sun kiss you before I do” He heard you with eyes closed. His eyes fluttered open as you picked your hair away from your face with a silk scarf full of flowers. You kept on humming but heard a displeased noise coming from your bed.

“Keep singing” He commanded with a raspy voice. You were, of course, forced to oblige, but not so deep down you gladly did so.

“Yea, the sun sets every evening, but I’ll never leave you” You sang quietly, approaching him by the bed. “Good afternoon, grumpy little guy” You gave him a chaste kiss by the lips. He seemed displeased again, so you covered your eyes with cursed energy.

“Kiss me more” He commanded, but failed as you shook your head, your ears wrapped in a blue flame.

“You still haven’t washed your teeth, silly” You fixed his hair, which from sleeping looked like his hair from the previous year; all spiky and in different directions.

Toge rolled his eyes, but he still smiled nevertheless. “Kelp” He greeted, gaining a sweet smile back from you.

“Look, it seems like it’s finally clearing up” You pointed to the light gray sky with scarce sunrays leaking through some thick clouds. “That’s why I was singing about the sun!”

Just after it had happened, Toge held the memory close to his chest, just like he did with the brown envelope with a moss green and navy blue seal stamp, your name was carefully written across the blank paper. You noticed he was trembling like a leaf when he handed the item to you a few days later after the memory, the rain clouds long gone, leaving you with the heat and the sun to train under. He gave you a tiny nod and left promptly. Now alone in your room a few hours later, you opened the envelope carefully and took out the pages of pure written word.

“ Hello, cookie

I can’t believe I’m writing this for you. I mean, I know what I’m going to say so I can’t believe I’ve gathered the courage to ask you. This might not be a lengthy one like the ones I’ve written before, but here you go.

As you might have figured, because you feel the same that I do, for the most part, I really really like you. And I think I’ve found a new hyper fixation in kissing you. But can you blame me? Your lips are plush soft, and I feel like they belong just against mine. I feel the same when you hold my hand, or when I hold you against me. It feels like we’re made for each other, that’s why, if you don’t mind me asking

Would you like to go on a date with me to the city next Saturday?

I’ll be awaiting your response promptly, not calmly, because I’m probably making rounds outside your door this instant waiting for your answer. Thanks for reading me once more.

I love you.

Yours, Toge. “

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk inumaki #inumaki toge #toge inumaki #inumaki x reader #jjk fluff #10times1occ

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shysneeze · 3 years

Text

How they react to you getting hurt:

description: how various harry potter characters (Harry, George, Fred, Neville, Hermione, Luna and Ginny) would react when you are hurt

warnings: injury mention but not really described, brief mentions of food, generally just concern etc

(A/N: this was requested a bit ago and i can’t find the request now but sorry it took so long!! i’ve never done preferences before so it’s kind of headcanon-esq, but hope you enjoy anyway)

harry:

Harry has been the one in the hospital wing bed before, felt the itch of the thin bed sheets and heard the creak of the bed springs that with ache with the smallest movements.

However, seeing you in the hospital bed is a whole other kettle of fish. It doesn’t matter how minor the injury, a concussion from quidditch? a bad dose of the flu? He’s sitting by your bed side tapping his foot anxiously, even if you’re awake and rambling.

When you notice his concern, it will only take a reminder of his own injury-risking behaviour and he gets rid of the hypocritical lecture he’s been planning in his head.

But he’ll be very gentle with you, all soft kisses and quiet conversations until you’re back to yourself again.

George:

George is no stranger to the occasional injury, usually by his and Fred’s own inventions, so i low-key think he has a mini first-aid kit on him most of the time. Just some healing paste, some plasters and tweezers (his broomsticks are older than a lot of his teammates, i just know he gets splinters okay??) that rattle around in his pockets waiting to come in useful.

So if you get hurt, he’s actually pretty helpful. He’ll be very gentle when he touches you in fear of hurting you more, and sometimes his tongue pokes out just a little if he’s concentrating really hard on cleaning up a cut or something.

Whether it’s minor or hospital wing worthy though, he’s cracking jokes to cheer you up and only feels himself stop worrying once he hears you laugh again.

Fred:

If he witnesses it happening, he’s very quick (and sometimes dramatic) to come to your aid (you once got a paper cut and her held your finger into the light for inspection for at least five minutes).

If it happens at the hands of someone else, an accidental shove in the hallways or a jinx, he’s planning revenge instantly, which is when some of the more harsh pranks tend to come into action.

If it’s a hospital wing sort of injury, he’s sneaking in contraband snacks while Pomfrey pretends not to see it happening. He insist on keeping you company until he is certain for sure you’re alright, even if you’ve told him a million times already.

Neville:

Neville worries in a subtle way that onlookers might not always notice. Chances are, you’ve assured him already that you’re fine, and he knows you well enough than to keep asking, no matter how much he wants to.

So, he gets a little clingy. Not so much that its concerning or annoying, but walking that little bit closer on the way to classes, goodnight kisses that last just a little too long and worried glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

Chances are you’ll wake the next day to find he’s concocted some natural remedy from some plants. A burn in potions? babes is waiting the next day with aloe vera. Bad cut? Did you know that sphagnum moss is an excellent antiseptic?

Hermione:

Hermione tries her best not to show you she’s worried but she’s already thinking of the millions of spells and potions that can help.

She trusts Madam Pomfrey, she really does, but something takes over when you’re in the hospital bed, and suddenly the urge to ask the school nurse every question under the sun takes over.

“Are you sure that potions is best? i heard that-“

“Miss Granger, i know you are worried but i am very good at my job,”

Once she’s calmed her nerves though, she’ll read your favourite books to you, even if you’re unconscious or sleeping, just so you know she’s there.

Luna:

Luna is another one who just happens to carry first aid materials with her. It doesn’t matter the injury, she has an obscure potion and plasters with little flowers printed on them.

She drives Madam Pomfrey mad when you’re in the hospital wing because she begins to bring random magical objects she claims have a healing effect to them, but it’s just like a dusty old hand mirror or a pretty looking rock she found in the lake (it always works which is what stresses Pomfrey out the most).

She likes to keep you company, and will talk about everything and anything until you’re eventually falling asleep, and then she’ll wait until she’s sure you won’t wake before leaving, because she doesn’t want you to wake up alone.

Ginny:

Ginny gets a bit over protective, it’s in her genes. I like to think she doesn’t even notice herself doing it until people are smirking at her at the breakfast table when she’s subconsciously loading your plate with food, or refusing to let you do the “heavy” lifting and carrying all your stuff to and from classes, even the ones you don’t share.

One hundred percent will shout at anyone who happens to accidentally hurt you, often scaring first and second years when their jinxes stray a bit far off target and hit you by accident.

Having to pull her aside and promise her you’re really fine, (and explaining that “I love you but if you make me drink my orange juice with straw at breakfast one more time, Ginny Weasley-”), but you know she just wants to make sure you’re okay in the end, and letting her spoil you for maybe just a little longer.

#harry potter preferences #ginny weasley x reader #luna lovegood x reader #hermione granger x reader #harry potter x reader #george weasley x reader #neville longbottom x reader #fred weasley x reader #harry potter imagines

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fuckit-hero-of-trains · 3 years

Text

Sit by the fire until... Chapter 2

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870150/chapters/81650737

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you get magically transformed into a bunny rabbit against your will by the corrupted darkness of the Sacred Realm: somethings, unfortunately, tend to stick.

Now, Legend isn’t saying that he’s hiding a cotton tail under his tunic or that his soul secretly aches to frolic in meadows or spend his time sleeping in holes or whatever else it is that rabbits do when they're not busy being very confused and scared twelve year old Hylians.

No.

But that doesn't mean he was left unscathed by having his entire anatomy re-written in less than an instant.

Because of course he wouldn’t. Goddess forbid he ever catch a break for once in his life.

He was still pretty young when it happened, so Legend can’t remember if his teeth had been quite so bucked before the incident. Regardless if they were or not, they sure as Hylia are prominent now. Then there's also the fact that he never really grew into his ears, the damn things always just a shade longer than they should be for a regular Hylian.

Before he joined this wild cucco chase masquerading as an adventure, Legend would sometimes catch himself looking at Ravio wondering, Is that how I would have looked? Besides the hair and eyes, the merchant was supposed to be his mirror image after all. Zelda and Hilda were, so it stood to reason that he and Ravio should be the same.

In which case, the bucktooth thing was going to be a problem regardless.

The ears, on the other hand, are a completely different story. From the quick glances Legend has managed to steal of Ravio’s side profile, the merchant has relatively short ears himself, which just make the Veteran’s own look comically long when the two stand side by side.

And ugh, and that wasn't even touching on his… less physical changes.

Namely, his cravings.

Noshing on some leafy greens while home alone doing some chores? A-Okay.

Getting caught by Warriors and Twilight absentmindedly chewing on the hay he was supposed to be feeding the horses? Ehhh, not so much.

