#MQfic

[masterqwertster]

New fic for my personal hopes of some things to go down in episodes 92+

Breaking, Mending

Ashton is good at breaking things. But now they're trying to fix something. One of the most important things. MAJOR SPOILER FOR EPISODE 91

Ashton comes to with a healing potion on his tongue. There’s also that scent in the air specific to arcane explosions.

At first they think Fearne must have used that detonation ability that she has in her titanous form. Risky. But if she could get the space to not hit Bells Hells, maybe just enough to bring Otohan down. And they’re pretty sure that bitch is down, given that psychic vibration of her Exhalting is gone.

But Imogen sits above him, with tears streaming down her face, and Ashton knows something is wrong.

When he looks beyond her, beyond Chet and Orym and Laudna and Fearne, he sees it: a crater with a charred corpse and littered with yellow scraps of metal.

Ashton knows.

They know that what they have feared for fucking months (have they really only known him for months? Not even a year? How the fuck did he make it feel like they’d always known him?) has finally happened: FCG martyred himself. The aeormaton is gone.

It’s not even a thought to let the earth take Ashton’s body, drag and rotate and slide it around until he’s standing upright before the crater, witnessing the devastation of Fresh Cut Grass’s sacrifice.

It shouldn’t have come to this. They should have– They could have– Why–?

Ashton searches for FCG’s stupid fucking Changebringer coin. They would have wanted that. He spots it embedded in the wall, forward towards the exit to the surface. A last message from FCG. Or the Changebringer fucking with them, using the death of the only person here to give a fuck about her (if it’s the latter, the gods and titans will fight again. That’s a fucking promise. Fresh Cut Grass is worth punching their goddess in the face).  

They slide their fingers into stone and pull the coin free within their fist, the rock unresisting to them. Ashton is going to give it back to FCG as soon as they get him resurrected. And they will get him resurrected. Ashton is not going to any less lengths to bring Fresh Cut Grass back than they did Laudna.

Continue on AO3

[masterqwertster]

Both Ashton and Orem would work very well with the Artificer - Armorer prompt if you fell like writing it.

Subclass Hurt/Comfort Prompt Barely a bit of spoilers in this one for episode 89. Armorer Artificer: Shielding them with your body, or a prized possession of yours.

Orym’s a little guy. He’s always known this, never denied it. What would be the point when he’s waist-high to most?

So of course this makes it all the more laughable a visual when he sprints between Ashton’s titanous legs to get his shield up, to be between them and any approaching threat. After all, he’s barely knee-high when they’re like this, so he really doesn't immediately cover much of Ashton. 

“Awww, you have an ankle guard,” a quanikka enemy mocks as he approaches. 

Then his face splits into a sadistic, sharp-toothed (and tusked) grin as he swings his blade high, aiming for Ashton’s head and shoulders a good seven feet off the ground. Only for that expression to turn into a frustrated snarl as Orym springs into the air, blocking the blow with his shield, even as the force of it pushes him into a crouch braced against Ashton’s shoulder blades.

The strength behind the strike leaves Orym’s arms stinging and straining, but that force plus Orym’s own weight doesn’t so much as budge Ashton as he strains wrestling with a reiloran juggernaut.

And Orym’s new position offers him an advantage: he’s now at head-height with this quanikka. It’s but a moment’s work to hop off of the demi-titan’s back and flick his blade through the enemy’s throat, riding down to the ground on his fallen foe’s chest.

Sharp halfling eyes scan the battlefield for the next threat as Orym rises to continue the fight. He will keep his friends safe.

[masterqwertster]

Just a little ficy-fic for if the Robit Romance survives to the Bells Hells reunion:

"You don't approve of me, do you, Mr. Greymoore?" FRIDA bluntly asks.

"I don't fucking know you," Ashton replies, taking a swig from his bottle of alcohol.

"We can fix that," the aeormaton ventures, sitting down across from the genasi. "I would like to have your approval, as it carries some weight with Fresh Cut Grass and I love them. So what do you need to know?"

