#( blood can be poured in his mouth to revive him

[endawn]

oh oh oh ! if pax isn’t recruited at all in act 1, he can be encountered in act 2 at moonrise. he was able to gather enough information to be pointed in that direction. while he was able to take numerous absolutists down, he couldn’t kill ket..heric ( nor could keth..eric him ). he’ll be found being experimented on in the hidden room of balth’s chambers or, well, in a coma pending a continued one.

[wondeurwall]

AUTHOR'S NOTE. here's the other preview for the rafayel fic that i said i would post. tysm for the notes on all my previous ones!! i appreciate it 🥺💕💕 no particular warnings for this, so it's fine to interact with. but, i still do want to make the reminder that the fic will eventually be nsfw 🔞

currently 15k with it... definitely a slow burn. i'm a little worried that it might not be all that interesting because of how long it's getting to be, which is totally fine too. i don't expect it to be for some. feel good experience for me then 😆 💕 i'll make another poll about posting other previews over the week!

WARNINGS. none for this part. unless... mutual feelings? kiss?

“Then, how about I call you… sweetheart?” Rafayel gently takes your face into his hands, rubs his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. He leans in little by little, gives the anticipation something worthwhile for, and until his breath is long drawn-out above yours, you hold it in absently. You feel his warmth once, then again. Soft, tender kisses. “Is that better?” 

You breathe out, humming in approval. 

“Baby?”

He kisses the tip of your nose, and then brushes his own against yours. Back and forth, back and forth. He takes his time with it. Thoughtful and loving.

“Cutie?”

His lips find the bridge of your nose. A gentle peck between your brows. He’s moving over to your left eye, and you flutter both closed, smiling, waiting to feel his sign of affection. One kiss, then another on your right. The sensation tickles, makes you feel a bit intoxicated too. Giddy and light-headed, an out-of-body experience, it’s almost as if you’re on top of cotton candy clouds. The flavor is sweeter than honey. You wish you could somehow gather it, save it by pouring it inside a bottle and get drunk off of it every night. 

The happiness on your face and the laughing whispers, they make Rafayel’s heart swell.

“Beautiful?” 

Beautiful. Absolutely, unequivocally beautiful. How are you even possible?

As his thumb swipes your lower lip, your mouth parts in nervous excitement. He’s so close now; you can taste the air, how desire fills it completely, standing just an inch away. A single step forward, and it’ll be yours, yours, yours.

“Can I?”

Rafayel. Rafayel. Everything is Rafayel and you begin to shake. God only knows just how badly you need to close this distance. You want it gone. You want him.

You murmur, “Kiss me. Please.”

It feels risky, feels scary even to ask him. But, you’re all in, here and now, and when his lips finally meet yours, sweet and slow, the little thing in your chest beats once. 

It stops moving. 

Then, it restarts. 

Blood pumping in the opposite direction, you suddenly know what it feels like to be alive. You can’t explain it – you’ve reached a time and space no one else has brought you before. Except for him. You know this. It resembles home. It is home. It’s painful. It’s liberation. You’ve been wanting this for so long and it’s only now that you realize you’ve been deprived of it, of you and him like this. 

You’re dying. You’re reviving. The desperation is heavy in your bones, heavy in your mind, and it doesn’t seem like it’s a coincidence everything about this moment fits together, as if it belonged here in the first place. 

Just as Rafayel pulls back, a reluctance washes over you. A staggering intensity like no other. Fire in your chest, it spreads aggressively. It burns, it burns, and you burn up – lungs are filling with smoke, and you need the air from him again. You need more. The thought drifts in your head, though your body is moving before you can say anything. Your hand reaches for his, guiding him back into your direction as you tip forward, chasing after his lips.

You plead, “Don’t–” 

You hear him gasp, then he’s breathing a bit harder, trembling inhales and exhales, at your desperation. There’s a brief wonder if he should give into his personal desires now. He thinks it wouldn’t hurt to; can’t find any reason that tells him otherwise, so it shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t hurt, he repeats, not when you’re looking at him as if he holds the secret of the universe somewhere in his eyes. 

“Don’t stop yet, please.” 

Not when you sound like that. 

He’s not forcing you, he has to remind himself. You want this. It’s so obvious. Painfully obvious. He’s in over his head by the turn of events and, truthfully, it brings a bit of fear in him, but he refuses to leave you feeling unwanted if he doesn’t make up his mind at this moment. How can he do that? Make you feel unwanted?

“Is that what you want?” he asks. The extra affirmation is a need. Will not go until you can crush that seed of doubt. 

“Yes, yes, yes, Raf–” you bite your lower lip, frustration clawing at your throat. The knot of emotions inside there spills out in waves, currents wild and twisting in a way that mimics a hurricane over the ocean. It’s too hard to speak, to catch your breath. “I want it. Please, don’t leave me like this, Rafayel.” 

You don’t know it – not yet, or perhaps, never – but you have unimaginable power over him. Anyone would be scared. Not Rafayel. He can never deny you because doing that would mean pushing you further away than you already are. Close, so close, yet so far. Command him because you want him and no one else. Take everything that he has because you won’t settle for anything less. You can have it all – please, please, just say it. 

He’s desperate to know that you need him just as much as he needs you. 

You beg, “Rafayel.”

“Shh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispers. He will never leave you.

Rafayel kisses you again, deeply, with a love so fierce. The fire is urgent and all-consuming, will never get enough until smoke clouds the air and the world is bled dry, until you and him are left to give your hearts to each other without fear. And, even then, his love will remain boundless and insatiable. 

He has his hands buried into your hair, fists full so you can’t escape. He is all that you have. Mouth crushing down onto yours, he does this with the hope to sear himself into your memory permanently. Maybe, with this, you won’t forget him. His lips are hard-pressed, but they melt, turn a bit softer, then deeper, so much deeper. Breathe his soul and know that this kiss isn’t just a kiss. Taste his addiction, his devotion; his feelings that will never know what it’s like to abandon. His vow to you. 

Every year that’s gone by has been a year worth waiting. 

When you gasp into his mouth, your voice echoes into his ears; it makes Rafayel sensitive, an induced high that forces his body to ache and shudder. Face flushed, eyes hazy, he’s becoming feverish. He’s pulling away again, only barely, as the sensitivity peels his voice raw. What he tells you comes so faintly, slips by you fast and low by mistake: “You’re everything.” 

He leans in one more time, lets his lips stay a little longer.

© 2024 wondeurwall ☆ all rights reserved. please don't repost as your own, modify or translate on here and on other platforms. reblogs & likes are appreciated! ♡

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 26

nightmare/warm blanket/snuggling

fandom: cabin tales (rotten roots au) TW: nightmare, referenced torture, referenced lady whump word count: 522 @augusnippets

Golden handcuffs rattling around her wrists, tethering her helplessly to the floor.

Peter laying limp in the basement, blood pouring from too many lacerated or severed appendages to count.

His own father standing over his son's dying body, boning knife in hand.

Blue-grey eyes meeting Sarah's terrified gaze.

There was no saving Peter. She would be next.

A horrified scream.

Said scream made Sarah bolt upright in her childhood bed as she awoke.

Bed… I'm in my bed. Blinking away tears in her eyes, Sarah's vision adjusted to the darkness. I'm in my room, back at the farm house. And Peter…

Her gaze anxiously drifted to her open door. Peter was in the guest room right next to her own, though his door was locked tight from the outside – a mutually agreed upon measure to keep Sarah's fears at bay.

Said measure had backfired. Not a single sound was heard in the hall, nor through the adjoining wall. No snoring, no shifting blankets, not even breathing. The only sound was a chorus of crickets sheltered by crops Peter had surprisingly managed to revive.

It… It couldn't hurt to check inside. Slowed by exhaustion, Sarah reached into the drawer beneath her nightstand, retrieving the key to the guest room – the only key. Either he's still in there and knows better than to try anything, or…

Each creak of old, weathered floorboards beneath Sarah's bare feet amplified her nerves. She wondered if she'd have a heart attack as she unlocked the door.

At first, there was relief – Peter was, in fact, still in the guest room, alive and no more harmed than what he sustained during the Easter Incident.

Then, disappointment. Peter was also awake, and clearly had his ear pressed against the adjoining wall before Sarah opened the door.

“What are you doing?” Sarah rasped, lump in her throat persisting.

“I-I'm sorry,” Peter stammered, his back pressed against the headboard in an effort to make himself smaller, non-threatening. “I just – I h-heard you screaming, a-and I was worried, so…” As Sarah stared into Peter's shaking, scarlet eye, he quickly picked up her distrust. “I'm being honest,” he tried. “I thought… I thought you were- that they had…” Sarah sighed, risking entering the room.

“Would you believe I thought the same?” She sat on the opposite side of the bed from Peter.

“Yeah…” Silence returned to the guest bedroom, save for the crickets.

“Peter,” Sarah muttered, just as surprised by the words leaving her mouth as him. “Can… Can I stay in here for a little while? Just ‘til I get my head on straight.”

“Of course!” Peter pulled his knees to his chest. “I-it's your house. I'm the guest. S-speaking of that…” Sarah cocked her head as Peter's gaze drifted to the floor. “Um, you can tell me if there's anything more I can do to help. Make some tea, o-or put my eye patch on-”

“I don't mind your… your eye.” It almost felt like a cruel joke, referring to the hole on the right side of Peter's face as his eye. “But… some tea would be nice.”

[louvay]

Gen II invites Gen I to hotpot! Who likely makes the savory broth as spicy as possible? Who casually nearly shoves a Gen I's face to the pot? Who refuses to eat vegetables? Who makes the strangest sauce? Who pours the first tea and for whom?

Parents and kids of Jugdral, welcome to a one in a lifetime chance to rekindle bonds you thought were long gone and start new familial disputes over who gets to have the last red beans dumpling! It’s time for the Crusaders’ Hotpot Bout 778 festival!

Over at the soup kitchen, Scathach tries to dissuade Larcei from dumping a whole container of hot chili into the pot, insisting that their mother cannot in fact handle that much spice. Of course, it was already too late for negotiations and Larcei presents a bowl to Ayra in which she thanks her daughter earnestly and then proceeds to tell Shannan to try it out first “for auntie’s sake”.

And oh! It seems House Dozel has garnered quite the infamy in recent times as Lex is forced face first into a boiling pot by Ares, Leif, Lester, Arthur and Fee after one too many “your mother” jokes were flung around by the blue blooded brute.

But a hotpot is incomplete without a healthy batch of lovely greens boiled to perfection yet discarded by the ever so mighty Brigid whom insists that though she may catch scurvy, it would take her being knocked out of her memories to even put any of them near her mouth. Febail tries to reprimand her on having such a poor diet yet Patty has never felt more vindicated than before.

Keep your nostrils closed for this next scene as Coirpre mixes and matches an assortment of ingredients such as lemon slices, pink salt and live lizard into a pot to create the most bizarre sauce these lands have ever seen. Though the others stay far away from him due to the scent, his father Hannibal awaits for his son’s concoction to be finished, proud that he remembered the old Thracian recipe for Revival Soup, a broth described as so potent it can bring the dead back to life.

And finally, as the teapots are finally ready to be served, Tine unexpectedly rushed in to pour the first teacup for her mother. As she presented the cup to Tailtiu with excess courtesy, her mother could only smile and laugh nervously, not wishing to tell her daughter that the cup is far too hot for her to even take a sip from.

[strangelittlelad]

LISTEN. Medic stumbles out of the grasps of what were once his closest friends, covered in his own blood, gasping for the air his lungs cannot hold. Even as his vision fades, he sees his Brutus, his Heavy, standing by the base of Pompey's statue and wonders why he didn't try to stop them. It doesn't matter. Some part of his brain unreasonably claims that maybe, just maybe, Heavy's skin covering his gaping wounds might revive him. That would be nice.

He drags his battered body over to his Heavy, his blood trailing behind him in drops. Most of it is on his coat, soiling the white fabric. Shame. That was his favorite one. Brutus holds back tears as the once all-powerful Imperator collapses into his arms. He pulls him closer as the ghost of a smile finds its way onto Medic's face. He knows what must be done for the sake of the Republic. He handles Caesar's body gently as he kisses him, Medic gasping in a mix of satisfaction and relief into Heavy's mouth.

And then Brutus stabs.

Blood pours out of Medic's mouth as he grasps weakly at the knife in his stomach, the crimson liquid dribbling out of the corners of both their lips as he forcibly breaks the kiss.

"Du auch, Heavy?" Medic gasps as he weeps, his tears mixing with the mass amounts of blood pouring out of the newest hole in his body as he loses his grip on mortality. "Then fall, Caesar." He rasps out as his lungs fill with blood his heart can no longer circulate, collapsing into Heavy's arms.