Goddesses, his ego still hasn’t recovered from the amount of jokes the Pretty Boy had made at his expense. And that’s not even mentioning the veritable mountain of carrots he found in his bedroll, no doubt courtesy of that flea bitten farmhand.

Regardless of the less than natural way he got these… attributes, Legend couldn’t say they were all bad. ‘Cuz sure, his ears were a bit longer than average, but he could also hear better than most of his companions, able to catch the sound of crunching leaves above even their loud bickering. Like wise, his eyes were sharper than others in the low light of dawn and dusk, allowing him to see things others would miss.

Frankly, both skills had helped keep him alive during his quests. He was thankful for them in a weird huh, guess that works kinda way, but thankful all the same.

But sometimes Legend wanted to wring the goddesses necks because really? Being turned into a rabbit couldn’t have fixed this particular problem?

This particular problem being his absolutely horrible pollen allergies.

“ A-A-A!”

Each rapid, involuntary inhale feels like a simultaneous punch to the gut and a gasp for breath, the air yanked into his body and then stoppered up. It leaves the veteran in a state of limbo as a paralyzing calm falls over him; lungs full of air, shoulders hiked up, muscles tensed.

For a second, everything feels lodged in place, frozen, like the Champion had used his stasis rune on him.

And–

Legend clamps his mouth shut and tucks his face into his elbow just as tension snaps and–

“- acheew! ”

Nothing but a soft, cut off sneeze slips past his lips, yet, the force of holding it back still sends Legend bowing over. He stays there, hunched over for a breath as his body recovers, before he straightens back up, sniffing irritably as he tries to ignore the itch prickling at his eyes and the congested pressure throbbing behind his sinuses.

A chortling huff sounds next to him and when Legend glances down he can see Wolfie– or should he say, Twilight– peering up at him, mouth open and tongue lolling in a doggy grin, but icy blue eyes too pointed, too teasing, to be anything but human.

Legend's nose twitches tellingly as it begins to tickle again and the wolf gives another stuttering huff. A laugh. Legend can practically hear Twilight’s twangy, Awww. You sneeze like a bunny.

The bastard.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, dog boy,” Legend grumbles, wiping harshly at his face in an attempt to stave off another sneezing fit. “Don't you have trees to piss on or something?”

That earns him peeled back lips and a growl, but Legend just sends the other a responding sneer as strides past the grumpy wolf and out into the rolling field of tulips that stands in front of them.

Another huff, this one more annoyed than amused, sounds behind the veteran before the wolf streaks past him, loping through the flowers with his nose down and tail high.

Legend rolls his eyes.

Twilight loves to show his teeth, but the farmhand is quite literally all bark and no bite.

And besides, they both have better things to do than needle one another. If Legend is going to be miserable, he may as well take steps to make that misery as short as possible.

Afterall, they aren't out here swanning through a meadow of flowers for pleasure.

The last Dark Portal they had all walked through had, once again, separated them. Legend and Twilight were lucky enough to find one another quickly, though, now that Legend thinks about it, it probably had less to do with luck and more to do with Twilight’s nose.

After regrouping, they had tried to search for the others more that day, but a storm had them holed up in a cave overnight to wait out the deluge. They had gotten up early to start their search again today, but so far they had no such luck in finding any of the others in the forest.

Which just left the inexplicable meadow of tulips surrounding the wood.

Legend had been hoping that the rain would keep some of the pollen at bay, but nooo that would be too merciful, wouldn’t it?

If anything, the rain just made this whole experience more aggravating. Now, along with stinging eyes, a running nose, and a throbbing head, Legend also had the delightful honor of feeling the tulip stalks and leaves and petals sliding wetly across his skin, the annoying slap of his tunic smacking his thighs as it got more sodden by the second, and the disgusting squish of water between his toes with every step he took through this Wind Fish damned field.

And sure, maybe it was worth it to reunite with the other heroes, but really, would it kill the goddesses to make his life just a little bit easier.

A bark pulls Legend from his miserable musings. Twilight's dark tail stands out among the ocean of pastel pinks and yellows and oranges, wagging frantically twenty meters away. It disappears after a second, replaced by a muzzle and expectant eyes.

Twilight barks at him again.

He must have found something.

Finally, Legend thinks as he begins to make his way over toward the other, hopefully a reason to get out of this floral hell hole.

“What is it, boy?” Legend asks, voice going high and mocking as he takes delicate care stepping on as many flowers as possible, “Little Time-y fall down the well again?”

Instead of a growl for his effort, Legend gets a flurry of black flecks falling upward, like pieces of reverse snow, in his peripheral vision.

“You know,” Twilight says as he straightens to his full height, eyes half-lidded. Unamused, “You’re really not as funny as you seem to think you are.”

And before Legend can interrupt that– No, actually, you just have a dog shit sense of humor. Literally– Twilight continues, “I can smell the smithy all over this thing.” He nods down at a small tree stump breaking through the tide of flowers. “The scent is a bit old, probably from sometime before last evening, but still traceable. I should be able to find him from here.”

Legend eyes the stump for a moment, peering into the cracked hole in the top of the wood. Inside, he can see the round, red caps of several toadstools sprouting.

He can also sense magic. Close to that of the fairies– natural and glittering and smelling of moss– but not quite the same.

The Smithy’s doing?

Or a natural occurrence?

Regardless…

“Welp,” Legend says, straightening up, “Let's go find him. Couldn’t have gotten far on those little legs of his.”

“Again,” Twilight huffs, the black fractals already consuming him once more as he transforms, “You’re not as funny as you think...”

His voice distorts and fades into nothing as the magic swallows him whole, leaving Legend once again having a conversation with a very unimpressed looking wolf.

“I like you better when you can’t talk,” Legend tells Twilight as the other sets off, snuffling at the ground.

The other pauses to give Legend a look that would be more at home on a disapproving mother’s face, before continuing his tracking.

He also whaps Legend in the leg with his tail.

Hard.

The prick.

They continue on their trek together like that for a while, Twilight occasionally pausing to shove his nose into the dirt some more as he decides which direction to follow as Legend trails behind, keeping his eyes peeled for a quadripartite tunic and a head of straight, gold hair.

It isn't long before the farmhand turned canine breaks off into a light trot and then a jog, and then a full on sprint.

And stops just as suddenly.

Legend is out of breath by the time he slides to a stop behind the farmhand, but from a cursory glance around, there doesn’t seem to be a short, mouthy smithy anywhere in the vicinity.

“What happened?” Legend asks, still searching, turning circles as he cranes his neck, “Did you lose the trail?”

Twilight gives a light whine, grabbing Legend’s attention.

Then he does two full spins and sits primly, looking up at Legend.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Legend crinkles his nose at the canine. “Use your words.”

Wolfie rolls his eyes in a way that Legend didn’t think was possible for dogs and then stands.

The canine stares at him intently, as though making sure Legend’s eyes are locked with his own. And then he flicks his eyes over the yellow tulip he is sitting next to meaningfully. Then back to Legend. Back and forth back and forth, his eyes go for a full minute before he stops and stares at Legend once more.

Legend feels as his face wrinkles in confusion.

It's just a regular tulip, just like the thousands currently around them. Pretty enough, he supposes. The bulb seems to be a little wilted, like it's been weighed down by rain water perhaps, but other than that, nothing to sneeze at.

Or everything to sneeze at, if you’re Legend.

Legend gives the flower one more skeptical glance before turning to look at Twilight once more, brow raised.

“Pretty,” he assures the other. “Not sure how it helps us find Four.”

Twilight heaves another too human sigh.

And then he reaches up, takes the sleeve of Legend’s tunic between his teeth, and yanks.

“Hey!” Legend yelps as he’s dragged down into the dirt, “Watch the teeth! The embroidery on this thing took forever to do and even longer to enchant!”

Twilight pays him no mind, pulling him down and forward, closer to his chosen tulip.

Legend tries his best to keep his face away from the damn thing.

“I swear on The Three, if your slobber stains–”

Legend’s words crumple up and die in his throat.

There’s something in the tulip.

At first glance, Legend would identify it as the Smithy's earring. The small feathered one that he takes special care of. The one that Four refuses to tell Legend the origin of, besides his cryptic, “From a friend.”

Legend would say that it was just the earring, but… but it isn’t.

Rather than being completely red with a white tip, Legend can see that this little feather is only mostly red. Right before the tip, a darker red plumage takes over, followed by purple and blue and green.

Also, rather than being attached to the small, golden chain and stud Four uses to fasten the jewelry to his earlobe, it’s attached to a body.

A very, very small body.

By now, Twilight has let go of his sleeve, but Legend both doesn’t notice and doesnt care, all of his attention fixed on the little creature before his eyes.

From what he can tell, the little creature is asleep, curled up in the bulb of the flower, his feather tail tucked up near his nose for warmth. Looking past the plumage, Legend can see that the little guy has a very rat-like face, complete with a small, twitching pink nose, long whiskers and–because the creature is shivering– long, chattering rodent incisors. Oval shaped ears stick out from the creature's head, a mix between mouse-like and Hylian.

And framing those ears is shoulder length, soaking wet blonde hair.