Ashton eyes them, then snorts. "I need to know if you're a good thing for him, or if you're going to fuck him over. But fucking talking isn't going to sort that shit out."

FRIDA moves to object. They would never, never do anything to cause harm to FCG. They love him.

"Don't," Ashton sternly gestures at them before FRIDA can utter a word. "People say shit all the time. They might even mean it. But what they do is way more fucking important. So you make Letters happy? Great. Keep doing that."

Ashton's hand clamps down on FRIDA's shoulder, their fingers threatening to leave dents. Their eyes burn into FRIDA's.

"And if you fucking hurt them, or make them feel bad, I'll fucking smash you into pieces that no one will have a prayer of putting together again."

[masterqwertster]

Just over here thinking about soul bloom AU and Ashton waking up covered in sunflowers

😭 Noooooooo😭

Sun's gone Down

Ashton wakes to their vision obscured by sunflowers.

When he gets his eyes cleared, he sees they are all covered in sunflowers from head to toe. He sees the crater. He knows what happened.

He wants to fucking scream and rage and bring this whole fucking tunnel down around them because that was his littlest soulmate that blew themself up because they thought that's what they were made for. Because they still thought their life was worth less than everyone else's.

Instead they sink into the ground, let themself flow and rotate and slide through the rock until they're standing upright at the edge of that fucking crater littered with twisted scraps of sunflower-yellow metal. They hadn't noticed before, but gliding through the earth doesn't knock their soul blooms loose. It's a shitty ass fucking consolation prize.

Ashton's eyes roam the wreckage, searching for–

There it is. That stupid fucking Changebringer coin.

He yanks it out of the fucking wall it's wedged in, acting like some fucking stupid sign that they have to keep fucking moving. Like they don't fucking already know that. They can't, won't let FCG have died in vain.

They're also not leaving any piece of FCG behind.

Everyone pitches in to gather up what's left of their soulmate. It's not a proper body, not a whole body, but fuck it. Surely there's some sort of resurrection magic that can make this fucking work. FCG managed to bring Chet back from death during the fight, so even if resurrection magics still aren't working on Exandria, they know where the backdoor between home and the fucking moon is. They can drag someone through to do the spell, bring FCG back.

It's not over. Ashton won't let it be over. Not yet.

On AO3

And I'm gonna stop there and let Taliesin really show us how fucked up Ashton is from loosing FCG and what they're going to do about it. But I will say I choose to believe Bells Hells will at least try to get someone to resurrect FCG. And the most likely candidate to get it done is the Reincarnate spell because it's way, way cheaper than True Resurrection (1,000 gp of rare oils and unguents and a piece of the body vs 25,000 gp of diamonds and a sprinkling of holy water), and thus more likely that allies or Bells Hells can/will bank roll/supply it, and Reincarnate is the only other res spell that doesn't require a full-ish body to work. Now Resurrection "closes all mortal wounds and restores any missing body parts" (and costs 1,000 gp of diamonds). But it isn't clear on how many missing body parts it will restore. Though given FCG is practically scrap metal, I'm gonna guess it's probably more than Resurrection will cover. So again, resurrection options for FCG are True Resurrection and Reincarnate. And Fearne can cast Reincarnate (5th Level spell, babee) as long as they get the components. Whether Sam will allow it to work is another question entirely, but a true blue Pinocchio Arc for FCG could be cool and fun and might convince him to let it happen. We, unfortunately, have to wait and find out.

[masterqwertster]

For Loads of Snuggles and Hugs - One being slumped against the other on a sofa, comfortably having the other's arm around their shoulder - For Ashton and FCG? Maybe something Krook House adjacent~?

Snuggles and Hugs Prompt Certainly. A little pre-campaign fluff, it is!

“C’mon, up on the couch,” Ashton insistently slurs, flopping onto the Krook House’s lumpy old couch.