Heavy lowers his body to the ground, pulling Medic's scarf up to cover his face. He can barely hear the shouts of the other conspirators over the blood rushing in his ears, but he can feel Cassius' hand on his shoulder, urging him to stand. Caesar lies dead.

[skyborneveggie]

Title: Aeternum Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Paring: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: M Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence (though the violence is not literally happening, it is almost all metaphoric) Tags: Metaphysical Violence, Angst, Pining, Psychological Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, References to Dante's Inferno Summary:

Crowley takes a leap of faith. He’s flung himself into the blaze and, oh, it’s too late now.

An introspective on the finale, and Crowley's trauma in general.

Story beneath the cut

A/N: This story is meant to be an exploration in blurring the line between physical & emotional pain. It’s up to reader interpretation as to how much description is literal vs how much is metaphoric. Crowley is a highly unreliable narrator in this, and says a lot of things about himself here that aren’t true. He knows they aren’t true, but when you’re in the depths of despair your trauma can haunt you in all the worst ways.

Notes on Dante's Inferno: Judecca is the frozen center of the ninth & last circle of hell. It is reserved for traitors, who are encased in solid ice. At the very center of Judecca rest all traitors who have betrayed God himself. There, a three-headed Lucifer is trapped waist-deep in ice, each mouth forever eating those whom Dante deems the greatest traitors in history—Brutus, Cassius, and Judas. (Canto XXXIV)

*****

Aeternum

There is the pain of the fall. The freezer-burn in his bones, in the very marrow of him, frosting over tendon, sinew, muscle. How long did it take for the pain to subside, for the ice-fire to burn away the synapses and nerve endings of his skin as he lay there and writhed in the ice at Satan’s feet? He is still there now even, the core of him, his soul as his body continues to wander the earth. He is numb of it now, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes. Feels nothing.

He will have to go back, someday, when it’s over. March past the vats filled with shit and boiling tar and flaming pyres. Someday he will bend under Satan’s shadow, crawling back down into his hole in the ice, body and flesh stripped away. Naked conscience, reuniting with its soul.

He is there then, to join them; Judas, Brutus, Cassius. Crowley wonders whose brain matter it will be that spatters onto his head, clotted rivers of tissue and blood dripping off Satan’s chins as he grinds their skulls into scarlet meal.

Crowley wonders if he will still feel nothing then.

There is the pain of the fall, and there is other pain.

Demons do not love. It is poison in their veins. Venom spreading beneath their skin with sickly, flush tint. It is not the fall, it is heat. It is a fire beneath him, it is a flaming sun in his chest. Have you ever tried to revive a frostbitten hand? The best he can do is to not think about it, don’t think about it. Push it to the back of his mind. He can deal with the dull ache of a distant, barely present flame, so long as he declines to warm himself. He can stand it from a distance.

Demons do not love. Satan help them if they do.

Except then Crowley, fool that he is, takes a leap of faith.

He’s flung himself into the blaze and, oh, it’s too late now. He is drowning in the boiling river, scalding liquid pouring down his garbling throat when he opens his mouth to speak. And the words tear from his blistered, deadened tongue with silent screams, begging him not to let them go. But Crowley—he is in it now. He roots them up and rips them out and vomits them onto the floor.

And he keeps on tearing. He tastes Aziraphale with ash on their tongues and when he comes away… well. 

The kiss, it rots inside of Crowley’s mouth. Eats away the flesh there like bacteria in an untreated wound; virulent, necrotic, lethal. He spits poison in its wake.

His love is not beautiful. It is a violent, desperate thing. He is sickened with want.

Demons do not love. Satan help them if they do.

[saltymongoose]

Lovebug Anon here! And I've come to share my fuzzy little ideas!

-

What if the player had to revive their vessels through a kiss?

Hmmmm?~

Give the grunt a lil' smooch to make sure they don't croak.~

-

Like between a normal revive and a kiss revive, the kiss actually restores more corpus.

And I'm sure their vessels wouldn't complain about it-

The only downsides about the kiss revive is that it would take some time for the player to actually initiate the kiss, especially if they are are a bit nervous towards the idea of kissing their grunts.

AND it would probably encourage their vessels (-cough- mostly Hank -cough-) to try and die so that they can be revived that way.

-

Player: -gives kisses in order to revive their fallen vessels-

The Boys: -bloody and beaten- I see this as an absolute win!

-

(I've always loved the cheesy trope of giving someone a kiss to bring them back to life. And I've got plenty more fuzzy ideas to throw out into the world!)

Sincerely,

Lovebug Anon

Hello Lovebug Anon! Thank you so much for this idea, I adore this. I was writing my response to this and realized it was getting pretty long, so I decided to make some shorter hcs about it instead (even if I know this isn't an actual request, the opportunity was just too good to pass up lol). Please feel free to drop by with more ideas though, even if I answer them with my typical "short" responses haha <3

The Player's Kisses Restore Health ft. Hank, Sanford, Deimos, & 2BDamned

(TW: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior, mentions of wounds and violence)

You first figured out about this "extra feature" of yours entirely by accident. Deimos had impulsively pulled you out of the way when a few stray shots were coming in your direction, though in doing so, he left himself completely open to being hit instead. Unfortunately he had already sustained quite a few injuries up until that point, and his corpus wasn't faring well at all. The hit had effectively downed him, and you were quick to shout for one of the others to come to help you "revive" him.

You knelt next to his pained form, trying to keep from cringing as you saw the blood that poured from his wounds and heard his sharp gasps and pants as he shifted. He tried to move to look down at his wounds, but was stopped by you as you gently placed your hands on his jaw and made him look up at you instead.

"You didn't have to do that," you murmured, and he gave an easy grin in response, weakly replying that he was "glad you're okay". That just made you feel more guilty about this. How could he be so lackadaisical when riddled with bullet holes?

You huffed in mock-annoyance, but at the same time leaned down to give him a kiss on the cheek. Both as a distraction from his pain and as thanks. But in that split second, he had turned his head slightly up towards you.

And your lips connected instead.

He jolted with a small noise of surprise and you noticed immediately that you were feeling his mouth instead of the oddly smooth skin of his cheek, quickly pulling back with a string of embarrassed apologies. Not that he really comprehended them, brain fuzzy as he was internally freaking out at the fact that you had just fucking kissed him!!

He had been dreaming of this for so long, to finally have that moment where he could feel your soft lips on his. (It was honestly something he'd been daydreaming about for a long time, amongst other things the two of you would do once you were together). Honestly he thought his sudden lack of pain had been from the rush of what just happened, and the hot feeling he had was from being so close to you.

But as he lies on the dirt (completely red and fawning over you), he fails to recognize how the kiss had done more than just improve his mood and take his pain away. The minor injuries he sustained had been completely cleared away, not even a scar remaining on his skin. His more serious wounds had been mended as well, looking as though they'd been healing for weeks instead of only a few seconds. But he noticed it eventually. As did Sanford and Hank (who had a lot to say to him after hearing about what had happened).

And they're all very quick to try and experience it.

Deimos generally doesn't try to get injured, it typically just comes as a result of his own lack of foresight (especially when he sees an opportunity to show off for you). However, now he's getting hurt all the time. It's completely worth it, just to feel that sensation of you kissing him for a second or two.

Sanford has mixed feelings about the ability, mainly because he wanted your first kiss to be special; a genuine act of love instead of simply because he was heavily injured. He's less likely to try and get injured on purpose, at least compared to Hank and Deimos. It still happens sometimes, of course, but he has the awareness to look the slightest bit sheepish when you lean closer to him to fix his wounds. He'll also make sure he doesn't have any blood on his face if he can help it.

Hank, on the other hand, was the worst on this. He was already plenty reckless before in an effort to get your attention, but when he learned that you could bring them back from the verge of death with a kiss? It was just over at that point.

He's well acquainted with getting injured, so the pain doesn't bother him that much anymore. He'll still try to kill quickly to draw your attention, but he'll let his enemies hit him far more often, deliberately getting in the way of their weapons and letting them tear away at his flesh. It's all worth it when you gingerly pull his mask down and press a chaste kiss to what remains of his lips and the cold metal of his jaw.

Much to the others' surprise, 2BDamned even joined in on this once he caught wind of it. And he was surprised too, to be honest; ordinarily he'd consider himself above such immature actions. Besides, he knew that intentionally getting injured was foolish, it would only slow you down in the end. That and the fact that he focused on ranged combat anyway.

But, he couldn't help but do it once or twice. Was it stupid and a very painful process to deal with? Yes. Was he willing to subject himself to that just to get a kiss from you? Also yes. It's not like his jealousy would allow the others to just take all of this from him anyway.

They all begin to crave the feeling of your lips on theirs, and the burning warmth that fills them and makes their hearts pound as you remove their pain and bring them back from the cusp of death.

However, despite how willing your vessels are to go along with it, you were far more hesitant. For one, you didn't know what exactly they thought about it. They were fine with it, but you didn't know for sure if they were cooperative because it was ok or just because it healed them. You didn't want to force something as intimate as a kiss upon them if they were uncomfortable with it, even if it was good for their health. It didn't take a genius to know about your apprehension either, as you made it quite obvious with your apologies and the way you seemed so nervous when doing it.

But your vessels are quick to assure you that they genuinely do like it when you restore their health this way. They'll make their purrs run a bit louder when you do, and lean into you when you gently press your lips to theirs. They'll even chase after your mouth when you pull away.

If this doesn't fully convince you, then they just might resort to pulling you back to prolong those kisses you give them. Maybe a confession is also in order to really make you know just how much they love it when you heal them this way? Even better, this might even make it so that you'd do it for them only. It was certainly worth a shot. They were sure you'd accept it, too, why else would you volunteer to heal them like this (even if you were slightly unsure about it)?

[rebrandedbard]

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

-

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

-

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Being Rescued By Dante And Crew

Dante X FemReader

Rating: T+ 

Warnings: Blood, gore, horror, and mentions of death

Word Count: 1,720

As Requested by the lovely: @sarahslolitaportfolio​

(A/N:) Thank you for this request! I love writing for Dante and he’s my favorite video game character ever! So I always enjoy meeting fellow DMC fans and ones that appreciate Dante like I do! Especially when I get requests to write about said Dante! Hehe! So I really hope I was able to fulfill your request and that it was everything you hoped it would be! Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity and until next time happy reading! ~Countess

There had been moments in your life where you couldn’t understand certain things. Like how you had a certain ability that had suddenly manifested when you were younger, or how everyone came to believe you were some kind of freak when a dead bird suddenly revived and flew away when you touched it. So after that you hid yourself and your ability. Barely socializing with others you kept to yourself, not even your co-workers truly knew who you were. You were called a freak so that’s the way you stayed. But now you decided that maybe you weren’t really the freak that there was other things way more terrifying than the ability that had cursed you. 

Strapped down onto a stone table you felt blood pouring from your wrists after trying to free yourself from such tight bonds. Creatures that you could only explain as being some kind of nightmare born from a mixture of the Exorcist, Amityville Horror, and The Conjuring combined had your head spinning in fear. One in particular creature seemed more curious over you, especially watching your blood trickling to the floor. When you were taken by these horrific creatures you didn’t even have time to scream before you were taken to this dark place. Now that you were here the fear kept you from talking until this one just kept staring and it started to get on your nerves.

“What are you looking at? You’ve been keeping me here for so long just staring at me bleeding out so why don’t you just get it over with?!” You snapped causing the large demon to stand and come towards you. He didn’t need a knife to cut your skin open, his claws did the job just perfectly fine. Dragging said claw smoothly down your cheek, blood welling up from the touch.

“Careful little creature,” the evil being chuckled at his work. “You don’t have to be alive for the ritual.”

“What ritual,” you spit a little afraid but still more angry than afraid.

“The revival of the great Mundus,” it purred.

“How great can this Mundus be if he’s dead?”

Screams of rage echoed all around you from the surrounding evil causing your mouth to snap shut. So far you were still alive, so maybe you shouldn’t provoke the creatures that could easily kill you.

  “Why do you need me in particular anyway,” you spoke a little later when everything had settled back down.

“I need your revival magic,” the demon replied. He had his back towards you working on said ritual.

“I think you have the wrong person I don’t have any magic,” you lied. Maybe you could bluff your way out?

“Lying does you no good with me,” he said. “Poor thing, never had a teacher to make you realize your potential. But don’t worry it won’t go to waste. Your blood will make the perfect conduit to bring back our Master.”

Bluffing wasn’t going to work. So now here you lay, surrounded by evil incarnate about to die before really getting to do anything you dreamed of. You looked back at all the years you had wasted staying hidden, afraid of the world. Now you wished you had stood up for yourself. Now as a black twisted shaped knife held above your prone form you sucked in a breath and fought back tears.