Blonde hair held out of the little guy's face by a green headband.

And…

And he’s wearing the smithy’s tunic?

“... Four?” Legend whispers in amazement.

And just saying the other’s name out loud is like a spell because suddenly Legend can see all signs. The little guy has Four’s bag over his shoulder and the Four Sword at his hip. That same magic that was by the stump– the not-fairy, fairy magic– completely surrounds him, dusting him in the same way he is currently dusted in yellow pollen.

“Is that you, Smithy?” Legend asks a little louder.

But rather than startle awake, the small creature– Four, Legend reminds himself– simply hunkers down more fully into the flower, curling up more fully as his shivers increase.

“He must have transformed in order to speak with the Minish around here.”

Twilight’s voice, even though it is a whisper, gives Legend a start. He hadn’t realized the other had transformed, nor had he seen the farmhand crouch down by his side.

The other isn’t looking at him as he speaks, cool blue eyes instead locked on the fitfully sleeping smithy, face concerned.

“He once told me that the Minish are insatiable gossips. He must have transformed to try and find us.”

The concern on the farhand’s face darkens the longer he stares.

“He must have been caught out in the storm,” Twilight says grimly.

Legend tries to imagine what that would be like. To be the size of a mouse and out in a storm. Tries to imagine what it would feel like for gale force winds to pull at drag at him, crushing him into the dirt one moment and yanking off his feet the next. Tries to imagine dodging back and forth between tulips, avoiding the head sized, stone cold rain drops pelting down from the sky

It's not a pretty pictograph, he’ll admit.

And ugh, Legend really isn't a fan of what it's making him consider.

He spares another glance at Four.

And fuck, the little guy shivers and shivers and shivers until the fower he is sleeping in is shaking with it.

And then, he sneezes, the sound coming out tiny and squeaky and weak.

Son of a bitch.

With a sigh that is as weary and reluctant and annoyed as he can possibly force it to be even though the vetran is feeling none of those things, Legend takes hold of the flower near its stem. As gently as possible, he digs his nails into the soft green there, cutting the flower from the ground while keeping it intact.

He hands it to Twilight, who takes it from him with gentle, if slightly confused hands.

With one hand, Legend flips open his shoulder bag. With the other, he rips his hat from his head with a motion probably a tad more violent than is really called for. He arranges the hat inside the bag, making sure to cover his items with the soft fabric while also shaping a soft bed.

Without looking up from his work, Legend extends a hand out to Twilight.

Makes a grabbing motion when what he wants isn't immediately in his hand.

After a second, Twilight slowly places the stem of the flower back in Legend’s hand and the Veteran gently lowers it in the small nest he had created, making sure the bulb sits in a place both shielded from the sun and extra comfortable thanks to the extra fabric padding beneath it.

In one smooth motion, Legend takes a hold of the strap of his bag, pulls it carefully off of his shoulder, and places it on the other side of Twilight’s neck.

And then, he reaches down and touches the dark stone hanging from the necklace around the farmhand’s throat, letting the darkness flock around and consume him.

When Legend blinks open his eyes, Twilight is looking down at him smugly.

He is looking down farther than usual.

Also looking smugger than usual.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, shaking out his fur before hopping on all fours to get closer to the bag.

“I didn’t say anything,” Twilight replies, not bothing to wipe the smug look off his stupid face even as he lowers the bag to the ground for easier access.

“Yeah you did,” Legend hisses quietly as he clambers carefully into the satchel, settling down the nest of leather and items and hat.

He pulls the flower closer to his side where it is warm.

Inside, he can feel as Four’s shivers begin to lessen.

"Cute," Twilight laughs from above them.

"Fuck you," Legend whisper spits, though he makes no move to push Four's flower away. If anything, he pulls it closer when he hears the smaller hero start to make small, chittering snores, surprised the smithy could sleep through such a racket.

Twilight, thankfully, doesn't comment, instead pulling the top of the bag loosely closed to give them some shade. Then, Legend feels as he gently lifts the satchel back up, slings it slowly over his shoulder as to not disturb the contents inside, and begins walking, hopefully back in the direction of the forest.

Legend can still hear the farmhand laughing to himself from within the bag, but without the others' eyes on him, he finds he doesn't care.

The pollen still itches at his eyes and nose and Legend can still feel the pound of his sinuses even now. But something about the shade and warmth and soft rocking of the bag makes it hard for him to mind.

Four gives a harty twitch, kicking a petal directly into Legend’s face.

And even that doesn't dissuade the veteran from his task.

Instead, Legend sighs and pulls Four even closer, relaxing despite the discomfort.

He’s got dirt on both Twilight and now Four, the two heroes with sticks most firmly inserted into their asses. He can get out of whatever chores and lectures they try to pin him with.

Yep, he thinks , distantly. That's why he did this.

For the blackmail.

And no other reason.

#yes this is the live write that started the whole sneet thing #I write fluff and thats the thanks I get for it /j #lu legend #lu twilight #lu four #reluctantly soft legend is such a mood #I adore it #also #the image of minish four curled up asleep in a tulip made me go feral #so I had to share it with others #train writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse

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sizeshiftingdeath · 3 years

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Ends and Starts (MCYT G/T Exchange!)

Hello there sizeshiftingdeath! I received your prompts for the gift exchange, and while I tried to start pretty close to your prompt, my ideas kind of spiraled out of control, I hope you don't mind ^^' I can make something else with another prompt if it doesn't fit what you were hoping for, though! There's also a little bit of extra information down the bottom with some stuff I thought of about the au I accidentally made.

Prompt given: ‘A human caught in the rain finds a giant in the forest’

The world is pockmarked with evidence of the tragedies of the past. Of warped land that paints the horrors that befell things that came before. The living reminders of them continue to live on in perpetuity, as immortal creatures that were wreathed in the horrors that life on Earth had endured in the past.

Bask in their horrible might.

There is the Death from Burning and Fire and Falling from the Sky and Cold Choking Death, the End of the Cretaceous. A massive beast, the bloody end of an era of enormous fauna. A destruction made all the more powerful by how quickly it was achieved. It stalks the land and sea and, where it steps, the plants die of lack of sunlight and the ground turns to tar.

There is the Death from Ever Hunting and Chasing and Too Warm Too Bright - Tech, the man-shaped leviathan, death in the shape of something familiar to mankind, the Killer of the Pleistocene. The death of great megafauna in an icy world from the encroaching warmth of a new era, the sharp point of a spear. It hunts the world with spears and arrows of fire and, in the depths of its nest, all water has turned to vapor and the earth itself has become a wasteland.

There is the Death of Falling Frozen Seas, of a primordial sea strangled to death under a glacier lock, Her Lady of the primaeval oceans, the Death of the Ordovician. The tail-end of an explosion of life, stretched too far by their own hubris. And yet, despite being a beast with a hundred trilobite and eurypterid faces, one that has a herald in the form of a human by Her side, for reasons that have yet to become known. Maybe, just like every other esoteric thing that such beasts may do, it shall remain a mystery forever.

Look and see. A new immortal is emerging from its eggshell of tragedy. The unstoppable bomb and burning oilfield. The death through hubris and a slow choking unraveling of your very being. The death of man from crackling radiation and tainted iridescent-film water and ash filled smoke. The destruction of the Anthropocene.

Except. This is a creature who was born prematurely. Because man is not dead nor feeling its own final throes. It was not born wreathed in the screams of the damned, only the fears held in the hearts of the still-living. It is naïve and curious and did not yet have the star of a hundred million species’ souls to power it yet. It was stunted.

And that is why the first human the newest apocalypse met was so important.

…

The forests are deep and dark. Quiet yet shivering with life. Constantly moving and yet trapped in some space between time. Most of all, they expected nothing more from you than for your own two legs to be able to travel. Ranboo liked that.

It certainly was nicer than what he had to deal with outside of the forest at least. Here he could continue walking and listening and breathing for as long as he still could move forward. This forest in particular was a favorite, with a constant twilight quality to it that played into its timelessness.

He stumbled over a log, slipping slightly on the slick moss, and focused as strongly as he could on his surroundings. It was hard when he could so quickly slip into his thoughts. He needed to enjoy his surroundings. He needed to stay in the present and not phase out like fog.

Ironically, it was his attempts to ground himself that prevented him from noticing what was slowly growing more wrong in the forest around him. The scent of ash in the air. The lack of birdsong or rustle of leaves. The trees, growing darker and more burnt-looking, and the dead logs that were bristling with fungi.

But when he stepped out into a clearing with an enormous rock embedded into the middle of it, Ranboo really couldn’t help but realize all of the discrepancies. The illusion of an eternal twilight had been broken with the red light that streamed down. The ground was distressingly clear of ground cover, instead dusted with ash.

Forest fire? He hadn’t heard of any in the area but… What else would it be?

Ranboo looked up at the sun, which had meandered towards the west since he had entered the forest. There were dark clouds gathering above him in worrying amounts, and the air was a little hard to see through with the particles suspended in it. He frowned at it.