Fresh Cut Grass would be fine standing (as much as he can stand with no legs), but a drunk Ashton doesn’t give him much choice, easily lifting him up by the arms. Thankfully, it’s not that difficult to tuck his wheel up for a proper sitting position as the genasi settles him on the couch.

Oddly enough, Ashton’s right arm remains slung around Fresh Cut Grass’s shoulder. This is a new and exciting development to their relationship when the genasi seems so careful about bodily contact. 

…Even if it does turn out to be a drunken behavior.

It’s a better drunken behavior than Ashton being even shorter tempered about how people treat Fresh Cut Grass. Or how when Dancer was drunk, she’d be up for making out (and more) with anyone willing to flirt with her.

FCG is broken from their musings as they’re pulled into a sway by Ashton’s arm around their shoulders and a deep, rumbling hum rattles into their frame. They really do like when Ashton hums, the way it resonates through the air around the genasi. FCG thinks Ashton is humming a drinking song from the bar they were at earlier, before the automaton urged them home while the genasi was still capable of walking (with a bit of guidance).

In a burst of whimsy, Fresh Cut Grass does his best to hum along. His own notes are a bit tinny and echoey, but he thinks he harmonizes alright with Ashton’s bassy hums. Well, at least once Ashton stops giggling a bit at his attempt at music.

It’s real nice, sitting here, humming. Definitely one of the nicer evenings FCG has spent with a wasted friend associate.

…Maybe a little less nice with the sudden and not insignificant weight of Ashton slumping over them. 

All that weight leads to a slow tipping over onto their side, despite Fresh Cut Grass’s attempts to remain upright. Ashton grumbles incoherently as he wriggles where he’s fallen behind FCG, dragging the automaton down his front while also scooting up the couch himself. Ashton’s vest’s buckles scrape along FCG’s backplate until the genasi can tuck their nose into the mess of wires atop their head, his left arm curling around their chassis and pulling them snug to his chest. A contented hum resonates through FCG’s frame as Ashton snuggles in. It’s quickly replaced by plate rattling snores.

…This isn’t so bad either. A little noisy for FCG’s tastes, but cozy, all snuggled up like this. If he actually slept, FCG thinks this would be quite a pleasant way to sleep.

He’s not sure how much later it is when Milo walks through, pausing when they notice FCG and Ashton on the couch.

“You doing okay there, Letters?” the tinkerer quietly asks.

“Yup! Just smiley,” Fresh Cut Grass softly chirps back.

“Okay. But fair warning: Ashton’s not gonna let you go until they’re awake, so if you want out, speak now or forever hold your silence,” Milo warns, a slightly playful glint in their eyes.

“Nah, I’m good,” FCG reassures them.

And he is. After all, an automaton doesn’t need to get up to use the bathroom. Nor can his limbs be put to sleep by the weight of stone draped over him. He doesn’t even find the hardness of Ashton’s body uncomfortable (and apparently Ashton doesn’t find the hardness of his own metal body to be unbearable).

“If you’re sure,” Milo concedes with a nod. “Night, Letters.”

“Goodnight, Milo!” FCG calls after the human’s retreating back.

Ashton stirs slightly behind them, arms hugging them a little tighter.

“Goodnight, Ashton,” Fresh Cut Grass whispers, rubbing a stony arm. Then they go into stasis, snuggled and content.

[masterqwertster]

For the Loads of Snuggles and Hugs list, could I request "gently wiping tears from the other's face", with Ashton and FCG?

Snuggles and Hugs Prompt

Once Ashton has their meager little camp between that fucking silver mine and Evishi set up, his dinner slowly cooking over the fire, he beckons the little automaton closer to the rock he’s made a seat out of.

 Fresh Cut Grass wobbles over from where they’d posted up at the edge of Ashton’s bed roll. There’s a distant air to them, like they’re not quite all there in the moment.

“All right, let’s get you cleaned up,” Ashton brusquely announces, wielding a cooking pot full of water and an old rag.

