#<Gaze into another world with me.> -- AU's and Alternate timelines | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

Note

Hey Steph!🌟Do u have any fics with smut that is feelingy, ie more focused on the emotional aspect & how they're feeling while doing it than the phy sensations & descriptions? Hope u get wt I'm saying. Thx in Advance!💖

OOOOO Nonny!

I’ve got just the list for you! and it will give me an excuse to do a part two to another list of mine!! <3

I do have a Sensuality list in the works, so look out for that in a while, but I think for now this list and the “see also” is perfect for you!

Feel free, friends, to add your own!

EMOTIONAL LOVE MAKING Pt. 2

See also: Emotional Love Making Pt 1 || [MOBILE POST]

Just Like That by sussexbound (E, 8,442 w., Ch. 1 || First Time/Kiss, Frottage, Virgin Sherlock, French Kissing, Anal, Emotional Lovemaking, Enthusiastic Consent, Tenderness, Crying John, Bathing/Washing, Insecure John, Toplock) – John doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants. Oh dear god, how he wants. For the first time in what feels like years he WANTS.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

Division by MrsNoggin (E, 19,542 w., 11 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Barista Sherlock, Clingy Sherlock, POV John, John’s Limp, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sensuality, Touching, Virgin Sherlock, Insecure John) – John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another... one Sherlock Holmes.

The Wisteria Tree by SilentAuror (E, 29,773 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Emotional Love Making, Amnesia/Memory Loss, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Sherlock POV, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending, First Times, Hurt/Comfort, Est. Rel., Retirement) – Sherlock wakes up from a month-long coma only to discover that he has no memory of the previous six years to his own shock as well as John's...

Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock's closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don't need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

Isosceles by SilentAuror (E, 56,609 w., 7 Ch. || Post-S4, POV John, Original Male Character / Sherlock Dates Another Man, Love Triangle, Jealous John, Virgin Sherlock, Sexual Coaching, Angst, Romance, Domesticity, Unrequited Feelings, Miscommunication, First Kiss/Time, For a Case, Friends With Benefits, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Spooning) – After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

White Knight by DiscordantWords (M, 69,840 w., 13 Ch. || S4 Compliant/Post S4, Marriage For a Case, Jealous John, Pining John, Janine / Sherlock Fake Relationship, Serial Killers, Case Fic, Undercover as a Couple, Weddings, John is a Mess, Misunderstandings, Wedding Planning, Jealousy, Drunkenness, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

Two Two One Bravo Baker by abundantlyqueer (E, 114,574 w., 27 Ch. || Military AU || Afghanistan, War Story, Thriller) – Captain John Watson of 40 Commando, the Royal Marines, is assigned to protect and assist Sherlock Holmes as he investigates what appears to be a simple war atrocity in Afghanistan. An intense attraction ignites between the two men as they uncover a conspiracy that threatens everything they’ve ever known, but Sherlock is as much hunted as hunter, and everyone close to him is in deadly danger. Can he solve the case in time to save himself and John? Part 1 of Two Two One Bravo Baker Universe

Not Broken, Just Bent by Schmiezi (E, 87,585 w., 43 Ch. || Pining, Love Confessions, Rape/Sexual Assault, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Villain!Mary, Suicidal Ideations, Main Character Death, Sherlock First Person POV, Parentlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Love Making, Possessiveness, Depression, PTSD, Kidnapping, Virgin Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending) – "For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face." Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Evil Mary.

Kintsukuroi by sussexbound (E, 91,823 w., 20 Ch. || S4 Compliant / Post-TLD, Grief / Mourning, PTSD, Internalized Homophobia, Therapy, Past Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Anxiety, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, Cuddling, Suicidal Ideation, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Sexting, Frottage, Inexperienced Sherlock, Rimming / Anal / BJ’s, Emotional Turmoil, Finding Each Other) – “I love you.” Sherlock sees the words hit John with almost physical force. He reels back a little, jaw twitching and eyes filling. “I love you,” he repeats, a little softer, a little more gentle, as earnest as he possibly can. Because they’ve been teetering on the brink of this thing for years, and it had become painfully obvious over the last few months that they were at a tipping point. This had to happen. Now it has. Now they can see where they end up. The tears in John’s eyes spill over, and he wipes at them angrily. “Do you even know what that means?”

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #emotional love making #my fic recs #e-rated fics #Anonymous #long post

88 notes · View notes

pinkrae · 4 years

Text

Beyond the War | Chapter 1

Setting: DamiRae, Post!Apokolips War, new timeline AU

Inspired by: THIS Comic by chromium7sky and all the Super!Rae fanart xD

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

“Do we know that this will work for sure?”

“It’ll work.” Violet eyes looked into green before the gaze was averted, letting a sigh of concern leave the young man’s lips. There were many uncertainties, many questions lingering in the air. As it was expected after everything they had gone through. They’ve had one hell of a time, after all. But there was something else, too.

“Would you rather have the world as it is right now?” She then asked again after a moment, placing her hand over his and bringing his eyes back to her.

“I- Of course not,” he stuttered and took a quick look at the people- the survivors around them before locking his eyes with hers once more. “I just- We only just got each other back. I don’t want to lose you again.” His brows furrowed, he tried his best to hide the immense pain in his chest that he felt just thinking about it. But he knew she felt it regardless. She always did. A sigh escaped her lips as well.

“I know,” she mumbled and looked over at the water before them, her lips curling into a sad smile. “But- We found each other in this timeline. I’m sure we can find each other again in another.”

He looked at her in somewhat of an awe and surprise of how lightly she seemed to take the situation at hand and before he even knew it, he released an incredulous chuckle.

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t.” A simple shrug and a gentle squeeze on his hand as she could see Flash preparing to start his run from the corner of her eyes. “All I can do is hope.”

And a whoosh sound went past them. That’s how they all knew these were their last moments together like this and it brought a tear in her eyes. As fucked up as the world turned out to be, she had loved so much of it. She found friends, found family, she found love. And all of that would be gone in a blink of an eye. Even if it was for a better future, she couldn’t help but to feel sad about losing all the positives that she had gained during her stay here.

“Raven-” his voice brought her back from her thoughts and she looked at him teary-eyed, noticing the sadness in his own eyes as well- “what if we can’t find each other in the new timeline? This new- Flashpoint?” The thought of her not being able to find him pained her to the point that it felt like her heart had just gotten pierced by a dagger, but she had to remain hopeful. She had to.

“Dum spiro spero, Damian,” the girl spoke through her tears and lifted her free hand to caress his cheek. “While I breathe, I hope.”

“Dum spiro spero,” he repeated in a whisper in an almost desperate thought that speaking those words out loud would help to make it come true and slowly leaned in until their lips touched for their first and their last kiss in this timeline as the world around them slowly disappeared in a bright light…

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

Deep breath…

Be calm…

You can do it…

Violet eyes slowly opened as she took in the scenery before her. It was definitely much different than Metropolis. Darker. More grim. Filled with so many negative emotions. Fear, hatred, greed… She hadn’t arrived too long ago and she already hated being here. But she had set her mind on doing this and, well, she was already here, so there was no backing down now. Sporting the signature look of her family, Raven roamed about along the rooftops of this godforsaken city in hopes of attracting the kind of attention she came here for. And she didn’t have to wander around for too long before she heard that very familiar deep voice behind her.

“You’re far away from home, kid.”

She wasn’t startled or afraid of the man in the slightest, so she turned around to face him as if she had expected him.

“I didn’t know how else to contact you,” the girl responded confidently.

Sure, he wasn’t the friendliest of superheroes she knew. In fact, most people, sometimes even his own friends, were afraid of him. And while, yes, he did give off this dreadful vibe, Raven was more- curious. There was a sense of familiarity with him and she felt comfortable enough around him.

“Well- Not without Superman finding out about it, anyway,” she added in once his silence told her that her response wasn’t extensive enough. Of course, there were other ways to contact Batman. But not without someone else’s help. Which is exactly what she didn’t need this time.

“Why are you here then?” Brief with his words, as always, the masked vigilante stepped out of the darker corner of the rooftop.

And that’s when she froze for a moment. Like she hadn’t thought of even getting this far. Suddenly doubting if it had been a good idea to come here after all. Was this the right thing to do? Behind Clark’s back? Not telling anyone? Not trying a different alternative and just going straight to Batman? Who was currently looking right at her, expecting an answer-

“I- I wanted to ask for your help in finding someone,” Raven stammered a bit at first, but found her confidence again towards the end of her sentence.

“There are legal ways to do that.”

“Not for someone who’s got no legal records on the entire planet,” she was quick to respond, but stopped for a brief moment before elaborating with a sigh. “Look, all I got is a fake ID and fake adoption papers. As far as the law is concerned, I didn’t exist until I was fourteen. And even for someone who was born on Earth and dropped at an orphanage as an infant, it could take years to- to find your actual family, so… Please. All I want is a chance.”

Batman looked intently at her, putting the puzzle pieces together the more she spoke. He didn’t say anything- did he ever?- only hummed in thought. Sure, he could ask her why she didn’t just go to Clark and Lois for this. They were renowned reporters, very much capable of helping her. But she had made it clear that she didn’t want Clark to know she was even in Gotham right now, meaning she probably didn’t want them to know anything at all about this. A foster child looking for their blood related family not wanting to tell their foster family about it to not hurt their feelings? He’d seen that all too many times before. Some with less happy endings than others.

“You’ve been on Earth for how many years? Why now?” His raspy voice then finally broke the silence, startling her just a little bit. Of course, she had expected a question like that to pop up. But truth to be told, she had no solid answer for it. Or, what could be considered a solid answer, anyway. There were many things she could tell him in response. That she wanted to know if she had any blood relatives on Earth at all. That her mother had been an adopted child herself and she wanted to do this for her. Or that she could never go back to Azarath because it got destroyed and she missed her mother, even though they were never truly allowed to have a proper mother-daughter relationship, so she was seeking a way to somehow connect with her through others of her bloodline. Or that there was just something constantly missing in her life and she felt like she was always searching for something- someone, not even knowing what or who that was, so she was hoping that finding family would perhaps quench this feeling. But- It was all so complicated, even for her.

“I just want to know.” That was a simpler answer.

Raven shrugged and hid her hands behind her back, thinking for a brief moment as her gaze grew distant, not focusing on anything in particular. “I’d like to think that getting to know both sides of my family would do me good.”

A part of that was true, too. All she ever really was recognized as by those who didn’t know her was the demon’s daughter. A hellspawn, born to an interdimensional beast that almost destroyed this world just like he had done with countless others, had her adoptive family and the heroes of Earth not intervened and helped her stop him. Having a nice, quiet, normal family somewhere sounded nice sometimes. But again, it wasn’t the main reason.

The Bat’s “hm” almost sounded like a growl as he contemplated the sincerity of Raven’s explanation, unsure if he should trust it or not. Well, she didn’t blame him for not trusting her. Not a lot of people did. Her eyes returned to observing the masked man before her in anticipation of his response. Luckily, however, she didn’t have to wait for too long. Glancing sideways for a second as if hearing something, he looked back to her and swiftly turned around.

“Follow me,” he said as he started making his way to the edge of the roof. “It’s not wise to parade around Gotham with that “S” on your chest.”

“It’s- not an “S”...” The girl mumbled quietly under her nose, but quickly levitated after him as the two of them got down into one of the many dark alleyways where he’d hidden the Batmobile. It was for the best not to argue with him since he seemed like having agreed to her plea, even if he didn’t outright say it.

It wasn’t a no either.

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

FF.net link || AO3 link

#damirae #fanfic #fanfiction #Damian Wayne #super raven #super rae #raven #beyond the war #post!apokolips #I WROTE A THING AGAIN #I am SO EXCITED for this one #hope you enjoy!#{{ 👋 written by me }}

59 notes · View notes

undertale-in-writing · 3 years

Text

Undertale In Writing: Page 2

You feel as though years have passed while you stood there, staring at the flowers. Though it's only been one heavy moment.

You take a deep breath and kneel down to pluck a flower from the ground. You tuck it behind your ear. You stand and turn to gaze into the darkness. Something warm fills your chest, not entirely unlike when Flowey revealed your SOUL. Just to be sure, you look down. There's no glowing, only calm... fullness. Stubbornness. DETERMINATION.

You felt something like this when you woke up before, but it was uncertain, confused. Now, it's fully taken root. You turn and begin to follow the path you took previously. Not like there was any other path.

Flowey appears again in a blink of light. You take note this time. He seems to be glowing. It's magic. All magic has a slight glow, and all monsters have magic. I can't think of any flowers down here that glow like a monster, though; echo flowers glow, but those are bioluminescent. And he doesn't smell like a normal flower.

The familiar face is still for a moment, then he breaks into a grin. “Howdy! I'm Flowey! Flowey the flower! Hee hee hee...” He tilts his head slightly, humor in his voice now. “Why'd you make me introduce myself? It's rude to act like you don't know who I am. Someone ought to teach you proper manners.”

You frown, because you're still not sure what happened. He killed you, didn't he? Was he the reason you were placed back at the start? I feel like it's more than that, but how come he remembers you?

No time to dwell on it. The golden flower begins following the same script as before. He opens the battle stage, refers to your heart. “That's your SOUL,” he says, as if you hadn't heard this before. He introduces LOVE, and he pulls out his bullets. “Down here, LOVE is shared through... little white... 'friendliness pellets.'”

You frown. Why is he telling you all this again? You know it, and he knows that you know it, and he should see from your expression that you know he knows you know it. Your lips purse. You want to say something, but you can't bring yourself to speak in this moment. The energy required is currently being used to prepare for what comes next.

“Catch as many as you can!”

You jump the side. The bullets dart by you and dissipate in the air a few feet back.

Flowey's expression changes. He holds onto the smile, but now it's challenging. Almost taunting. “Hey, buddy, you missed them. Let's try again, okay?”

You ready yourself, mind racing over how you might get out of this. Maybe you can outlast him?

The bullets shoot into you, and this time you can hardly react. They make contact. Your heart pulses, your feet slide back an inch, there are holes in your sweater and blood and bruises and it hurts.

But you're not in pieces. The wounds are shallow. You try to stand tall in defiance, but there's a pain in your shoulder that makes you wince, and you realize that you're very weak.

Flowey laughs. His face contorts into an evil smile that frankly does not belong in 3D space. “You idiot,” he cackles.

Your mouth opens in protest; a sound comes out—a soft, “I'm not—!” but you have to clamp it shut. Your face reddens.

Flowey continues. His voice is different. Somehow, he's made it sound like he's speaking through a crackly intercom. He says, “In this world, it's kill or BE killed. Why would ANYONE pass up an opportunity like this?”

A chill runs down your spine. This flower... isn't a monster. Monsters aren't like this. Monsters aren't evil.

“DIE!”

A ring of bullets form around you and come flying at your tiny torso. All you can do is yelp and curl into yourself. You're going to die again. You're going to hurt again. He's going to tear you apart.

There's a crackling sound, and a fwoosh. You glance up. A ball of white-hot fire hits the flower in the back of the head, and his roots are torn from the ground as he flies off into the darkness with a small “eep.”

Suddenly, you're alone. It's dark. You're confused. Disoriented.

Annoyance floods your brain. You'll probably be nonverbal all day now.

You push yourself to your feet, flinching when a shallow cut on your stomach pulls sideways. The battle stage is still there, but you can't feel Flowey's presence anymore. Something else looms from where the flame originated. Fiery red eyes bore into you from the darkness. A shape emerges, tall and fuzzy. A pair of small, sharp horns curl up from the top of a long-eared head. A snout exhales with annoyance.

You see the monster's dull claws at eye-height. The sleeves of a strangely familiar robe fall over one paw as it's drawn to the monster's hip.

“What a terrible creature,” she scolds, “torturing such a poor, innocent youth.”

Her voice is gentle. Familiar. Comforting. Motherly. You tilt your head again to look into her eyes, and she bends down to bring herself on your level. Now that you see her face head on, she doesn't look scary anymore. Her ears are soft and floppy, her horns small, her smile friendly, her eyes kind. She looks like a concerned goat mom, if goats were... What's the word..? Anthromorphic?

“Do not be afraid, my child,” she says softly. “I am Toriel, caretaker of The Ruins. I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down.” She pauses, and you realize that the battle stage is gone. There's color in the world again, and your heart is in your chest where it belongs.

Toriel smiles and stands suddenly. “You are the first human to come here in a long time.” Her robe flows loosely as she reaches down with one paw. “Come! I will guide you through the catacombs.”

You don't take her paw. Toriel isn't fazed by this. She turns ninety degrees and gestures into the darkness. “This way.”

Page 1 — Page 3

[End page]

We made this blog almost two years ago and never followed up, so here’s page 2. We’ll try to continue it indefinitely, even if it takes a while. It’s still very much something we’re interested in.

Rules:

This is an interactive Undertale adaptation, not an AU. All actions taken must fit into the game. Obviously I’m taking little liberties with the reset system, but nothing is changing. If you want your response to be included, it shouldn’t change the plot. It’s about informing a player character’s decisions and, to an extent, Frisk’s personality.

You don’t need to follow some kind of format or command system. Your response can be in a comment, a reblog, a reblog of another’s reblog, a comment continuing another’s comment… It can short or long. It can be a suggestion or a narration.

The readers, together, are the player character.

Some time will pass, and we will take all responses as a vote. Common actions will become “canon,” and the story will continue. Influential commenters will be tagged, and anything we directly quote will have credit immediately after the section.

Commenters last round: @thesuperduckling24, @finallycrawledoutfromundermyrock, @thepotatoreader, and @arireblogthat

If threads form of various players writing out their own alternate timeline, that’s fine too! There are no restrictions in how you respond. No need to limit yourself to what you think I’ll write down.

Headcanons that we’re using to include as much flavor from the game as possible:

We’re running with the Chara as narrator interpretation, because the tone of the narration is a major part of the experience. It may come out more in the future, but we’ll never name them. We will also adhere to the canon that their personality going forward is influenced by the player character’s decisions.

The one thing we’ve decided about Frisk up front is that they are semi-verbal autistic. Nothing extra will be inserted; it’s just a framework we’re using because it’s a consistent guide to explain some very video-gamey behavior -- like the sparse implied dialogue, the fixation on smells, and apparent disregard for low HP. (We’re autistic ourselves and will be pulling from our experiences.)

I’m adding these under each page so that you can use these narrative frames if you want. Happy writing.

#undertale #toriel #frisk #flowey #the underground #undertale in writing #page 2

4 notes · View notes

lightneverfades · 3 years

Photo

Frostiron AU (WandaVision) - Episode 9

Here’s a few more of the WandaVision Frostiron AU I made! :)

Storyline: (Contains Spoilers)

< Story is set in an alternate universe set after Thanos is defeated >

Loki is alive, lives through the events of End Game but loses Tony in the fight when Tony sacrifices himself to use the Infinity Stones. Loki can’t cope with what’s happened and resurrects Tony from the dead and creates an alternate reality where they are in a sitcom, living as a happy couple... to shut out the real world.

Note: The fic is a continuation of this post here :D (Listening to this song while writing, it’s so good <3)

The walls around the Hex glowed ever so brightly in luminescent green, static energy fizzling in between its barrier. Dark clouds started to form as Loki chased after Agatha, who flew up effortlessly into the air with a laugh that echoed into the expanse, trails of black magic whirling around her.

“Give me everything you’ve got, trickster!”

Loki threw a ball of energy at Agatha, but the spell missed, hitting the other side of the wall behind her. It faded quickly back into the surface.