Just as the knife plunged down the door leading to your horrific prison slammed open. A man raced through his silver hair brushing his cheeks before ordering the team behind him. Another silver haired boy, a blonde haired woman, and another dark haired woman fought left and right. Slaughtered demons fell to the floor with pained cries. The man raced to your side kicking the demon away from you. The knife that would have taken your life clattered to the floor sliding away. You watched him unsheathe a large sword and take a battle stance.

“Didn’t your momma ever teach you that’s not how you get a woman to like you,” he teased.

“Sparda spawn,” the demon hissed. “Mundus will take care of you.”

“Ughhh again with the Mundus crap?! Seriously that’s all I ever hear anymore. Mundus is great. Sparda is trash,” he rolled his eyes launching himself off the ground towards the raging devil. “Newsflash I killed your boss years ago, get over it!”

“Mundus lives,” the creatures roared in unison.

“Fine stay in denial,” he grumbled. “But therapy is expensive just so you know. I thought I was helping.”

Still tied down all you could do is watch as black blood ran across the floor. Demon corpses littered the area with twitching limbs and sightless eyes. While every person was absolutely amazing and skilled beyond compare you couldn’t take your eyes off the silver haired man that fought like the Devil himself but still had the ability to joke and tease. His prey was enraged but losing quickly. Switching from the large blade he produced two pistols from behind his coat. One an ebony black and the other an ivory silver. Gorgeous weapons of no other make. Gunshots rattled the walls, shells clinking against the grimy stone floor. The guns didn’t quit firing until the creature lay still riddled like cheese and the clips were empty. Now he had his attention on you and what he saw caused him to stumble. The man who had just been flawless and moved like a skilled deadly dancer was tripping over his own feet. You couldn’t understand but Dante knew immediately just looking at you.

Despite your state you were the most beautiful woman he had even seen, Trish would be absolutely jealous if she knew he thought you, this cut up human, prettier than her. Holstering the twin pistols Dante regained his composure before making his way to your side. The three others were still cleaning up the remaining mess, not wanting consequences of sloppy working coming back to bite them in the butt.

“Hey gorgeous lady,” Dante flirted producing a smaller knife to cut your bonds. Your wrists were a bloody mess, it made the silver haired devil hunter angry seeing your state. Though he just met you, his instinct immediately went into protective mode.

“Thank you,” you breathed trying to sit up but too weak from the blood loss and lack of food.

“Just doing my hunter duty for pretty things like yourself,” Dante preened.

You looked at him weirdly but gratefully, especially when he helped you sit up and held you upright. “Got a name?”

“Sure do,” Dante chuckled. “The name’s Dante and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Dante huh?” You hummed rolling the name over and over. “I like it. I’m (Y/N).”

“Pretty name for a pretty face,” he flirted.

You snorted, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You couldn’t help but be drawn to this man who had risked his life to save you. If it wasn’t for him you’d be lifeless upon the table with something horrible reviving into the world.

Seeing that his team had everything well in hand Dante scooped you from the table. The shorter haired woman nodded in Dante’s direction when he told them he was getting you out of that nightmare-ish place.

“Wanted you for your magic did he,” Dante asked just wanting to make small talk. Though he had a motive, he wanted to get to know you better.

“Yeah,” you said comfortable with being held by him. “Apparently I have some sort of revival magic.”

“Well that’s cool,” he said looking at your soft hair and pink cheeks.

“It’s not cool if things want to kill you over it.”

He nodded in agreement, “That part sucks of course. But it is still pretty cool, having abilities. You’re like me!”

This was the first time in your life that someone had thought your magic was cool. And not only did he think it was cool, apparently he had some sort of powers too. For one he was super strong and you could have sworn he had been stabbed a couple times. But now this Dante was carrying you out of your tomb like nothing had happened at all. Ambulances waited outside what looked like an abandoned building, but it hid what really lurked inside. Dante sat you on a stretcher telling the medics some story of how some men had kidnapped you and wanted you for ransom. You were tortured before Dante could get to you in time. He looked over to wink at you, you knew that normal humans wouldn’t believe that you were taken by demons to revive their master that would doom the world. Heck you wouldn’t have believed such a story not too long ago, despite being different yourself.

You were being loaded into an ambulance to be transported to the local hospital for treatment and fluids. Dante promised to come see you in the hospital before the doors of the ambulance closed. He had never believed in love at first sight until today. Maybe he had felt what his father had when meeting his mother. He had to get to know you more and maybe he could help you understand this gift you had been blessed with. Maybe he could even teach you how to take care of and defend yourself in case any other devils decided to try and take you. Though he was firmly set on that they would have to get through him first as he wanted to stay by your side. He hadn’t had much happiness in his life, but deep down he think that destiny was waiting for him to meet you. So he kinda felt like he owed the scum inside the building for bringing you two together. Nero could tell something was going on with his mentor, but he decided not to pry. It would only cause Dante to tease him or bring something up that would make Nero want to punch him. As they loaded back up in the van to get back to the office, Dante was hard to live with until he got to see you again. And while you recovered Dante was there everyday making the days go by quickly. Though you couldn’t explain it there was something special between you two and you were ready to explore it and him.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Rusted Remnants

Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x mutant!Reader

Warnings: past noncon, smut, dirty talk, Stockholm syndrome, violence, mention of human experiments, swearing.

Words: 1924.

Summary: You felt better knowing he wouldn't have to leave for quite some time now, staring at the man as he leaned back against the pillow, watching the smoke slowly disappear in the air - Heisenberg wasn't your darling, but he's the only one who kept you sane in that fucking hole where human life mattered so little. Among other Lords he's the only one who had the resolve to fight that heartless bitch hiding behind the façade of a holy mother.

____________________

When a bearded man in sunglasses opened the door with a grinding, abrasive sound, you felt both fear and relief - Heisenberg was a mean son of a bitch who couldn’t stand people crossing him on anything, and you learned that the hard way. However, thanks to that insanely strong bastard who could smash in a Lycan’s skull with one swing of his hammer, you were still safe in his hideout, not having to worry about mutilated monsters this place was swarming with.

Besides, even though Heisenberg was as rotten and disgusting as any other Lord, he still had more human in him than Dimitrescu, Beneviento and Moreau altogether.

“Did you miss me, little monster?” He smirked, watching you laying in bed with some cheap romance novel you traded for bullets with the Duke: you had little hobbies since you barely left Heisenberg’s factory.

You rolled your eyes, knowing he hadn’t been home for a couple of days and now needed to get under your skin, feeding off your emotions like Alcina fed off her victims’ blood. It was something like a routine to him: he needed to know you had something human in you, too.

“Who else do you expect me to miss?” you snorted, leaving a worn book with a dirty yellow cover on the bed. “You know I don’t like when you leave for so long.”

“It’s not like I like it either.”

Leaving his monstrous hammer on the table full of blueprints, drawings, nails and all other things you were forbidden to touch, he took his glasses off, and you saw his weary eyes, the blood vessels widened in their white. It didn't happen often, but from time to time Heisenberg would abandon his façade of a smug, careless bastard, and then you could catch a glimpse of a deadly tired man who had long lost any hope to ever free himself from Miranda’s death grip. Something had happened in those couple of days when he had been wandering the woods and catacombs filled with Lycans, Samcăs, and Vârcolacs, and it certainly wasn’t good news if it stripped Heisenberg of his endless complacency.

Quietly slipping away from the bed, you put your shoes on while the man in front of you left his coat hanging on a chair and stilled, his dirty hands on the desk as he stared at it blankly. While he stood there, motionless, you turned on the large faucet in an improvised shower cabin - everything there had been old and rusty, and you needed time to adjust the temperature of water from icy cold to bearable cool or even hot if you were lucky enough. Thankfully, Karl never protested against showering, washing away dry blood, machine oil, muck and filth.

Saying nothing, you carefully lifted his hat, unclasped the belt on his chest and started unbuttoning his dirty shirt - nobody would believe it had been white once. Finally, Heisenberg came back to his senses, smirking and letting you strip him of his clothes, leaving his pants and huge heavy boots on the floor. As he stepped into the shower, he dragged you with him behind the old plastic curtains full of holes, and your nightgown got drenched within a couple of seconds, water pouring over your head. You didn’t protest anymore, knowing the man wouldn’t let you go until he blew off some steam, pushing you into a wet stone wall and wrecking you ass till you started sobbing - he loved when you squeezed his fat cock with your pussy, but Heisenberg couldn’t risk getting you pregnant, leaving his child to be endlessly tortured by that holy bitch until she turned his baby into some fucking monster doll. Sometimes he could buy some condoms from the Duke, but it was still a rare occasion, so most of the time Heisenberg spent using your other holes, filling you to the brim with his cum until he felt satisfied.

"Wearing that white nightgown like some noble slut from Alcina's castle." he growled into your ear from behind, grinding against your ass, his callous fingers gripping your hips as he forced you spread your legs for him. "Did you do it on purpose, baby? Did you want to bounce on my cock so bad?"

Turning your head to him, you didn't get a chance to speak up when the man crashed his mouth into yours, his arm lifting up the drenched fabric of your nightgown and baring your flesh. Landing a loud smack to your ass, he grinned through the kiss: he loved it when you behaved well around him, taking whatever he was giving you like a good girl you were.

You didn’t mind. At first the thought of him touching you had been giving you panic attacks and nausea, but as years flew by, nothing changing in this Hell of a place where sanity was a privilege, you clung to Heisenberg in a desperate attempt to feel human again - even if it was something as primitive as grinding your bodies against each other.

As he rubbed his cock in between your shaking thighs pressed together, you moaned, the water cascading down your bodies while Heisenberg fondled your breasts, biting and nipping his way down your neck.

"You're going nowhere until I fuck the shit out of you."

_________

Breathing in the smell of his Cuban cigars, you watched Heisenberg smoke as he laid close to you, his naked body barely covered by a blanket: his skin was littered with nasty scars, and it seemed like every centimeter of it had once been burned, cut or bitten. Some of them were so old you could barely see them, others relatively knew where the scar tissue was still angry red and thick: most of the time he got them while working on his personal army down there, but with his regenerative abilities they were like a kitten bite to him. Of course, even of they weren't, Heisenberg would still pretend like it was nothing, wearing his shit-eating grin.

"The holy whore is up to something," he says after long minutes of silence, ash falling to the floor from his cigar, "and I don't like that I know fucking nothing of her plans."

You felt better knowing he wouldn't have to leave for quite some time now, staring at the man as he leaned back against the pillow, watching the smoke slowly disappear in the air - Heisenberg wasn't your darling, but he's the only one who kept you sane in that fucking hole where human life mattered so little. Among other Lords he's the only one who had the resolve to fight that heartless bitch hiding behind the façade of a holy mother. You couldn't call him sane, but he had enough sanity to remember what Miranda did to all of you and how fucking twisted was her desire to have a family. You weren't her children, regardless how many times Moreau was going to call her his mother. Whatever she did to you or those miserable villagers, her cannon fodder, she did only to revive her real daughter, and the thought had been making you sick since the times Heisenberg told you about Miranda's past.

"You think it's something big?"

"Yeah. She keeps disappearing into thin air, and I can't find a trace of her anywhere at all."

You grew silent, staring at the blanket with empty eyes: it certainly wasn't a good sign. Where was she going if even Heisenberg couldn't locate her? Was she crossing the forest to get to the outer world? The last time it happened she brought to the world one more horrifying monster with a face of a little girl. The only thing you knew about her was that she was destroyed a couple of years ago, just a failed experiment like all those Miranda had been involved in.

"I think she partners up with someone, some organization that can give her what she wants like, you knew, she did before." You muttered, and Heisenberg stared at you, narrowing his frightening light eyes.

"With whom could the old bitch partner?"

"I don't know, but I know she brought someone with her, willingly or not."

Now you had his full attention as he turned to you, his eyes burning a hole in your face. "Who did she bring here? How the fuck do you know?"

Rolling over to your stomach and hugging a pillow - a real pillow you got from the Duke a month ago, not that pile of garbage the man had been sleeping on for ages - you let out a loud sigh. You weren’t eager to go exploring the factory even though you knew where his soldiers were, but you couldn't just stay in his room for the rest of your days, and sometimes you would get out for a couple of hours, wandering empty corridors with rusted doors.

At first it was subtle. You knew this place well, but you couldn't sense monsters or people getting in the way Miranda did even after Cadou implantation. You just wandered the same places over and over, collecting semi-precious stones, bullets and other things you could trade for something with a merchant. As the time flew by, the feeling of uneasiness was washing over you as you stepped into certain rooms, got into certain places. There was nothing peculiar there, nothing that would catch your attention, but something was still eating you up as if you knew something wasn't right.