“...Cleaned up?” Fresh Cut Grass hesitantly asks.

“Yeah. Probably should have done this earlier, to be honest. But I figured it might be better to get away from that mess first,” Ashton absently explains, gently pulling the automaton in closer.

“O-okay,” they assent, left hand fingers nervously tugging at the unresponsive fingers of their right hand.

“I mean, unless you want to keep the blood from your friends as a paint job…?” Ashton awkwardly offers. It would definitely be… a look, that’s for sure. Certainly not one Ashton would entertain for himself, but to each their fucking own, you know?

“Wha-! No, no. I don’t– I don’t want that,” the little automaton denies, more life to him than he’s really had since they buried his companions. 

“Okay,” Ashton curtly nods.

The genasi removes the sling he’d put Fresh Cut Grass’s non-functional arm in so it won’t get wet, guiding the limp arm down to hang at the automaton’s side. Then he pours about half of the pot out over their head, letting the water clear what it can without a good scrub.

“Tell me if I’m scrubbing too hard, okay?” Ashton instructs Fresh Cut Grass as they dip the rag into the remaining water. 

They get an absent nod in reply. One that sends droplets of water streaking down his face. 

It’s instinct that has Ashton reaching forward to cradle that metallic face, his thumb gently swiping a drop sliding down from Fresh Cut Grass’s working eye. 

Just like people wipe away another’s tears.

Automatons can’t cry. Ashton knows that. But unlike any other automaton he’s seen, Fresh Cut Grass has feelings. And right now? Right now the little fella is sad as hell. They buried their friends’ rotting, mangled corpses that they’d had to stare at for days only a few hours ago. Who wouldn’t be sad enough to cry from shit like that?

Unfortunately, Ashton is absolute fucking shit at being comforting. They’re too rough, too blunt, too much of an asshole. Not soft at all, not like they used to be, once upon a time. 

Yet they’re all the automaton has got at the moment.

It was bringing forth that forcefully buried piece of Ashton that liked to get attached to people and things like the world’s biggest fucking idiot. That fucking stupid piece of them wanted to be soft, be comforting, even though they’re absolute shit at it. 

And Ashton should not indulge it. There’s no use in being soft. It just shows people where to put the fucking knife later. Just hurts all the more when they fucking leave Ashton, just like they always do.

So maybe Ashton uses a little more force than he needs to clear away the crusty dried blood on Fresh Cut Grass’s faceplate. If he does, the automaton doesn’t protest it. And Ashton works his way down the beaten yellow chassis, clearing away the dark, rust red stains of carnage. His hands unconsciously gentling the further into the silent process he gets.

“Alright, lemme get some fresh water for one last rinse, and then I think we’re done,” Ashton declares, dumping the pot of now-somewhat grimy water out behind them.

It takes no time at all to refill the pot and return. Ashton upends the whole thing over Fresh Cut Grass’s head once more, streaks of water running down the now clean steel and sparkling in the firelight.

“Looking good,” Ashton compliments as they check for any spots they might have missed.

“Th-thank you,” the little automaton trembles as they jerkily nod their head.

Once more, water drips from his eye lenses like tears.

Something in Ashton cracks, and he knows he’s not going to be able to leave this little robit alone. Ever.

“Hey, hey. It’s going to be alright,” they softly whisper, cupping FCG’s face with both hands, thumbing away more tears and pressing their forehead to his. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

[masterqwertster]

You know I love you, right? with Ashton and any of the bells hells

Gentle 30 Prompt So quote not directly used, but the spirit is definitely there.

They're running laps around Ligament Manor's tree because that's what Orym wanted: everyone exercising together.

Ashton has already lapped everyone but Chetney several times and they're still going while half the crew has dropped out and the other half is seriously considering it.