“Loki!” Tony cried out as he flew up to help. He attacked as well, shooting beams of energy in Agatha’s direction. One particularly nasty one hit Agatha and the witch hissed, her smile faltering. Her gaze shifted, her lips curling in annoyance and her eyes lit up in a darker shade of purple.

“Let the adults fight, mmm?”

Tony felt the blast of dark magic slam into him with full force. He thought he heard Loki’s shout of alarm, but his senses became somewhat numb as he fell, his suit shutting down temporarily as Friday blipped out with a “-Boss, I’m going to have to go into emergency shutd--!”

The ground came up to greet him, or rather vice versa, as Tony broke the concrete floor, creating a massive dent on the road. Pain shot through his whole body, begging for him to stop and quit moving altogether, but there was no way he was going to do that. This is our home! Tony thought furiously.

“Friday!” Tony called out, but his screen was absolutely pitch black.

With a groan of frustration, his helmet disappeared. Tony got up as quickly as he could, ignoring the terrible ache in his whole body and wincing at the cuts on his cheek and lips.

“Tony, are you okay?” Loki’s voice made Tony’s head turn and he saw the god flying over to him, his brows already furrowing as he caught sight of the blood.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little tumble that’s all, nothing I can’t-” Tony hissed as a particular area he’d hit trying to protect his back argued otherwise. Loki reached out his hand to cover the cut on Tony’s cheek and Tony felt warmth as the pain instantly faded away. As soon as the glow faded, Tony knew the god had fully healed him from top to bottom. What was more, the suit was coming back to life and he could feel the nanobots shifting around his body.

“Thanks babe,” Tony smirked and Loki’s lips curled upwards.

“My pleasure,” Loki answered in kind, a tinge of an American accent slipping through from the many timelines he’d adopted from his stay at Westview.

"Have you forgotten we’re not done yet, lovebirds?” Agatha’s voice called out from above and both men looked up to see the witch hovering above them, staring down at them.

“Haven’t forgotten, darling,” Tony shot back as his suit rebooted back to full capacity.

“Good,” Agatha spoke and she directed her gaze at Loki. “Won’t you just stop dilly dallying? I’ve been ever so patient with you lot. Perhaps I need to make things more clear for you.”

Tony hadn’t quite noticed earlier, but he now saw that the citizens of Westview were now completely frozen in their place, their actions having been paused mid-action. Their eyes were the only thing that blinked, their lips pulled up in a smile that Tony could tell were make believe and imprinted. A chill passed through him as he realized in spite of his love for Loki, his god was also the one imprisoning these people in this place.

Dark curls of energy lit around each of the citizens of Westview and their eyes lit up for a moment, before consciousness of their own replaced it. Each of the men and women holding their accessories or smiling at their fellow neighbors mid-conversation stopped what they were doing, and looked around in confusion. And then Tony saw it, their eyes all veering towards them and he could see the insurmountable pain and agony in their faces.

“Loki, Loki... please... please just let us go!” They chorused, and converged around them. “Please... we have your nightmares, we feel your pain! Please! I want to go back... I need to see my family! PLEASE!”

Loki’s hardened expression didn’t quite falter as much as Tony’s did, which made the situation even worse. “Loki, they’re right, you got to stop this-”

“Stop what?” Loki countered and there was an edge in his tone that only Tony knew what it meant. It was full of anger but underneath it all, he could hear the agony within it. He reached out his hand to touch Loki’s cheek, placing his other hand on Loki’s chest. “You’re torturing them. I know you don’t mean it... I know, cause you’re not that kind of man. Stop it.”

“Mmm, Loki, yes, why don’t you?” Agatha sneered from above, her malicious smile growing ever more sinister. “Don’t you want to be good? Aren’t you an Avenger? You made an oath during the Blip, didn’t you? Thou shalt not kill, blah, blah, blah! But you know in your heart of hearts that that’s not true! You want your Tony Stark to stay intact, don’t you? So give me your power and I’ll grant you this fantasy! I’ll be your villain in your superhero origin story, hah!”

Loki’s frown deepened, “I can’t...”

“Why, Loki?” Tony urged, hearing the ever growing pleas and cries of anger and suffering from the people of Westview. He felt the pain as if it were his own, and he winced every time he heard the hatred in the voices of the men and women. And they deserved to be angry - he hadn’t been aware until recently, but they were prisoners, made to play a role that is not their own.

“Because I’ll lose you,” Loki whispered, the god’s eyes catching Tony’s and it was filled with sorrow. Tony flinched, but it wasn’t because of the statement.

“Then you weren’t the man I thought you were,” Tony spoke and he stepped back. He felt the arms of the men and women; desperate, ordinary people who he had pledged to save their lives as an Avenger, pull at his arms, crying and screaming, clawing for his attention. He didn’t resist; he let them take him.

The look of hurt and realization dawned on Loki’s face.

“Tony!” Loki reached out, trying to get to Tony but the man gave him a glare.

“Don’t come near me, Loki. Not unless you intend to undo this and set them free.”

“I will, I will...” Loki said but his voice was hesitant.

“Then do it, trickster! Heroes don’t torture people!” Agatha’s voice called out with a cackle/

Loki looked at Tony one more time and with that his eyes burned up. A gust of wind flurried around them and a surge of energy blasted out of Loki and towards the sky, tearing the barrier in half for a moment, creating a crack in between. The enormity of the action caused the god to lean back further, arms outstretched and his cape whipped behind his back harshly.

“GO! ALL OF YOU, NOW... LEAVE!”

Tony heard the screams of the people as the ground shuddered and the town, which had been sealed shut by emerald barriers, start to split. He gently pushed the woman that had clung to him in desperation and whispered, “Go! Run! Go back to your family! I’m sorry!”

They all did, crying out and running for their lives as the Hex started to withdraw within itself.

And then Tony felt it, the first anomaly he had experienced before when he stepped out of the Hex. First it was the strength in his arms, then quickly his legs, as something stole away the life in his body. With a pained heave of breath, his knees crashed onto the broken concrete. He could hear his heart drumming away fast at first, but slowly losing its speed. With it, he felt what he knew was Loki’s magic seep back towards his owner.

“Loki-” Tony managed and Loki was crying, his eyes panic-ridden. With a agonized cry, the energy forcing itself out of Loki faded. The Hex started to ebb back, the four corners reforming back.

Tony wheezed as the pressure in his lungs and the heaviness of his body lifted a little, but he was far from okay. His body felt like it had been burnt and when turned to look at his arm, it was darkened and crisp and he realized the familiar sight. It was the same blackened state he’d found himself in once he’d used the Infinity Stones to stop... yes, he’d stopped Thanos and his army. I died. And I saw Loki, there, just before... He tried to revive me...

Loki’s hollow and agony-filled scream that penetrated the battlefield had been Tony’s last memory of his death before everything blacked out.

And here he was again, in Loki’s arms, the god’s face staring down at Tony with tears brimming on his eyelashes and freely falling down on his battered cheeks.

“Now do you see what you’ll lose?” Agatha said and her words were like knives.

Luminescent green light enveloped Tony and the magic did its work, life energy from one powerful being surging back into another. The warmth of the magic reignited, furiously pushing back the deathly grip that had threatened to take Tony away forever earlier. Tony gasped as the magic sped his heartbeat back to its normal pace and the right side of his body, which had grown limp and numb started to heal rapidly.

"Don’t leave me, Anthony... not yet,” Loki spoke and leaned in, pulling Tony upwards so that his left arm was supporting Tony.

“Leave you...? Not a chance, Reindeer games,” Tony managed to teased, his voice coming back to him now. He wiped away at Loki’s tears with the back of his armored hand. The chuckle he heard from the god warmed him. “We’ve got unfinished business with that bitch.”

A grin started to form on Loki’s lips at these words, “Yes, the witch must burn.”

#frostiron #wandavision au #loki/tony #tony/loki #lol i didnt even expect my brain to produce a fic but now its all JUSTIFY THE DRAWINGS #hahah so yeah im putting a bit more story in them now #im tempted to draw some of these scenes but i dont have a lot of time lol to do that atm #so maybe later #wandavision au fic #my drawings

6 notes · View notes

wardencommanderrodimiss · 4 years

Note

I thought of a fun AU! So you know how it's kinda implied that maybe Morgan's from an alternate timeline? What if Lucina knew that is 100% without a doubt... because in HER timeline, she had to kill him to save everyone else? :D

Thank you for this concept that shot me straight through the heart. I’ve been unceasingly thinking about it since yesterday morning.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate, and so Lucina doesn’t either. Her brother casts dark magic - where did he learn that? When? - as though to bleed all the life from her, and Lucina swings their father’s ancestral sword and cuts him down. Their shared blood soaks darkly through his robes and his eyes are blank, blank, staring lifelessly out at Lucina. She’s so used to fighting Risen who crumble to ash but Morgan lingers. His body remains, her little brother grown up to become one of Grima’s snakes, and he still looks so much like her, and their father, his eyes darker but his hair the same and he’s her brother and he would’ve killed her and then all her friends if she hadn’t killed him first.

She rolls his body off a cliff before any of her friends catch up to her. None of them have to see this. What’s one more burden for Lucina alone to shoulder? What are her brother’s dead eyes to a dead world.

Lucina clings to what she’s done like a twisted mantra. She already killed her brother. She’s already come this far. If she hesitates now, that meant nothing. She’ll have killed her brother for nothing if she fails to rewrite her future, and she grabs Naga’s last desperate hope with both hands. If she can change the past then she’ll change the fate of another Morgan, one who is and isn’t hers. If Grima never rises to power then he’ll never be able to bring Morgan under his thrall. As long as Lucina stands firm, she’ll save her world, and one version of her brother.

She’s already come this far. She can’t hesitate now, for anything. The future she can make will always far outweigh whatever it costs to bring her there. Like her brother’s life.

Like her mother’s life?

Chrom was betrayed and murdered by his best friend. Lucina knows this. Robin is his best friend. Lucina has learned this, can say with certainty that Robin, before she was Lucina’s mother, before she was Chrom’s wife, was his best friend. This is obvious but it makes the future that Lucina knows was written so unclear. Why would Robin kill Chrom? Why after years would she turn on her best friend, her husband, the father of her children? That is the fate that, without Lucina’s intervention, unquestionably awaits them. But why did it happen? How could it happen?

Lucina doesn’t know and she can’t act, not yet, but she can’t allow this to cause her to hesitate if the time comes, either. She’s already come this far. She already killed her brother. What is her mother, to the world?

Her mother loves Chrom. She looks at him like he’s all the stars in the sky, all the constellations by which to navigate. And she loves Lucina. She looks at her with eyes as dark as the night sky which the stars hang in, eyes like Morgan’s but still alight with warmth and life. How long will that last? Guilt would wither Lucina beneath that warm loving gaze; guilt would kill her if she could be the first to die, but she can’t. Robin has to be the one to die because Lucina has come this far already. She can’t hesitate.

In ruins crawling with Risen, Lucina could laugh, or cry. Is this a second chance from Naga, or a mockery from Grima? “When you said you traveled to the past with your friends,” Chrom says, lightly, teasingly, his eyes full of stars as he looks upon his wife and son, “you could’ve mentioned that you had a brother among them.”

“I—” How to say that, to mention any of her friends more than their existence, feels like an ache in her chest because she didn’t know where or when any of them landed, and if she might ever see any of them ever again. How to say that to speak of them feels like giving herself false hope. How to say that she didn’t travel through time with her brother, because in her time he is dead, and she killed him.

Chrom bumps his shoulder lightly against hers, as though to say he doesn’t need her to actually answer, because of course whatever answer he’s come up with is entirely innocuous, if not wholly reasonable. How could he ever imagine the truth of that waking nightmare that calls itself fate? How could Lucina ever believe it if she had not lived it? She loves her mother. Her mother loves Chrom. That is not how it ends.

She searches Morgan’s face for a hint of a trick. His dark eyes, their mother’s eyes, are blank with confusion, not death. He claims to remember nothing of where he came from but their mother. He doesn’t remember his father. He doesn’t remember having a sister. Lucina wants to believe that he is telling the truth. She wants this to be a second chance. Is it one for her, or for him? Did he come from another time when he still stood at Grima’s side? Was there still a confrontation, just ended differently; did his Lucina hesitate?

He asks her why she’s so jumpy around him. “I mean, I don’t remember you, but I’d like to, and you...” He fidgets. Lucina plumbs her brother’s dark eyes for deceit, for this to be one of Grima’s tricks. Morgan always wore his heart on his sleeve. She doesn’t think he could lie; either it is true that he has lost his memory, or this isn’t any Morgan at all. She’d like to believe the former. “Did something happen? In the future that you remember and I don’t? Were we not friends?” He looks worried. “I want to be friends with you. If - if I did something that made you mad, or you hated me, please just tell me, and I won’t tell our parents, I’d just like to know why you—”

“I don’t hate you,” Lucina interrupts, and her heart swears to her that this is not a trick, that Grima’s machinations or minions would never allow themselves to be perceived as stooping this low to be vulnerable, to apologize, to speak words of love and loss and longing and a hope for friendship. “I could never hate you, Morgan.”

And that is the truth. Their world on the brink, and he unflinchingly attacked her in the hopes of finally damning it, and she did not hate him as she killed him. She could never hate any little brother of hers, even when he hated her. And she had thought surely he hated her, but now she wonders if he too had still loved her, and he just loved their mother more than the world. Lucina understands that now, perhaps, it was all love. She loves her brother, but she did not hesitate, because she loves her father and the world most.

“I just wondered,” he says. “Since you always - you always act like you don’t want to look at me.”

She had trouble looking at Robin too, at first, but it was awkward all around for a little bit, and then they all got used to their strange new family even as Lucina’s pulse pounded a staccato in the back of her skull, reminding her what she might have to do to save her father and the world, reminding her of the price she has already paid and that she cannot leave this a half-measure.

“Did something happen between us?” Morgan asks, and Lucina’s heart, held tense and tight for so long finally shatters.

“I’m sorry, Morgan,” she says. “It’s just, you... you’re not my brother, not really - you are and you aren’t.” He looks like their mother when he’s focused, in the tight line of his mouth and the shadow over his eyes, and he is fixated intently on what Lucina has to say. “Of course you are, but you’re not from my time. The time that I came from, you didn’t come back with me. You couldn’t have. You - you were killed, Morgan. I know you died. I saw it happened. Wherever you’re from, it isn’t quite the same as where I come am.”

“So then I’m...” He’s struggling with this, of course; he struggled with the idea of having come from any future. “I know our parents are my parents, because - I remember Mother, and I look like Father too, but I - I’m not the brother you grew up with?”

Lucina shakes her head. “No. Not that one. But you’re still my brother, Morgan.”

He purses his lips together, and then he nods. “Yeah. And you and any other Lucina out there are always gonna be my sister.” Then he smiles, that bright smile that Grima stripped from him, and he adds, “You don’t have to worry, though. I promise I’m not going to die on you.”

She wishes that death were all she had to fear for him. She wishes the truth was what she led him to assume: that when she saw that other Morgan die, she was not the one to kill him.

But she did kill him, though she loved him, and she must not hesitate. Too much has already been lost for her to hold back now. Whatever it takes to save the world and her father, and to save them would be to save this brother that she did not kill. The price is her mother’s life. They love her, Chrom and Morgan, and Lucina does too, but they love Robin without hesitation; they have no reason not to. Chrom wants to believe in Robin until the end, but Lucina knows where exactly that ends.

Someone has to save them. Lucina can’t hesitate now, not after she’s come this far. If she kills Robin now, then there’s a Morgan who will never be born, but Lucina has already killed her brother once. She can again, write him out of a new future if it’s what it takes to save her father, and the world, and the brother from another future who is here with her right now. She has to do this. She can’t hesitate.

And she hesitates anyway, because her mother isn’t raising her a sword against her, isn’t lifting a hand to defend herself. Lucina hesitates and she can because Robin isn’t trying to fight her like Morgan was, the Morgan who grew up with Lucina and died at her hand. Lucina can hesitate and she does and she can’t - do this, she has to do this, she can’t hesitate, and she can’t—

—do this. She can’t do this. She killed her brother and she can’t do the one thing that would guarantee that sacrifice was not in vain.

But maybe that’s why she can’t. She’s killed too much she loves already.

#jakeun-kangajii #fire emblem chatter tag

7 notes · View notes

nell0-0 · 4 years

Text

One day (you learn to let go) #1

Idea adopted from Firehedgehog's Idea Factory!

A very long time ago, Fate grabbed a Sans and twisted him into Error.

Every 25-100 years, Fate's magic wanes and Error transforms back into his past self. The only thing this Sans knows is that he seems to be skipping through time.

Ink, meanwhile, is the only one that knows what's going on as Error doesn't remember when his true self, Geno, wakes up.

https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/244792587-one-day-you-learn-to-let-go

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100618/chapters/66175066#workskin

The pair of forced gods

At the beginning, there were no deities, no Alternate Universes, nothing. It was just a huge expanse of white, with a glowing drop of color in the middle of it. The original Undertale of this Multiverse, awe inducing in its lonesome.

Intrigued, higher beings started to take notice of this world. They were interested, since the story could have so many different outcomes and so many secrets! Each bit was treasured, every dialogue appreciated, every friend cherished.

Every kill done mercilessly.

It was a fun game to play for them. Those were the Voices. The Voices grew curious, little by little. What would happen if someone took apart that original world's code? What if a situation changed just a little? What if they only did pacifist route? Or only genocide?

They didn't dare change it too much, since they didn't want to damage the original one. It had a special place in their hearts, after all.

But then, one Voice spoke up.

What if they made copies?

At first, the other Voices were hesitant to take up the other's idea. It wouldn't change anything if they just copied the original. Besides, the game felt perfect already for them. It was fun, charming and with just a hint of violence enough to satisfy even the more cruel of them.

That Voice tried to reason with the rest once more.

They wouldn't damage the original in any way, it would be preserved. But they would make copies, branches of the original, make it even more interesting! Mess with the codes, change some characters, change some personalities or even swap them!

After the reassurance no harm would come to their beloved original, a lot of Voices each eagerly made a copy of their own. At first, the changes were minimal. Just alternate timelines, different outcomes. Changing a crucial decision, which ended up changing everything else with it. They felt awed, this was something new and entertaining.

Some loved the characters too much to hurt them, so they made bright and happy worlds. Other Voices loved the characters too much to make them boring in their point of view, so they made them suffer, making harsh and violent places.

Soon, other Voices that were wary at first, tried joining in. It was truly a spectacular sight! They decided to keep the characters, but change the world itself. One made a pair of twins, so similar yet as different as night and day. Other Voice made a place filled with Gods and inspired in mythology, since they loved it so much.

Another one made a creative skeleton, way too constricted by his own world because of his feelings. Unhappy with the results, that Voice abandoned their world and abandoned all together. They were frustrated, they didn't like how their own world turned out. That Voice left forever, to never come back.

The original one, the entity that suggested this in the first place, saw this. They took the Sans of that world, so damaged and broken, as their own. Just in the nick of time, too, since they barely managed to save him before his AU crumbled. The skeleton's soul was damaged, but this higher being didn't see anything to fix, oh no.

They saw an opportunity.

They noticed that more and more higher beings were going away, either abandoning their worlds or letting them evolve on their own. They could use this for their own advantage, for their own amusement.

That higher being, that Voice, ended up dubbed as Fate.

With gentle hands that didn't add up at all with their intentions, they gave the damaged skeleton a way to keep living, a purpose. To create and help the other Voices so they wouldn't quit too. Under Fate's rules, of course.

It became a flawed system fairly quick.

Fate was ambitious. They never had enough of this original world's variations. Feeling empowered and curious, they forced the Sans to keep creating. Always keep going, no matter what. To make more, to create more. To the Sans, it was a nightmare.