At one point you realized that what disturbed you were things moving from their original places - changes were small, barely noticeable for someone who didn't spend hundreds of hours walking around here, but you could know put your finger on what was wrong. Who was it? You knew it weren't the Lords who had no business here. Besides, the Master of Metal could always feel their presence. Obviously, it weren't humans from the village for whom the factory was sacred, and monsters possessed too little intelligence to put things on their places in the very same order. You thought it could be Mother Miranda, but she wouldn't be sneaky if she really wanted to show Heisenberg his place.

Now it all made sense. You knew the outer world would learn about this place sooner or later, especially after that monster girl incident, and it only proved the idea Miranda brought someone with her.

"I think it's someone smart, Karl. Someone who will either destroy Miranda or try to take control of her - and us, maybe." You said after telling him about your little adventures, and the man smirked, stroking your back. Of course, after her little Eveline had been released into the world, he had thoughts about other organizations having their fair share of Megamycete,

“Someone we can use against her, then.” He whispered, his eyes dark and perceptive as he leant closer, dropping a kiss to your shoulder, his complacency getting back as he sent you a smug grin, slapping your ass loudly. “Good job, little monster. Good job.”

Rolling you over on your back, he got on top of you, pushing your legs apart and licking his lips at the sight of your naked pussy right in front of him, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

“I’ve forgot to tell you baby," he grinned at you when you squirmed from his touch, his thumb already tracing tiny little circles against your clit. “I’ve got a rubber, so you better milk me dry with that sweet little cunt of yours.”

[comfortwriting]

Through Thick and Thin - A.S

Anakin Skywalker x Fem Reader

masterlist, requesting rules, guidelines, taglist

About: When Obi-Wan learns of Anakin's turn to the dark side, he goes to Y/N to try and find him; what he gets instead changes everything and Anakin gets the answers he's been waiting for.

A/N: this is my first time writing in months, please be kind! Need to get back to my flow lol

Word Count: 2057

Warnings: murder, death, blood, mention of parent loss.

"He killed younglings, Y/N!" Obi-Wan stressed, pacing around the room "Tell me where he is, I beg you."

You stared at your husbands Jedi Master, contemplating if you should tell him the truth - betraying your husband and revealing his whereabouts or to lie and protect him. After all, you knew what Obi-Wan was going to do.

You knew that Anakin was capable of taking lives, especially the lives of women and children after he murdered the Tusken Raiders - you weren't afraid of him when he confessed and you certainly didn't shame him for it; you could understand his anger, his hate, his need for revenge.

Anakin's back was facing you, he stared at the wall, hot tears streaming down his face.

"I killed them." he paused, catching his breath "I killed them all. They're dead, every single one of them."

Anakin slowly turned around to face you, his face stained with tears, his eyes glassy and red.

You stared at him, trying not to judge him for what he had done - knowing that if you did, you would be the biggest hypocrite known to man.

"And not just the men," Anakin inched closer to you, shaking his head "but the women and the children too."

You froze.

Women, like you.

Children, like the ones you adored at the Jedi Temple, children you dreamed of having with Anakin.

Part of you died hearing his confession, but you remembered how you felt when you were finally left alone in a room with your fathers killer. You too would've killed his wife and the other women and children in their village. You would wipe them all out.

"They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals." Anakin started to raise his voice, his pearly white teeth shining in the light "I hate them!"

Anakin dumped himself to the floor, bringing his knees to his chest, more tears falling from his eyes; you placed your hand against his face, wiping away his tears with your thumb.

"It's okay to feel angry, it's okay to hate them after what they did." You said softly, casting circles on his cheek with your thumb.

"I'm a Jedi," his eyes searched yours, his hand reaching for yours, holding it tightly "I know I'm better than this."

You sighed, kissing his hand softly "Don't let what you've done define you, Ani."

"How can I come back from this?" He asked in frustration "How can I move forward if Obi-Wan is holding me back!"

"You find a way," you encouraged him "even if it means going against him... and the council."

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" You asked quietly.

Obi-Wan didn't answer, he swallowed hard and looked at the pale lilac carpet.

"Why do I get the feeling you're going to be the death of me?"

"Don't say that Master... You're the closest thing I have to a father... I love you. I don't want to cause you pain."

"He has slain younglings, Y/N! I saw his callousness with my own eyes!" Obi-Wan raised his voice, "Anakin has sided with Palpatine! He's the sith lord!"

You started to laugh, waving your hand.

'Of course, Obi-Wan and the council are pinning this on Palpatine, making him the bad guy.' you thought.

"It's funny," you speak up swinging your right leg over your left knee "you and the council painting Palpatine as evil."

The Jedi Master stared at you in horror and couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth - his heart splitting into tiny fragments, the young girl he raised was defending the chosen one - the young boy who had grown up with bouts of pent up hate and anger, and turned to the dark side.

"Palpatine is the only person other than me who truly cares for Anakin, who never lectures him for his feelings, who never holds him back."

Obi-Wan felt sick.

"I don't know where he is," you lied "even if I did, I'm not telling you."

"Don't make this harder for me than it needs to be," Obi-Wan warned you, remembering the Jedi Code, pushing his memories with you and Anakin aside.

You didn't flinch, instead, you sat back down on the sofa, staring at the beautiful sparkling wedding ring on your finger.

"I don't want to go back," you sighed, dragging your feet through inches of deep, sparkling snow "I've missed being home."

Anakin nervously fidgeted with the ring box in his pocket, practising his words over and over and over, making sure he got them perfect, his body freezing, his hair full of snowflakes.

"I'm so thankful you came here with me, Ani." You smiled, "My dad would've loved you."

Realising that Anakin wasn't following you, you stopped in your tracks and turned around, finding your boyfriend down on one knee.

"Ani-"

"From the day we met, I have never been able to shake you from my mind and heart."  

Your eyes filled with tears and your goggles started to steam up.

"I never got to ask for your father's blessing, but that won't stop me."

You focused on the ring, realising it was the same one that your father always showed you as a child, with his plan to give to you in hopes that you would pass it on to your children.

"Y/N, my love, will you marry me?"

You nodded your head, removing your glove, exposing your warm skin to the freezing air that instantly started to nip at your skin.

"Yes," you smiled, more tears falling from your eyes "I will marry you, Anakin."

"Your father would be ashamed of you, you're becoming the very thing he hated, you're sleeping with the enemy!"

The rage you once felt started to ignite deep inside you as Obi-Wan tried to sour one of the greatest moments of your life.

You stood up, and walked over to him, staring him down.

"You know better than to bring up my father, Obi-Wan."

Anakin tried to catch his breath, stumbling backwards in extreme pain, the sound of your screams ringing in his ears. You were hurt, probably dead with the amount of pain Anakin was experiencing.

His heart started pounding, his ears ringing, feeling sick to his stomach - you couldn't be... could you? who could've done this? why?

"I have these nightmares..." Anakin opened up to you "what I see, happens."

You stroked Anakin's head, your fingertips massaging his scalp, your lips brushing against his neck.

"I had them about my mother before she died, I wasn't strong enough to save her."

You stopped massaging his scalp, and pulled away, looking into his blue eyes - full of tears that pooled up over his waterline.

"You are strong and you get even stronger the more you learn and experience," you paused "I was strong - not strong enough to save my dad, but now I probably would've had a better chance of doing so. We move forward."

Your fiance nodded his head, pursing his lips and kissing you softly, still emotional when he pulled away from the kiss.

"I don't want to dream of you like that- I don't want the nightmares - I can't... I can't lose you..."

You shook your head, cupping Anakin's face in your hands "You won't lose me, Ani."

Anakin didn't know but he would soon find out, killing the last of the separatist leaders on Mustafar, he boarded his ETA-2 Jedi Starfighter and set off in a hurry; desperate to find you.

You were in utter shock.

Your hands trembling, your forehead burning, the room closing in on you yet expanding at the same time and your throat like sandpaper from your constant screaming.

It all happened so fast - Obi-Wan striking for you, your leg being severed off faster than you could realise until you fell down and all you could feel was agonising pain, and the smell of burning flesh filling the room, the blood boiling in your veins.

You sat on the floor, your back propped up against the back of the sofa, dragging yourself across the floor proved difficult since you stopped practising your upper body workouts.

Looking across the room, your eyes landed on Obi-Wan, no longer breathing - how you did it? you didn't know - you managed to take control, more power than you ever had in your life, your fury spitting inside of you begging for release.

Do you feel guilty? Now that you think about it, no.

Obi-Wan attempted to end your life and he would take Anakin's life too.

Bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead, you wiped away the beads of sweat, your chest rising and falling.

Anakin jumped out of his Starfighter, his hood shielding his face, his long strides bringing him closer and closer to you, his eyes no longer a beautiful shade of blue, but like the two suns on Tatooine during sunset.

She can't be. Y/N can't be dead. Not now. Not ever.

Getting closer and closer, Anakin could sense death, pain, and suffering.

The door swung open as Anakin stormed in, searching for you frantically until his eyes landed on your amputated leg in the middle of the room, his face drained of all its colour.

Your screams came back to him, the searing sound of Obi-Wan's lightsaber severing your leg, the loud thud as you fell to the floor and then the walls shaking, everything shaking, your yells, Obi-Wan's voice breaking before his body dropped lifelessly to the floor.

Anakin glanced over to his Jedi Masters lifeless body and stared, his eyes burning holes into Obi-Wans back, wanting nothing more than to revive him just so he could have the pleasure of murdering him for what he had done to you.

You peeked your head out from behind the sofa, "Ani," you winced, "I'm back here."

Anakin rushed to your side, his eyes pouring with tears as he searched your face and body for more injuries; the sight of your wound hurt him deeply.

How could Obi-Wan do this to you? How could anyone do such a thing to the chosen one's wife?

"Are you-are you-"

"Ani," you tried to calm him down breathlessly "just my leg, nothing-nothing else."

Anakin scooped you into his arms as gently as he could, you held onto him for support, moving one of your arms around his neck, your tear-stained face hiding in his chest, his heartbeat thumping against your ear comforting you.

"I thought you were dead," Anakin croaked, carrying you away, his robes hiding you in his arms.

"Obi-Wan came to me, he needed to know where you were so he could kill you," you admitted, "he told me that you killed younglings."

Anakin slowed down, you pulled your head out of his chest and looked into his eyes.

"Did you believe him?" Anakin asked, his tone harsh.

You paused for a moment, slightly afraid that Anakin might drop you.

"I know that you have killed children before," you replied quietly, "he told me that Palpatine is the sith lord... that you are his apprentice-"

"What do you think of Palpatine?" Anakin's eyes rummaged through yours.

She can't turn against me - she won't. I won't let her.

"I think that he's the only other person aside from me who has ever encouraged you to show your emotions, to use them to make you stronger."

Anakin's eyes fixed on your face like glue "what if he is the sith lord, and I have joined him? what would you think of me"

You sighed, closing your eyes, imagining the perfect life with your husband; you and him never in harms way, children of your own growing up without a clue of what it's like to lose a parent, to be a slave.

"I would encourage you to overthrow him, and together you and I can rule the galaxy,"

You opened your eyes, everything coming back to you, your father's death, how it felt to slaughter a whole family.

"make things the way we want them to be."

Anakin gripped onto you tightly, a prideful grin spreading across his face.

"Everyone turned against me but you." He said softly, kissing you.

"What if you hate what I become?" your boyfriend stressed, pacing up and down.

"I could never hate you, Anakin," you walked over to him, linking your arm with his metal one"I'll be with you through thick and thin."

tags: @autobotrosestark

[wolferine]

Unforgivable - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When the reader loses their temper, it causes them to commit an act they can never take back...

Warnings: Violence, blood, torture, death

Word count: 2372

Part 1

Tags: @yeetus-thyself @phoenixofash @lilclownx @yeeterthekeeper @alessiapn @diaryoflife

AN: Please read to the end before you come after me. :)

Everything is a blur. The last thing you remember is cradling Natasha in your lap and seeing the pain of betrayal in her eyes. You did this to her. You couldn’t control your anger and now she had a bullet—shot out of your gun—in her back. You hurt her and there was no way you could ever forgive yourself for that. 

You finally let Tony get close enough to take care of her, because you realized you don’t deserve her anymore. 

You run away from the Avengers Tower, your leg slowing you down, but you don’t care. Each step feels like a knife rubbing against your bone, but even that’s not enough to distract you from the pain in your chest. It feels like someone has torn you open, ripped your heart out of your ribcage, and thrown it into a bonfire.

But you have no one to blame than yourself.

Tears stream down your face as you stumble through the streets, eventually finding some privacy in a nearby forest. Your sobs echo through the trees as you crawl hand over hand, your uniform shredding open on bushes and branches. The trickle of a creek calls to you and you dunk your bloody hands in the freezing water, desperate to wash yourself of your failures.