The problem is, he's running out of energy when he should be able to keep on hauling ass. A few days ago, this wouldn't even be a problem. But a few days ago, he hadn't–

burned. exploded. died. revived. hurt the people who mattered most. shattered their family. showed them all how fucking broken he is

"You okay there, Ashton?" FCG asks, soft concern in their tone.

Ashton blinks back to present, finding their pace slowed and FCG wheeling along at their side.

And their hand is pressed to their sternum, right over where the Spark reformed its crystal within their chest.

"I'm fine," they dismiss.

"Ashton," Fresh Cut Grass says sternly, coming to a stop, their halted momentum bringing Ashton to a standstill as well. "We all promised: no lying to each other on this retreat."

Ashton sucks in air through his teeth. They did all promise that, and they've all been holding to it. It's just... it's a stupid fucking problem that they won't want to hear about, won't be able to fix. So what's the fucking point in worrying any of them? Life moves on and "I'm fine" is a lie everyone tells, even to themselves.

"Ashton, what's wrong?" FCG insists, poking his side.

A quick glance reveals no one else is here for them to be vulnerable in front of. It's... easier, mostly, when it's one-on-one.

"I think it took something with it."

"The who the what now?" FCG asks, obviously confused.

"The Spark. I think– I think it took part of me with it, when I had to puke it back up. The previous crystal it was in shattered, and the new one... it made it from me. And now I feel... less. Less sturdy, less stamina. More... f-fragile," Ashton softly confesses, studiously looking away from their friend. They're no good if they can't take hits all day and keep going. It's the mistake that just keeps taking.

"...Well, I wish you woulda said somethin' sooner. I coulda tried to heal you up already if I'd known," FCG responds with a touch of consternation.

Startled, Ashton's eyes are drawn back to his smaller companion. The aeormaton seems to be considering their magic and capabilities, their spell components.

"I– I'm not sure this can be healed, Letters," they quietly admit. It's kind of why they kept quiet about it. Didn't want to get their hopes up, didn't want the disappointment of another hurt no one can fix.

"Maybe not. But I'm certainly gonna try. That's what you do for the people you love, right?" he asks with all the innocence in world. Like telling Ashton that he loves them doesn't shake the genasi to their core.

"I mean, that's what the definition of love you decided on sounds like. Being there for the people you love, no matter what. Helping them and supporting them through whatever paths they take. I love you like that," FCG continues on. "I wanna be here with you. I wanna help you. So I'm gonna try to heal you."

"...Okay," Ashton whispers back, trying to keep the tears from falling. "Okay."

So here's the deal, this is inspired by one of the uses of Greater Restoration being it can "end one of the following effects on the target: Any reduction to one of the target's ability scores." So technically, FCG (or Fearne) could restore Ashton's CON score back to 18, if they knew to try. However, I will be completely unsurprised if, should this actually be attempted, Matt vetoes it on the grounds of "you/your spell isn't strong enough to undo what was done by a titan shard."

[masterqwertster]

For the snuggles and hugs prompt (pick as many/as few/whichever strikes your fancy):

"sharing a drink, spoon, or food in general" for Orym, Fearne and/or Ashton

"eye contact at all times. even in small conversations. it says so much." for Orym and Imogen

"hand holding. hand holding everywhere" for FCG and F.R.I.D.A.

"sharing a blanket. snuggled up together" for all of Bell's Hells

"massages after a long day" for Chetney and a member(s) of Bell's Hells of your choice

Alright, we're "sharing" food

Fearne thinks it’s great that they’re throwing a feast for Bells Hells and all that they’ve accomplished. She always loves a good party, good drinks, good food.

The only problem, which isn’t really a problem, more of a little situation that Fearne has decided to deal with, is that this one server keeps bringing more and more food to Orym, even though he’s a little halfling and really not a big eater. Unless it’s pie. Orym never turns down pie. But pie is not what he’s being brought. 

Fearne thinks the server is trying to score a night with Orym and is only using additional dishes for Orym as an excuse to shoot their shot. Which is really funny, especially with how adorably awkward Orym gets as the come-ons get more blatant, because Orym isn’t going to say yes to a stranger.