There was a moment were another Voice, a much kinder one that sympathized too much to let their beloved characters suffer in such a way, tried to intervene.

"Fate!" screamed said Voice, Destiny as the other used to call them. "Your chosen is creating too much, tell him to stop!"

"Stop?" Surely, Destiny was joking. This was the more entertainment they had had in ages! "We have so many possibilities, so many worlds... and you want me to stop?"

Destiny looked warily at their friend. Their once kind friend, the one who held so much love towards the original Undertale that suggested this copy system as to not damage it. Destiny wasn't blind, the strings holding everything together were way too tight, stretched thing. It was just a matter of time before it was too much and it pulled, bringing everything down with it.

"I'm sorry, friend, but I can't let you do this to our beloved creations. You need to stop and you need to stop now, before it's too late."

Destiny kept going, trying to reach out and convince the other. Fate wasn't listening, though. They just stared at Destiny, as if seeing them for the first time in their life. That gaze was so cold it froze Destiny down to their very core.

"You don't let me do anything, dear Destiny, because I do what I want" Fate began, before whispering in a threatening tone. "And if you keep insisting on getting in my way because of too much Creation, there's an easy solution for that."

Destiny startled, not sure where Fate was going with this. Suddenly, they felt a tug from inside them. Destiny gasped, in pain.

"I just need a Destroyer to balance the Creator. And since my dearest Ink has his soul in such state of disrepair, fragments barely holding together..." and Fate smiled cruelly at their friend's pain, for they took something from them. Or rather, someone. "How about I use that Sans you're so fond of, the one with just a fragment for a soul?"

Destiny's begging words fell on deaf ears, for it was too late. Destiny's chosen, their darling Geno Sans, had been coldly snatched away from them.

Fate looked at the little fragment in their hands, their glowing white hands twisting it until it was barely recognizable as the being it once belonged to. Smirking, Fate ignored the desperate Destiny and dropped their new Destroyer carelessly on the Multiverse, without caring where the other ended up.

"Go now, little destroyer. You're an error, a mistake. So erase the worlds that are one as well, for they do not deserve a place in my perfect Multiverse." Disregarding their original name, as fitting as Genocide would be for such a task, Fate addressed them as their new God of Destruction. An abomination. A glitch. "You're name from now on, is going to be Error."

Destiny just watched, impotent as the being they loved so was made into something new, something corrupted, something terrible and full of suffering. Destiny has always been one of the kindest, always trying to ease the suffering of the ones they favored. But all the kindness in their warm orange being could never forgive what Fate, that horrid and completely white higher being, had done.

Destiny swore, just as they watched the newly dubbed Error awake for the first time in the white of the Anti-Void, that they would make Fate loose their hold on those two skeletons. Forced gods shouldn't exist, neither of Creation nor Destruction. They prepared themselves to fight Fate, even if the white one was the strongest of the two.

At the very least, Destiny would give both Ink and Error a fighting chance.

______________________________

Ink had been creating a copy as he usually did nowadays, too tired to keep up with the speed Fate demanded of them. Creating new worlds took time and care, it was a long process, so they made due with what they could.

The copies were loathsome, in his opinion as an artist. It was one thing to remake a work of art until you got it just right. It was another thing entirely to just copy paste said work in another canvas, like it was a chore.

Ink knew that this could very well be the Multiverse's doom, so he found solace in the fact that even if the copies died, at least the rest of the Voices who had been locked out from interfering since Fate's take over, could still enjoy what would be left.

He was doing such a task, another copy of bittytale since Ink wanted to ensure the survival of at least one copy when everything inevitably snapped, when he felt it. An AU had crumbled. It hurt a bit, his soul way too broken to give him the feedback he should have otherwise.

At least he wasn't soulless.

At least he could feel something.

He couldn't even imagine the pain he would be in had he still been whole. Worried, since it felt way too soon for their Multiverse to collapse, Ink went to check out what had happened. When he arrived, multiple copies of Ghosttale and Undermafia were missing, freeing up more room for the AUs to survive.

It didn't look like the destruction affected any original around, as Ghosttale and Undermafia still existed.

The first clue he got was the sound of static. The second clue, a flash of black and navy blue. A skeleton, similar to himself in a sense, stood before him. Both looked at each other with dead eye-lights, before both widened their own eye-sockets in realization.

Another being, just like them but not. An opposite, for them to fight and balance. Amusement for the cruel Fate.

Just another twisted being forced to do a job as a God they didn't want.

They nodded at each other.

"Name's Error."

"I'm Ink."

One, a Sans that committed suicide because his AU had been abandoned by their Voice, the one who created the Core Code of that world. Fate saved him just in time to suit their needs and while they would have preferred a soulless Creator, one with their soul in shambles and barely holding itself together would have to work.

The other one, who was just as fragmented as their chosen God of Creation. A glitch that had managed to beat impossible odds to survive and thrive, start a family and have a happy ever after in his own way. Snatched from his life and family to suit the needs of a cruel system that was tipped against him. Would this glitch manage to beat impossible odds again? And if so, for how long?

How interesting. To Fate, this was perfect. The stage was set.

And so, the strings of Fate started manipulating the stage behind the scenes. But the unhinged Voice that was Fate was too focused on the events of their new favorite playground, ignoring Destiny. The orange higher being decided then and there what their strategy would be.

They would drain Fate to the best of their ability, as that was the only thing they could do unless the Sanses they were trying to rescue did something drastic. They would free Geno from Fate's chains, then drag Ink along to free both. It was just a matter of time.

#undertale #undertale game #undertale sans #undertale au #sans #sans au #sans the skeleton #error sans #Errortale #FGoD Error #ink sans #FGoC Ink #my stuff #my fanfic tag #fate #GOD OF DESTRUCTION #multiverse #sans multiverse

7 notes · View notes

zktop10 · 4 years

Text

Top 10 Rate E One Shots!

Sx: 0.27

NO MINORS! NONE! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!

List under the cut:

Title: Sparrowkeet Author: audreyii_fic Summary: Ba Sing Se has fallen and Katara has been captured. She finds herself on a long journey to the Fire Nation... with only her enemies for company.

Zutara. Post-S2 AU.

Part 1 of The Sparrowkeet Series Score: 10 / 10 Tags: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Smut, Angst, Sparrowkeet

Title: Drink It In Author: BoudicaMuse Summary: Fire Lord Zuko gathers friends and acquaintances from all over the world for a masquerade to celebrate his birthday. Strangely, he's nowhere to be found at the party, but that won't stop Katara from having a good time. Score: 9.7 / 10 Tags: N/A

Title: Bones Author: sadladybug Summary: "Hmm. In the Fire Nation we do things a little differently. Would you like me to show you?"

Her heart leaps into her throat. "Something other than palm-reading?"

"Yes," his warm breath skims over her ear. "Your future may be in your hands, but your character is in your bonvs."

A Zutara wedding night one-shot. Rated M. Score: 9.2 / 10 Tags: N/A

Title: Bonus Day: Tea Shop Author: cincilin Summary: "Hello and welcome to the Jasmine Dragon. Today's special is—" he cut himself of with a sharp intake of breath, at the same moment that Katara placed the voice and looked up.

'He has hair.' was her first thought. Then the rest of her brain caught up with her and she started to get up, sending Momo scrambling to hide under the table.

Season 2 AU, during "The Guru", messes around with the timeline a bit, and with Upper Ring architecture. Part 2 of Zutara smut week 2017 Score: 9.1 / 10 Tags: Smut, Series

Title: A Culmination of Pasts Author: FireLordFrowny Summary: A lot has changed since the final days of the 100-year-war. When Ambassador Katara meets with Firelord Zuko in his home in the Fire Nation, there's a lot of catching up to do. In one night, they discover who and what they were always meant to be for one another. Score: 8.6 / 10 Tags: Fluff, Smut

Title: Piety and Trick Doors Author: crushinator Summary: Katara has been chosen to be the First Waterbender in the Winter Solstice Festival. This involves being locked in a room by herself for a week. She is understandably frustrated... until Zuko comes to visit. Written for Zutara Week 2015. Score: 8.2 / 10 Tags: Smut

Title: show me things i cannot see (shine a little light on my soul) Author: LittleLostStar Summary: When they were kids, Zuko and Katara didn’t get along that well; now Katara’s back from college, and both of them have a vested and petty interest in showing off the person they’ve managed to become. So when Sokka throws a wild party one night, Zuko and Katara decide to get reacquainted—and this time they get along swimmingly.

Katara’s rehearsed this, and she never flubs a performance; so she stands her ground, remaining stock still even as adrenaline courses through her veins and throbs deep in her core. The weed is making everything seem vivid and fascinating, so she can’t stop herself from taking in all the details: the perfectly tailored fit of his jeans, the strategically faded Airborne Toxic Event t-shirt that’s been French tucked oh-so-casually into his waistband, the whimsically striped socks, and the fashionably shaggy hair that falls into his eyes just so, softening the sharper angles of his face. Their gazes meet, and she swallows; his eyes are still as intense as ever, but somehow even more unnerving.

A burst of furious envy erupts inside her. How dare you get this hot, Katara thinks. How utterly fucking dare you. Score: 7.4 / 10 Tags: Porn without Plot, Smut

Title: it's late and i think it's about time for you and me to get closer Author: magnetichearts Summary: Zuko’s face is perfect for him, all sharp angles and planed skin, and it’s almost vicious in its beauty, almost too pretty and angular, and she wonders if she were to trail her fingers along the edge of his jaw, would she cut them? If she were to caress his cheek, to press her lips just underneath his eyes, would she hurt herself?

Katara's eyes drift down towards his lips, and sweat beads on them. She’s hypnotized by the way his lips pull and twist along with his face, as the muscles in his jaw clench. His lips look unfairly full, and she wonders what it would be like to press her hands against the blades of his cheekbones and bring his mouth close to hers.

He is a study in contradictory terms, sharp lines and harsh angles that melt into soft skin and gentle touches; and Katara cannot think of a time when she will not be fascinated by him.

or; katara and zuko can't stop noticing each other, at the worst time possible. it's getting to be annoying for the both of them.

(title from "the sun, the moon, and the stars" by prince) Score: 7.3 / 10 Tags: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Porn without Plot, Smut, Angst

Title: Don't Make Me Wait(So Long) Author: neon_jellyfish Summary: Future fic set 10ish years after the events of ATLA, so the Gaang are mid-twenties

It's hard to find time together when one of your partners is a celebrated war hero and water bending master, the other is the Avatar and you're ruler of the fire nation.

Or, Zuko has been waiting a long time so see Katara and Aang. Reunion sex ensues! Score: 7.1 / 10 Tags: Threesome, Polyamory

Title: The Perks of Matrimony Author: siderealSandman Summary: Katara has heard many things about her husband to-be; that he was a talented firebender, that he had a quiet personality, that he had a kind heart.

Somehow, the fact that he was hot had never been communicated to her.

Part 1 of Avatar No-War AU Score: 6.3 / 10 Tags: Alternate Universe, No War, Arranged Marriage, Smut

#Zutara fanfiction #fanfic rec list #top 10 #rated e #one shots

31 notes · View notes

the-text-doctor · 2 years

Text

[* it's a beautiful day outside, isn't it, screech? ] <With the birds singing, and the flowers blooming, how could I disagree?> [* y'know, it's on days like these.. that kids like them should be suffering, amirite? ] <OH TRUST ME, I KNOW.> [* then let's do this. ]

#<Gaze into another world with me.> -- AU's and Alternate timelines #important screech lore

22 notes · View notes

higuchimon · 4 years

Text

[fanfic] Unholy Desires: Chapter 3

Title: Unholy Desires Characters: Taichi, Yamato, Vamdemon||Ship: Taichi x Yamato Chapters: 3-??||Words: 2,034||Story: 6,395 Genre: Supernatural, Romance||Rated: PG Notes: Okay, here we go. This isn't just a Firestarter/Healer AU. This is also a breeds AU & an alternate timeline: set in season one, but Jou is 15, Taichi, Yamato, & Sora are 14, Mimi & Koushirou are 13, and Takeru is 11. THe breed-Chosen aren't aware of their nature as of yet. Summary: One quick bite was all that it took and not only do the Chosen have a new foe to fight, forged from one of their own, but Taichi must deal with an attraction he never expected.

Piemon peered through his telescope, piercing through the divide of the human and Digital worlds. To some doing so would have been impossible – Piemon wasn’t some. Piemon did as he pleased and no one dared to tell him that he couldn’t. He’d slain more than one Digimon for daring to deny him.

His eyes flicked to the child who stood beside him, eyes distant and terrified, arms wrapped around himself. Even this one wouldn’t deny him – though perhaps there would be punishments galore before Akogimon understood that. Akogimon still clearly thought of himself as Ichijouji Ken.

I will fix that, Piemon reassured himself before he returned his gaze to the view revealed by the telescope. He’d received Vamdemon’s message a scant two months earlier – perhaps an hour having passed for the vampire – and it sparked an idea.

To retrieve his younger son, now that his elder had been transformed.

Soon enough he’d have both of them. His first reaction when he learned what had happened had been nothing but rage. How dare Vamdemon do this to Piemon’s own offspring? If he’d ha the vampire in his sights at that point, he would surely have deleted him.

But with the passage of time came a cooler head and clearer thought. Anbumon’s powers would already be immense from sharing Piemon’s blood. Exactly what his child would be able to do now enticed Piemon.

He would learn all of that in due course. For now, he had a new son to educate and a world that he was still in the process of conquering.

Akogimon’s voice rose quavering from beside him. “I want to go home.”

Piemon regarded him for a few seconds. “You are home, my son. This is where you belong. I’ll have no more arguing about that. Or else.” He tapped one finger against the side of his throne and the image of his dungeons appeared. In there were three humans – two adults and a boy of about three years older than Akogimon.

At the sight of them Akogimon winced, clenching his fists. “Are you ever going to let us go?”

“I may send them back to their world. But you are my son and you will remain here, where you belong,” Piemon assured him. “You will learn to use your powers and assist me in ruling the Digital World.”

Akogimon stared at him before he started to shake his head. “No! I’m not a clown! I’m not part clown! I’m Ken! Ichijouji Ken!”

“You are Akogimon,” Piemon reminded him. “And you are my son. I will start your training soon. For now, watch with me. You have a great deal to learn.”

He wasn’t going to keep listening to Akogimon’s prattling. The child simply didn’t understand. Not yet. But Piemon had a very long time to train him, and looked forward to the eventual results.

Vamdemon considered remaining in his resting chamber; he wanted to be there for the rest of his minions to report to him. But he chose instead to search for another source of blood. Feeding off of that Chosen certainly replaced most of the energy that he’d used fighting WereGarurumon and Angemon, but he needed more. Soon he would find some hint of the Eighth Child and when that happened, he needed to be ready and able to take the next step.

So he searched until he found a suitable victim – some random human out walking alone – and drained their blood.

Not nearly as delicious as Piemon’s spawn he decided. The energy he’d gained from the mix of Healer and powerful Ultimate Digimon had been tasty beyond words. This in comparison was flat and without much to it. But it gave him what he wanted.

“Enough to share, Master?” A faintly familiar voice spoke. Vamdemon raised his head and turned to see his spawn standing not that far away.

He looked different, though still recognizable. His once pure golden hair was now streaked with black – telltale sign of a Healer falling to their worst impulsed. As he approached, he moved with a silken grace out of place with a human child’s body. The grace of the killer, of the hunter.

Of a vampire.

“This one is empty,” Vamdemon told him, eyes flicking up and down. His spawn definitely needed a better outfit, one not so human, but that could come later. “We’ll find another one for you.”

“No real rush. I had a bite before I came to find you.” He smiled, and Vamdemon could see the traces of blood on his lips. “I really think we have better things to do, though. Weren’t you looking for the Eighth Child?”

Vamdemon took two strides closer. “Do you know who it is?” What a treasure trove of information his new spawn could be!

But he shook his head. “The Chosen haven’t had any more luck than you. They do believe that it’s a child who lived in the same area as they did when they were younger. But so far, they haven’t found the person yet.” He crossed his arms and stared at Vamdemon. “I’ll help you find them. But I have a price.”

Vamdemon frowned. “You are my spawn. You’ll do as I tell you to do.” This might be Piemon’s child, but he refused to have his spawn disobey him.

“I will do as I will,” the spawn snapped back. “I am your spawn, but I am also the son of Piemon – my name is Anbumon.”

“Anbumon.” Vamdemon tasted the name thoughtfully. It seemed appropriate. “Come. I have something to show you.”

Anbumon didn’t budge, eyes flaring red. “I said that I have a price. Meet it or find another spawn.”

Vamdemon wondered if his own son would be like this. He would not find out right now. One at a time was more than good enough. Though if he could get Anbumon to be obedient and respectful, that should help when it came to taming his son.

“What is your price?” He finally asked. Anbumon smiled a very dark smile.

“My price is Yagami Taichi – the Chosen of Courage. I fed from him tonight. He’s human, but the fire in his blood is delicious. I want more of it. I want him – forever. He’s going to be mine.”

Vamdemon chuckled. “I have no objections. But you’ll have to take him yourself. My goal is to acquire and kill the Eighth Child – and as many of the human Chosen as I do not need.” A thought crossed his mind. “Do any of the others carry Digimon blood? Aside from the eldest – I already know about him.”

Anbumon’s eyebrow crept upward. “I don’t know. I didn’t know about myself until this.” He gestured to himself. “But I think I could tell if I tasted their blood.” The side of his mouth quirked. “And what do you know about Kido Jou?”

“That he is my son, as you are Piemon’s son.” Vamdemon smiled a very amused smile, made more so by the expression that flickered over Anbumon’s features. “He will be spared. I will have need of him later. And once I have taken this world, I will crack open the gate once more, to allow you to return to the Digital World and meet your father.”

Anbumon’s lips thinned. “We’ll see.”

“That we will. Come. I expect my servants to bring me word of their search soon enough.” He snorted briefly. “Though I can’t say that I expect them to have found a great deal.”

“Nor do I. The ones that we’ve fought here aren’t exactly the cream of the crop.” Anbumon laughed softly. “Though the battles might be easier for you now, since I won’t be fighting against you. Nor will Taichi for much longer.”

“Of course.” Vamdemon tilted his head slightly, then leaped up into the air. Anbumon eyed him for a few moments before he turned his attention inward, likely probing for power that he’d never tried before.

Vamdemon hadn’t made a spawn before this, so he wasn’t certain of how long it would be before Anbumon had access to all the power that he had. In point of fact, he might not ever have that kind of power. Or he could go far beyond that. It was simply too soon and with far too much uncharted territory for him to be certain.

But it did not take long at all before Anbumon rose up into the air, somewhat unsteadily, but enough that he could join Vamdemon on their way back to his hidden lair.

Anbumon knew one thing very clearly by now: he didn’t like Vamdemon. He’d never liked him before, and it appeared that being turned into his spawn didn’t change that. Good to know. He was already new enough to himself that anything he could be certain of pleased him.

He also learned that he liked flying. He’d never done that before; in his human life, his partner was ground-bound. He’d never known the lack until now. But since he could sweep through the air, he savored every moment of it.

It was a good thing that he didn’t need to breathe anymore. He’d tried that a few times, but decided that he didn’t like it at all. There was simply too much stench in the air. Cars and people who either didn’t wash enough or who threw on too much fragrance, along with animals, rotting food, and an entire list that he couldn’t even begin to consider.

The Digital World would be better. It had to be better. He remembered very little about being human – so far as his awareness stretched, it had begun when he’d opened his eyes after Vamdemon’s bite. But he thought he remembered being amazed at how clean the Digital World’s air was.