You can’t believe what you’ve done.

The scene of Natasha falling to the floor plays over and over in your head and you would pay anything to unsee it. You curl into a ball, wiping your nose on your knees. You deserve all the pain and misery for your actions. You’re so caught up in your head, thinking about all the ways you can punish yourself, that you don’t notice the group of men sneaking up on you from behind.

“Over there! Over there!” 

“By the creek, see?”

“Wait—that’s an Avenger?”

“Looks like someone had a bad day.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you finally lift your head, only for the butt of a shotgun to slam into your face. Your nose breaks and blood fills your mouth. You turn away, not even interested in protecting yourself. If they killed you, you would thank them.

“Aw, come on. At least give us a reaction,” someone says.

The shotgun butt smashes against the back of your head and you wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked your skull. Someone kicks your leg where you were shot, and you bite your lip to hold back a scream.

“Well, this is anti-climactic.”

“Hey, if it makes our job easier, I’m not gonna complain.”

“I still think Hammer’s weird for wanting Y/N over the other Avengers.”

“Given the circumstances, he couldn’t really be picky—”

“Stop standing around and get to it!” someone yells. 

The men surround you, punching and kicking every inch of you. The bulletproof vest of your uniform does little to lessen the impact of their blows. You feel bruises forming along your ribs and your rattling teeth bite your lips bloody. It doesn’t take long for you to black out and the peace is blissful.

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

Sometime later—you have no idea how long—you jolt awake, finding yourself strapped to a metal chair in the middle of a dark, concrete room. A man in glasses and a gray suit with white gloves stands in front of you. 

“Hello, I’m Justin Hammer,” he says, offering a hand, then withdrawing when he realizes your arms are tied to the chair. “Sorry, force of habit.”

You stare at him. Your tongue pokes around the inside of your mouth and you notice some teeth are missing. There is a painful crick in your neck every time you try moving your head and every breath you take feels like a razor blade scraping the inside of your lungs.

“You’ve probably never heard of me, but I’m very familiar with you and your work with the Avengers. But the reason I have you here today is to talk about this man.” Hammer pulls out a folded photograph from his pocket and shows it to you.

It’s Tony Stark, but you have no desire to even think of that man anymore.

“Your best friend, right?” Hammer teases and you curl your lip at him. “What’s wrong? He’s the one who got you a spot on the team, isn’t he?” You look away from him. “I heard what he did to your girl,” he continues. “That must’ve felt like the betrayal of the century.”

“What?” you ask, confused as to what he’s referring to.

“I heard about what happened at the Avengers Tower. So tragic.” Hammer crumples Tony’s photograph and drops it on the floor. “Romanoff didn’t deserve that.”

“W-What are you talking about? Is she okay?” Your bottom lip quivers in fear.

Hammer kneels in front of you. “She’s dead, Y/N.”

“No, no…” You feel like he’s punched you right through the chest. “T-That’s not possible.”

“I’m sorry. I know she meant a lot to you.” Hammer stands again.

“How do you even know what happened at the Tower?” Given its security, there was no way news like that reached the public. At least not the truth of it. Maybe Hammer was just trying to mess with you.

Hammer motions behind him and a blonde woman steps forward from the shadows. Her face jolts your memory, but you don’t remember exactly where from.

“Recognize her?” Hammer asks. “She actually works for me, but she’s been pretending to be a SHIELD agent for some time now. She was right outside the door when your little spat with Stark went down.” Your mind flashes back to when you returned from the mission with Natasha. On your way to the private Avengers’ quarters, you remember passing the same blonde woman right outside the door.

“She heard everything that happened inside,” Hammer says as the blonde woman retreats into the darkness again.

“N-Natasha’s…She’s…She’s not dead,” you stammer.

Hammer shakes his head. “She went into surgery after Stark shot her, but due to the placement of the bullet, there were some complications and she coded on the table. They couldn’t revive her. That part was all over the news.”

You feel so sick you want to vomit. “I…I killed her?”

“No. You didn’t kill her. Tony Stark killed her.”

You start gasping for air, only worsening the pain in your chest. “No—But—He—I’m the one who pulled the trigger—”

“But you weren’t aiming for her. You were aiming for Stark, and he’s the one who deflected the bullet into her,” Hammer says. “He’s also the one who sent you two on that mission to begin with, wasn’t he? The reason you lost your cool and pulled your gun out? Think, Y/N. All of this is Stark’s fault.”

But the sadness of thinking you’ve killed Natasha is too overwhelming. You can’t focus on anything but your own guilt. You will burn in hell for this and you won’t even mind.

“Listen to me, Y/N!” Hammer snaps, striking you across the face. His rings cut into your cheek and blood fills your mouth. “I hate Stark just as much as you do. He’s been my business rival for years and I need someone to help me take him down. Who better than you, a former friend of his, who knows how to hit him where it hurts?”

You start crying at the thought of having to exist in a world without Natasha Romanoff.

Hammer tries getting your attention by slapping you again, but you’re unresponsive. You’re too lost in your grief to process anything he’s saying, and eventually he gives up, promising to come back another time to reveal his master plan to you.

It takes an entire month before he can even communicate with you. Your depression is all-consuming and their threats on your life have no effect. They’re startled to learn you actually enjoy the torture because you believe you deserve it after what you did to Natasha. But Hammer is relentless and finally figures out how to manipulate you into his bidding.

Six months after your capture and the accident, you finally crack. Your agony and pain turns into pure rage and hatred for Tony Stark. You can’t bring Natasha back, but you can get revenge on the man who took her life. After training with Hammer’s technology, which is almost as advanced as Tony’s, you’re deemed ready to be let out in the real world. Hammer personally asks for your help to kill Tony Stark, and it’s an offer you accept gladly.

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

Three months after the accident…

Natasha wakes up and looks to her right, disappointed to see the bed still empty. She’s tricked herself into believing that one day you’ll show up, ready to pick up the pieces and continue where you left off. But nothing has been the same since you left.

She sits up and turns the lights on. She scoots to the edge of the bed and carefully lifts her body into the wheelchair parked there.

The bullet had struck her lumbar spine, shattering her L1 vertebrae and paralyzing her from the waist down. Tony requested help from the best doctors he knew, but even the greatest modern advancements couldn’t repair her spine. He had personally designed her wheelchair, and she knows she should be grateful to still be alive, but she’s never felt so helpless and alone. 

After the accident, you ran off and no one could locate you. Secretly, she held onto the hope you would return one day, but she knows your guilt and shame are keeping you away. She wants to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and that she doesn’t hate you, but you’re not even giving her that chance.

Tony made the public announcement that Black Widow had retired from the Avengers. No one knew she had been paralyzed, nor that you had unofficially resigned from the team. Without you, without Black Widow, Natasha didn’t know who she was anymore.

She leaves her bedroom and goes into the kitchen. Tony arranged most of the food and dishes down to her new height but she feels like she’ll never adjust to not being able to stand anymore. She locates a bowl and a box of cereal and rolls over to the table. She chokes down dry Cheerios and pours her second bowlful when Tony walks in.

“Thank God you’re finally up,” he says. “When you’re done, I have something to show you.”

“Y/N?” She perks up.

“Uh…no…”

Natasha knows Tony blames himself just as much as she does for her accident, but it wasn’t his fault either. She wrestled between anger and guilt, sometimes blaming you, sometimes blaming him. But in the end, it’s easier to blame herself. She should have stopped you the moment you took out your gun, regardless of whether or not you pushed her. But she got so caught up in the moment she froze, and now she was paralyzed and you were gone.

“Just come down to my workshop, okay?” Tony disappears again.

With nothing better to do, Natasha takes the elevator down to Tony’s workshop. She doesn’t visit often, but when she does, she’s always impressed by his latest inventions and gadgets. She rolls down the aisle of old Iron Man suits displayed in glass cases, admiring the subtle differences in each one.

“Where are you, Tony?” she calls.

“Over here!” He waves her down from the other end. “I’ve been working on this for a while, and I know it’s a little premature, but I couldn’t help myself.” Tony stands next to another Iron Man suit, but it doesn’t quite look like it will fit him.

The suit is curved to fit a woman, black and red instead of Tony’s iconic red and gold. Natasha sees a red hourglass emblazoned on the belt buckle.

“What…What is this, Tony?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

“It’s an Iron Widow suit,” he says. “Or, whatever you want to call it. You’ll have to get in and test it out for yourself, but it’ll allow you to walk again and…be an Avenger again.”

Natasha wishes she could throw herself into his arms, but pulls him down to her level instead. “Thank you,” she whispers, wiping her face. She never thought she would be able to serve as an Avenger again, but she’ll take the opportunity if it means taking her mind off recent events.

“Ready to try it out?” Tony presses a button on the side of the suit and the suit opens up, bending into a crouched position so Natasha can get in it like a chair.

 She smiles for the first time since the accident.

 “I am.”

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

Six months after the accident…

Natasha is in the gym, lifting dumbbells on a bench when Tony walks in. Although she now has a legitimate excuse for skipping leg day for the rest of her life, she now has to make sure her upper body is twice as strong to make up for it.

“Look who decided to slide through my DMs this morning,” Tony says, shoving his phone in her face.

Midnight. Central Park Carousel. Come alone.

The text was from you.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha says, setting the weights down. You haven’t even texted her since the accident, and she’s a little hurt you didn’t reach out to her first. “What’s this about?”

“I have no idea.” Tony shrugs. “I know it says for me to go alone, but since it’s from Y/N, I wanted to ask if you wanted to tag along.”

“Of course.” In a way, Natasha feels like the text is really meant for her. Central Park was where you had asked her to be your girlfriend. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I’ll need you to be on your A-game. We have no idea what Y/N’s been up to these past six months. I don’t know if you’re gonna like what we find,” Tony says.

Natasha has spent countless nights wondering where you’ve been and what you’re doing. Now she has the chance to find out. “It’s going to be okay, Tony,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Just so you know, I’m praying more for you than me right now.”

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

Click here for Part 3!

AN: I never went to medical school, so forgive my medical inaccuracies.

[cdroloisms]

i think that although the theories/aus of puffy's son dream and wil's brother dream are interesting to think about, especially the implications, the (probably) canon statement that he really has no family to me hits the hardest. because it's just dream, you know. his friends hate him, he has none (p relatable), but i can't really imagine,, both not having friends and not having a family. that's kind of what keeps a lot of us sane and okay ( - quill anon (same anon from the c!tubbo c!wil ask) )

ouch quill anon ,, this ask Hurt. it’s true - usually, it’s our family and friends that keep us going, that are the ones that we fight for and live for and love for. c!dream’s “family” was his reasoning behind ,, a lot of the stuff he did, good or bad, and even now you can hear his desperation in getting someone, anyone to visit sometimes, in wanting to know how people are doing outside the cell. 

at the same time, he’s a character very much defined by his solitude, by his isolation, by all of the time he has spent,, alone. by the alliances that had been broken, betrayed, forgotten. by how- at the end of the day - he sits for hours on end in an obsidian box with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. it’s awfully ,, sad, despite everything he’s done. through it all, he’s alone. he survives the horrors of the vault (until this current arc) alone. nobody’s there to hear his thoughts. nobody knows his mindset, or feelings, or wants, or anything that really makes him human. for someone so driven by people, he spends so much time completely isolated - and it’s. honestly really, really tragic. 

anyway, this is a sad little drabble set pre-roommates arc abt c!dream in the prison, alone, bc he makes me Sad. 

tw: mentioned torture, abuse, violence, broken bones, blood, injuries, mental deterioration, isolation, panic attacks, self-deprecation, trauma, memory loss, death, contemplations of death, dark content, dark imagery

The blank book in his hand stares at him stubbornly, the stark white of the untouched pages nearly burning his eyes, used to the dark walls and floor of the cell. Dream’s hand shakes around his quill, ink splotches marring the pages from where his too-unsteady hand had let the nib brush against the paper and left freckles of black spots behind. He pulls his thumb back from the bottom left corner, hissing slightly when it leaves a dull red fingerprint behind, a smudge of half-dried blood further dirtying the paper.

He’d pulled out one of the books for some reason, probably on a whim, letting his hands run over the leather spine and along the thread of the binding absentmindedly after Quackity left for the day. He hadn’t touched them in a while - he liked to save them, at the beginning, just in case visitors came and he wanted to thank them or if he needed to communicate (though he hadn’t gone silent since Sapnap left, ‘cause Sapnap wanted him to talk and he doesn’t know why he still clings to that visit when it’s been months and he still hasn’t come back, but he promised that if Dream behaved he’d visit again and - it’s stupid to hope, but Dream can’t give up, not yet) and then he kept them because he would need them for the revive book and the Warden would confiscate them, anyway, so it was better not to get attached. Regardless, he’d stubbornly ignored the chest of books for a long time, let the remain closed and the clasp go unlatched as he wasted his days away watching the walls drip bright purple and pretend he didn’t miss his clock.