Something was wrong here, he could sense it in a deeply animalistic kind of way. As if there was something screaming in his hindbrain to run.

He didn’t run. This was the forest that he has walked a hundred times before, when did this happen? Why had this happened? He needed to find out.

Overhead, thunder rumbled. A droplet of curiously dark water fell on his face.

Ranboo stepped towards the other side of the forest clearing that should not have been there.

And that's when a living embodiment of a mass extinction came shambling out of the ashen trees.

Ranboo didn’t know which detail he noticed first about this rogue apocalypse beast. Was it the limp brown hair that was almost black with iridescent oil slick? Was it the enormous horns that curled jutting from its face and looked more like scrap metal than keratin? Was it the uranium-glass green stripes that criss-crossed like cracks in ceramic along it’s skin?

Or was it the fact that this one was shaped like a man?

The apocalypse beasts always most resembled the myriad that had died in their creation. The death of the Ice Age looks vaguely like a man, if squinted at, mostly because so many cousins to humanity had died in its formation. It was more like an enormous boar-beast on two legs that had the arms of a man, if anything. This one did not look remotely like the death of the Ice Age.

Ranboo took a flying leap from horror and realization to hysteria. This is the death of humans. The death by nuclear bombs and smoke and oil. The fabled next apocalypse beast, the bringer of the end of the world, was already here.

For a moment of absolute blinding terror he wondered if this meant that all other humans on Earth were dead now. That today was the day the entirety of humanity died, leaving just him wandering the forest endlessly. That nuclear armageddon occurred and he was out there worried about keeping himself grounded enough to admire the birds.

The beast - and he was never in doubt that this was an apocalypse beast, even if he had never seen any of the others in person before something shook like a leaf in his soul simply from being near it - loomed over him. It watched him like a bug under a glass with nuclear hazard yellow-and-black eyes, and the spell of frozen muscles snapped in Ranboo. He bolted towards the boulder in the middle of the clearing and pushed his way into a space between it and a smaller boulder at its base, scrambling to find a smaller crack to squeeze himself into to just get himself out of reach of the beast, of the black water, of everything.

He could hear a rasping, clicking-crackling sound. (A Geiger Counter.) He could see glowing green-striped fingers reach under the edges of the rock he had wedged himself under. Could see, in the sickly chartreuse light they cast, fingernails larger than his head catch the rock. Felt the weight of the boulder lift from his back.

Ranboo was left crouching and shaking, so scared he couldn't breathe (or maybe it was the ash or the slimy water that couldn’t be rain), as the apocalypse beast crouched down further. It crackled and clicked with a mouth that seemed all too human to be able to make those noises, and then it. Crooned? With a voice that was more like a siren shriek turned down, weirdly echoey as if speaking from far away, it clicked and whined and Ranboo was so confused he didn’t even see the hand reach down and pick him up by the back of his shirt.

He screamed and flailed, imagination jumping into overdrive about what horrifying things the beast could do, and just as quickly, he was dropped with a whoomph to the ground and the death of Mankind jerked back. Ranboo gasped and sputtered as half of face got thoroughly soaked with ash-water mud, and hoisted himself up again to get away from the apocalypse beast.

Who was crouching over him, luminous trefoil eyes barely a foot away from his own, still crooning that awful siren tone. From this close Ranboo could faintly see radiation burns pockmarking its skin, and a horrible scar of curled and ridged skin along its face, as if it was victim to a close-range bomb explosion.

It tilted its head, leaning a tiny bit closer, and Ranboo threw his arms up to cover his face. God, it itched where the ash water had splashed on him. Why was it itching so much?

The death of Mankind stopped again, looking up into the sky and then down at Ranboo again. It seemed to come to a conclusion, because it then slowly - oh so slowly, why was it being careful? - cupped its hands out in front of it and held them out to him.

It… Wanted him to climb on. Into the grasp of a literal specter of death specifically designed with the destruction of his own species in mind.

Ranboo, in a moment of blind panic and stupidity, climbed on. It looked polite, he reasoned. He was already going to die just from being close to this thing.

It continued to… yes, it definitely was cooing now, in that horrifying voice, and for a moment Ranboo wondered if maybe he misinterpreted. Maybe this thing wasn’t meant to represent the nuclear apocalypse.

His eye had started to itch where the water touched it. He rocked himself in the grasp of this giant, feeling footholds in the craggy radiation-worn skin, and felt the side of his face.

The moment e touched it, a white-hot flash of horrible burning pain hit him like a truck, knocking him into a stupor of yelling. It was as if his face was burning, was twisting and gnarling just as much as the apocalypse beast’s horns did. Under his hand, stiff with pain and unable to move away, he could feel skin slough off, could feel the cells themselves die off in droves, in response to whatever radiation or toxin was in the ash-water.

He couldn’t even register the sensation of fingers larger than his torso curling around him and holding him steady, of him being pressed up against a vast chest that beat unsteadily like a stuck clock, of the vast thumps of footfalls against a diseased forest floor.

All he could feel is pain, burning coiling tunneling pain that tried to tear out his face, his hands, his neck, burning him bright and radiant like a star.

…

The creature was screaming in its hands. It hadn’t stopped screaming for a long time.

It was small and writhing and melting. Creatures usually didn’t like melting.

The death of Humanity wasn’t sure how to make it stop. It had dashed out of the black-rain (that seemed to make the melting worse, maybe it’ll stop once it’s out of the rain?) to its home cave, hoping that perhaps it could figure something out in the comfort of its own home.

The creature’s screams had died down, though whether it was from its pain being alleviated or their voice giving out, the death of Humanity couldn’t tell. All it could tell was that it wasn’t getting up, wasn’t looking at it with those wide curious scared-but-interested eyes.

Most animals ran from the death of Humanity. Land-creatures would yell in fear and flee, birds would rise up into the sky in huge swarms only to be struck down by the black-rain. Even insects would twitch and die when they got near, which led so many to flee this part of the forest entirely. It was a lonely existence. But this human hadn’t run like the other animals had. It had hid, yes, but it had viewed the death of Humanity in all of its glory and it almost, almost, was ok with it being picked up.

And then something had happened and now the human was dying just like all of the other animals and the Nuclear Apocalypse didn’t know what to do.

Be well. Be alright. Be just like you were before, it thought, delicately laying the twitching human on the ground out of reach of the dripping black-water puddles, in a nest of dried grasses and leaves that had swept into the cave over the years. It prodded the human with a finger, whining softly when all it did was spasm like a dying insect. It wasn’t dying, right? It was just hurt? It couldn’t be hurt, the death of Humanity wouldn’t allow it. Not when it was so curious and didn’t flee like the others. Not when the death of Humanity had a chance to learn from it. Even now, writhing in its palm, it could feel the frantic beating of life and warmth, things it had so rarely seen before.

You will be well. You must be well. I will make you well.

...

When he came to, it was to complete darkness.

Well, no. Not totally. There was a faint glimmer of far away light somewhere to his left. A shuffling shadow, a faint sickly green glow.

His right was totally dark though, and he couldn’t quite open his eye. He almost brought his hand up to touch it before violently flinching as he remembered what had landed him here in the first place. Would it start burning and melting horribly like it did before? That he was even awake to wonder that is a miracle in of itself... Or the start of the second round of his torture.

Horrible curiosity pushed him to touch, as lightly as possible, the skin on his right cheek. It… He couldn’t feel it. Or rather, he could feel the sandpaper surface of extremely rough skin, but he couldn't feel the pressure, the burning bright pain. The entire area was dead to the touch.

Ranboo threw himself as upright as he could make himself, which ended up only being a half kneel before falling back over into a sit. His breath hitched and he felt his face more firmly, the rough scratchy surface of skin that splattered like paint over the right side of his face, over his eye, down his neck and onto his arm. The muted tingling where it met smoother skin along his shoulder and the bridge of his nose. In an act of desperation he even poked at his eyelid, trying to pry it open to see if he could ever see from that eye again.

His hand passed in front of his working eye in that moment, and at this point his focus had sharpened enough to make out vague colors in the dim light. His hand… It was a black far darker than any human could naturally produce, with a grey-green cast that made him look sickly.

I feel sickly, he reasoned to himself. What is going on? He waved his hand a little frantically, as if the new midnight shade was something that was just stuck to his skin. Desperately he held up his other (totally numb to the touch) hand, hoping it hadn’t changed too.

Well, good news - it wasn’t midnight black.

Bad news - it was a shade so pale that it looked totally devoid of blood. And the raspy surface he could feel didn’t look any prettier to the eye. It didn’t have that same grey-green tint to it though, which was nice, because it would’ve shown up really well on this pure white canvas.

Why was he even thinking about looks right now? He was in the den of an Apocalypse Beast Ranboo get your head together! This was absolutely not the right time to space out - he needed to stay in the moment!

His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he tried to get himself upright. He had only just gotten himself steady when he felt the rattle of large footsteps shake through the ground. Before Ranboo could even think to run though, the shadows out of the corner of his eyes resolved into the beast, which made its way all too quickly towards him.