So the thought of going back there wasn’t one he rejected. He’d never met his father and the thought of doing so certainly intrigued him. What would his father be doing? What would he want Anbumon to do? What would he think of Anbumon keeping Taichi?

Not that he intended to let any disapproval change his mind about doing that. He wanted Taichi, wanted that hot searing blood, wanted to see Taichi struggle against Anbumon’s power and fail, and there wasn’t anything that was going to stop him. If his father didn’t like it, too bad or him.

There’s too much I don’t know about myself. He knew that he had power. He could feel it singing in his veins. More so than being a Healer – which he wasn’t even certain if he liked - and more so than being Vamdemon’s spawn. Piemon’s blood gave him far more strength than he’d ever imagined possible. That power was his, born and bred into him, and he wanted to learn what he could do.

He would. Before he faced the Chosen again, he’d know everything that he could do, and be able to take them down. His power far outstripped theirs, even when their partners evolved to Perfect.

That led to another train of thought: would the Chosen be able to evolve to his level? He didn’t know. They’d never even known power such as his existed.

Oh. Now that was a very pleasant consideration. The Chosen weren’t aware of how much he could overpower them. They didn’t even realize he wasn’t truly human.

This was going to be far, far more entertaining than he’d ever thought it would be. Possibly more so than it had any right to be.

He cast a glance across the city as they crossed it. Somewhere out there, Taichi probably still attempted to shake off his bite. He might not even be awake yet. Anbumon thoroughly anticipated seeing him again. Perhaps he’d even pick up that egg – it had to be Gabumon’s, now that he thought about it. Gabumon was as much his partner as he’d been Ishida Yamato’s. Anbumon always kept what was his.

Too bad his human side wouldn’t ever see him take everything that had been his and turn it to his own ends. His partner. His friends. His brother. Even his Firestarter.

An audience would have been nice. But Anbumon didn’t really want to share the stage.

To Be Continued

Notes: This week I’m spending my spare time rewatching the Vamdemon arc and detailing out what else needs to happen and when. Plot will (presumably) pick up next chapter.

#fanfic #higuchimon writes #digimon adventure #ishida yamato #yagami taichi #vamdemon #taichi x yamato #yamato x taichi #au: healer firestarter #au: breeds #chapters: unholy desires #digimon

4 notes · View notes

the-god-of-nihon · 5 years

Text

Writing Idea: It’s called an AU pt2

Future Jaune cleans up, shows off his middle-aged man bod, then has a long story time with Ozpin. Also his semblance comes in real handy.

_______________________________________________________________________

As his three teammates went about their business, getting dressed preparing for their day. Team RWBY coming and going out of JNPR’s room as they did the same. Jaune sat on his bed engrossed in watching them do tasks he hadn’t seen them do for years. A stab of sorrow pierced through him; this was all so familiar, but far away in his memory.

“Jaune?” Pyrrha called out to him as she brushed her hair, “the shower is free if you want to clean up.”

He looked at himself, at his ragged clothes, and the dirt on his skin, “yeah that’s probably a good idea.” As he pulled off his shoulders the remains of a cloak, revealing attached at his left shoulder a metallic arm. Clean, not pristine, but clearly better maintained than the rest of him.

“Jaune! You’re a cyborg!” Nora rushed over to him taking his mechanical arm in her hands and examining it in wonder.

“A prosthetic . . .” Ren trailing after her, eyeing the appendage noticing an engraving of a rose on the shoulder plate.

“You lost your arm.” Not a question, but a statement Pyrrha had halted her brushing as she stared at the arm as Nora handled it, “when did you lose your arm?”

“Around 10 years ago,” he said simply, the image of Nora messing around with Jaune as he tolerated her antics was nothing new, but the context left an uncomfortable silence in the air. “Guy’s it’s really not that big of a deal, given our career path it’s pretty par for the course.”

“Right. You’re right. Apologies I shouldn’t have stared,” Ren quick to apologize went back to straightening out his bed.

“Do you need help taking your clothes off?” Pyrrha asked genuinely concerned, eyes still on the mechanical limb.

“Why Pyrrha I never thought you’d be so forward,” Jaune teased, almost immediately grimacing. Although nobody noticed, as Pyrrha turned red like a tomato, sending Nora giggling back onto her bed as Jaune waved apologetically, “thanks for the concern, but I’ve had this thing long enough to know how to handle it.”

After the first hot shower in who knows how long, Jaune was feeling better than ever. Trimming his beard from extremely shaggy, to sort of shaggy, and tying his long hair back in a ponytail.

“Jaune we borrowed some clothes from for you to wear until your clothes are clean.” Pyrrha called from the other side of the door.

“Thanks, “Jaune replied as he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. Something his team had clearly not expected when they all did a double take at the sight of his topless form.

“Jaune, lookin good!” Nora whistled at Jaune, then pretended to root around in her wallet, “how much to lose the towel?”

“Nora!” Pyrrha again beat red, shoved the borrowed clothes into his arms, and rushed out the open doorway.

Jaune raised an eyebrow, and looked at Ren for some clarification as if he being topless was something unusual.

“For someone with your aura, you have quite a number of scars.” Ren returned Jaune’s look before going back to examining the scars scattered over his torso.

“Well you know me, never know when to quit,” Jaune said as he slipped the large shirt, and pair of pants on, “ran out of aura few too many times, but I learned my lesson. For the most part.”

“We have classes soon, will you be okay alone, should we stay?” Ren asked placing the book he was reading in his lap.

“Don’t skip on my account, those are valuable lessons Oobleck and Port are giving you.” Jaune gave a derisive snort, smirking as he waved them off.

“Okay, well just behave yourself, and we’ll be back in a few hours.” Pyrrha calling out as she was exiting.

“I’m not a puppy. I’ll probably go finish telling Ozpin about my timeline, then take a walk around campus. Haven’t seen this place in nearly 20 years after all.” Jaune smiles fondly, then laughs to himself, “You have fun with Oobleck, maybe tell him I’m absent because I got switched with an alternate universe version of myself, see how he reacts.”

“Will do!” Nora piped up giving a salute before marching out the door, Ren in tow shaking his head.

Jaune stretched out with a groan, and then went on his way to Ozpin’s office. His memory was reliable enough, though he could have sworn the carpet had been a different color. Jaune stopped in front of the elevator up to Ozpin’s office, “maybe I should take the stairs.” He sighed as the opened the doors, and stepped inside, “Up, not down. Not down.” Jaune clenched his eyes shut when the walls suddenly felt like they were closing in, and counted until he reached the top floor.

“Ah Mr. Arc, you are looking much better now,” Ozpin sat at his desk, a bundle of papers in front of him. Glynda standing to the side, turned to see Jaune, her eyes catching onto the mechanical arm.

Jaune face slightly pallid approached Ozpin’s desk, taking a few labored breathes, before smiling. “It’s surprising what a shower and shave can do to a bum,” Jaune quipped resting his good hand on the back of a chair.

“Please sit,” Ozpin motions to the chair infront of him, moving the papers in front of him to the side, “I’d like to hear more about the world you come from, is that alright?”

“I can only tell you what I know,” Jaune points out as he settles into the seat, declining the offering of a beverage, “where should I start?”

“Of course, of course,” Ozpin sips from his mug, “as for where to start, how about from the beginning.”

And thus Jaune recounted his life’s story all the way up to the Vytal Festival, Glynda growing somewhat agitated as the story droned on.

“Mr. Arc, while I appreciate learning about my students, that was not quite what I meant,” Ozpin adjusted his glasses, and filled his mug again.

“You did say from the beginning, you need to be more specific,” Jaune smirked, feeling a little self-satisfied. Although he flinched when Glynda raised her crop in warning, “okay okay, sorry. Now onto the Vytal Festival.”

Jaune explained what knew, and what he’d seen, it was all very normal. Students everywhere, food stalls, fights, camaraderie, and youthful exuberance. He spoke about how nearing the finals of the tournament Pyrrha became unsure on herself, and came to him with some questions he hadn’t understood at the time, how she’d seemed so distraught. Honestly it made Jaune a bit happy to see Ozpin and Glynda subtly shift when he told them how worried he’d been about Pyrrha. Then came the first match of the finals, Yang against Mercury Black, when Yang had been tricked into being disqualified.

“So then the matches after that were pretty standard, no maiming or over the top violence,” Jaune gesturing as he spoke, “but then Pyrrha went up against Penny Polendina, a huntress-in-training from Atlas. Who we found out was actually an android.”

That got their attention, Ozpin’s eyes grew wide and he hastily set his mug down, while Glynda uncrossed her arms and stepped forward, “An android? As in a robot?”

“From what Ruby told me about her, Penny was the first artificial human ever capable of generating an aura.” Jaune spoke recalling Ruby opening up about another friend she had lost in the Fall of Beacon, “ask Ironwood about it, he helped make her.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do that,” Ozpin sat back into his chair, fingers entwined in front of his face, “continue please.”

“Well Pyrrha killed Penny,” Jaune stated simply, “due to her unstable emotional state she lost control of her semblance, which made Penny’s own weapons turn against her.” Jaune clasped his hand together and rested them on his knees, “and that- that was the start of one of the worst nights of my life.”

“Do you believe you were sent back to divert these events, Mr. Arc?”

Jaune spoke quietly shaking his head, “I doubt it, I was in the middle of nowhere before I woke up here, not exactly near any singularities or mad scientists secret labs. Besides if the whole multiverse thing has any standing, it wouldn’t matter what I did here, it wouldn’t change my future. I don’t know how far back, but at least the events of the Vytal Festival had been orchestrated by someone, the person who is hunting the maidens.”

The sound of a mug being dropped could never be so sweet, as the contents of Ozpin’s mug spilled across his desk. “I’m afraid I do not follow Mr. Arc.”

“Don't’ bullshit me Ozpin,” Jaune sat forward, slamming a hand on the desk, “I know about the woman in the vault. I know that the woman in the machine was a fairy tale maiden with magical powers. I know you’re planning on choosing Pyrrha to take her place.” The three sat in silence, Jaune hoping to whatever gods there may be that this was a timeline where all that was going to happen, and he hadn’t just made an ass of himself.

“Yes, you are correct,” the headmaster sighed, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe up the mess, “where is this going Mr. Arc?”

“You die.” Jaune looks Ozpin in the eye, “well kind of, given later events.”

“I die?” Ozpin inquired casually as if he hadn’t just been told of his own demise.

“Sort of. A woman named Cinder follows us down to the vault and kills the fall maiden. Partially my fault, I was supposed to keep guard.” Jaune exhales and rubs his neck, “but to allow Pyrrha and I to escape you stay to fight her, and lose. You ended up in the head of a young boy named Oscar, but we didn’t find that out until later.”

“Ah, I see.” Jaune had never expected to see Ozpin, as well as Glynda, at a loss for words.

“After you lost to Cinder, Pyrrha took it upon herself to stop her,” Jaune’s gaze fell to the floor, “you can guess how that went.”

“I . . . am sorry, Mr. Arc,” Ozpin offered remorsefully, Jaune nodded back.

“But due to that, Ruby activated her Silver-eyed warrior powers,” Jaune continued, lacing his fingers behind his head, “I guess there was some kind of magical power bargain sale I missed.” “But that sent Cinder running, and froze the giant Grimm Dragon that had taken a perch on Beacon Tower. Oh yeah, a giant Grimm dragon came out of a mountain, and started dropping grimm juice all over the city.”

“Gods,” Glynda breathed out, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I got launched into Vale, so I’m kind spotty on what exactly happened for the stuff I missed,” Jaune cupped his chin, “Yang lost her right arm, and went back to Patch with a comatose Ruby; Blake got stabbed and disappeared; Weiss was taken back to Atlas; Sun and his team went back to Mistral; Ren, and Nora came back with me, Beacon was destroyed with a monster frozen on the tower, and Vale was devastated but still mostly standing.”

“What of the other kingdoms?”

“Well the CCT was taken out in the attack, so we didn’t have any contact with them afterwards.” Jaune leaned back in his seat, expositing events after the Fall, “I didn’t find anything out until Ruby, Ren, Nora and I made it to Mistral almost a year later. But Atlas closed its borders, no trade or dust shipments to other kingdoms. Mistral & Vacuo were largely unaffected, or that’s what it seemed.”

“A dust embargo? Closed borders?” Glynda adjusts her glasses a sharp look to her eyes, “for what reason would Atlas cut them selves off like that?”

“Well the CCT didn’t go down until after video of Atlas androids and mechs attacking the people of Vale was transmitted to every kingdom.” Jaune tilted his head, and closed his eyes as he went on, “they were wary of the other kingdoms suspecting them of being involved in the attack.”

“So obviously the thing to do is stop all outside contact and not answer any questions,” Glynda crossed her arms, her mouth in a displeased frown.

“And you said that Mistral and Vacuou ‘seemed’ unaffected?” Ozpin inserted himself back into the conversation.

“Well Vacuou was a mystery until much later, but as it turns out Professor Lionheart was in bed with the enemy.”

Ozpin stilled, “such accusations are grave Mr. Arc, the headmaster of Haven Academy is a trusted personal friend.”

“Not an accusation, just saying what happened in my timeline,” Jaune shrugged, then turned his to return Ozpin’s stare, “he thought by aiding Salem, that he would be spared.” His expression turning neutral, and cold, “in the end he died, a fool and a traitor.”

Ozpin and Glynda exchanged looks, mulled the thought over for a moment. The older man pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, “I suppose the possibility should not be completely put off the table.”

“After Beacon & Vale, then it was Mistral’s turn. The kingdom was brought down from the inside, and from there it was just race to keep the kingdoms standing.” Jaune gaze lowered to the Beacon emblem on the side of Ozpin’s mug, “we just kept going from place to place trying to stop Salem and her ‘Council of Evil,’ but in the end we were just playing catch up. The seeds for their plans had been sown years in advance, for kids like us, who didn’t even finish their first year of training. We didn’t have a chance to begin with.”

“You never struck me as a defeatist, Mr. Arc,” Ozpin cleaned his glassed before placing them back in place.

“I’ve always tried very hard to hide it,” Jaune grinned, but his eyes weren’t playing along, “all the kingdoms fell, at least from a governmental standpoint. Whatever citizens and huntsmen remained were scattered to the wind. Our group joined up with anyone else we could find and tried to reclaim some of the ruined cities. But in the end none of us could rebuild a kingdom.”

“Is that it?” Glynda seemed agitated, hands on her hips, “you lose, and give up?”

“If only it were that easy,” Jaune replied to Glynda with resignation, “No any still living civilians, and huntsmen are either trying to live out in the wilderness, or made their way to Amity Base.”

“Amity Base? As in Amity Coloseum, it still existed even after all that?”

“It was actually one of the few things still functional, the left over huntsmen organized to set up there, and turned into a mobile base, and refuge for anyone seeking shelter.” Jaune smiled at the memory, “converted the thing to solar, stocked up on supplies, and it’s been the closest anyone has gotten to rebuilding a society, outside of temporary shanty towns.”

“What had you been doing at that point Mr. Arc?” Ozpin noticed Jaune hadn’t mentioned himself in all this.

“Oh, I was around for all that, I was part of the group that reclaimed Amity, and did a lot of searching for survivors to send back there,” Jaune’s expression fell as he went on, “up until around ten years ago, we directly went up against Salem’s lackies again. The first time in a while, it was bad, but we were stronger than we were as kids.” His hand went up to his left shoulder, “we got some of them, and they got some of us. Nobody lost, but sure as hell nobody won. That was when I lost my arm, and what remained of my team.” Jaune’s face fell, “and . . .”

“And?” Ozpin looked at Glynda out the corner of his eye, who nodded, “is everything alright, Mr. Arc?”

“Fine. Just bad memories,” Jaune didn’t seem particularly emotional, mostly just tired. “Long story, short. I was around doing things, until I wasn’t. I haven’t been back to Amity in a while.”

“You left?”

“After that battle I felt it better to go,” Jaune continued, “I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one.”

“What did you do after that?”

“I had a prototype prosthetic arm bolted onto me, got a new weapon, and went anywhere other than Amity, just searching. I figured I’d either find what I was looking for, or get killed by something,” Jaune shrugged, a good-natured smile on his face for such a morbid thought.

“And what was it you were looking for?”

“Survivors to send back to Amity, any leftover huntsmen that could help, the Maidens, supply caches, my family; if any of them are still alive.” Jaune crossed his arms, and slouched in his seat, “just about anything I can find really, I’ve spent the last ten years doing that and haven’t set one step back on Amity since.”

“Did you find the Maidens, or your family?”

Jaune jaw set in a line, “Nope.”

“And you have been gone for ten years, you said?”

“Around ten or so,” Jaune rubbed the back of his neck, “If I find any resources, or supply storages, I send the location back to Amity. If I come across survivors I try to escort them to safety, so I’m kept busy at least.”

“You do not return, but act in its interest, why?.”

“What else would I do?” Jaune laughs softly, “It’s just about the only thing left to fight for. And even if I don’t go back, there are still things I care about there.”

“There are?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly.”

A silence settled, as everyone in attendance understood that this conversation had come to an end. Ozpin stood smoothly, and offered his hand to the younger man across from him.

“Well that was an enlightening experience Mr. Arc. Regardless of whether or not events in this world will go the same way, what you said has given us quite a bit to think about.”

“Yeah well, it felt kind of nice to talk to someone for a change.”

“And if you are ever in need of someone to listen, we are here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, haven’t had these kinds of luxuries in a long time, I’ll be sure to take full advantage,” Jaune chuckled as he stood up, leaning forward to shake Ozpin’s hand.

“If you need anything please tell me,” Glynda offered as she placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Well actually, there is one thing . . . “ Jaune intentionally drifted off, before fixing Ozpin with a look, “take me to the Fall maiden.”

The interior of the elevator felt smaller with more people in it, Jaune tried to focus on the sound of his own breathing.

“You believe that your semblance can heal her?” Glynda was rightfully skeptical, glancing at Jaune out of the corner of her eye, arms crossed in front of her.

“Heal? No. My semblance enhances the natural capabilities of aura, from what I know, the Fall maiden had part of her soul ripped out of her body along with the maiden powers. Jaune still had has his eyes closed, “with part of her gone, and the constant pull of the other half of the maiden powers, her aura probably can’t recover enough to stabilize her.”

“So you believe if you can amplify her aura enough, she will start to recover on her own?” Ozpin sounded as dry and mundane as always, but there was a tint of curiosity to his voice.

“I don’t see any harm in trying.”

Ozpin hummed, his lips pulled into a small pleased smile.

“Are you alright, Mr. Arc?” turning to face him Glynda her head tilted concern coloring her features.

“Fine.” Jaune said a bit too snappish, taking a deep breath. “Fine, sorry. I’m just bad with small spaces.”

The elevator lurching to a stop as the final ding sounded, and the doors open to a massive, dark hallway at the end of which stood a peculiar machine. The walk towards the end of the room was silent, the sound of footfalls and clicks of cane and heels echoed off the walls eerily.

Jaune breathing steadily once outside the confines of the elevator, couldn’t help to think how Pyrrha felt walking these same areas for the first time. The memory of how Ozpin had led her down her, how he imagined she must have felt in those moments. It made his stomach turn.

Ozpin and Glynda came to a halt before him, looking at Jaune expectantly.

Stepping forward, gazing through the frosted glass of the pod on the left, his gaze fell onto the figure of the women inside. How long had she been in there? How aware is she? Has she just been in eternal torment since she’d been attacked? Jaune’s chest clenched at the thought, he’d get an idea soon enough. “Can you open it?”