Until now.

He runs his fingers along the surface of the paper again, ignoring the red and black smudges they leave in their wakes, ruining the previously unblemished pages. The paper is smooth, bearing a very slight grain, and smells clean and woody - this book must’ve been a newer one the Warden replaced into the chest. He’d counted the pages a few times, front and back - there are fifty sheets, so a hundred pages to use as he sees fit, completely empty and untouched. The quill shakes in his hand, the tip pressed against the paper, unmoving.

What is there to write?

He’s forgotten why he pulled out the book in the first place, already - his head keeps getting fuzzier, memory impossibly fragmented and seemingly worsening with every passing day. He knows he had a reason because he’d been very determined about it, had spent what must have been hours dragging himself along the obsidian floor with a broken shinbone jutting out of his right leg and a dislocated left shoulder that he’d taken an extra few minutes to jam back in place by pressing it against the floor. Something had come into his head, probably in the middle of Quackity’s daily session, and he’d found himself desperate to write it down before he forgot despite the throbbing of his head and the pain in his chest making it impossible to take a full breath.

(He must have talked back, or acted defiant, or something - he doesn’t remember much besides the look Quackity had given him after, dark and angry and tight with rage. There had been a hand tangled in his hair, a blade jammed right up against his throat, curses and screams in his ears dying into a singular ringing echo as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Quackity realized that he’d gone too deep and that Dream was choking on his own blood - his memories shatter, and there’s nothing but more screaming, red and black and blood everywhere, warm against his skin, the sweet-sour taste of glistening melon on his tongue, a healing pot desperately stitching his skin together and bringing him back from the darkness that he’d swelled in the corners of his vision - mostly, he remembers everything going cold and numb and he’d realized, halfway into the Void, that he would never leave the Vault alive.)

His hands tighten on the book as he breathes a shallow, harsh breath through his teeth, because - oh. Oh. He looks back at the trembling white plume in his hand, at his shaking fingers clenched tightly near the end, and he swallows the thick, heavy feeling in his throat. Quackity had- and he had- and then-

Right.

He forces air into his lungs steadily, counting the seconds off in his head. He’d learned how to stave off panic attacks on his own ages ago, and the knowledge had come to full use in the Vault - the struggle to stay calm seems harder with every passing day, but he can’t exactly risk himself passing out every three seconds when he’s inevitably set off by the smell of blood or a twinge of pain or any of the million other triggers crammed into this tiny box that’s been the source of all of his torment for months. He keeps up the slow, steady breathing for another few minutes, just enough time to pull back the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and looks back down at the blank paper.

It stares back at him, almost judgmental of his hesitancy. You opened me up, it seems to challenge him, why aren’t you writing? The quill still shakes in his hand. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop shaking again.

Dear, he begins, almost in defiance, proof that he Is Going To Write Something, thank you very much, he isn’t just going to chicken out and leave it a blank book (like you have before?) but the quill tip digs into the paper as he grinds to a sudden halt, the empty space next to the first word nearly taunting. He feels his mouth dry, heat rising behind his eyes - the book, silent and blank as ever, stays imprinted in his vision even as he squeezes them shut.

Dear, what a stupid, sentimental way to start a letter. He can’t even fool himself into thinking of it as a business venture, turn it into an elaborate plan to escape and address it to either Techno or Wilbur (who would never receive his message anyway), not without admitting his regard for the two edged past his pretense of professional interested and owed favors. He can hardly write it to Ranboo, not without compromising their already fragile alliance (if it even exists, anymore. The enderman hybrid had yet to visit for months - and sure, it was probably for the best, who knows how Quackity would react if he found out about the nature of their relationship, but that didn’t make it sting any less.)

In the back of his minds, name rise from where he’d kept them carefully buried despite his best efforts. Punz. Bad. Puffy. Sapnap. George. He shakes his head, trying to wave away them from his thoughts, but the effort is as fruitless as it has always been - he stares at the first word angrily, like it has betrayed him, and receives no response. The words are messy, shaking, his script overly looping and rounded like a child’s. He hates it, hates how cheery it looks, even on the bloodstained page - it looks like the beginning of a birthday card, or a perhaps a particularly dedicated Halloween party invite. Like he’s some sort of lovesick teen, writing letters to crushes that would never pay him a second glance. He laughed a little, without any real humor - minus the romance, that description isn’t all that far off.

Because- well. His memories might be shot to all hell, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the hatred on Sapnap’s face, a loaded crossbow pointed between his eyes, George’s expression set in disinterested apathy - “George, you can give the word.” Bad’s face, twisted in pity and resignation, voice carefully measured as he looks away and gestures at the cell, “you did do some pretty bad stuff to get put in here though, Dream,” the hidden “you deserve it” that he’d heard, just as clearly behind the words. Punz - “you should’ve paid me more” - jaw set stiffly as people poured through the portal, watching, wordless, as Dream bled out twice on that blackstone floor. Puffy, poorly hidden disgust flickering over her face as she looks away from him being dragged away in chains, sword held steady in her hands. Sapnap, that same fiercely determined expression on his face so familiar that thinking of it aches, even now, “it’s gonna be me, who takes your final life.” Months and months and months and months, alone.

Always, always, alone.

The page makes a quiet, complaining groan under his pen - he looks down to see it torn under the tip of his quill, the word completely unreadable under line after line of black ink scratched over it, each one deeper than the last. He stares blankly at it for a few minutes longer, the brief flash of anger that had seared through his body settling into numbness once more.

To whoever may find this: he scratches the words on the page slowly, keeping his print deliberately blocky and neat. The heavy feeling in his throat returns, stronger than ever, and he ignores it as he pushes on.

He pauses for a moment, wondering what more to write. Apologies? Accusations? He could detail every second that he remembers from Quackity’s visits, describe every inch of pain that had been pulled from his aching lungs, every line etched into his skin. He could apologize for every act of cruelty that had ever been caused by his hands, every bridge he’d ever torched to light the path to a better future. He could explain - everything, every tortured thought that had circled his head for hours on end and every night that had passed without any sleep and every time he’d pushed on without complaint or hesitancy because it would be worth it, even if he was the only one who saw it, it would be worth it because he’d sacrifice too much for it to be anything but. He could- he could, he could write and write until he’d filled every page of every book back and front, and would they even believe him? Would it even matter?

Goodbye, he writes at last. It feels strangely final. (He won’t be leaving this Vault alive. He knows this as surely as he knows that he will leave this world uncared for, unheard. As surely as he knows that he’ll always be alone.) With a quick snap of magic following the signing of his name, the book is preserved, shining slightly with a purple glow as he sets it back down in the chest. He looks around, the cell once again stiflingly quiet without the book to busy him, Dream once again completely alone as he’s been for - well.

(Pandas, eyebrows drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness from the usually painfully spirited eight-year-old, pinkie raised between the two of them, solemnity belied by the gap in his front teeth poking out between his lips.

“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered with the volume control you’d expect from a kid that age, which is to say that it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, but Dream, newly ten years old, remembers being particularly moved by the gesture anyway, moving to hesitantly hook his own pinkie in the other’s.

“And we’ll never be alone ever again,” he’d replied, voice faraway with a disbelieving sort of awe.”

“Never,” Pandas’ voice had been just as firm as his first statement, twisting his wrist to tighten the grip of their linked fingers further. “Best friends for ever and ever, right?”

“For ever and ever.”)

“For ever and ever,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he slumps down against the floor, and only the lava bubbles in reply.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

if you’re still doing the ask game, I’d kill to see number five for either Jake, Jameson, or Jax. you know how I love my drug whump

I have so many prompts sitting in my inbox that are numbers to ask games that I can't remember what the prompts were... but I remember this one. This is as good a time as any...

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, drugged whumpee, beating, described body/bones, brief emeto ref, restrained, sadistic whumper, collared, chained up

Direct Sequel to Deep Breath / I'm Ready. Part of the Jameson's Backstory mini-series.

-

"I have a system, dog. I have a method. I have a way these things are done."

Robert punctuates each sentence with another kick to his ribs, and the pet grunts with the impact, telling himself to let some of the pain bleed out into the man's boot. With his hands tied behind his back, a short rope linking them to his ankles, he's forced into an arch that leaves his most vulnerable places entirely unprotected.

Open.

On display.

Inviting the next blow.

At least whatever was forced down his throat dulls things a little bit. It's a mercy, he thinks, because Robert isn't done with him yet. The world roils and spins around him like the ocean on a stormy day. The pet is a white-capped wave when the next kick comes and something snaps inside him.

Watch it rain, a soft voice says somewhere inside him. A small hand grabs his own. Watch the rain fall, Johnny. Don't you love rain?

He whimpers, sweating into the blindfold, shivering reflexively as cool air hits the sheen of wet over his skin. He doesn't know who Johnny is.

"Please... please..." His pleading is weak, voice cracked and breaking.

But he just wanted to do the only thing he could to help the young man in the bathtub. He just wanted to help.

Now he's helpless.

Robert's boot, pulled back for the next kick, pauses at the sound. "What's that? You not enjoying this?" He exhales, letting out a thready laugh, before he drops into a crouch, running his hands over the pet's hair. Robert watches him flinch back, unable to see it coming. His thumb finds a spot rubbed bald by the straps of the muzzle and he runs over it, humming, finding the scarred places where the muzzle has cut in enough to make him bleed, over and over. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused from his job. "You don't like taking your punishment, hm? Is that it?"

The pet holds as still as he can, panting, trying to push past the throbbing ache on his left side. Broken rib, maybe, or just bruised. He'll find out if it heals right or doesn't.

"Please-... please stop," He whispers.

That only gets him another laugh, meaner this time. "That boy had two more weeks of life left in him," Robert says, in a tone of perfect rationality. "I chose him special, and you got it in your head to ruin everything. I just don't see how I'm the bad guy here."

He sighs, and rips the blindfold off over the pet's head.

The pet looks up, struggling to focus, only to take a fist to the face as soon as he does. Knuckles crack into his jaw, but nothing breaks. It's a miracle he hasn't lost any teeth.

His head bounces off the floor, a flash of white behind his eyes. He hears a rough voice cry out in pain and realizes it's his own. The world, already a seasick cruise ship, bobs even more dangerously around him.

He's being blown around in circles, saltwater coming in too fast to bail out. He's going to be sick. He's going to throw up on the floor and drown.

Just like he drowned the man in the bathtub who begged him to do it, who said I'm ready, who held his hand, who struggled at the end and then stopped, and then-

And then...

The air had gone briefly cold after the man had stopped moving and the pet had felt a breeze through his hair, as if something in the man was leaving and moved past him on its way somewhere else.

He starts to cry, unwillingly.

His sobs comes out through gritted teeth, tears forced out of eyes he's closed as tightly as he can to try and keep them hidden. His body shakes.

"Two weeks you've robbed me of," Robert says, standing back up. He groans, and the pet can hear him moving around the room. He doesn't dare look up to watch him, not now. "Two weeks, and now it's all wrong. Now nothing happened the right way, it's all fucked up now. I have a system. I have a method, I have a routine, and you fucked it all up!"

The last words come out a deafening scream, and the pet cries out again, trying as hard as he can to duck his head and hunch his shoulders, wanting only to protect himself in whatever meager way he can. The sound of Robert's voice bounces around inside his fucked-up skull. The water is pulling him under now.

The waves lurch and break against him as Robert grabs him by the arms and drags him. Hog-tied, he can do little more than squirm as he's pulled back into the hallway, to the grimy bathroom.

The young man isn't in there anymore.

"I should kill you," Robert snaps, depositing him back on the cold tile, wet now with water splashed out from when Robert found what he had done and had dragged the body out, trying to revive it so he could hurt the young man more. "I should fucking kill you, you stupid dog. You ruined everything!"

The pet tips his head back until it touches the floor, looks up at Robert looming over him, all malevolence and rage. Beyond his fear, the pet finds a core of something that burns bright and hot, stronger than the smell from the basement. Something sharper than the knives he is cut with, something stronger than Robert's shouting or his fists.

The pet makes an expression that could be a smile or could be a snarl. It could be appeasement or bared fangs. His lip busted at some point and he feels blood on his teeth, tastes it on his tongue.

It makes him think of Nanda.

He lets the blood shift into his mouth, lets it pool on his tongue. Tastes the copper-salt, the hint of sweet. The taste of love, of Nanda's mouth, of his low voice, hands in his hair or on his hips.

Once he has enough, the pet spits blood into Robert's stupid fucking face.