He couldn’t run if he wanted to. And besides, the damage done to him would probably kill him. He was on borrowed time as is. What did he have left to do but to see what the beast did?

It slowed as it came closer, reaching out a vast clawed hand towards him. Despite his resignation towards his fate, Ranboo flinched back as it came way too close way too fast. A movement that the beast obviously didn't notice or interpret or care about, because he was scooped up into its palm without a moment's hesitation.

“No!” He yelled, wriggling and pushing away from the cage of fingers around him. The beast paused in bringing him up to its face, and if Ranboo was being generous he could call the look on its face a frown.

In less than a blink the face of the beast was so close way too close and he almost punched it (for all the help that would do) out of reflex. It blinked at him with those lucent yellow-black eyes, laser sharp in their focus upon him. He felt for all the world like an ant being peered at through a magnifying glass. Maybe he’ll be fried like one too.

“What do you want with me?” He asked, voice cracking in fear. “What is it you want?”

It didn’t answer in that siren tone again, but instead shifted its weight to the side and turned its palms so that Ranboo was standing squarely in one of them. The other was drawn up and one sharp-clawed finger was pointed at Ranboo. Or, well. The side of Ranboo’s face that he couldn’t see from just yet.

He trembled with the anticipation of the jagged nail at the end of the beast’s outstretched finger spearing forward. But all it did was touch, very gently, under the damaged eye. The beast frowned even more.

Then it jabbed at him, hard enough to bruise but not much else, directly into Ranboo’s damaged eye. He yelped and jumped away, tumbling off his feet in the cup of the beast’s fingers and slapped a numb hand over numb face. Even if he couldn’t feel the area, it still surprised him enough to believe for a moment he could sense it again. Except… was that still his imagination? The eye under his pale skin was starting to itch and water, the first sensation he felt from it since he had woken up, and with a gasp he was able to open his eye.

Fuzz. That’s all he could see from that eye. The beast leaned forward and poked at his face again, softer this time, and when he opened his eye again the world had snapped into focus, tinged with red around the edges. He blinked a few times, and felt a trail of something wet leak from that eye onto his cheek.

What had happened? “You… You healed me?” He asked up at it. It was still frowning even as he had two working eyes again, and muttered softly in a voice that sounded like something crumbling into splinters. Then it poked him for a third time, this time on the shoulder, and Ranboo held back a yell of pain as the area lit up in a blaze of sensation that felt like liquid fire. As he watched, the black skin around the edges of the wound cracked and veins of bright green glowed beneath.

Just… Like… The beast…

Oh no.

The pain of his nerves coming back to life was nothing when compared to the cold horror that had bubbled into his stomach. There was a single case of a human managing to gain immortality as a result of an apocalypse beast. One of the first beasts, Her Lady of the Primordial Sea, the beast of the Ordivician extinction, had taken pity upon an ancient human who was trapped in the glacial ices that herald her path across the Earth, and had gifted it with immortality and a pair of wings that made him as beastly as the Lady he served.

Nobody knew exactly why the Angel of the Deaths had been spared, and why not a single human had ever had that happen before or since. All that was really known about him was his violence, and that he had an uncanny ability to be where an apocalypse beast would be travelling to next. He was just as inhuman and alien as the beasts themselves, if in a smaller form.

It had only ever happened once. Until now, obviously.

Ranboo stared at his white hand, prickling with waking nerves under the surface and twisting with green strands that trailed under his skin like angry snakes, and knew that he was a monster now. Somehow, it was freeing. Like he finally got an answer to a question he had asked over and over. Why him, why now, why is he still alive, why is he not afraid enough…

He stared back up at the apocalypse beast and it blinked down at him. It was no longer frowning, only looking thoughtfully now. “You’re not going to hurt me.” It wasn’t a question.

It reached a hand back up, maybe to poke him again, but this time rubbed his hair very lightly. He did not flinch this time, steeling up his willpower to allow this touch (It won’t hurt him. He needs to keep repeating it until it is true. It won’t hurt him. He was its now it wouldn’t hurt him).

It made that soft crooning noise again, like it had before lifting the rock he had been hiding under, and despite it being underlaid with sounds specifically designed to inspire fear in humans, he could find himself getting used to it. (Would have to. He’s an abomination now after all. The second angel.)

“You’re not so bad, are you…” He slowly pushed himself to his feet, flexing his newly sensated hand carefully. “I still don’t know what you are or why you are here now but…”

The beast tipped its head curiously and warbled exactly the same words back at Ranboo. He froze, because it was so much like his own voice except under deep layers of static, before shaking his head. Best get introductions out of the way - this creature was obviously smart. It was the death of Humanity after all.

He pointed to his chest. “Ranboo.” He gave it a few pokes for emphasis, and the beast poked him too before mimicking his name. He wasn’t entirely sure it actually got what that meant but, well. Baby steps.

Then he pointed at it. It blinked a few times (and Ranboo really couldn’t help but anthropomorphize its reactions - this thing was just too uncannily human to not) and chirped out another ‘Ranboo.’ He gestured more firmly, pointing at the beast.

It continued to look with (probably) bafflement for a few moments, before letting loose a cacophony of sounds that sent Ranboo’s hands slapping over his ears. It was all of the sounds of falling trees, of squawking birds, of the blazing sun and frigid cold and most of all the explosive fire and cold falling ash-water and death from sickness. It was everything and more that wrapped up the death of Humanity in a nutshell.

Ranboo blinked. That might take a while to learn how to pronounce.

He decided to call it Tubbo for short.

<End> There we have it! I hope that you enjoyed this - I hope it didn't betray too much how much stuff like this interests me and that this was potentially also 3000 words of me nerding out about mass extinctions.

Anyways, here's some details I had added but had no way of explaining naturally within the story that i was a little proud of ^^'

The Anthropocene apocalypse beast is also called the unstoppable bomb and burning oilfield. Shortened to TUBBO. Ha.

There’s 7, now 8 apocalypse beasts (Great Oxidation Event, Ordovician, Devonian, Permian, Triassic, Cretaceous, Pleistocene, and now Anthropocene). I originally intended there to just be 5 (for the big five mass extinctions) and then a 6th Anthropocene apocalypse beast, but then I thought I really should add in the great oxidation event that almost caused extinction of all non-oxygen breathing creatures on a very early earth, and the death of most megafauna in the Pleistocene era.

Society is way different with these living eldritch abominations just shambling across the globe, causing a trail of destruction behind them. A lot less large cities, for one.

The Ordovician apocalypse beast is Kristin, yes. She’s uplifted Phil into something similar to what Ranboo is now. I kinda want to think more about her and her story with Phil.

The Pleistocene apocalypse beast is Techno. Idk why I chose to do that but it seemed to fit. Especially since the leading theory on Pleistocene megafauna death is humans hunting them, which I think fits Techno pretty well

The rain is black rain - rain full of radioactive fallout. Bad Stuff, definitely not what you should seek out if you want to keep your body in working order.

I kept referring to sirens in Tubbo’s speech. Just imagine every emergency warning broadcast sound except even more terrifying

So Ranboo’s skin is majorly fucked up. For one, he’s suffered major radiation damage to the side that is now white (healed over brand new skin). The black half is much more interesting though. Did you know there are types of fungi that can feed off of nuclear radiation? They protect themselves from the effects by secreting a LOAD of melanin, making them extremely dark. Anything that wasn’t newly healed on Ranboo had now become akin to those fungi now. Feeding rather than harmed by the nuclear radiation Tubbo naturally puts off. Perfect for a newborn Angel of the deaths.

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Thank you so much for this story submission!! I really love this idea and how well you wrote it! this is so amazing! ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

#submission #mcyt g/t exchange event #mcyt #g/t

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typically-untypical · 3 years

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Elegance and Scales

Prompt: Did anyone else notice that Janus is hiding his scales in his skirt photo? Do you know what that calls for? Angst.

AU: Canon Divergent

TW: Self Deprecation

WC: 1303

Date: 6/9/2021

There were few things that Janus would classify as peak elegance, red wine, sleek black skirts, and heels were all on his list. That was why he chose that outfit for the photo. He had adored the way it looked on the hanger, waiting to be put on. Roman even let him borrow his red lipstick, begrudgingly, but it still completed the look. Each piece in his ensemble had been carefully chosen. Everything was peak elegance.

Everything except his scales.

His scales were not a choice, not a call to his dramatism, and not something he could change. Sure, when he shapeshifted into the others, his scales would disappear, hidden in a vale of gentle lies, but when he was himself, bound to a form he hadn’t chosen, he was forced to face the ugly truth. The scales marked him as other, wrote him as a villain. He was cunning and crafty, but he was not evil. His intentions were always to help Thomas.

Janus looked through the pictures, editing them, adding in more shadows to hide his scales. The fans had wanted photos of him, practically demanded it, and who was he to deny an audience. However, that didn’t mean he had to subject them to his scales, green and brown like long-abandoned moss. His fingers itched to pick at the offending skin, but he resisted the urge by clamping his hand tighter on the mouse. If he could get past the way his scales looked, have the confidence he feigned so easily, maybe then he would feel less monstrous. Janus sent the pictures off to Roman for final approval, shutting his laptop before making his way to the bed.