Fingers dancing across the console Ozpin had the pod open in short order, a chilled air spreading out from the source.

Coming as close to the pod as he can, Jaune reaches in to take the stranger’s hand, the cold stiff skin making it almost seem as if she was already dead. But he could feel it faintly, her aura, her soul. Reaching out to it with his own, he felt the connection take hold, almost desperately the other aura latched onto his, suckling at his in an effort to live. Rather than resist, he pushed his aura forward allowing the woman to take all he had to offer. He felt her fear, and anxiety. The pain, the burning hunger. All of it subsiding as he fed her his aura, the shine of his semblance enveloping both of them, and filling the dark, underground vault with warm light.

“Astounding.” Speaking for the first time since they had arrive, Glynda standing in awe of what she saw, pressing her clenched hands against her chest.

The headmaster in contrast staring silently at the display fluctuating on the console, but rising nonetheless, daring to hope. Pressing his lips into a thin line, eyes darting over to and fro, hands clenched white on the edge of the console.

A groan, a small groan rising out of the throat of the once comatose woman, her body shifting slightly for the first time. Her eyes opening just a crack, looking into the blue eyes of the man holding her hand.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Jaune softly whispering to her, smiling in what he hoped was a nonthreatening way.

The woman attempting to speak, but her throat too dry, having gone too long without use, croaking out sounds instead. Her eyes beginning to tear up, squeezes his hand with what little strength she has.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.” Jaune taking her hand in both of his, beginning to hum a soothing tune, as the woman’s eyes drift shut again. He continued until his aura gave out, slouching slightly with exertion, the woman’s chest rising and falling steadily in a slumber.

“All vitals are green and staying there; she’s stabilized.”

“I don’t believe it.” Glynda moving to Ozpin’s side to examine the console along side him. “She’s really- she’s going to be okay.”

“She’ll need time to re-acclimatize to having her aura at full, I imagine having gone so long without, it might be a shock to her system.” Jaune standing a bit shakily, but stepping away from the pod without issue, looking at the sleeping woman with a small smile. “I’m no doctor, but I’d recommend she take it easy for a while. You probably shouldn’t take her out of the machine, until we can be sure her aura is capable of regenerating on it’s own.”

“Of course. I-” Glynda turning on her heel, to face Jaune with a look of elation, before straightening herself out, “Yes, we’ll be keeping her closely monitored, and while notify you if your services are needed again.”

Ozpin back still to both of them, hunching over the console like some kind of buried treasure.

Jaune wasn’t sure he’d heard a thing he had just said. “Well, I’ll be around.” Turning towards to elevator, with a wave.

Glynda’s voice halting his progress calling out softly, but carrying impossibly well across the massive room, “Jaune, thank you.”

Jaune smiled at her, before he moving to the elevator, and he raising his hand to lightly slap his face thinking, ‘still not a dream,’ to himself. Inside looking down at his good hand opening and closing it. The dings of the elevator resonating deep in his ears, pressing his eyes shut, and clenching his fist. Inhaling deep, deliberately keeping his breathing steady as the elevator continued upwards.

#RWBY #JNPR #Roosterteeth #Jaune Arc #Nora Valkyrie #Pyrrha Nikos #Lie Ren #Professor Ozpin #Glynda Goodwitch

27 notes · View notes

redeyedryu · 5 years

Text

Cross Dimensional Problems

Chapter 2 - Hmmm... | [Ao3] | 1 | x | » |

Hey look! Another chapter! And it hasn't even been a day! Amazing, I know. Who knows when the next one'll come though.

Summary: What if I told you that your whole existence is nothing more than a creation meant to entertain people?

What if I told you that you're not even the original, that you're just some recolored imitation?

So. This is apparently a thing that's happening. And you’re pretty sure it really is because those slaps to the face didn't exactly feel pleasant. Neither did the pinches. Your company is probably questioning your state of mind after that display and honestly? That's fair because you're currently doing the same thing.

The proverbial “they” say you can't feel pain in a dream but what if your brain is just really good at playing pretend? It'd make more sense than this—sitting on a thread bare, obnoxious green sofa that doesn't make you think of a very certain event in a very certain game. The skeletons kind of drive that point hard enough, you don't need more reminders, thank you.

Someone clears their …throat? Whatever, the sound is made and it draws your attention, your eyes drifting to one skeleton in particular out of the three—the Classic™ one.

“heya,” he says and oh boy, that is a really deep voice. Very nice, very rumbly. You could listen to it for hours, you think. “what’re uh… what’re ya doin’ down here, bud?”

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, fingers pinching and pulling and scratching at the suede fabric of the couch you are sat on. It’s wedged off to the side of the safety hazard that is the sparking boiler-thing, just near enough for you to have dazedly stumbled over to.

“Hallucinating, I think,” you eventually reply as you continue to fidget. The fingers of one hand slip and you accidentally stab the side of your thigh with a particularly sharp nail. You don't so much as react to the stabbing pain. “Or maybe I'm actually having some kind of mental break?”

You watch (see: blatantly ogle) as the skeleton’s expression shifts, his sockets pinching as his brow furrows, as that perpetual grin of his dips at the corners. He pulls his shoulders in a shrug, that iconic blue hoodie of his bunching and creasing with the motion.

You never did get around to ordering one of those. Too bad, it looks really comfy.

“gonna be honest, kid,” that deep, soothing bass breaks through the wandering of your mind. “wasn't expecting to see a human down here.”

“Didn’t really expect to be down here,” you shoot back. You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nose as you slouch and violently throw yourself back against the couch. Your arms flail as you rant, “There’re bags of popato chisps and Grillby’s takeout bags and talking skeletons and couches from video games and nothing is making any sense! ” An arm lays across your face, shielding your eyes, as the opposite lays bent above your head.

There’s an awkward stretch of silence, though you're pretty sure you hear the ruffling of fabric, the sktch of someone’s shoes coasting along the filthy floor. And then,

“uh… what?”

Your arms shoot up, fingers splayed, and you glare at the ceiling as you shout,” Video games, Sans! Video games!!” You pull yourself back into a proper seated position and meet the eyes (eye sockets??) of the vanilla bean. Oh. Huh. He’s doing that pitch black eye socket thing. Looks like the edgy bastard behind him is doing it too. Maybe the tall one is as well. You can't tell with Papyrus types--sometimes they have eyelights, sometimes they don't. Oh well.

“What?” Your brows furrow and you purse your lips as you tell them to, “Stop doing that eye-thing at me.”

They don't listen, of course. Just continue to creepily, silently stare at you.

“Stop it!” you demand, and in an effort to get them to cease and desist, bring your hands together in a rather forceful clap. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the way they jolt at the noise.

Sans clears his non-existent throat again, then he shuffles in place, before finally, “how’d ya know my name, kid?”

You quirk a brow.

“What? You're telling me most people wouldn't recognize the brother of monsterkind’s mascot?” Hey, look at that, he really does sweat blue magic. Neat. “Aren't there only like two skeletons in all of existence? Your alternate copies don't count.”

Op. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say ‘cause the voided eye sockets are back again.

“Hey, no! You stop that!” You snap your fingers several times in quick succession and thankfully, it seems to work.

”I mean… Y’all are on the surface, right? This is a post-pacifist ending timeline, right? It usually is in these kind of scenarios.”

And before the sweating Sans so much as squeaks, you hear a rumbling growl, see a blur of reds and black, and then you’re being pinned to the sofa. Underfell Sans is literally right up in your grill, his snarling, sharp-toothed face mere inches from yours.

“th’ fuck kinda shit’re you spoutin’, ya sack a’ shit?”

Oh. This is awkward. Not to mention uncomfortable. He’s practically kabedon’d you, arms on either side of your head, a sneakered foot precariously positioned between your legs.

Kinky.

His voice is pretty nice, too; a deep bass like his vanilla counterpart, though there’s an edge to it that the blue-clad skeleton’s clearly lacks. You think you could listen to this guy's voice for hours too.

You sink into the couch a bit, entirely unimpressed, and shift your weight to the side, bringing up a hand to push against his arm, and slide to the side, out from under him. Your nonchalance seems to catch him off guard as he just stares, befuddled, as you casually extricate yourself, resettling against the arm of the couch.

“C’mon,” you start, gaze shifting from Underfell, to Undertale, to Underswap, “you're smarter than that. You can pick up on the context clues, can't you?”

“the machine…” Your gaze shifts back to the tall, lanky skeleton still standing towards the back as he speaks. His voice is definitely somewhere in the tenor range, though it’s a bit raspy. It's nice, but nowhere near as smooth, broadcasting quality as Sans's is. “you're from an alternate timeline.”

He sounds so convinced, so sure of his deduction. You? Not so much.

“Mmm… something like that? I guess?”

The edgy skeleton beside you shifts, lowers his arms from the couch and instead just… lets himself flop into the cushions. The action causes you to jostle slightly.

“whadda ya mean, ‘summin’ like that’?” he all but growls, scowling at you.

“I mean what I mean. It's something like that but not quite? Because uh…” You drag your eyes from one skeleton to the next and then back again before shifting your gaze to the left and right. Man, this place is an absolute pigsty. “Because hmmm….”

Sans, the Classic™ one, chooses that moment to re-engage with the conversation. He lets loose a world weary sigh and plops onto the other end of the couch, sandwiching his Underfell variant between the two of you.

“‘hmmm’?” he prompts.

“Yes, hmmm,” you respond, face scrunching up in thought. Well, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag (not that it was ever really in one to begin with) so. What’ve you got to lose?

“It's a game,” you begin and you don't miss the way they all seem to snap to attention. “Undertale, by the way. That's what it's called. Came out a few years ago. Actually just had its what… fourth anniversary the other week?”

Underswap Papyrus, likely envious of everyone else sitting but him, comes over to the couch and props himself against the opposite arm. “so… what. we’re just a buncha video game characters to you?” He appears to be frowning as he fishes a honey sucker from his hoodie pouch pocket and wedges the treat between his teeth.

“Mmmmmmm… no. Not exactly. Sans—the original one—” and you point to the blue-clad skeleton, “is technically the only video game character. Which by the way, congratulations on making it into Smash, even if it’s just as a costume.”

Sans’s expression twists in confusion, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his skull as he responds, voice slightly higher pitched, “…thanks?” He has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You’re welcome. But as I was saying, Sans is the original, the main branch, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with that particular analogy. You,” and you point to the Papyrus, who quirks a brow, “and you,” you point to the scowling, sharp-toothed Sans whose scowl only tightens in response, “are from AUs—Alternate Universes created by fans curious about different takes on canon. Underswap and Underfell, respectively.”

It occurs to you, then, that maybe you should go at this a little lighter, maybe don’t be so blunt about everything… but. Well… you don’t really know how else to lay this down. You’ll apologize about any existential crises you induce later, you guess—asking for forgiveness over permission and all that. Besides, it’s not like you asked for this situation to unfold, either; it’s not like you know what the hell is going on. You’re pretty much in the same boat as these jokers.

The skeleton seated beside you growls (he likes to do that a lot, doesn’t he?) and twists to face you, the little lights in his eye sockets burning red hot.

“s’what? we’re s’posed t’believe yer a human from sum kinna reality where we ain’t even real? jus’ summin made up fer yer own sick entertainment?”

You recoil at the sheer animosity in his voice, back sinking into the worn padding of the couch’s arm. It’s a miracle you don’t just tumble over the side of the thing, honestly, with how far you pull away.

“Uh… I mean. No? You’re free to believe whatever you want but it’s not like I just decided to break into some random dingy basement in my lounge clothes for shits and giggles.”

He just stares at you, his scowl tightening, his sockets creasing and his face just absolutely scrunching in anger before he’s just. Gone. Poof! Shortcutted right the fuck outta here.

Well.

That was a thing that happened.

You can empathize with the guy to a certain degree but well. You don’t exactly want to spend too much energy thinking about things. Not right now. Like a lot of things in your life, you’ll deal with it later.

Brushing that exchange aside, you find yourself releasing a lot of pent up tension you hadn’t realized you were holding onto (in your shoulders, your neck, back, even your jaw ) and address the two remaining skeletons still sat with you. Sans doesn’t appear to be sweating anymore, though he does look like he’s thinking something over. Underswap Papyrus is much the same, though he’s taken to fiddling with the stick of his honey sucker.

“So hey,” you start, effectively drawing their attention, “got any popato chisps?”

You want to know if they taste any different from regular potato chips.

#Red Drabbles #Undertale Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Cross Dimensional Problems #Reverse Harem

13 notes · View notes

bedlamsbard · 5 years

Text

Here’s the second part of the accidental roommates AU -- this is one of those times when I say “second” in terms of when I wrote it, not in terms of the internal chronology, because there are probably two or three months between this part and the previous part. As usual, please remember that this is concept writing and not a titled, polished fic. (Also IDK if the timeline with Solo matches up but that’s why it’s concept writing, so I don’t have to do math.)

About 4.9K below the break. Please remember that I don’t warn.

“Hera, I am very disappointed in you.”

Hera did her best not to flinch at the words, sitting with her back poker-straight and her hands folded in her lap. When Agent Beneke didn’t go on, she said, trying not to let her voice shake, “It isn’t against regulations.”

Her handler regarded her grimly, his mouth set in a moue of disgust and distaste. “I was starting to believe you were less of a slut than other members of your species, Hera.”

This time Hera did flinch. She didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she just sat there, her hands fisted so tightly that her knuckles ached.

Beneked waited for her to reply; when she didn’t, he went on, “No, it isn’t against regulations, but that’s only because the Inquisition is outside the scope of the rest of the Imperial service. The true Imperial service, not the Emperor’s –” He hesitated over the words, then finished, “– attack dogs.”

He let the words hang in the air.

Hera said in a whisper, “I’m not a slut.”

He ignored that. “Of course, I understand that some allowances must be made for your species, but surely, Hera, there were other alternatives. The Lake House – well, I suppose you might have a taste for humans. Agent Melplith –”

“He wanted to rape me.”

“You misunderstood, Hera –”

“He wanted to rape me,” Hera spat, feeling heat gather in her cheeks. “I might be a Twi’lek, but I’m not stupid.”

Agent Beneke raised his eyebrows in response to that, clearly suggesting that at the moment the matter was up for debate. He let Hera’s words hang in the air between them for long enough that Hera felt her lekku twitch before he said, “But you were already fucking another man.”

Hera set her jaw and didn’t correct him, since it wasn’t any of his business when she and Kanan had started sleeping together, especially not when she had relied on that illusion to keep Agent Melplith away from her. All she wanted was to be out of this room and back in Kanan’s, with a door that locked and which not even Beneke would dare to come into. “It’s not against regs,” she repeated stubbornly. “And my grades haven’t dropped.”

“For now.” His voice was cool. “I’ll be contacting the Inquisition, Hera.”

She forced herself not to react, though she guessed that Beneke saw her flinch anyway. She doubted that he was aware that Kanan was terrified of the rest of the Inquisition. And even if he was aware – she knew as well as he did that they wouldn’t let Kanan keep a mistress.

“We have an offworld assignment in the morning,” she said, keeping her voice as calm as she could manage despite the fact that she felt like bursting into tears. “May I go, please?”

“Back to him.” It wasn’t a question.

Hera raised her gaze to him and couldn’t keep the acid out of her voice. “That’s where my things are.”

“You’ve disgraced yourself, Hera,” Agent Beneke said coldly. “Yourself, and me. I vouched for you to come to the Academy, you know, and you are on the verge of throwing it all away. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“May I be excused, please?” Hera said again.

“You may go,” Agent Beneke said, “but after you get back from Garel tomorrow, I’ll see this ended one way or another. Do you understand, Hera?”

“Yes, sir,” Hera said.

His voice went gentle. “It’s for your own good, Hera. You don’t understand the danger you’ve put yourself in with this Inquisitor. They’re not like the rest of us. He’s barely human anymore.”

Hera didn’t say anything, and after a moment, Agent Beneke said, “You’re dismissed, Hera. Good luck on your operation tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hera said, and fled the room, trying not to make it too obvious that running away was what she was doing. She made it all the way back to the officers’ guest quarters without collapsing, ignoring the other officers and cadets she passed along the way. She opened the door to find Kanan inside, sitting cross-legged on the bed and frowning at a datapad. He smiled as she came in, lifting his gaze to her – that sweet smile that was just for her, which transformed his handsome, scarred face into something else entirely.

The smile fell away as he saw her expression, and he said, “What’s wrong?”

She took a stumbling step into the room, enough for the door to slide shut behind her. She didn’t remember falling into Kanan’s arms, but she must have, because the next thing she knew he was holding her as she wept into his shoulder, her whole body shaking with the force of her sobs. He held her close, rubbing her back with one hand, until Hera’s tears finally trailed off into gasping hiccups.

They were both sitting on the floor, Kanan with his back against the bed and Hera kneeling between his legs. He still had his arms around her, holding her protectively against him, but he loosened his grip as Hera sat up, wiping at her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked her gently. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” Hera said. She felt dull, wrung out and scraped thin. “Agent Beneke – my handler – he just got back. And he heard about us.”

She was surprised, in a way, that someone hadn’t contacted him already, but presumably the same fear of the Inquisition that had kept anyone here from actually confronting them about it had kept anyone from bringing it to Agent Beneke’s attention.

“What happened?” Kanan’s voice was still impossibly gentle, and Hera couldn’t imagine how Beneke could accuse him of being something other than kind.

Hera shook her head and curled back up into his arms, hiding her face against his chest. I want to go, she thought suddenly. I don’t want to be here anymore.

“We’ve got an op tomorrow,” she said eventually, her voice raw from crying. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” Kanan said mildly. He ducked his head and kissed her very gently on the mouth, his lips brushing over hers. Hera put her arms around his neck to hold him against her, unable to bear the idea of never seeing him again.

We could leave. We could just leave. I want to leave.

But she didn’t dare say the words out loud, not in the heart of the ISB itself, and the fact that she genuinely didn’t know what Kanan would say to it kept her from even whispering it in his ear. He was terrified of the Inquisition – far more afraid of them than Hera was of the ISB.

“I love you,” she said against his mouth.

“I love you too.” He kissed her again. “It will be all right, I promise.”

Hera shook her head, but didn’t say anything, just curled up in the warm circle of his arms. She couldn’t imagine it ever being all right.

Once the idea had come into her head, Hera couldn’t seem to get it out. She turned it over and over in her mind the entire way to Garel, sitting in the back of a commuter shuttle with Kanan next to her, his arm comfortably around her shoulders like they were an ordinary couple. She didn’t dare voice it to Kanan no matter how badly she needed to talk about it with him; there was no way that the shuttle wasn’t bugged, either by the company that operated it or by the ISB. After what Agent Beneke had said, Hera didn’t trust the ISB not to have them surveilled at every opportunity. The only place she knew they wouldn’t be watched was in the club itself.

She took Kanan’s hand as they left the shuttle, making their way through the corridors of the spaceport before they finally emerged into the city streets. He bent his head to hers like any other young lover’s, brushing a kiss over her lips that made Hera shiver, self-conscious in public despite the fact that no one here had any idea who they were. It wasn’t quite full dark yet, the planet cast in purple twilight as they wandered idly through the tourist district of the city, cutting a slow, meandering path towards the club. Garel had a thriving nightlife, both licit and otherwise, and after months of barely leaving the Imperial Complex except to go on training missions it was enchanting to see something so different. Species from all across the galaxy congregated on the world; Hera’s green skin and lekku didn’t warrant a second look from anymore, no more than Kanan’s handsome human features did. She spotted enough other Twi’leks on the street to guess that there was probably an enclave somewhere in the city – no surprise there, though it hadn’t been in their brief.