"I hope the next one goddamn kills you first!"

Robert goes still, and silent. His eyes are ringed in white, like a horse about to bolt. Then his hand comes up to slowly wipe away the smear of pink-tinged saliva on his cheekbone running down to his jaw, marked with a five o'clock shadow.

"Fucking dogs don't know how to stop their bark," He mutters to himself. Whatever his plan in the bathroom had been, it's clearly not enough. He pulls the pet up, then lets him fall again. Stares around, eyes bouncing over the still-full tub, the ring of grime around the tub where the water still sits.

Then he just shakes his head. "No, no, no," He mumbles. "No no. Calm it, Bobby. Calm it. Think think think."

The pet stares up at him. His body holds more disgust in that moment than he ever thought possible.

Robert disappears back into the hallway, leaving the pet where he is. Outside the barred bathroom window there's a soft birdsong and the faint hint of sunlight. What time even is it? The pet never knows. The bathroom is the only window that isn't covered with heavy blackout drapes almost all the time.

He focuses on breathing, keeping things shallow to hold the pain in his ribs at bay as best he can. His wrists hurt from the ropes rubbing them raw, his muscles are pulled painfully taut and stretched.

Robert returns with the gag-muzzle, forcing the plastic bit between his teeth. His tongue pushes against it uselessly, working to try and make it comfortable even as his jaw already protests what it knows is coming. The straps slide over the bald spots, buckle into place. The pet shudders at the familiarity of the feeling and tries instinctively to jerk his head to the side.

Robert grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, giving a humorless rictus grin at the pained grunt forced from the pet's throat. "Oh, you don't like that, huh? Shoulda thought of that before you fucking ruined my system. My method. My routine."

You said that already, the pet thinks, but it occurs to him Robert probably doesn't remember that. He's never sure what Robert actually knows about his own words, how much sinks in to memory. He's always repeating things like it's the first time he's ever said them.

The rope between his wrists and ankles is cut and Robert pulls him up to his feet, shoving him forward. The drugs keep the pet struggling to hold himself upright, stumbling to one side or the other. He can still feel the waves - inside him, battering, trying to pull him back under the cold dark water.

He goes willingly enough, shuffling with his hobbled ankles, until Robert has him at the basement door.

The pet rears back in a sudden panicked realization, a muffled, unintelligible babbled plea coming out around the bit, behind the leather muzzle already making his skin pour sweat. He shakes his head wildly back and forth, tries to yank himself free.

Robert's laugh is wild and crazed this time as he shoves the pet forwards and it's either go down the stairs or fall.

The pet's foot finds cool smooth old wood that creaks and he whimpers, the smell flooding his nose making his stomach twist and turn. The next step. A third. A fourth.

The light is on in the basement, a single bare bulb shining a thin circle of light over the disturbed earth on one side. The other side is untouched except for some boxes and the chemical barrels, wreathed in dark shadows that let nothing escape.

"You like 'em so much, you can spend the night with 'em, huh? Just have a little sleepover with my friends here, hm? How's that sound? How that fucking sound?!"

The pet whines as Robert screams in his ear, shaking his head again and again as he is forced step by step down into the basement where they die, where he buries them. His bare feet touch down onto the earthen floor, coolly dry down here, chilly compared to the upstairs. The pet is shivering but it isn't really from the cold.

Goosebumps burst all over his arms and legs, a thrill of terror down his spine as Robert pulls him over to the shadowed corner where the boxes are. There's a hinged metal collar with a chain that attaches to the wall, and the pet realizes that Robert must use it when they're down here just before Robert throws him down on the ground and closes the metal with a snnnnkt over his leather collar, around his neck.

There's thigh bones, he thinks, in a pile over underneath the lightbulb. Just a bunch of fucking goddamn femurs, like Robert comes down here to play fucking barbie dolls with dead people, taking them apart and putting them back together.

Welcome to Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse, he thinks, and a manic horrified laugh bubbles up his throat. John Wayne Gacy edition.

A padlock is hooked through the front of the collar, cold metal slapping down against the top of the pet's collarbone. He looks up at Robert, who is right in front of the light bulb from his perspective, his face black and unreadable.

Please, he tries to say. I'm sorry. Please. All that comes out is muffled animal whines.

"You love them so fucking much, you can be best friends." Robert ruffles his hair. He grins, and the yellowy white of his teeth is all the pet can see of his face. "Enjoy your sleepover, dog."

He turns and leaves, ignoring the pleading whines of the pet as he climbs up the stairs, the creaking like a chorus, a harmony to the pet's cries for this to not be real.

The light seems to shimmer around its edges - it's just the drugs, he tells himself, it's just whatever was in those pills - and shift. Dead people could hide down here in the dark places, with their bony fingers reaching out to grab him.

He whimpers again, softer this time.

He manages to shuffle himself on his ass backwards until he hits the basement wall, smooth stone older than the house itself. His hands are still tied behind him and his ankles are still hobbled. Tears run from his eyes, drift along the edge of the muzzle, drip down from his jaw into the dirt. He sobs around the bit gag, whining until he can't remember if he even is human at all any longer.

Then he sees a face and gives a full-body shudder.

At first he thinks it's the drugs, but it's not. The young man who begged him for help, the reason he's down here at all, isn't buried yet. He's just lying on the ground under a worktable on the other side of the basement. His hands are still tied together in front of him, his soaking wet hair has begun to dry, frizzy and tangled.

Something about the face, though, gives him pause.

He's seen them dead before, their faces etched in horrified screaming, empty eyes wide and terrified. He's seen them trapped in their final agonies long after they're gone.

But the young man across the basement looks like he's gone to sleep there on the floor, that's all. His color's all wrong but the dim light keeps that from being too obvious.

He looks like he's sleeping.

He didn't die screaming under Robert's knife, or begging for it to stop as the blows kept raining down. He isn't tied to Robert's bed, he isn't anything like that at all.

The pet's fear is still in him, heart beating jackrabbit-fast against the inside of his chest, but he stares and stares at the young man's body and begins to understand that... he doesn't need to be afraid of them.

He doesn't need to be afraid.

He needs to be angry that they die like this, not afraid of them.

Anger is what keeps him breathing, what keeps him thinking, what keeps him alive.

He made Robert furious, but more importantly he took a victory from him, he took power from him. He took away control. He made it so Robert can't feel like he owns the young man in his death, like the body is his because he made it.

No.

As long as he isn't dead, that means he isn't out of time. As long as he keeps breathing, as long as he keeps thinking, as long as there are parts of him that Robert doesn't know, doesn't own, that he can't control.

As long as he stays angry.

As long as he has hope.

I'm going to get out of here, he promises the young man's body, the pile of bones, the rest of them under the soil. I'm going to escape. I'm going to do something, someday, when he gives me the chance.

I'm not like him.

I'm not like any of them.

I want to be like you, instead, but alive. I want to live.

I'm going to live.

For a second he smells water, he hears a voice he can't understand and tastes the young man's voice on his tongue, the taste of sage tea with milk.

The pet swallows and closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, holding the air, breathing out again. The air shifts around him, touches his face just above the muzzle.

In the perfectly still basement, a breeze shifts along his skin, rustles his hair just a little.

Something moving past him on its way to somewhere else.

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

[fluffyfranny]

can we have some celesgami please?

Yes yes, of course! Regal lad and lass be the best :3

Btw, everyone's outfits are the ones in their 10th anniversary artworks :3

Author's note: lowkey wanna make a continuation of this with someone interrupting the speech and cursing out the brothers despite them having redeemed themselves and the family only for Celeste and Togami to intervene and curse them out in return. Protecc the bros and classmates in arms!

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

Celeste sighed as she brushed down the ruffles of her dress, making sure that no dust or miniscule mess was hidden underneath the folded fabric, waiting to spill out and taint the glossy surface of her heels. She fussed with her headpiece, making sure it was straight on her head, then tucked her veil behind her ears so it wouldn't interfere with her vision.

Everything had to be perfect.

Tonight was special. Her and Togami were invited to attend a very prestigious conference in Tokyo to represent Hope's Peak, where their fellow cohort Ishimaru, who had cordially invited them, was to speak regarding the revival of his family name and the upcoming collaboration between his and Byakuya's families regarding local charity efforts.

And Celeste, well... she couldn't help herself accepting the invitation.

For she was about to be in her dream setting: crowds of people swarming around a borderline royal setting, people off to the side ready to cater to any request she may have...

Because this is the Ishimarus and the Togamis we're talking about; families who poured every ounce of blood, sweat and effort into making not only their worlds, but the community's as well, better places, all the while having the public fawn over how they wished they could be in their shoes, presumably thinking that they'd be treated like monarchs and have every wish of theirs granted...

However, there's more to being part of these renowned families, for it's not always about sitting back and watching people do your seldom or every bidding, depending on which family you worked for. There were political campaigns that needed running, bills that needed signing, speeches that needed rehearsing, et cetera.

In short, they weren't royalty much, if at all.

Nevertheless, there would be many people around, and some might even recognize Celeste for her regal demeanor and past desires. With this thought, her lips quirked up in a closed-lipped smile.

Her daydreaming was cut short by a curt knock at the door, causing her to whip her head to the side so quickly that she feared her veil and headpiece might fly off. Grasping and lifting the sides of her voluminous skirt, she daintily made her way to the door and opened it up.

There stood Togami, giving a last minute adjustment to his tie before his hands returned behind his back. Two escort guards accompanied him, one on each side, making sure that nobody pulled something funny.

One hand came out in Celeste's direction.

"Shall we, then?" He offered, face set in stone but tone of voice being rather warm for the heir.

Celeste brought up one of her own hands to cover her mouth in a giggle before taking his and walking out the door.

"Most certainly," the lady said.

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

Upon exiting outside, the two escorts made their way to a car down the street and climbed inside, parked in front of what was to be the pair's ride into town. Togami had removed his fur jacket and offered it to Celeste in case she became chilly.

"Oh, please, I do not think I need to don another hefty layer of fabric," she admitted.

"At least put it around your shoulders," he offered.

The lady nodded in acceptance, and the heir shed the jacket and swung it around to rest over Celeste's shoulders. She took hold of it from the front to close it around her like a shawl.

"Now I feel like I'm a beaver with this pelt," Celeste jokingly teased.

It was barely there, but Togami let out a huff of air that could only be taken as a laugh, for a smirk crept up the corners of his lips as he shook his head.

"You never cease to have a clever remark after every jest," he pointed out.

"And, have you anything else to say about my habit?" Celeste chided back playfully, a smirk of her own gracing her face.

"Hmph, no matter about it," the blonde said, veering away from the topic of discussion. "Here."

They had been walking as they chatted and had arrived at the limo that would take them to the conference. Togami already had one door open and gestured to Celeste.

"After you."

He took her hand as she made her way inside the car and let go when she was fully inside. She smoothed down her dress as he shut the door and joined her from the other side. He nodded towards the front of the car.

"We're ready. Get us there pronto."

The driver nodded from the front-view window and the engine sped to life, the car in front of them waiting until they passed before slowly following in pursuit; a miniature police escort from behind.

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

The drive was only a twenty minute one, for another escort car arrived shortly after departure and cleared the lanes for the guests of honor, making their path open and quick. If traffic had clogged the streets, it would have taken them almost an hour at most.

Celeste spent the entirety of the drive gazing out the window at all the city lights, admiring how they glittered and reflected off the glass. Togami, all the while, kept a gentle hand on the one that rested in her lap while her other one held her chin up as she looked outside.

Twenty minutes felt like twenty seconds, because before they knew it, they arrived at the conference, smack dab in the middle of town and already surrounded by a mass of cars and people dressed in their best suits and gowns. Many of those that were outside began to file inside in either tight-knit groups or small lines, trying to keep the pace steady so no crowds would have to linger out in the brisk fall air for too long.

Togami slipped out of the limo once it reached a stop and strode over to Celeste's side, opening the door and extending a hand, which she gingerly took. Her other hand gathered the material of her skirt that trailed behind her so it wouldn't get caught in the door. Once she had smoothed out the fabric she bunched up, she joined Togami on the sidewalk and waved goodbye to the driver, who gave a two-fingered salute before driving off, stating to the heir that he would be back as soon as the speeches wrapped up.

Cameras were flashing everywhere, and Celeste had a trick up her sleeve, knowing this was to happen at such an event. She whipped a black and red lace fan out of her sleeve and spread it out in front of her face, only letting the crowd see her blood-red irises that gave the photographers the occasional wink and eyebrow raise.

"You know," Celeste piped up over the clamoring paparazzi. "I could get you one of these, since they seem to pine over getting your attention almost as much as mine."

"I have no use for one of those," Togami said with a shake of his head, aiming the two of them towards the entrance of the conference room.