So maybe, because it’s funny and entertaining, Fearne keeps emptying Orym’s plate when he’s not looking to give the server another shot. Or, well, he’s letting her empty his plate, probably, because Orym notices fucking everything. But she’s his bestest buddy, so he lets her get away with shit all the time.

And it’s not like Fearne is only doing mischief by emptying Orym’s plate.

Because Fearne is such a good friend, she’s clearing Orym’s ever refilling plate onto Ashton’s ever emptying plate. You see, Bell’s Hell’s barbarian can eat. Enough to make Fearne wonder where they put it all. So really, Fearne is doing a kindness by making sure they have plenty on their plate by redistributing Orym’s unwanted servings. She is the best friend. Obviously.

[masterqwertster]

For the hurt/Comfort spell, how do you feel about Silence and the tanks?

You know, it's an interesting choice of spell, because all of the few spells the tanks have contain verbal components (Pass Without a Trace, Grasping Vine, Hex, Misty Step) so they won't work in Silence, but on the other hand, only Hex does any damage, if only when you hit people anyways, so it's not exactly a crippling loss for them. Also because earth elementals (though not genies) are vulnerable to thunder damage, which Silence cancels out.

Silence

2nd Level Illusion (Ritual)

For 10 minutes Concentration, no sound can be created within or pass through a 20-foot-radius sphere centered on a point you choose within 120 feet. Any creature or object entirely inside the sphere is immune to thunder damage, and creatures are deafened while entirely inside it. Casting a spell that includes a verbal component is impossible there.

Normally, Orym is thankful for his sharp eyes, his sharp ears. But in a fight with sonic attack after sonic attack, his ears are ringing and overstimulated (everyone's are, he's sure, but his probably got there sooner with their sensitivity).

Though he supposes he barely has room to complain, not when Ashton's stony body is littered with chips and cracks from how the sound vibrates through their solid form. Orym can see that it's taking a heavy toll on the titan-blooded genasi, even as it fuels their rage ever higher.

"This sucks!" Dorian says with strained cheer, flicking his scimitar over Orym's head to harry an enemy into a better position for Orym to take them down. "I think we could use some quiet."

And the world goes silent.

Orym can't even hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He can feel it though, that rabbit-quick pace of surging adrenaline.

Ears made useless, sharp halfling eyes flicker over the battlefield to gather more information. So of course he sees the next incoming wave of sound meant to rip through him and his friends.

Except it doesn't.

The silence remains, not so much as a blip of sound coming through.

'Good trick, right?' Dorian's voice echoes through the telepathic bond Bells Hells rarely operates without these days.

'Fucking great trick,' Ashton rumbles into the bond, a relieved looseness in their form as they continue to swing their hammer at all foes in range.

'Thanks, Dorian.'

Orym is so glad to have the bard back among their number. They need him, Orym needs him.

[masterqwertster]

Put That Guy in a Situation #36: Avalanche, with Ashton.

But with a twist! Instead of an avalanche, it's a cave-in/rock slide. 😉

Prompt

Ashton knows the ceiling is about to go. They can feel it. Whether a normal earthkin could feel it, or if it was the titan blood-

Didn't matter.

The point is, the cave's ceiling is about to collapse and he is in the danger zone, alongside Orym and Chetney.

Ashton can probably get free before it all comes down. He's fucking fast on his feet so his only real problem in escaping at this moment is that his rage magic is fucking with gravity. There's a more than decent chance his personal gravity field will drag the falling stones down to him faster than Exandria's gravity alone would.

And the little problem that Orym and Chetney may not be quick enough to get clear on their own. Short legs are a bitch like that.

So in the moment Ashton has to react as the ceiling cracks and rumbles, alerting everyone else to its imminent collapse, he pulls the two shorties close, leaning over them. He draws on his magic, strengthening the gravity that encompasses him until nothing can move him without his say so. He reaches out and does his best to wrap it around Orym and Chet like he did with Imogen and the crawler during the Deathwish.