Kanan stopped at a food stall to buy her a waffle dusted with meiloorun sugar and himself one with syrup. They stood in the shelter of a street lamp to eat them, Hera trying determinedly not to get powdered sugar all down her front and mostly succeeding. Kanan licked his fingers clean of syrup and then grinned comfortably at her. He looked happier in civilian clothes than Hera had ever seen him before – or at least, outside of their bed – with the comfortable ease of someone who had never been near an Imperial uniform in his life.

Hera leaned up and touched her lips to his. Run away with me, she almost said. Let’s just go, let’s leave now. But she didn’t dare do it, not now, not when any of the beings around them could have been watching them, listening in, evaluating them for the ISB and the Inquisition. Instead, she just said, “I love you.”

Kanan kissed her back. “It will be all right,” he told her.

You don’t know that. Hera just kissed him again, the napkins she had been using for the waffle balled up in one fist as she put her arms around his neck. She still felt exhausted and wrung out after the confrontation with Agent Beneke, the hours she had spent crying in Kanan’s arms pricking weariness at the corners of her eyes.

Kanan wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

Hera shook her head. “Let’s do this,” she told him. Once they were in the club, she could be certain they weren’t being bugged – not by the Empire, anyway. They just had to get that far.

“Okay.” He kissed her again, then took the dirty napkins from her and stepped aside to toss them in a waste bin. Hera took his hand again as they made their way to the club, which was garishly lit up even from the outside, a quickly-moving line formed at the door. Hera and Kanan joined the queue and were inside a few moments later, feeling a low faint hum as they descended the staircase into the club’s open lower level. She flicked a startled glance upwards, spotting the jamming equipment in the ceiling, and felt her shoulders relax for the first time that day.

Kanan noticed, but didn’t say anything, just squeezed her hand.

The sound of the club, the number of people packed into the space, was oppressive. It made Hera wince, her fingers tightening on Kanan’s hand until she was certain it had to hurt.

“Our guy’s not going to be out here on the floor,” he said, bending his head to her ear and keeping his voice low. “They must have more rooms –”

Hera nodded to the curtained areas off the main space. She guessed that some of them were probably no more than nooks for couples to retire to, but others were likely to be more substantial rooms for rent, or corridors leading to them, since curtains weren’t much for privacy.

She and Kanan made their way to the edge of the room, wandering along the walls with the air of a couple looking for somewhere to make out. Several of the curtained nooks were clearly occupied by two or more beings; another turned out to be a hallway leading to the kitchens and another to the refreshers. They stumbled into a third hallway with the careless ease of drunk lovers, Kanan pressing Hera against the wall as he kissed her, one hand toying with the hem of her shirt.

“Tease,” Hera gasped, only half-joking, and felt Kanan grin against her mouth. He drew back a moment later, glancing around the corridor before he tilted his head slightly, his eyes slanting half-shut.

“I think we’re in the right spot,” he said.

Hera didn’t ask how he knew, just followed him as he moved cautiously down the corridor. She knew he had his lightsaber hidden somewhere on his person; she had a comlink but no blaster. If they were caught, their only two options were talking fast or Kanan killing everyone.

Kanan paused at a curve in the corridor after a few minutes of walking. Hera peered around the curve, taking in the sight of the six beings standing outside another curtained entryway. Two were Twi’leks, two Pykes, and two Falleens. Definitely the right place, Hera thought; that was the Pyke Syndicate and the Black Sun, and the Twi’leks could have been from any number of cartels. She started to draw back, then froze as one of the Twi’leks shifted position so that she could see his face clearly.

She grabbed Kanan’s hand, dragging him back down the corridor until they were near the floor again. She could feel as much as hear the roar of the crowd and the throbbing beat of the music beyond the thick curtain; the idea of going out there was unbearable.

“What is it?” Kanan demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you want to leave?” Hera blurted out, her voice shaky. “With me? Leave the Empire, I mean.”

“Who was that?” Kanan asked her. “You saw someone you knew?”

“Will you?” Hera asked him desperately.

He hesitated briefly, then nodded.

“I think my father’s in there,” Hera whispered.

Kanan’s eyes went wide. “What? I – your father?”

“I recognized one of the Twi’leks outside,” Hera said shakily. She was barely aware of anything except white noise, turning this over and over again in her mind. Her father was there; she could go home. Hera hadn’t thought seriously about that in years, hadn’t thought she still wanted it, but now that the thought was lodged in her head it was the only thing she could think of. “I need to get a message to him, but I can’t just walk up to them –”

“Get one of the waitresses to do it,” Kanan said promptly. He ducked his head and kissed her. “Come on. Let’s go find one.”

This is a waste of time, Cham Syndulla thought wearily, but didn’t let it show on his face. He had the money to outbid the Pykes and the Black Sun, but there was no reason to believe that Free Ryloth might not need those credits more in the future than they needed the weapons for sale now. And even after all these years part of him still chapped at the fact that he had to sit at the same table as criminal scum like the cartels. He doubted that they cared, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Pyke and Black Sun representatives looked equally smug that a scion of Ryloth had been brought down to their level. The Crimson Dawn dealer, a scarred human named Vos, had said as much in so smooth a way that the cartel members hadn’t even realized Cham was being insulted.

They all looked up as the curtain was swept back and Gobi stepped into the room. “My apologies for the interruption,” he said. “I have an urgent message for my master and mistress that cannot wait – a family matter.”

“I would never stand in the way of family,” Vos said smoothly. “Please, Syndulla, go – will you be returning to us?”

“Perhaps another occasion.” Cham rose to his feet, offering Alecto his hand. “I am sure we will have another opportunity to do business together.”

“Certainly something can be arranged,” Vos said. “My lady.”

Alecto inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, but didn’t speak. She and Cham left Vos and the cartel members to return to their bidding war, joining Gobi and Jaq in the corridor. The Pyke and Black Sun soldiers regarded their appearance with curiosity. One of the club waitresses was standing nearby with Jaq, a beautiful Pantoran girl in a skimpy outfit. She started to speak, but Cham held up his hand until they had gone down the corridor somewhat, around the curve in the hallway and out of sight of the cartel soldiers.

“You’re Syndulla?” she asked.

“I am,” Cham said. He blinked at her in surprise; his assumption when Gobi had said “family” had been that something had happened back at the fleet with Doriah or Xiaan. “You have a message for me?”

“There’s a girl in the club who wants to see you,” the Pantoran said. “She said to tell you that she’s from the house with seven fountains.”

Alecto grabbed for Cham’s hand, her nails digging into his bare skin. “Where?” she demanded. “Where is she?”

“In one of the private rooms.” The Pantoran looked inquisitively at them without moving.

Cham produced a twenty-credit chip without having to be prompted further; it disappeared into the girl’s bustier and she led them out of the corridor and onto the crowded floor of the club, skirting the walls and passing several curtained entrances before she came to a stop outside one of them. “They’re in here,” she said.

“Stay here,” Cham said to Gobi and Jaq, and thrust the curtain aside to step into the chamber beyond, Alecto just behind him.

Hera couldn’t sit. She just paced back and forth across the small room while Kanan watched her from his position on the loveseat, legs crossed tailor-style in front of him. “It will be all right,” he told her.

Hera didn’t respond, just bit her knuckle and tried not to let her wild hope overwhelm her. If the man the ISB had sent them after came in here instead of her father – or if the Empire – if this was a trick, a trap, another loyalty test and one she had failed –

Kanan raised his head suddenly. When Hera jerked around to stare at him, he said, “There’s someone –”

The curtain was swept aside before he could finish, admitting a tall, orange-skinned Twi’lek man.

Hera didn’t think, just gasped, “Daddy!” and flung herself into his arms. An instant later another pair of arms went around her, her mother holding onto her with desperate strength as she whispered, “My baby, my baby –”

Hera started to cry.

She hadn’t thought that she would, but once she started she couldn’t seem to stop, sobbing against her father’s shoulder as he held her tightly. Her mother kissed her frantically and Hera managed to transfer her death grip from her father to her mother, clutching at her like the child she hadn’t been in years. Her father put his arms around them both, his lips moving in something that Hera recognized as a prayer of thanksgiving.

An instant later he spotted Kanan, still seated on the loveseat, and drew back sharply, his hand going to the empty holster on his hip.

“He’s with me,” Hera said hastily, pulling herself out of her mother’s tight grip. “Daddy, Mama, Kanan. Kanan, these are – these are my parents, Cham and Alecto Syndulla.”

Kanan blinked once, recognizing at least one of the names, but unfolded himself as he stood up, keeping his hands in plain sight. “Sir,” he said. “Ma’am.” He hesitated and then added, “You knew one of my former teachers, General Syndulla. Master Windu always spoke very highly of you.”

Cham frowned at him, clearly startled, then his eyes widened with realization. “You’re –”

Hera didn’t even see Kanan move, but all at once his lightsaber hilt was in his hand where Cham could see it. Her father’s jaw dropped even as Kanan made the lightsaber vanish again.

Hera was staring too, because while she had guessed that particular secret from a few hints Kanan had dropped over the past months, she had never expected him to actually admit it. From his nervous expression, Kanan hadn’t expected to ever do so either.

“I – see,” Cham said after a moment where he just stared wide-eyed at Kanan. He glanced at Hera, visibly realized what their relationship was, and swallowed back whatever automatic protest he had to that.

Her mother put her arm around Hera again like she couldn’t bear to not be touching her for even a few moments. “We’re going back to the fleet,” she said. “You and your friend –”

Hera bit her lip, but nodded. “The – the Empire is watching the club,” she said. “I know there’s another – a team inside, maybe more than one.”

Her father caught the slip but didn’t ask about it, just frowned in thought, then turned to pull the curtain back. “Gobi,” he said, “go find Vos’s second. Tell her that they should be on the lookout for Imperial visitors, then meet us outside. I assume Vos has some kind of plan for that contingency.”

“Yes, Syndulla.”

Hera heard footsteps moving hastily away. Cham said, “We’ll go out the back, the way we came in.”

Kanan flicked a glance at Hera. She nodded slightly in response; she hadn’t meant to do this when she came in here, but it was happening now. And Hera – there were a lot of things Hera had wanted for years and had given up hope of ever getting again. Her family was one of them.

“They might be watching the back,” Kanan offered slowly.

It was a training mission, not a full assault, meant to be observation-only and with relatively little risk for several pairs of cadets. Hera and Kanan hadn’t been briefed on how many other pairs were assigned to this operation, but she suspected that given the notoriety of Crimson Dawn she and Kanan weren’t the only ones in here. She had been too overwhelmed on the club floor to look for any of the others.

“I don’t think so,” Hera said, equally hesitant. It was possible, but because this was only a training mission, meant to test their cadets in the field without supervision, the ISB wasn’t likely to waste agents on something like that. And none of the cadets she knew were likely to waste time camping out in the back of the club hoping something interesting happened there, rather than coming inside and seeking it out on their own.

“Can you sense them?” her father asked Kanan.

He looked startled to be asked, but shook his head. “Too many people in here.”

“Then we’ll go now,” Cham said firmly. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out, revealing a vaguely familiar Twi’lek woman whose name Hera couldn’t remember off the top of her head. The woman’s eyes widened as she recognized Hera. “We’re going,” Cham told her. “Hera, you remember Jaq?”

Hera absolutely did not remember Jaq, but she had to be either a Syndulla clanswoman or from her father’s old Clone Wars resistance group.

Hera’s mother put an arm around her, like she couldn’t bear not to be touching Hera even for a few moments. She held Hera close against her as they made their way across the club floor, which made walking a little difficult in the crowded space, but Hera wasn’t about to try to make her mother release her. She looked back several times to make certain that Kanan was following, which he was. Jaq was trailing him, with an expression on her face that made Hera think the older woman wasn’t certain about Kanan’s ability to either stay with the group or take care of himself.

Hera should have been trying to spot the other ISB cadets that she was certain were here, but there were too many people in the club and she didn’t want to let go of her mother, so she let it be. There was nothing she could do about it now, anyway. The realization was something of a relief.

What she did see were several of the club’s black-helmeted guards standing unobtrusively at the edges of the room, especially as they slipped out into a hallway she and Kanan had passed before. One of them watched them leave, but didn’t make any attempt to stop them. Still, Hera found herself holding her breath until they finally left the club and stepped abruptly into the cool dark of a back alley.

Gobi was waiting there for them, along with another one of the guards; this one had the visor of his helmet retracted, revealing monkey-like features. Both were regarding each other grimly, but looked up as Cham emerged. The guard waited for them all to emerge from the club, gave Kanan as the one human in the group a dubious look, and said, “The boss says your assistance is appreciated, and he hopes to do business again with you sometime.”

“Likewise,” Cham said, his voice carefully neutral. He accepted the blaster the guard handed him and holstered it, then took two more blasters to pass back to Alecto and Jaq. “Tell your boss I’ll be in touch.”

The guard nodded. His visor slid back into place again, concealing his face. When he spoke again, his voice came out with a slight metallic quality, “The landing bay has been notified that you’re on your way.”

“Thank you.” Cham glanced at Hera as though to make sure she hadn’t gone anywhere in the past few minutes, then led the way down the alley.

The private landing bay was only a street away from the club, with a few more of the helmeted guards tucked discreetly just inside the doors, which Cham opened with a keycard. There weren’t individual bays inside, just docking slots. Hera spotted what were probably the Pyke and Black Sun ships in two of them, along with a sleek shuttle that she suspected probably belonged to Dryden Vos himself. The Syndulla’s Gamble was docked in another slot.

Hera couldn’t help her sharp inhalation. She had grown up with the Gamble, had expected to pilot it someday; it was a shock to see here and now, as if nothing had changed since the last time she had seen it four years ago.

“We’re almost there, baby,” her mother murmured to her. “We’ll be home soon.”

There were a couple of Twi’leks standing at the foot of the ramp, holding blaster rifles and eyeing the Pyke and Black Sun guards with suspicion; they were being eyed back in turn. One of them, Hera realized, was her aunt Clotho; she didn’t recognize the other.

Kanan touched her elbow suddenly, and Hera jumped. Her mother shot a wary glance at him, then at the expression on his face released Hera and stepped a little ways away.

“Don’t,” Hera told him. “Don’t you dare. You already said you would.”

“My master –”

“I know you don’t want to go back to him. I know you’re afraid of him.”

Kanan glanced aside, and even in the cool lights of the hangar bay Hera could see the faint scars on his face and neck, at the edge of his hairline. She took his hands in hers and said, “Don’t leave me alone. Please.”

“You’re with your family.”

“I want you too,” Hera said. “I love you.”

He smiled a little. “I’m not afraid of him for me,” he said. “He’ll knock me around. He’s done that before. But if I leave, he’ll come after me, and he’ll kill everyone between us to do it. That puts you and your family at risk.”

“I think my family’s been at risk for a while now,” Hera pointed out. “And I don’t want you to get hurt either.” She leaned up and kissed him. “Also, since we’re in a crime lord’s secret hangar bay, I don’t think they can actually let you leave without shooting you first.”

Kanan smiled a little, but kissed her back. “I can deal with a couple of enforcers,” he pointed out. “But my master –” He stopped again, agony on his face.

“Please,” Hera said again.

After a terrifyingly long moment he nodded. Hera kissed him again and then put her arms around him, holding him against her as he buried his face in her neck. She was fighting back her surge of adrenaline with effort, trying not to let herself be angry at him. He was frightened. It wasn’t fair to expect him to be anything otherwise, not after what his master had done to him.

“Hera,” her father said quietly.

She released Kanan so that she could look at him. He was standing a little ways away, regarding them both thoughtfully, and Hera realized that she had no idea how much of the conversation he had overheard. But all he said was, “We need to leave.”

Hera took a breath. “All right,” she said. She reached out for Kanan’s hand, resisted the urge to look behind her – there was nothing to see except the Crimson Dawn enforcers, anyway – and followed her parents towards the Syndulla’s Gamble.

#cut scenes and concept writing #accidental roommates au tag #as always comments are appreciated

48 notes · View notes

kayura-sanada · 4 years

Text

Break In (Fenris/Azzan Hawke, Solas/Kios Lavellan, ch. 1/??)

Title: Break In Chapter: One (Put Your Lighter In the Air and Lead Me Back Home) Fandom: Dragon Age II Pairings: Azzan Hawke/Fenris; Solas/Kios Lavellan Rating: M Words: ~9100 Summary: Azzan Hawke gets trapped in the Fade with Nightmare. Fenris refuses to let him remain there.

Notes: While this includes informational snippets from For Good, it is not necessary to read that story to understand this one.

Tags: Fade, Nightmare, Alternate Universe: Alternate Timeline, Canon AU, Azzan Hawke, Varric, Fenris, ------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------

The fire crackled. The night had eaten away at it, dimming it to sudden spattering sparks as it slowly died to embers in the middle of their campfire. Across from them, little Orana huddled inside of her blankets. Hawke’s mabari, Aegis, lay with her, snuffling quietly. A sentinel for their most vulnerable member.

By Fenris’ side sat his lover, best friend, and confidante – a mage named Azzan Hawke. The impossible man Fenris had fallen in love with. They both sat up facing the fire despite the late hour, their blankets cool and empty behind their backs. Azzan remained in his armor, as did Fenris; they were on the run, only a week’s travel from Kirkwall, and couldn’t let down their guard even in sleep. Fenris yawned, only for Hawke’s healing aura to whisper against his skin. He looked at Azzan to see those eyes gazing heavily at him.

They had been through much, even discounting the battle against Meredith and her templars just a week before. They’d faced the worst secrets within their relationship, the hatred that had caused Fenris to turn a blind eye to the plight of mages in Kirkwall – the plight Azzan had been trapped within, as well.

Since then, they’d been running. Not to any specific destination. Simply ‘away from Kirkwall.’ At the moment, they were running a path directly away from the mountains, keeping away from where Hawke had told Kirkwall’s apostates to head. They couldn’t risk attempting to cross the Waking Sea; a boat would be too easy to chase and destroy out on the waters. They were left heading West. Closer to Tevinter with every passing day.

He held Azzan’s gaze. Over the past few days, they’d spoken more openly with one another than ever before. Perhaps it was partly because of how close they’d come to losing one another. Fenris believed it was because they’d finally laid themselves bare. Whatever the case, Hawke had admitted his goals for the world, and for the first time, Fenris had stopped denigrating mages and listened. He’d been surprised to learn that Hawke wanted the templars to remain, save more as guards than as jailers. Hawke even wished to perhaps keep the Circles. “We need a place to learn,” Hawke said. “That, at least, is true. We need to know of our powers, and of the Fade. If it weren’t for my father, things would have been very different for myself and my sister.”

Somehow, after hearing Azzan’s goals, it had been as if they could speak about anything. Hawke had never dared tell Fenris his hopes for mages, because, in truth, Fenris would never have entertained them before. He’d closed his mind off, and in doing so, he’d closed his heart. It had been the third night on the run that Fenris had leaned heavily on Azzan’s shoulder and whispered, “I want to change.”

And it had been without hesitation that Hawke had curled an arm around him and said, “no matter what, I’m with you.”

Their fourth night had been the night for a different sort of conversation, likely brought up from their pent-up frustration; they hadn’t enough privacy to spend more intimate time together, and with Orana just on the other side of the fire, they were uneasy with the idea of trying after she fell into sleep. Fenris had grumbled something about taking care of himself beyond the treeline, and Hawke had nearly tripped over himself to help. They’d spent several minutes scratching Hawke’s back against the bark of a tree before flopping back down by the fire and giggling themselves stupid.