"I think you'd be a peacock feather kind of guy."

"Why would I want to hide my face with the discarded feathers of such a fowl?"

"Not sure. What if I told you that the red part of my fan was made with the blood of my enemies?"

"You'd be that kind of witch."

"Thank you kindly."

He didn't understand why she took his remark as a compliment, but shrugged it off as they neared the doors. The crowds took note of their presences and parted like the Red Sea. Two security guards held the doors open for them into the ballroom that would serve as housing the main event. With simple nods exchanged as 'thank you's, they made it another few paces before they heard-

"Ah, Togami! Miss Ludenberg!"

Heads turned in the direction of the voice calling out to the two, and over strode Taka, looking prim as ever in a black suit, cream vest and red tie. His hair was slicked back with portions spiked up, and his eyes were as bright as Celeste's when she stared out into the city.

Except, his shone with excitement, excitement knowing that the Ishimarus were no longer renowned for their past struggles with debt brought on by the late prime minister, his grandfather.

"Evening to you, monsieur Taka," Celeste remarked, giving a miniature bow of her head.

"You have no idea how much this means to me," the prefect babbled. "Especially you, Togami! I'm quite honored that our collective families get to-"

"Yes, yes, I'm just as honored as you should be," the heir drawled out, tone strict, but allowed a small smirk to creep across his features once more. "We're both getting the recognition we so deserve and have craved."

"Oh, yes of course!" Taka admitted, hands going behind his back. "We've been waiting so long for this form of recognition, not the type to instill disgust, but rather, admiration! I hope you understand-"

"YO, BRO!" A booming voice projected from a few feet away. The trio looked in all directions before a blur of white came from their right and barreled into Taka, almost knocking him to the ground as the air left his lungs in an audible 'oof.'

"What is the meaning of this, Kiyo?" Taka stared in shock at his brother, clearly not expecting him to make such a grand entrance.

"Ahh, sorry dude!" Kiyo, or rather, Ishida, admitted with a tinge of guilt, rubbing the back of his neck after they had both regained their posture.

He was the striking opposite of Taka in terms of appearance, for the colors of his suit were inverted, boasting a white jacket and pants, black vest and red tie. His hair was also spiked up in a similar manner, and his eyes, quite literally, shone like they were on fire, in more ways than one.

"Pops wanted me to come and find you before this whole shindig starts, dude," the white-haired brother admitted, an arm slung over Taka's shoulders as he took note of the two guests in front of him. "S'up, you two?"

"Chaos and delinquency from you, that's what," Togami muttered, loud enough for Celeste to hear before she lightly hit him over the head with her fan, earning a steely glare of shock from the blonde.

"Please, Togami," Celeste remarked, hiding her very wide smile behind her fan so as to not show her obvious amusement. She turned and gave another miniature bow of her head. "Evening to you too, monsieur Kiyo."

"Pleasure, m'lady," he rasped back, giving a wink and a finger-gun salute.

"Please, you two!" Taka chimed in, moving to stand in the middle of the pair, hands on the backs of their shoulders. "Let me show you to your seats!"

"Then we gotta skedaddle!" Ishida piped up. "It'll be showtime!"

Celeste and Togami traded stares as they walked, hers of humor and his of ignorance, before they seemed to neutralize and soften, with Celeste lowering her fan to show a much gentler smile. Togami didn't return the exact expression, but showed a miniature twitch of the corners of his lips; an attempt at a smile on his part.

As they took spots in the front row, the brothers seemingly vanished into thin air. They were pretty keen on being on schedule, so if it means abandoning their cohorts at the last minute before they could chat any longer, so be it.

Pretty soon, the lights dimmed, and the murmurs of the crowd lowered in volume, spotlight coming up on a podium that was soon occupied by the brothers. Taka made the opening statement with much help from Ishida, who chimed in at, most of the time, opportune breaks in dialogue, which earned a few amused chuckles from the crowd.

Then, the two began to prattle on about the efforts that they, collectively, were in the process of finalizing with the Togami corporation. Their eyes collectively sought out and found his spot in the front, and smiled as another miniature spotlight suddenly blinked over Togami, him squinting his eyes in both annoyance and partial blindness at the sudden interruption.

Celeste took note of this and giggled behind her fan again, hand coming to give his shoulder a quick few pats. This seemed to soften the annoyance in his glare, and his eyes shut for a moment, a full-on smile gracing his features as he rose for a moment and faced the crowd behind him, a hand coming up in recognition before lowering as he resumed his seat and the brothers resumed their speech, the fire not leaving their eyes and passionate voices.

Celeste slid her hand onto his shoulder again as they listened, his eyes flicking over to her from his peripheral vision as he listened, showing he was listening.

"The future is in good hands with you three."

Togami's chest rose in a quick chuckle under his breath as he nodded before both of them resumed their attention towards their classmates.

"In good hands, indeed."

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

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Alt S5b Plot Bunny, Pt 6

By the time the others return from the desert to report an absolute bust, Lena is secured in the infirmary and Kara has hastily wrapped her injuries in messy piles of gauze.

Alex takes one look and immediately shifts into medic mode. "What happened?"

"Lena, she-- she tried to kill me," Kara murmurs. Her gaze shifts to her friend, still unconscious where she's strapped to a gurney. Despite what happened, all she feels in concern.

"She almost succeeded," Alex tells her, prodding the stab wound in her side. Kara groans. "Good news is, you're already starting to heal."

She sets Kara on a stool and wheels over a sunlamp. When she clicks it on, Kara sags under the relief it provides.

"It wasn't her fault," Kara tells Alex. Alex shoots her a look, but Kara insists. "It wasn't! She-- she tried to warn me. And then--"

"You're right," J'onn says, pressing two fingers to his temple. "Her mind has been corrupted."

"How?" Alex asks.

Kara scans Lena with her xray vision, and her blood runs cold when she locates two inorganic devices: one in her neck, the other at the base of her brain stem.

"Brainy--"

Kara describes the devices to the best of her ability. Brainy's eyes alight with understanding.

"It would seem Lex has covered all his bases," Brainy explains. "The first appears to be a small capacitor, capable of delivering an electric current. The other is an inhibitor of some kind, grafted onto her central nervous system. There would be no way for Lena to fight whatever mandate Lex installed."

"Can we remove them?" Nia asks.

Brainy considers that for a moment. "The first would be quite simple to remove. However the inhibitor is a different story. Even assuming Lex has not rigged the device with a failsafe, attempting to remove it could render Miss Luthor comatose, or dead."

Kara releases a shaky breath. "Then what can we do?"

"If we could deactivate the device, I could reverse whatever mandate Lex installed," J'onn offers. "Her mind would be her own again."

"How do we deactivate it if we can't remove it?"

Brainy perks up. "An EMP could render the device inert. There is a chance the device could be reactivated, but doing so would require physical adjustment."

"And I'm not going to let Lex get anywhere close to her again," Kara declares.

J'onn nods. He looks to Brainy. "How soon can you have a device ready to deliver the EMP."

"A few hours at most. I shall begin immediately."

Brainy goes off, and Kara turns to Alex. "Can we keep Lena sedated until it's ready?"

Alex eyes her. "You sure?"

Swallowing, Kara nods. Though partially driven to spare Lena the discovery of being strapped to the bed, more fervent is the need to never see the hate in Lena's eyes again.

"Yeah."

Alex nods. "Okay."

---

The hours pass slowly. Kara spends them under the sunlamp, refusing to leave Lena's side. Alex uses the time to fish the capacitor from Lena's shoulder, and Kara fights the urge to vomit when the small device clinks to the bottom of a sterile basin.

Seeing her distress, Alex offers her a steadying smile. "She's going to be okay."

Kara gazes at Lena, unable to banish the apprehension coiling in her gut. "Yeah."

When Brainy finally returns, they clear the infirmary of anything electrical. At Kara's nod, Brainy activates the device. The wait as it beeps once, twice, three times, then falls silent.

Awkwardly, they wait for something to happen, but nothing does.

"Brainy?"

"The EMP has been delivered."

Lena doesn't stir. Kara looks at her sister in concern. "Alex..."

"The sedatives should wear off any minute."

The wait in anxious silence until Lena finally begins to stir. Kara steps forward, taking Lena's hand in hers. "Lena?"

Lena's eyes open, rolling slightly before squinting against the overhead lights. She groans, then pries her eyes open to look at Kara.

"Kara..."

Lena breathes her name, smiling at the sight of her, her features soft and relieved. Kara studies her, and feels her heart fall.

Alex moves to unfasten Lena's other hand.

"It didn't work," Kara snaps, freezing Alex in place.

"The EMP was delivered--"

Kara pegs him with a sharp glare. "It didn't work!"

On the bed, Lena's grin deepens to something menacing, and a giggle pours out of her. Her grip on Kara's hand tightens, fingernails digging into Kara's skin like claws until Kara jerkily pries herself free.

"Nice try, Supergirl," Lena taunts. "But you can't change the truth: you're a menace--"

Alex silences her with a sharp jab of a syringe, administering another dose of sedative. In moments Lena is out like a light.

Thrusting the sunlamp away from her, Kara stalks to the side of the room, then paced to the other in furious agitation.

"Why didn't it work?"

Brainy thinks for a long moment. "It's possible the device is in fact biomechanic in nature. The nervous system is effectively one large conductor, carrying electrical impulses from the brain to the rest of the body--"

"The device could be powering itself using those impulses," Alex jumps in, catching on quickly.

Brainy nods. "It would be impossible to power it down completely so long as though impulses are present."

"So there's no way to save her?" Kara asks.

Brainy tilts his head, catching Alex's gaze. "There is a way..."

"But it would be risky," Alex finishes.

Kara stops pacing and looks at her. "How risky?"

"If we're right, and the device is powered in part by Lena's own electrical impulses, then we would have to suppress those impulses long enough for the device to run out of juice, then hit it with the EMP."

"And by suppress her electrical impulses, you mean--"

"All electrical impulses. Zero brain activity."

Kara's mouth goes dry. "You mean kill her."

"Only temporarily," Brainy points out. "As soon as the EMP is delivered, we would be able to revive her, and she will be herself again."

Sensing Kara's distress, J'onn places a hand on her shoulder. "It's risky, but it may be Lena's best chance."

Kara takes a deep breath, her mind racing. Losing Lena this way terrifies her, but in her heart she knows the decision Lena would make if she could. She wouldn't want to live like this-- she wouldn't want to be Lex's puppet.

She nods.

"Let's do it."

----

It takes almost an hour to prepare. Alex preps the drugs she'll need to slow Lena's heart, and the drugs she'll need to restart it. She collects a crash cart as well, just in case. In lieu of more advanced technology, which they don't have in the tower, J'onn will monitor Lena's brain waves to determine when it's safe to administer the EMP.

Kara can only watch it all with a lump in her throat, praying to Rao that she hasn't made the wrong decision.

"Ready?" Alex finally asks.

Kara nods. She steps up to Lena's bedside, taking Lena's hand in both of hers. She watches as Alex administers the first syringe, listening as Lena's heartbeat begins to slow. She prays silently as the thumps comes farther and fewer between, then cease entirely. Looking at J'onn, she waits with tears in her eyes as the seconds tick by.

"J'onn..."

"Not yet..."

Dread pours through Kara, filling her swiftly and completely. She shakes her head. "It's been too long. Alex..."

"Kara, wait--"

"Alex!"

"Now!" J'onn shouts. Brainy activates his device. The thing beeps slowly-- once, twice, three times.

Then

"The EMP has been delivered."

Alex surges into action. With sure, swift movements she uncaps the second syringe and plunges it into Lena's chest. Without waiting, she vaults onto the gurney, straddling Lena to begin delivering chest compressions.

"Alex..."

"We just have to keep her blood moving until the drugs kick in," Alex pants. Counting softly, she shoots a look to Nia. "Nia, rescue breaths, now."

Nia obeys without hesitation. Kara's tears spill over as she watches them work on Lena, unable to do anything more than stand idly by. As the minutes pass, Kara feels her hope dwindle.

"Brainy, the crash cart," Alex barks finally. She climbs off the stretcher while Nia breathes air into Lena's lungs. Brainy wheels the crash cart closer.

"Kara, let go."

"Alex--"

"Let go!"

Kara steps back, and Alex presses the paddles against Lena's torso. "Clear!"

Lena's body spasms as the current courses through her, only to fall limp when it stops. Alex presses two fingers to Lena's neck, seaeching for a pulse. Delivering another round of compressions, she then waits for Nia to perform the rescue breathing before shocking Lena again.

"Clear!"

Lena spasms again, and Kara has to turn away, covering her sobs with one hand. For a long moment, there's nothing but heavy silence before Alex calls out.

"I've got a pulse!"