He was always an advocate for self-love and self-care, but he was a hypocrite. Maybe that was why he pushed so hard for Thomas to take care of himself. Maybe he thought if Thomas could accept all of the parts of himself, then Janus could learn to accept his own appearance and flaws. Maybe this was just a roundabout way of being controlling and manipulative. He groaned, closing his eyes.

“Well this is just perfect, isn’t it?” He asked out loud to no one in particular. “A self-care advocate who can’t even take pleasure in looking like the epitome of drop-dead gorgeous.” He groaned, putting his hands on his face as he rubbed them down his skin. His gloves got caught on some of his scales and he just let his hand fall to the side. His mind was buzzing, so loudly that he couldn’t even sort through his thoughts. He needed something to take the edge off. He was about to summon himself something to drink when his door burst open, barely staying on its hinges.

“What in Neptune did you send me Lie-ability?”

Janus was sitting up, looking at the door more stunned than he should be while living with Remus. It took a moment for him to recover, his hat on the bed lying lazily where he had been. “Oh do tell Roman, what exactly are you talking about?”

“These photos, they are absolutely atrocious.” He felt his heart sink, just because he knew his scales were unappealing didn’t mean he was going to let Roman bully him so easily.

“And what is so bad about them?”

“The lighting is awful! I did not allow you to borrow my favorite lipstick to besmirch it’s reputation by hiding your beautiful face in the shadows you cloak yourself in. Where is your computer, we are fixing these now.”

There was a moment of silence where Janus watched as Roman looked around the room, spotting the laptop on the desk and sauntering over to it. He sat down and opened it without waiting, “What’s your password?”

“What?”

“What is your password?” Roman asked, rolling his eyes. “We are going to fix these pictures.”

The whiplash was exceedingly confusing and overwhelming. Janus was thankful that the princely side wasn’t looking at him, it allowed him the space to figure out how to get his emotions under control.

“I know you have to have a lot of secrets, but I swear on my honor that I will only be looking at your photo editing software.”

“If you want me to redo the photos I can redo them on my own.” Janus kept his voice soft and silky, grabbing his hat to put it back on, smoothing out his clothes and his appearance.

“I’m already here, and Logan said something about seeing others' perspectives being good for the creative process, blah blah blah, I stopped listening.”

“You surprise me, Roman, after our tit for tat last time I assumed you would want nothing to do with me.” Maybe he was trying to push Roman away to wallow in his own self-pity. Maybe, in his own way, this was him searching for forgiveness.

“I’m not…” His voice was high and offended but then his shoulders slumped a bit. “We both said things we weren’t proud of, right?” There was a pleading edge like he was begging for Janus to agree he hadn’t meant what he said when he hurt Roman.

“I… I would agree that there were things said on both sides that should not have been spoken.”

Roman nodded, “Then, as a prince, it is my job, neh, my responsibility, to mend the bridge that I set a flame, even if that bridge was already covered in gasoline.”

Janus nodded, leaning over Roman to type in his password. Roman had been the first one to give him a chance, he might have gone back on that, but he had at least started off on Janus’s side. That was something right? “What do you suggest for the pictures?”

“If you want to hide your scales you can. Don’t think I didn’t notice that. Though I think we should highlight them for a few photos, they really suit you,” and his voice was much too soft to be mocking.

“Maybe a few, if you believe that is best. You are the creativity that likes beautiful things.”

Roman smiled at that, settling into the chair as he began to modify some of the pictures, taking away the extra effects that added the shadows to Janus’s face. He didn’t take away all of them, but rather than Janus hiding in the shadows, it gave him an air of secrets and mysteries.

“There, much better,” Roman said after a few hours of editing. “What do you think?”

“They look exquisite.” They truly did, Janus was beginning to once again feel as elegant as he had wanted to portray. There was still a small nagging voice in the back of his head, but for the time being, seeing Roman’s smile, it was silenced.

“Really?”

“Completely and truly.”

“I…” Roman hesitated before taking in a deep breath. “I am going to choose to believe that. Try not to betray that trust, Janus.”

“I will do the best that I can, your highness.”

Roman stood up, looking Janus over before nodding slowly. “Well then, I am going to work on getting these queued up.” He walked towards the door, turning in its frame to look at Janus. There was a statement on his lips, something he wanted to say but couldn’t.

Janus waited patiently, feeling the tension of words left unsaid, before Roman just shook his head, “Good night.” Then he left.

He was feeling better about himself after that, but even more so, he was feeling better about his relationship with the others. If things with Roman could be repaired, then maybe they could all join together again.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a step in the right direction. “Five down, two to go,” Janus whispered to himself, looking at the pictures, before once again closing his computer.

#sanders sides #sanders side fic #fanfic #Janus Sanders #Roman Sanders #hurt comfort #Janus needs a hug #i swear i'm not a simp #okay maybe a little as a treat

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mxvladdy · 3 years

Text

Flutter

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Contains: pregnancy talk (kinda), angst, and drama

Pairing: Dante x GN!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and a brief mention of terminating (like a sentence but still)

Back on my bullshit with the baby fics lol. I love the trope idk why.

Thump thump thump-thump thump thump

Dante stirs with a huff of annoyance, his ears twitch focusing on the insufferable rhythm that was stopping him from resting. It started a few hours ago. Nothing major, something he could definitely doze through. The slow irregular was almost calming, until it got louder. At first he had chalked it up to one of the many freaky experimental weapons dangling in Nico’s tiny workspace at the back of the crowded van. They tended to pop and hiss if some raw materials got too close. But it had picked up in the past hour, growing consistent and strong, really strong. Strong enough to make it hard to ignore. Dante cracks open a bloodshot eye looking around at the van’s occupants to find the culprit.

Nero sat oblivious to the world on the floor across from him leaning on the side of the van’s tire well. His eyes are shut, and his face relaxes as the adrenaline of the day finally starts to seep out of his system. He nods his head along to the tunes blasting out of the jukebox in the corner. He was oblivious to the accusatory glare of his uncle. Dante crosses the kid off as the likely suspect of his annoyance. Nero looked about ready to pass out, each bobble of his head becoming more erratic and jerky as sleep started to take over. He clearly wasn’t hearing this.

So, he turns to the front of the van to check on the others. The ladies were chatting idly in the front. Nothing super exciting gossip wise. The three of them were tossing little jabs at each other. Well, Lady and Trish were, Nico was hiding a smirk behind a freshly lit cigarette as the two grew heated. The three of them called it “friendly bitching” but he still wasn’t all that sure. Whenever Lady or Trish used that tone with him he was about to either get robbed eight ways to Sunday by one of them or his ass kicked. The two human women seemed oblivious to the noise...perhaps Trish heard it? Hmmm-nah. Trish didn’t seem to notice the steady thumping that had now become a hyper fixation to him.

Huffing the hunter settles back down in the couch cushions of the couch to look out the window at the blur of the scenery passing by. The hum of the van’s engine and the low roar of the A/C were almost enough to drown out the noise filling his skull. He pops a finger in his ear digging out some wax. Did that smack across the head early knock something? Did a gun go off too close? Wait... shouldn’t he hear ringing if that was the case? Ye, the more he focused on it, it wasn’t inside his head. He checks out the window, his hand itching for a gun. Was a demon really that dumb to follow a van filled with demon hunters? He snorts at his question. Of course, they were. He was pretty sure they had finished the contract with a 100% kill count. Still, he checks out the window, just in case.

“I’m guessing you hear it too?” Vergil stirs from his meditative stupor, popping his neck with a satisfying grunt before turning his gaze to Dante. All of his younger brother’s squirming finally got too much for him to ignore. Vergil focused on his sibling, arms crossed over his freshly bandaged chest. “Really?” He looks down to his lap in disgust. Dante smirks, wiggling his muddy boots where they rested crossed on his thighs.

“What can I say? You’re ridiculously comfy.” Dante smirks. He knew his dick of a brother would threaten to stab him for dirtying his clothes, but he had a trump card, and he was going to use it. They both look down at your sleeping form sprawled on Dante’s chest and a part of Vergil's legs. You lay on him, curled up in a neat little ball on his chest. A dark spot grew beneath where your cheek was squished on his cotton shirt. Dante can’t help the smile that creeps across his face. He pulls his signature coat tighter around you and strokes your face with a only slightly grimy finger. Vergil sighs, settling back down, careful not to wake you either. He had a big ol’ sweet spot for you, and damn Dante couldn’t blame him.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump

Dante hisses, pulling away from your peaceful expression, jealous for a brief moment that your weak human hearing couldn’t pick up on the invasive noise. “You sense where it’s coming from?” He rumbles low in his chest, careful not to disturb you. His brother sits silently for a moment wiping at his drowsy eyes. Dante watches his ear twitch minutely picking up on every sound in the immediate vicinity.