“I have never done something that ridiculous in my life,” Fenris had said.

“Really?” The word had been filled with innocent surprise, yet it had made Fenris think.

“Danarius hated getting dirty, and the rest were in return for shelter. No need for an outdoor spectacle.”

Hawke had gone quiet for quite some time. Fenris remembered it, wanted to cradle every single second of that night to his chest. If there was anything he never wanted to forget, it was the way Azzan had looked at him when he’d said, “then that makes me your first.”

It had clearly not been what he’d first wanted to say; his mouth had parted for several seconds before he’d said it. Undoubtedly, he’d wanted to comment on Fenris’ past, to ask questions or, more likely, considering who Hawke was, to apologize on behalf of humanity, or for not meeting Fenris sooner. Instead he’d given Fenris a gift to cherish. For the first time, he’d found a true first in sex with Azzan. Never had he had sex of any kind in the woods, against a tree. That was Azzan’s and Azzan’s alone, and it always would be.

He’d smiled at the idea. It made Azzan’s surprised reaction from before nice when it could have been painful. “I’m not such an expert in sex as you think.”

Azzan’s lips quirked into a half-smile. Back on that fourth night, the light had still been higher. Orana had gone to sleep only about half an hour before they’d rushed for the trees. “You are to me,” Hawke said. Thanks to that bright blaze, he’d been able to see the way Azzan’s eyes sparkled at him. “You’re amazing.”

Fenris flushed. The tone of Hawke’s voice made it clear that the skills he possessed thanks to his past had little to nothing to do with why he was ‘amazing.’ “I am a fool.”

“No, you’re not.” Azzan’s voice had been firm. It always was when he was trying to stop Fenris from insulting himself. Annoying, considering how poorly Hawke often thought of himself.

“I am.” He glared warningly when Hawke made to contradict him again. “All this time, I have tried to give you pleasure, to help you find what you enjoy.” Hawke had blushed beet red and looked away. Fenris felt a similar stain on his own cheeks and cleared his throat. “But I have never…” No, he would not speak of what he’d been taught, of how he’d learned to memorize what Danarius wanted from his movements and sighs and fingers. How he’d learned to never ask, but instead to do, and do correctly the first time, or else. He did not want Hawke to know about that. The man was already an expert at hesitating in bed without imagining even more reasons to do so. “I have tried to lead you into showing me when I could have simply asked.”

Silence, for a few moments. Then a snort. “I could have simply told you, you know.” Hawke fiddled with his armor. Plucked at his pants. “But I was afraid.”

Afraid of making Fenris think of Danarius. Of bringing up bad memories. Of becoming someone Fenris associated with those of his past. Fenris sighed gustily. “We are both fools, then.”

Hawke smiled softly. “I guess so. Fools in love.”

Fenris covered his face and groaned.

Several minutes passed between them. Fenris had started feeling sleepy; with his lust sated and the fire dying down, he was strongly aware of Hawke’s warmth next to him and the darkness of the night surrounding them. The crickets had set up their cacophony long ago, until it had turned into a sort of melody. The night was chilly enough for him to shiver beneath the leather of his armor, but if he leaned against Azzan, then it melded easily into the feel of the man’s aura, and he could relax into it.

“My greatest sin,” Azzan whispered, and the man was so still, so quiet, so careful, that Fenris knew he thought Fenris had fallen asleep, “is wanting to be inside you.”

Fenris had simply lay against Azzan’s shoulder, not certain what to think. He could feel the tension in the shoulder beneath his head. Finally, he spoke. It made Azzan jump. “Why would that be a sin?”

A rumble billowed up through the body beneath his head. Azzan had nearly shouted in surprise. He smirked as he opened his eyes. Azzan looked down at him. “What?” the man asked. Playing dumb. Fenris just raised a brow. Azzan flinched and looked away again. It made Fenris pay enough attention that he sat up.

“Hawke?”

Azzan covered his mouth. “It’s not like… I don’t want…” The man scowled, obviously unhappy with the direction his attempts at explanations would head. Fenris grabbed Hawke’s hand and lowered it. Azzan met his gaze, took a deep breath, and said. “When you’re above me, in me. I feel safer than I’ve ever felt.”

The high praise left Fenris breathless.

“I want to give that to you. I want to shelter you, to – to have you know you’re safe. With me. Always. Your – your body, sure, but also…” Hawke grimaced. “When I’m with you, when we’re together–”

“When we are making love,” Fenris said quietly.

“Yes.” Hawke’s breath gusted out. “When we’re making love, when you’re above me, looking at me – I feel like if the world exploded, I would wake up to find you cradling my heart in your hands. Keeping it safe.” Fenris didn’t know how to respond. “I want that, too. For you. I want you to – but I can’t.” Fenris jerked. Hawke looked down at his lap, breaking eye contact. “That’s not what it would mean for you.” Hawke’s hand in his shook. “I know it. I hate it. I hate that man for it. I want to bring him back just so I can kill him again. I want to claw at him until…”

Azzan closed his eyes, halting the spew of violence. It was more hatred than Fenris had seen in Hawke for anyone. Usually his rage at least calmed once the person was gone. Fenris shouldn’t have been so warmed to know Hawke detested Danarius so much, but he was. The man who Fenris despised, Hawke despised, as well. For his sake.

“I want that, as well.”

Azzan quirked a grin. “You already got to claw his throat out. It’s my turn.”

It surprised a chuckle out of him. “You misunderstand.” When Azzan finally matched his gaze again, he continued. “I want to feel you like that. Inside me. Surrounding me.” Azzan flushed, but those eyes told Fenris the truth. Hunger, and want. “I admit that it will be difficult, but I see no reason why we cannot achieve it.”

Azzan had burst into a wide grin. He’d nearly bounced where he sat. “Really?”

Fenris had rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

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

Something that private – another first for Fenris, as he’d never spoken in such a way about sex before; every other time in his life, it had been about taking another’s orders on what to do and not how to fulfill one another equally – had opened the floodgates. They’d spent the next night talking about Hawke’s spirit. It had been Fenris who had begun the discussion. He’d stared into the fire, still blazing brightly, an unspoken hint that they both wished to continue the new rituals to their nights, and forced himself to, for the first time (another first!), speak on his own sexual desires. “If we are to acknowledge our desires to one another, I must admit that I… enjoy feeling your magic when you come.”

Azzan, who had been drinking from their canteen, had made one very loud gulping sound, lurched where he’d sat, and hacked. Fenris quickly reached over and patted his back as he coughed. Orana woke up. They’d spent a very long period of time getting Hawke to calm down, letting Orana check to ensure he was all right, and then waiting tensely for the young woman to go back to sleep so they could continue the discussion. Aegis, who had been sleeping soundly just earlier, now watched them with a smug grin. Azzan glared at the hound for several moments before giving up and turning to him. “What?”

“You always cut it off,” Fenris said, as if they hadn’t been interrupted and weren’t being listened to by an intelligent dog, “but I feel it. Your aura. You even actively heal me sometimes, when you aren’t really thinking about it.” Azzan had paled. Paled. Fenris wanted to throw his hands in the air. “Your magic comforts me. I desire the sensation.”

Azzan’s mouth gaped.

“It’s too late, anyway,” Fenris said, and snorted. “Sometimes, as we travel, I feel your aura and get – well. At least my body knows to prioritize properly in battle.”

Azzan choked, this time on air.

“I let it touch you?” Azzan whispered a full minute later. The man covered his mouth again – a habit Fenris was starting to recognize and trying to make him break. With others, he may be allowed to hide, but not with him. Not anymore. “I never mean to. It’s out of my control. I never wanted…”

“Did you not hear me say I desire it?”

Azzan sent him a look. “Even though I’m not controlling my spirit properly?”

Fenris shifted on the dry earth. “It is for that reason that I came to enjoy it.” At the disbelieving look Azzan sent him, he continued. “If it is not under your control, then it is instinct. I have felt the ‘instinct’ of countless mages. Only you instinctively heal, sometimes exhausting your mana in your desire to give. How can I not enjoy that feeling? The knowledge that you put me first without thought.”

He’d been surprised to see, not happiness, but pensiveness that had led Hawke to curling his arms around his knees like a child. The man had rested his head on his knees and stared out into the darkness beyond the fire. “I can’t help but fear it sometimes,” he’d said. The words had made Fenris jerk. Hawke had seen; the smile he’d given had not been happy, either. “I never wanted to tell you, because…”

Because he’d thought it would hasten Fenris’ departure, perhaps even his hatred. Fenris’ fists clenched. Hawke hadn’t been wrong to fear it, which only made Fenris angrier. He should have given proper support. Hawke had never hesitated to do so for him. “Tell me now.”

Azzan had. They’d barely remembered to sleep, they’d gotten so involved in the conversation. He learned about Azzan’s struggles when he’d first decided to make the deal, how he’d put Faith through the wringer because of his concerns about being too gullible, too hopeful, too optimistic. He learned about Hawke keeping Faith at a distance, to the point where Faith couldn’t properly help him, until he’d finally decided to dive into the relationship fully. That had been after the Arishok, Fenris remembered, and the issues that had arisen from that battle. He learned how close it had come, how vulnerable Azzan had been once Faith and him had separated.

Mostly, Azzan told him of a time when Faith had actually chosen to numb his emotions, to separate him from them in order to keep him safe from his own despair. “I made Faith make a pact to never do it again,” Azzan said, still not meeting Fenris’ gaze, instead staring into the glowing remains of the dying fire. Fenris looked to it as well, in time to watch a single spark flicker off into the air. The fire dimmed still more right before his eyes. “It made me wonder if I’d made a horrible mistake in trusting Faith so much. But we’re together now. Like Anders.” Azzan touched his chest. “If I lost Faith now…”

Fenris grimaced. The lives of the two were bound together. If one died, so would the other. “I know I only helped exacerbate your fears. Allow me to alleviate them somewhat.” Azzan quirked a brow at him, but he tilted his head, listening. “You are a healer, Hawke. It has taken me far too long to recognize just how ingrained that is within you. It is your instinct. Though I do not pretend to understand this… spirit… within you, I understand that much.” He’d scooted closer as the very last embers of the fire flickered out. Thrown into full darkness, his limited eyesight scanned the shadowy form beside him and took its hand. “I have known the you that is connected to this spirit, and I trust that you. You chose well.”

His words had been the last that night; Hawke had settled into his arms, and from there they had slept. Now was their sixth night, and again, they were instinctively moving toward yet another conversation. Fenris thrummed with energy despite the week’s hours spent speaking instead of sleeping. They were used to long days of travel; Hawke had always been traipsing up and down Kirkwall’s hillsides. They would not be as weary as Orana. Yet there was something odd in Hawke’s gaze as he looked upon Fenris now. Not trepidation, exactly. But those sad brows, those pressed lips. Even in the darkness, Fenris could place Hawke’s look of regret.

“I don’t want to live like this.”

Fenris was surprised more by his reaction than by anything else. His heart skipped a beat. This night, yet another night before the fire, with his chosen family beside him, he realized how much he had to lose. He’d had this feeling just six days earlier, but in a more physical sense. For the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to have Hawke turn away from him and leave. The thought seemed almost absurd; Hawke had never turned his back on him. Perhaps that was why he only thought of it now, hitting him so squarely he felt choked of air. Hawke had become his home. He didn’t like the thought of who he might become if he was left alone again.

“How do you mean?” he asked, and watched Azzan start waving his hands as if to encompass their makeshift camp, little more than the fire and the blankets and their packs, sitting to the side of his and Azzan’s blankets, ready to be grabbed in a moment if they needed to run. So far, they’d had little more than a couple of skirmishes to their names, mostly against bandits, but also against one small contingent of templars. Those sorts of battles, Fenris had thought even then, would define the rest of their lives.

“Running. No home. No safety.” Hawke’s gaze was on Orana, but Fenris thought he was included in Hawke’s concerns, as well. Because he always was. Of course Hawke was not leaving him. Of course. Thank goodness. “No reason to go anywhere or do anything.”

Drifting. Fenris had faced the same dilemma once. Hawke had told him to search for a meaning, whatever that meaning might be. But that advice wouldn’t work here. Hawke had a meaning. The freedom of mages. Now it was happening, and he was being hunted. In order to save the other mages of Kirkwall, Hawke needed to continue moving, to keep the templars’ gazes upon him for as long as possible.

“You will have purpose again,” Fenris assured him. It was the best he could give. “I understand your frustration, but this is temporary.” He hoped. He didn’t think so. “This battle will consume the world. But that does not mean it will last forever.” Again, he hoped. As had become normal, he leaned against Hawke, and Hawke against him. “We will find our home again.”

He knew without looking that Hawke would be smiling at the ‘we.’ “Until then?” Hawke whispered.

Fenris looked to Orana. She’d wanted so badly to not be left behind. She’d been willing to come with them despite refusing to so much as leave the building before. Still, the desire to be with Hawke had left her out in the cold, huddled under blankets beneath the sky. No shelter, no home. It was no way to live. Fenris knew that very well. “We will find a place.”

Hawke was silent. They both knew the chances of that happening.

“What do you want?” Hawke asked.

It was a loaded question. Hawke had a bad habit of putting others’ wants head and shoulders above his own. Fenris answered carefully. “I want a purpose, as well.”

Loving Hawke was something that would happen anywhere, at any time. It was no more a purpose than breathing. He thought about it. Opened his mouth. Closed it. He felt the weight of Hawke’s stare and reminded himself once again that he had sworn to never hide his thoughts. He’d promised himself when he’d run from Danarius. He would no longer act subservient to anyone, for anything. So he spoke. “When your brother had been captured. Do you remember?”

A foolish question, yet Hawke didn’t call him on it. He never did. “Yes.”

“The woman. Grace.” He thought back to her; she’d had the confident grace he knew all too well. It had outshone her physical features, which would have been stunning if it hadn’t been for the righteous indignation she wore like a second skin. “When we fought her, and she used her blood magic on me – there is no need to flinch, Hawke,” he said, trying not to sound aggravated. “I am not going to break at it.”

Hawke’s body was tense against him. “I can be unhappy about it,” Hawke said. Fenris sighed.

“For a moment during the battle, yes. It had felt familiar. But the sensation had left me angry, not afraid.” Hawke seemed to contemplate this. “It had felt right, battling her. I hadn’t faced a blood mage since battling Danarius. It had felt… good.”

More contemplation. He let Hawke ruminate on it. Fenris didn’t know what it meant, either, after all. Just that, when thinking about a purpose, that moment had felt right. In a way he couldn’t describe. Perhaps it was unfair, to mention cutting down mages in the same conversation as the idea of finding his purpose, but there it was.

“Perhaps we’ve been focusing on my own path for too long.”

Fenris snorted. “I never even acknowledged your path, Hawke. I hardly think we have dwelt upon it.”

Azzan chuckled. “That’s rather pathetic, then.” Fenris closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the pun. “Guess you’re a bit antipathetic toward my humor, huh?”

“Hawke.”

Azzan chuckled. “Fine, fine.” Fenris got to listen to Hawke take a few easy breaths before saying, “Ever since I came back from the Deep Roads, I’ve focused on helping mages get rights. I’d gained wealth and privilege; it was my duty, I thought, to use it properly.”

Maker. No wonder Fenris loved this idiot.

“But whatever the result of this disaster, the one thing I’m certain of is that I can’t be a part of it.”

That made Fenris lean off of Hawke and look up at him. The man was gorgeous. His hair was still partly pulled back, the locks for once still neatly within their hairtie, since they hadn’t gotten into a fight that day. It left his cheekbones on easy display, the last glows of firelight throwing the man’s eternal stubble into stark contrast with the golden tan of his skin. The metal of his specialized armor glowed orange in the last of the fire’s embers, shining up enough to show the edges of that midnight hair as it swept along the tops of Hawke’s shoulders. Fenris had expected to see tension in them, and in that back. He didn’t. Hawke seemed to have calmed somewhat. He’d reached some decision. “Why not?” Fenris asked.

“I led the start of the rebellion,” he said simply. At Fenris’ frown, he said, “it started horribly, Fenris. Meredith would have massacred them all, yes, but Anders…” Azzan grimaced. It was still painful for him; Anders had been a dear friend, someone Hawke had admired and cared for. The betrayal had been sudden and sharp, and Hawke had yet to recover from it. If he ever would. “So many innocent people died because of him. If I led, it would be considered an act of violence by mages against the world. We would all be hunted down and slaughtered for it. There would be no rebellion, no reform. Only death.”

Fenris thought about it. It was true. As much as neither of them liked it, mages had to look like martyrs now. They were; even Fenris, distrustful of mages as he was, knew they were victims in all this madness. For now. Countless mages would see themselves as righteous martyrs, and they would act with all the violence of those who believed they were right and the world was wrong. Just like Anders. But for now, mages needed the chance to prove themselves the subjected, not the usurpers.

Hawke might choose to involve himself later, but by then, the movement would be too large, and his appearance too late. If he got involved, he would merely make everything a pro-Champion, anti-Champion debate. So no, perhaps not even then. Hawke had begun this, but if he chose to lead? If he became, as Anders proclaimed him, the leader the mages had been waiting for?

Fenris shifted, uneasy. He didn’t like the idea of what it all would become. It sounded too much like an Exalted March.

Thankfully, it appeared Azzan had come to the same conclusion. “So what do you propose?” He wondered if Hawke was about to suggest they search down those mages who would cause harm and didn’t know if he wanted to do so. He didn’t know of any way they could do so, and if there was one, surely it would be one the templars also knew. Wouldn’t they then be in danger of running across the very people they were attempting to avoid?

Hawke wrapped one arm around him. Rubbed his cheek into Fenris’ hair like a cat. “Not me,” Hawke murmured. “You.” Fenris breathed in deeply of Hawke’s scent. The man always seemed to smell of both fall and spring, pumpkin spice and apples. Likely due to his spirit. “What would be the one cause you would wish to fight for?”

Once again, Fenris found himself stunned into surprised silence. Not because of the question – really, he should have known – or even because the very idea of standing for a cause was new to him, though it was. What surprised him was how quickly he thought of something he wished to fight for. It came easily. Because of his association with Hawke, who seemed to take on every single cause in the entirety of Kirkwall? Or because of the story he and Hawke had read together, as he’d learned to understand the squiggles people made on parchment? Or was it perhaps because he truly desired it, in some bottom-most recesses of his heart that he’d barely begun to explore?

Whatever the case, he knew his answer. He looked up, searching for any sign of hesitation, trepidation, fear. Instead Hawke looked as he usually did – ready to give Fenris the world. “I want to be free,” he murmured. Azzan opened his mouth. Fenris reached up one gauntleted hand, careful with the spiked tips, and covered those beautiful lips. “Not just here and now. Everywhere. I want the word slaves to fall into antiquity. I want those like Grace to find no haven on this earth. If anyone is to live their lives hunted and afraid, I want it to be people like her.”

His fingers slid from Azzan’s lips. Hawke reached up and played with Fenris’ bangs, showing, for a short moment, the dots of lyrium embedded in his forehead. Something deep touched those eyes, something unreadable that made those fingers clench around a lock of his hair before gently smoothing it out. “Then we’ll go,” Azzan said, as if it was the easiest decision in the world.

Go. To Tevinter. To fight.

The idea brought with it equal parts elation and terror. But the terror felt good. Like facing Danarius. Like winning. Though he didn’t know if they could. They were talking about starting a war against what was once the most powerful nation in Thedas. Just the two of them. He looked over to the two forms nearly cuddling together on the other side of the dying fire. The two of them, a dog and a young ex-slave whose skills included cooking and playing the lyre. (A lyre which had been left behind.) It was madness.