Then the rocks come tumbling down, slamming into Ashton's back with enough force to send them to their knees if gravity wasn't making their stance immovable. The rocks pile on, heavier and heavier, and as the world shakes around them, Ashton has a brief moment to wonder what happens when the high-intensity gravity leaves them. Will they still be able to hold it all up, protect Chetney and Orym? Or have they only bought mere seconds before their weight and all the stone above them crushes the gnome and halfling? Would it crush them? Or was their stone body sturdy enough to resist crushing?

Well, they're about to fucking find out, aren't they?

The heavy-duty gravity slips through Ashton's grip, like it always does, going back to its usual weight, and the rocks press down, bowing his body even further as he tries to maintain that arched position over Orym and Chetney. They, thankfully, have the sense to crouch low at Ashton's feet, allowing him to get bracing hands on the ground as the collapsed ceiling keeps pushing him down. His knees touch down, spread wide so that small forms of his friends have as much room to curl under him as possible. Ashton's arms tremble as he refuses to collapse further, to deny Orym and Chet even an inch more of space.

It slowly turns to silence aside from all of their breathing. Chetney and Orym's quick little breaths, Ashton's own grit-toothed panting. And the low, rumbling growl in their chest from their determination to fall no further.

"Ash? How're you holding up?" Orym breathes into that silence, small hand brushing their thigh.

"If my arm... decides to... give out, we're fucked," Ashton grits out. His right arm is good at holding steady, with only a few gold cracks decorating the shoulder and bicep. But the left... well, anyone can see how fucked up his left side is. And sometimes that damage will make it give out at inopportune times.

"Let's not do that," Chetney says, as if Ashton has any fucking control over it.

And then the old gnome is pushing up against Ashton's chest, bracing them from below. Orym quickly follows suit.

It helps a little bit, but not a lot.

Chet's pretty strong from his werewolf shit, but it doesn't change the fact that he's about half Ashton's size and maybe a tenth of their weight. And Orym's in the same boat, except his toned physique is maximized for flexibility and speed, not raw strength.

Still, it's nice that they even thought to try. Even if Ashton doesn't think their support will grant more than a few extra seconds of time that he can hold the stone above up.

Gods fucking damnit.

This is not how he's going to die. And he's not going to let it be how Orym and Chetney die either.

As much as it scares the fuck out of them, Ashton has an idea.

None of their crazy brain shit is going to get them all out of here. But the brain shit isn't the only ridiculous power sleeping in their body. Ashton has titan blood, whatever the fuck that means, and if there was ever a time to discover new earth-based powers or magic or some shit, it's surely fucking now.

There's no fucking calm to be found in a situation where death quite literally looms over their heads, but Ashton doesn't need calm (he thinks), just focus. The focus to reach out into the stone around them, to feel its weight and strength, and tell it to back the fuck off and hold its own shit together.

With a soft grinding clatter, it does exactly that. The weight lifts off Ashton's back, which is still pressed to the stone, but he's not the one holding it all up anymore.

"Ashton?" Orym cautiously calls after the sound of scraping rock stops.

"We're good," Ashton pants, listing to the side so he can lay down in the shelter he has some-fucking-how created.

Chetney and Orym make concerned sounds of alarm until they notice that nothing bad is happening from Ashton slumping down onto his side, curled around them in the dark with only the lightshow in his head to offer a soft glow to the space now that he's done raging.

"Wha-? How?" Chetney breathes out, looking at the solid stonework arch now protecting them.

"Fuck if I know," Ashton murmurs, curling even tighter around his friends. He's exhausted from holding up the collapsed ceiling, and in a way he's never really been before, probably from bossing the rocks around. And all Ashton wants in that moment is to hold his people close, know they're still breathing 'cause he did good, and sleep.

"Titan shit?" Orym asks.