“No, I-” His head snaps back to Dante so fast he was surprised Vergil didn’t give himself whiplash. His silver eyes are wide with shock for a moment before softening to an expression Dante only saw when he would talk with Kyrie over dinner. It was warm, protective, and far too gentle a face for him to be pulled out for him. Dante looks back over his shoulder on instinct before it hits him, hard. Vergil wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at you. Oh shit, oh shit.

Dante focuses his senses on you before he had been merely using his broad range listening figuring it was an outside threat. He smells you first, your natural scent was a soft and sweet thing, like moss by a river bed, or freshly turned soil. It only got earthier after a day of hard work. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered on you too, and something else, something more hormonal and almost floral. Beneath your changing scent, he hears your heart thumping steadily in your chest. That was always a comforting sound to him, an anchor whenever he worried for your safety. But underneath it, he heard it. It was a rapid rhythm over yours, in you.

Dante jerks up, tumbling to the floor and cracking his head hard on the metal guards of the stairs. You would have toppled with him if Vergil hadn’t lunged to grab you. “What?” You look around confused but alert. The van is silent in the aftermath of the sudden burst of energy, all faces now turned to the three of you. Vergil holding you close to his chest while you focus on Dante. “You ok?” You look him over, noticing how pale he suddenly was as he looked at you. He was breathing heavily and panicked. His silver-grey eyes flitting between yours and up to Vergil’s.

“Ye,” He croaks, running a hand through his dirty hair not moving from his spot on the dirty floor. “Ye-shit, sorry just slipped in my sleep.”

“Quite a ‘slip’.” You wiggle out of Vergil’s hold and come to bend over Dante. You put the back of your hand to his forehead. You had all gotten pretty banged up this mission, and as usual, Dante had taken the brunt of it. He laughs a little too forcefully to be considered natural and pushes your hand away to get up.

“You know me. I’m full of surprises.” He flops back onto the couch looking at you oddly before opening his arms up to you. He fights against the tremble he feels spreading across his whole body.

You catch the sour look growing on Vergil’s face, it was boiling over to murderous. He shakes his head before sitting back in his spot and reaching for a magazine.

“Everything alright back there?” Nico shouts looking up into the rearview mirror.

“Yeh-yeh.” Dante waves not taking his eyes off you. “Just my old man senses getting to me.” The van collectively snorts at that, all turning back to what they were originally doing. Picking up his discarded coat you climb back into the cradle of your boyfriend's arms.

Boyfriend. You smile into his sweaty neck. It was a new term for both of you and your relationship. You two have been skirting around the idea of a committed relationship for months now. You’ve been with the gang for years now, flitting in and out of each other's life mission after mission as a freelance mercenary. Dante welcomed you into the fold of his merry band of misfits well enough, but you could see the line in the sand he drew pretty easily.

You respected it. Life in this business was hard and sometimes very short. He was slow to open up and trust, not with just you, but anyone. You got it, you understand his hesitation. Once you both established that the feelings you felt for each other went beyond good friends the lines and walls he built began to fade. The few months of you two trying out the word have been going well. Or, at least you thought so. Dante seemed pleased enough too. The few dates you two were able to scrap your collective pennies together for were a blast. Spontaneous coffee dates, walks down none demon-infested streets and parks. Once he even took a weekend off to go cross country with you. That weekend had been the most relaxed you had ever seen him, and as a bonus, the sex had been phenomenal too.

“You ok?” You kiss the stubble on his strong jaw, taking in the hard look in his eyes. His arms were rigid around you, protective yet also isolating. He looked shut-off, lost deep in his mind back in that place you knew he went whenever something was deeply troubling him. Dante said nothing for a moment, his large palm rubbing your lower back in stiff robotic movements. “Dante?”

He snaps out of it with a jerk. “Ye babe- just tired.” He kisses the worry from your brow and slips back into your original position, arms locking securely over your middle. He listens to your breathing and heart slow as you drift off, the little thumping underneath beating on.

From the moment Dante stepped out of the van he shut down. Not just from you, but everyone. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or just instinct after years of protecting himself. He noticed it happening from afar like he was on the sidelines and completely unable to control what he was doing. He took job after job that Morrison threw at him, not waiting for backup or help. He began staying in his room, slinking upstairs instead of his usual hang out spot down in his office to be social. He just leaves everyone behind. He knows Lady and Trish will blow it off, they were used to the odd mood swing by now, chalking it up to mission fatigue. You knew better though, and he loved you for it. Even if it irritated him right now.

The first few days after that mission Dante saw you trying to pretend like you didn’t notice the walls he was rebuilding around himself. He wanted to believe that you couldn’t see how he turned up the jukebox every time you stepped into Devil May Cry, or that you pretend not to notice how his eyes would drift to look at anything but you when you stood in front of him. It hurt, it hurt to do this, but he couldn’t stop this self sabotage he was inflicting on himself and the stress he was pushing onto you. He just couldn’t take it.

He saw his mother every time he looked at you, could smell the ash and sulfur, could remember how his young lungs filled with smoke as he cried for something he could never get back while his childhood burned around him. He couldn’t do it, so he stopped seeing you. Not that it helped much. He heard the beating every time you came near trying to talk to him, so he stopped listening too. He didn’t know what else to do.

“If you put your hair back I swear I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart from your brother anymore, especially with that new attitude you're sporting.” Dante hears the slight edge in your voice. You sat in your now usual spot on the edge of his desk, before that day his lap would have been filled with your warm sweet body. You didn’t look happy in the least bit. You looked exhausted. He doesn’t look up from his magazine, a slow buzz of panic begins to fill his ears. Were you sick? Did you know?

He puts up another wall. “Doubt it,” He flips a page of his magazine reaching blindly for his beer. “I’m still the better looking one.” More silence. Dante feels your hard stare from where you sat.

“Need something?”

Your shoulders slump. “No-it’s nothing Dante.” He feels himself break just a little at the moisture threatening to spill from your lashes before they are blinked away. You leave without saying goodbye. He doesn’t see you again after that, your spot is soon replaced with piles of empty bottles.

“I expected better from you.”

Dante chokes on his beer, the foam shooting up into his nose and bringing tears to his eyes as it burns its way back to his throat. “Damn it, Vergil! Knock sometime?” His brother says nothing storming over to his desk and kicking a chair out to sit next to him. The look on his face was venomous. “Don’t give me that look.” Dante sighs, popping the cap off of another beer bottle.

“What look?”

Dante waves the butt of his bottle at him. “That! That look. It’s the one you always give me right before you stab me.”

Vergil chuckles humourlessly. “I just might if you continue to ignore your growing issue.” He pushes leaning into Dante’s space.

Dante bristles feeling like a trapped dog. “They should find out on their own-”

“Brother-”

Dante cuts him off with a swipe of his hand, amber liquid sloshing over his desk and lap. He feels his control slipping. The heat of his devil form simmering just below the surface. “I don’t want to talk about this.” I don’t want to acknowledge this.

“It’s been weeks.” Vergil presses on lean in close to his twin. “Will there ever be a right time?”

Dante bares his fangs in warning. His fingers itching to curl up and punch his brother. “That is rich coming from you. Remind me again, how many times have you tried to kill your son?” He meant for it to hurt, to let that barb sink in deep and fester. Vergil doesn’t even react, his gaze still cool and steady.

“I regret it-in parts. But I am not doing this for you.” Dante frowns. He had figured that. When Vergil arrived with Dante all those months ago torn up and bloodied from quite literally crawling out of Hell the welcome he got from the crew had been...lukewarm to put it mildly. They weren’t openly hostile, but it got pretty close sometimes. Only you and Nero had been pleasant to his brother right off the bat. The others came around eventually, but Vergil had taken a real shine to you. You were inquisitive and hungry to prove yourself, but smart enough to know when to back down. It’s what drew him to you, so it would make sense Vergil liked it too. “I cannot change my past actions, nor would I,” Dante scoffs. “But you have been given yet another opportunity that I envy.” He looks over his shoulder to the empty office. He couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t still envy his younger brother and his successes. To be free-to have had a life, dare he say to act almost human? Dante had always been the friendlier and kinder of the two, even as kids. He was sociable and street smart. Most importantly, people trusted him.

Then he found you, a most extraordinary mate. Vergil knew Dante would never admit it vocally but he shows his love with how he acts around you. Dante was always brash and foolhardy but he was milder with you. Whenever you were in the room his sole focus was always on you. His eyes, his body, every part of his being just seemed to gravitate to you. Whenever you paced, pissed from a recent job he would follow in his chair rolling left and right to keep his body in line with you. Even on the field, he stayed close, a towering figure of red and flames. To have him cast you out like this... Vergil shakes his head. “Why are you stalling?” He asks.

“They should find out on their own,” Dante repeats himself.

“And what if they decide not to tell you? What if they decide not to go through with it? You are limiting their time frame, Dante. You are putting them both in danger.” Vergil’s words strike deep. If he can’t get his brother to see reason now, then he will have to intervene. If Dante never forgave him for this transgression, then so be it.