He looked at Hawke. “It’s suicide.”

“No.” Hawke smiled. “I don’t think so.”

It was. Yet Fenris couldn’t find a single reason to not. Where else had they to go? The world would be on the lookout for Hawke now. Any sign of the Champion, and he would be carted off to who knew where to suffer who knew what. Would he be locked away? Imprisoned? Made tranquil?

And what of the war? It would spread. Like a disease, the events of Kirkwall would filter out into the rest of the world. Even if Hawke was no longer wanted by the templars, he would be sought out by the mages. Either to be killed for his part in the rebellion, or to be recruited to lead them in their efforts, whatever those may be.

There was no such thing as a safe haven for them anymore. No home. No future. No prospects.

Why not find something to make them feel like they were taking control of their own futures? Why not choose a path they could be proud of?

One they would walk together.

Fenris grinned. He knew it was a smile full of teeth, nearly primal. Like a wolf. “I suppose you were right about stranger places.”

Hawke laughed. It woke the mabari, who had only just begun to drift to sleep. “I told you so.”

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

Inamorato.

The voice called to him from a haze of green. He turned, only to feel the coarse fiber of the mat beneath his skin. He looked around. He was standing. Standing, yet he distinctly felt the lumpy pillow beneath his head. Just a few hours before, he’d finished handing out orders to his people and had gone to sleep.

Suddenly he knew that was what he was. Asleep.

His fists clenched. Panic seized him. He hadn’t yet known a mage to be able to forcibly pull him into the Fade, but clearly that was what had happened. The green surrounding him was bright and thick, like a sort of fog. He took a single step and found himself, suddenly, in what looked like a very tiny clearing. He looked around again, startled. The place did not have the feel of the area he’d entered when chasing after Feynriel. It felt… soothing. Which made little sense until he saw the creature before him and felt, for the shortest instance, something like a summer breeze.

There was no sound here. No air. The small field ended in nothing but white. When he took another step into the meadow, the edges of it shifted yet again, becoming something more like the open wall of a chantry. Before him stood an enormous statue of Andraste, its hands out in a show of supplication.

The creature before him edged closer. He tensed. It stood at the height of a tall woman, its robes perhaps feminine in form. But its fingers were a smidge too long, its bearing a smidge too otherworldly. And its eyes were green.

Inamorato.

The word sounded familiar. He backed away. The chantry disappeared, though the statue remained. Only the edges of the meadow filled his vision. The creature stopped. For their dreams had been devoured by a demon that prowled the Fade as a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, and when there was nothing left, destroying the bright and bold by subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.

“Stay back, demon,” he hissed. He prepared to take another step back.

Help Healbird.

His foot touched the ground behind him. His eyes opened.

He woke up.

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

Back when they’d first arrived on the outskirts of Tevinter’s borders, Azzan had dressed himself up as a rich nobleman, with Fenris and Orana as his two servants. For Orana, the change had been natural. For Fenris, it had itched. As for Azzan – one would have thought someone had shoved glass under his nails. But it had gotten them inside, gotten them to a real bed for the first time in weeks, and had eventually allowed them the opportunity to take Tevinter in.

Those first few days, Fenris had looked over his shoulder at every turn, ready for someone to pop out and exclaim that they had found him, Danarius’ long-lost slave, his markings a glaring beacon for all to see. After a time, he’d learned that people paid little mind to elves, even less so here than in Kirkwall, and had managed to look more the guard and less the hunted.

They’d created a network. Fenris had been shocked to learn that Red Jenny had operatives here, and through Charade, Hawke had managed to meet them. Through them, they’d found runaway slaves, merchants helping to hide the slaves in their homes and in small buildings, secreting them through the night. They’d met a young man, elven, who had told them the secrets of the routes, the nobles who turned a willingly blind eye and those who actively hunted the slaves, bloodlust on their minds.

It had been Azzan who had gathered the information, Azzan who had made friends with all and sundry. And then, once they’d found enough to get started, it had been Azzan who had turned to him, kissed his ear, and whispered, “they’re all yours.”

Since then, he and Hawke had worked overtime to create their own safe havens within the country and its many cities, and to group together trustworthy souls to help those slaves escape. They set up camps in nearly abandoned towns, including this one, only a few hours from Vol Dorma, so deep into enemy territory they would be better off heading to the Nocan Sea and swimming for Par Vollen than trying to escape through the countryside. Not that they would. They were too deep into Fenris’ cause now. Four years too deep.

Now was the first time, however, that the days within the country’s borders seemed to stretch into something ready to snap. Several weeks before, Azzan had left him. They’d both noticed a sudden absence of Grey Wardens. Letters upon letters came flooding in from their communications officers informing them of the sudden absence, the abandoned posts and forts and garrisons. Too many feared the Grey Wardens teaming up with the Imperial Archon, or perhaps hunting down the slaves as they made their way to their town, grabbing them up and forcing them into service. “Ridiculous,” Azzan had said. “They have the Right of Conscription.”

Still, their sudden absence was worrying. Was it a Blight? A call to arms? A change in leadership? “Or,” Azzan postulated, his lips in a thin, grim line, “does it have to do with that hole in the sky and the new Inquisition?”

All questions neither of them could answer. Whatever the case, the magisters in Tevinter were on the move, as well, and suddenly it had become imperative that they learn what was going on. Fenris had asked if they should send someone to the Inquisition, but Hawke had shook his head. “Varric is already there,” he’d said, not for the first time. Varric, the one out of all of Hawke’s friends who had remained steadfast through everything, who had kept in touch with him, helped Hawke learn about spy networks, and even lent his own men to their fledgling cause, had been taken in by the Inquisition’s leaders and questioned. The last thing either Fenris or Azzan wanted was Azzan’s head on a pike, and considering the small, cryptic messages Varric sent through his spy network, that was what they could expect.

“I’ll go search for Stroud,” Hawke had said those many nights ago as they lay in one of their many safehouses. Stroud, the Warden who had saved Carver, who likely traveled with Hawke’s brother still. The Warden Hawke had contacted years ago, when they’d first run, to see if the man knew anything about red lyrium. This particular night of this particular conversation had been just outside of Solas, the major city furthest south. They had slowly made their way there, trailing after a few bands of slaves making their ways to the border. They’d waylaid over a dozen slaver troops trying to catch the groups.

Fenris turned to Azzan, sliding their bodies together with the ease of years of practice. “I can’t leave at the moment,” Fenris said, again not for the first time. Only this time, he paused. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you will go?”

Azzan smiled the smile that said he knew they would fight, and he knew he would win. “You’re right. You can’t leave now. You have a new group to train, several slaves to help get across the border, and Magister Tentum’s caravan to hit. You know it has to be me.”

Alone. They’d never been alone in this, not for a minute. Even when they’d had to part, for information gathering or to lure enemies away or even to act as if Azzan was buying the slaves or being escorted or whatever – they had never left one another alone on a mission. “Hawke, no.”

Azzan had so many habits with Fenris, and almost all of them involved touching. This was one Fenris had learned through years of both of them heading into battles they may not return from. Azzan leaned his head on Fenris’ shoulder and kissed his pulse point. Years ago, that very position had kept them both alive when it had seemed they would both fall. “Hawke yes.”

He had wanted to scream, to snarl. He had wanted to argue. For the first time since he’d chosen to take this path, he wanted to rage at his responsibilities. Instead he held the back of Hawke’s head, felt those silken strands beneath the smooth length of his fingers, and shivered. “You will come back to me.”

Victory assured, Hawke rolled onto him, until he was half covering Fenris, and started mouthing more strongly at Fenris’ neck. As always, he felt Hawke’s mana react to the lyrium within him, feeding the man power. Fenris leaned his neck back, offering more. Hawke would be gone for who knew how long. His fingers clenched into the skin of Hawke’s scalp at the thought of it. If Hawke was going to leave, he would be doing so with as much strength as Fenris could give him.

“Always,” Hawke had promised.

The word rang in his mind as he stood amongst his commanders, each working through their own jobs in what had become his ragtag group of warriors. They stood within the preparation room, many walking back and forth between tables and maps and papers filled with information – those who could read – and back. Most were men and women he and Hawke had freed themselves. Many traveled with them, hurrying back and forth along Tevinter’s regions. Orana stood beside him, able to read the words on the letter he’d just received as easily now as he.

“Sir?”

The woman before him was shorter by far than the average female elf, a few inches below five feet tall. Her clothing was that of a slave still; all the better for her to go unnoticed in the city. It had been there that she had found one of Varric’s men scouting around, trying to ask after the rebel army without making it clear he searched for them.

He stared at the paper in his hand and wished Cailyn had never found the man.

“Sir?” Cailyn asked again. She craned her neck to try to see his face.

“Leave me be,” he said, his voice raw, and left them all.

His feet marked the path out through the building and across the cobblestones, back to their home in this tiny town. His. His home now. The door barely got the chance to close behind him before he crashed to his knees. Aegis walked up to him, the mabari’s happy panting slowly growing quiet.

Elf, the letter began, proof that Varric may have been a good writer but still hadn’t mastered the art of a nickname, I’m sure ̶M̶a̶r̶s̶h̶m̶a̶l̶l̶o̶w̶ Hawke told you that he’d met with the Inquisition after it started a search for Stroud.

Yes, Hawke had informed him when the Inquisition had started sniffing around Stroud themselves. He’d decided to meet with them, on Varric’s suggestion.

The paper crumpled in his fist. It had been a mistake to trust such an organization for even a second.

We found the Grey Wardens. You and Hawke were right to be worried. They went full bonkers. Meredith-level bonkers. Started recruiting themselves for demons at the behest of a magister.

Just another group of idiots catering to the powerful, trying to find an easy way out. Just another magister trying… trying to take everything from him.

We went to stop them. Things got crazy. They always did. Hawke didn’t make it.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry, Elf.

His nails scratched against the hard stone floor as he curled in on himself. Hawke’s favor flashed, bright red, against his open skin. He stared at it until it took over his vision. Until all he saw was red, and then a blur, and then nothing but tears.

He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find the breath. The world had no air left in it.

The fall into that yawning black pit inside his rib cage felt like choking lead even before he remembered the dream. Inamorato, he’d been called. He remembered now, finally, where he’d heard it before. Over and over again, from deep within his mind, whenever he’d slept within Hawke’s arms and found himself dreaming of Danarius, or of the fog warriors, or of his endless nights on the run. Whenever he’d faced a nightmare, a soft voice had called out to him. Every time, he would wake from the dream before it went too far. That far away voice had called him inamorato. Just as Azzan’s voice had just once before, in a battle where he’d called upon his spirit to save the lives of Fenris and Aegis. A word derived from the Tevinter tongue. A person’s male lover.

‘Help Healbird,’ that voice had begged. And he’d run from it.

Faith had tried to warn him.

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

He didn’t sleep that day, or the next. Orana, of all people, started taking care of things for him, leading the commanders away as they came to him, making sure he ate, even if it was by rote. He could see the way her own fingers shook, the way her shoulders quaked as she walked. “I hope,” Fenris said once, and found his voice scratchy and broken by tears that had run out long ago, “you know that you are my family, as well.”

Orana had merely bent down and kissed his cheek, more easily affectionate with another elf than with a human. “I know,” she’d whispered, and continued on. It was a strength he didn’t know how to possess.

He drifted. He went to the preparation room only once, his gaze failing to take in the words on the pages before him, blurring out the map until it looked like nothing more than squiggles and lines. For an instant, it reminded him harshly of the time before Hawke had begun to teach him. It had sent him into a panic. He didn’t want to return to such a time. He didn’t want his life with Hawke to disappear so easily. He would rather the pain in his chest never leave than lose his memories of Hawke, even one.

It was on the third night that he fell into an exhausted sleep, not on his bed – he couldn’t stand the sight of it – but in his chair, staring like a child at the food Orana had made him but unable to will himself to eat.

The green returned. Almost, he was thankful for it. He didn’t want to think he was the type to fall into the clutches of some demon the instant things got hard, but he knew better. If a demon promised him the chance to see Azzan again, he would take it. Even if Azzan would roll in his grave in concern for him.

Azzan’s grave. It was a new, terrifying, mind-bending thought. Where was it?

Inamorato.

He startled. Once again, he could feel the chair beneath and behind him, the hard wood pressing into his spine. He could still smell the food, the potatoes and small meats, even as they grew cold on his plate. Before him, the world turned bright, brighter. Slowly, the green shaped itself into a tiny meadow. Unlike before, this time he stumbled forward, barely believing what he was seeing.

The strange chantry opened up to him again, the statue’s hands out, palms up, as if seeking alms. He didn’t know why he thought it looked to be begging. Perhaps because he was. “Tell me you’re alive. That he’s alive. Please. I’ll do anything.”

The creature stood before him, just as it had before. Its unnaturally long fingers reached out to him. This time, he hurried forward. For their dreams had been devoured by a demon that prowled the Fade as a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, and when there was nothing left, destroying the bright and bold by subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.

“I don’t understand,” he said, scowling. When Hawke’s spirit of faith had taken over his body, Hawke had spoken in such riddles. Hawke had told him that the spirit kept itself to the holy texts. Fenris hadn’t been prepared to try to decipher the spirit’s meanings. He’d never thought he would need to. Now he cursed himself. He should have tried harder. Been more prepared. “Where is he? What is happening? If – if you are real, and not merely a trick of the Fade, then you must have a way of proving it to me.”

The spirit tilted its head, its arm still outstretched. Beckoning him closer. Warning bells rang out in his mind. This would not be wise.

He stepped forward.

“If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight.”

The words shocked him. They’d resonated with him the very first time he’d read them, back when he’d lived in the old mansion and Hawke had come to him, teaching him to read. He remembered the nearly giddy feeling in his chest as he read. Even now, as he stood against Tevinter with the people he freed, he looked to that book over and over again, taking strength from the memory of Shartan the way Hawke took strength from his memory of Andraste.

During that fight, the one where Hawke had given the spirit command of his body, it had spoken those very words to Hawke’s hound.

“Are you really Faith? Hawke’s Faith?”

He stopped just before the creature, uncertain whether it had been wise to go to it. Even less certain when it reached out for him. He tensed, yet did not fight, did not back away. Those long, long fingers touched briefly upon his skin. Upon his lyrium.

…?

The summer breeze rose around them, natural as the morning. He felt that same strange feeling of being fed on, as his lyrium rose and activated, flooding his body with its power. The creature, instead of continuing to feast, pulled away. The sudden loss of Hawke’s familiar aura made him shiver, that hungry maw inside him opening wide again.

“Let us take up the blades of our enemies and carve a place for ourselves in this world!”

He shook his head. Frowned. Hawke and Faith were one. If Hawke died, then Faith died, and vice versa. That aura – Fenris doubted any demon could ever replicate it. There was something too pure about it. For an instant, he could have sworn he had felt Hawke’s presence beside him, reaching out.

Or perhaps he was too filled with hope. Either way. He didn’t care.

“You want me to fight,” he said. “Fight someone. To keep Hawke alive.” His hands shook. If there was even the slightest chance that Hawke yet lived, he had to take it. “How? Hawke was with the Inquisition. There are far more of them than there are of me. Even if I brought my whole army south…”

“I will go alone and see what army comes.”

“You want me to face an army alone?” Fenris asked. Those alarm bells were sounding more and more insistent by the second.

“If you hate the legion, then I am your friend.”

He opened his mouth to demand a better answer when finally, he recalled that point in Shartan’s story. He’d gone to meet with Andraste’s army. Fenris looked at the spirit before him like it was mad. “You want me to meet the Inquisition?!”

Help Healbird.

The words muted him. In the end, that was what mattered. Hawke was alive, wherever he was. He needed rescuing. Nothing would stop him.

“I will find him,” Fenris swore. He grabbed the creature’s hand. The aura returned almost immediately, along with the feel of Hawke’s presence. The heavy, aching maw in the middle of his chest filled so suddenly it locked up his throat. He felt the burn of tears at the back of his eyes. “I swear to you, I will find you both. So keep him alive until then.”

The creature blinked at him from beneath its robe. Its eyes were as bright a green as the Fade itself. His Light shall be our banner, and we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it to our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom within those walls.

“Just keep him alive,” Fenris said, not bothering to try to understand. The most important message had been sent and received.

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

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Cailyn said, even as she double-checked his armor for him. It had been a while since he’d worn it; he’d become known for his markings, something he’d borne with more and more pride as the bounty for him grew higher and higher. He’d been surprised, back then, at how good it had felt. Hawke had only smiled at his revelations; unlike Fenris, Hawke hadn’t seemed surprised at all. Of the two of them, Hawke had known how it felt to fight for something he believed in. It had become something Fenris understood, as well, but only over time.

Now, years later, he was covering himself in full armor for the first time. Covering the lines of lyrium that branded him, not as a pet of Danarius’, but as the leader of the slave rebellion. He looked at his hand, at the lyrium lining the palm up through the fingers. He clenched it into a fist. “Better alone than to take all of you with me, leaving those in need here defenseless.” He looked to her. “Caellum will be left in charge, but it will be on you and the others to support him.”

Her check complete, she backed away, meeting his gaze. “What about…?” She looked over. He was certain she was staring at Orana. He could feel the young woman’s gaze on his back.

“I have already spoken with her,” he said. He didn’t look back. All of this would be hard enough without thinking of how he was leaving the young woman he now thought of as a sister behind. “She understands. She and Hawke’s mabari will remain here. Take leave wherever you must. Hawke and I will catch up with you.”

Because he would not be returning without Hawke.

Cailyn nodded. As far as she knew, Hawke was merely in trouble and needed to be saved. Only Orana knew the truth – that, according to Varric, Hawke was supposed to be dead. It was better that way. Less people Fenris would have to argue with, and less of a chance Fenris would have to hear the words.

He moved ahead of the company. Many people stood before him, waiting for him. One brought him a horse. A rare steal, and a dear gift. He thanked them, then turned. “Do not think this is some sign of the end,” he said, and saw many people flinch guiltily. He chose not to look at them. “Our battle here is about more than me. I may be leaving for a while, but my cause is here. As is yours.” He grabbed the saddle and heaved himself up. “I leave because none of mine get left behind. I will return for the same.”

He looked out, his gaze far beyond the walls of their meager village, past even Vol Dorma. All along, his eyes had been on the prize: Minrathous. It was there his gaze settled, though he could not see it from where he stood. In his mind, he remembered every street he’d ever walked. Up there, magisters and archons sat on their thrones, drinking their ale, whipping their slaves and sucking on their blood like vampires. Up there, those people cursed his name, his face, his markings. He had become well known enough to have slavers hunt through every city and port for him, each trying to take his head. Soon enough, he would have their faces twisted, not in anger, but in fear.

He looked back. No one asked him why Hawke was worth it. No one had to. When Hawke wasn’t on his own mission to rescue slaves or battle slavers, he was by Fenris’ side. They were nearly a single entity within these peoples’ minds.

Fenris set off. Many rallied behind him as he went, calling his name and begging him to return soon. It was more than he ever would have dreamed four years ago. More than he’d ever thought he’d needed. Back then, there had only been the four of them – him, Hawke, Orana, and the mabari. Now, there were more than he could count.

But there was only one he needed. One who meant more than a promise or a cause. One whom he didn’t ever want to face living without.

He wouldn’t. He would drag Hawke back. Without him, anywhere in the world would simply be a town, a city, a bed. He didn’t need any of those. He’d had those, and he’d left them all behind. All he needed was his home.

And he was getting it back.

#break in #dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age: inquisition #da:i #fanfiction #my fanfiction #kios lavellan #fenris #Azzan Hawke #solas #orana

1 note · View note