The roar of primal rage was the only warning Vergil got before he was airborne. His back colliding hard against the old oak bookshelves across the room, Dante’s splintered desk pinning him for a moment before he is being dragged up the shelves by his neck. Empty bottles and old tomes clatter to the floor. He matches his brother’s energy shifting in a blaze of blue fury until he faces his red counterpart. “You lash out, why? Because you know I’m right?” He hisses around bared razor sharp fangs. “Do you hope they will leave you?” Something passes through Dante’s scleraless eyes. “It won’t be like before, brother.”

The whine Dante emits sounds like a wounded animal. It was high and reedy, it was filled with turmoil. Vergil couldn’t stop the sharp bark of laughter that fell from his lips. Unbelievable. “Dante.” Vergil grabs one of the claws locked around his throat. “For all your foolish and idiotic behavior you have built yourself a family. Do you honestly think any of them would let something happen? Do you think I would let something happen?” The fist around his neck loosens and drops.

“I want them to live a normal life.” Dante steps away, his voice uncertain. “Look at us- at Nero and Kyrie. Being what we are, we have royally screwed them over.” He stares down at his rough armored hands. His elytra pulses red veins with demonic energy. “And a damn kid? Nero got by alright, but narrowly. Do I look like someone that can handle this?”

“No.” Vergil can’t lie, it would only hurt you in the end. “Not at first. While I have no right to talk about being a father, I know you can do it far better than I.” He smiles to himself. “‘sides, at least your better half has a head on their shoulders.”

“Gee, thanks.” Dante grunts retreating to where his desk used to be. He breathed deeply and shifted back to his human form. Damn it, he had just paid off the repairs from the last time he wrecked the place. Bending over to pick up his magazine, the two were interrupted by his door bursting open. Nero and Lady bursting through bickering heatedly at each other before they notice the mess.

“Did we interrupt something?” Nero steps open the splinters of Dante’s old desk taking in his half triggered father.

“No.” The brothers say in unison.

“Good-” Lady pushes forwards, tossing a missive to Dante. He catches it with deft fingers and rips it open. “Normally I would have taken this on myself with the kid-since you’ve been sulking.” She shoots him a scathing look. “But we need all boots on the ground. Trish and your flickering flame are already there, but this portal just isn’t budging.”

“What!” Vergil snaps. Dante stares blankly at the letter, a high pitch whining growing in his ears. It was getting hard to breathe. “You left them there? They are vulnerable.” The blue devil grabs the letter from his brother looking at the address briefly before grabbing Yamato before rushing for the door.

Nero shouts after his father in confusion, his outburst uncharacteristic for him. “The hell was that about?” Nero watches the skies as the blue figure disappears. “They are perfectly capable of handling themselves…”

“Get in the van. I’ll see you there.” Dante grits out, crumbling the paper up and tossing it aside. He flys out moments later, guns and swords are forgotten. Anything that touches you would be getting ripped to shreds with his bare hands. He travels in a blur of panic fighting the sense of guilt threatening to overcome him. How could he be so stupid? Just because you weren’t at the office didn’t mean that you weren’t still taking jobs. He always worried when you went out solo- or without him, but he was confident in your abilities. A few scrapes and bruises weren’t anything to stress over. It wasn’t something to stress about before. You were still on the field and it was his damn fault.

The sound of gunfire and the roars of dying demons draws him in. Dante’s sharp eyes find you immediately. You were holding your own. You back in a corner but your guns were hot, dropping demon after demon with near flawless aim. Instinctively his demon side rumbles in pride before he squashes the feeling. Now wasn’t the time. Vergil beat him there by minutes but was already covered in gore as he assists you from above, slicing through the almost endless wave of beasts. Dante lands near you grabbing a Fury in midjump throwing it away to splatter against a building yards away. “About time you showed up!” Trish shouted from her perch lightning crackling around her. He ignores her, instead he launches himself at the gaping maw of the portal. He fights with reckless abandon, each wound and injury fueling his fire. One more hit on him just meant one less directed at you.

The fighting didn’t last long after Nero and Lady arrived adding enough fire support that he was able to destroy the portal and clean up the remaining hellspawn. The moment it was Dante was on you. “The hell were you thinking!” He rounds on you his massive body crowding your space.

You hold your ground staring up at him. “Hey, so glad to finally hear from you.” You crane your neck up to meet his glowing eyes. “I love it when my boyfriend finally remembers I exist.”

“You could have gotten hurt!” He glosses over your snark and checks you out. You were fine, good.

You back away from him throwing your hands up in confusion. “Yes? That’s kind of par for the course isn’t it?” You were baffled by his behavior. Weeks. Weeks! Weeks of ignoring your calls, and a conveniently empty office every time you tried to drop by, and now that you have his attention the first thing he does is yell at you? Where did he get off? In fact, his shit attitude only angered you more. “Ya know what? I don’t want to hear it.” You turn your head to where Nico sat leaning out of her driver-side window. She waves at you. “Can you give me a lift back to my place? I got to grab some fresh clips before heading back out.”

A red hand blocks your exit. “No-” Dante grabs your forearm gently tugging you to look at him. His natural heat was a comfort you didn’t realize you missed so much. “Babe-let me handle it.”

“Dante,” You try to pull away. “It’s my job. What has gotten into you?”

He looks over to his brother, the conflict he had been trying to avoid closing in too fast for him.

Vergil holds his stare and shrugs. “Come-the two need to talk, let’s head back for now.” Asshole. The rest of the group follows his eldest brother casting curious glances over their shoulders as they pile into the van. He really wasn’t ready for this.

The two of you watch them go in silence. “Let me take you back? Please?” Dante let’s go of your arm. You nod, it’s not like you have any choice now. Well, you could walk, your body screams at the thought of moving any more than necessary. You’ve been getting exhausted faster and faster these days. Perhaps the stress of the job was getting to you. He scoops you up in his giant arms stretching his wings out to their full and impressive length before taking to the sky. He glides through the city taking extra care to make it as smooth as possible for you. His landing was as silent on the empty streets surrounding your apartment building.

The mid-afternoon sun was high overhead, the perpetual fog of the city finally breaking enough to let in the heat of the day. You slide from his arms and lead him up the steps to your door. Swinging the door wide you look up at him. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

You point to his devil form. “Shrinking? I don’t think you can fit.”

Oh right. He chuckles nervously. “Ain’t nothing a bit of lube and patience can’t fix right?” You don’t laugh, your lips pull taught. He coughs shifting in a flash of heat. Once he’s human he squeezes through the narrow door frame and just stares at you. Dante shuffles from side to side. Great. Now what?

You rub at your neck weary you could feel another knot growing. Weeks ago you had a whole speech laid out for when you got him through your door. You wanted to chew him out, to yell at him for cutting you out so unceremoniously. Shout that if he was going to break up with you at least do it cleanly, not this emotional roller coaster. A sense of anger fills you. Damn it, was this really it? It wasn’t like this was the first time a partner has done this. You just had hoped that Dante would be different. He had always been so dependable. “Just make it quick, Dante.” You didn’t have the steam for this right now. You felt nauseous and a pulsing head coming on. Ugh, and you still have that job waiting for you.

Dante’s silver brows scrunch up. “Make what quick?”

You wave at the distance between the two of you. “This. This breakup. Do it fast so it’ll give me the adrenaline to get through my next job so I can pass out tonight and get some sleep.”

Any other day Dante’s look of sheer shock would have been hilarious- today just wasn’t one of those days. “You think? Heh-shit yes, I can see why...” He rakes a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s not like that, I- I was running from my problems again.”

Your hackles raise in anger. “I’m a problem now?”

“What! No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He points to himself. “I’m the problem. I ruin everything I touch!” His hurt cuts through your aggression.

“Dante-” You have had this discussion before. “You know I don’t think that.”

“You should.” He cuts you off, his expression imploring. “I messed up-I messed up big time with you. I should have said something the moment I knew but I just locked up and ran, like always.”

Knew? Knew what? “Dante, I don’t understand.”

“I-you...how are you feeling of late? I don’t know anything about this stuff, different?” His eyes swipe over your dusty battle garb. You feel his eyes stop at your navel holding there too long to be considered a coincidence before dropping to your feet.

“I’m sorry.” His breath hitches, getting dangerously close to a feeling he had been bottling up for too long. You are quiet, doing the math in your head. He hears your heartbeat pick up, your breathing becoming fast and shallow.

“Get out.”

His heart sinks. What did he expect? Closing the distance between you he reaches for you, his hand hovering by your face waiting to see if you will let him touch you. You don’t move, don’t even look up at him when his hands cup your face. So he moves crouching down to get a look at you. Your gaze is blank but resolute.

“I’m sorry.” He tries again. You ignore him far too engrossed in your revelation. Idly you trace a palm down to your stomach before flinching away is burned. “I’ll-I’ll be around…” He trails off all steam lost. At a loss he does the only thing he can think to do and flees, disappearing back into the streets outside your home like the coward he was.

#devil may cry #dante x reader

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