"Think so," he replies, eyes drifting shut, humming a little pleasure as the other two gingerly settle back against him, and trying to ignore how he can still feel the stone around him like an extension of himself, can feel their weight pressed to the ground as well.

Ashton drifts, barely aware of Orym and Chetney quietly talking next to him. Doesn't really move until there's the grinding of stone on stone as Fearne and Imogen finally excavate them. Until Bells Hells are all pushing into the little space he created.

It's scary as fuck to know that there's more power in him just waiting to be awakened.

But a little reassuring too, to know it's there to be found when he needs it to protect his people.

Essentially I gave Ashton free use of the spell Stone Shape as a titan blood ability, just to explain the mechanical idea of how he made the rocks self-support.

[masterqwertster]

Maybe 20. From the touching prompt list: bandaging/stitching up an injury. Do you think Ashton can get stitches with his skin?

No, I don't really think Ashton can get stitches. Not unless you're using, like, an industrial needle meant for poking through a lot of tough fabric. And even that feels a little iffy given the strength requisite to punch through means you're kind of running the risk of just straight up stabbing them with the needle and making things worse. But I have had a solution to No Stitches sitting on the headcanon backburner for a long while, so I'm thankful for the motivation to flesh it out. Also, this is going in Metamorphic

Sealant for My Wounds

Ashton is 13, almost 14, the first time he gets stabbed.

The wound sluggishly bleeds their wine-dark blood as they hold a cloth against it, listening to the others argue about how one is supposed to apply stitches.

“You've got to dip the needle in booze!” Zeeland insists.

“No, the booze is for the pain,” Sally argues.

“Yeah, you're supposed to put the needle in fire,” Bennet agrees.

“What?! No! Are you trying to burn them too?”

“We at least need hot water to clean the wound, yeah?” That one gets a general murmur of agreement.

Ashton lets the chatter about the best way to handle this wash over them. 

It fucking hurts. A throbbing in his side with every heartbeat. The pressure to minimize the amount of blood escaping his body. He’s never been hurt like this before. A hurt that sinks into him, past the surface of his skin. Deeper than a scratch, a cut. Sharper than a bruise. What will it feel like when it’s not so immediate? Ashton doesn’t know, is half intrigued and half afraid to find out. And a little bit dreading when this will happen again. (There’s no if about it. Not in a place like Bassuras. Not when all he’s got going for him is a body that can take a hit and dish them out)

Eventually a plan of action is decided upon. The needle and thread are prepared, the wound washed, and the burn of stolen alcohol washes down Ashton’s throat. (It’s certainly distracting, that coughing burn in their throat. They’re not sure how anyone can enjoy it without being some sort of masochist)

Jeto has the needle while the rest of the group has hands on Ashton to hold him down. Getting stitches isn’t supposed to be a comfortable process, yet it’s one that the patient should hold still for. And they know that Ashton, despite his slighter frame, can out muscle any one of them.

It’s a tense moment as Aston waits for the first tug of a needle through skin. A moment that stretches… and stretches… and stretches, even as they can feel hands at their side, pressing against the wound, causing it to spark with pain.

“Just fucking start already,” Ashton grouses, getting impatient for it to be over already.

“I’m trying! The needle’s not going through your fucking skin!” Jeto snipes back frustratedly.

“...What?” Ashton whispers, fear slithering down his spine. If he can’t get stitches, how the fuck are they going to hold the stab wound shut so it can heal right?

“Just gimma a sec. Probably just need the right angle or something– Fuck. Shit. Piss,” Jeto curses, hands moving away.

“Jeto?” Ashton asks nervously.

“You’re fine. Needle’s just bent. Shit.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Is Ashton going to have a hole in their side for forever? They can’t close the damn stab wound without stitches!

“Give me the needle. I’ll do it myself, since you’re weak as shit,” Ashton panics, already pushing against the hands holding him down.

“First off, rude. Secondly, this isn’t about strength. Anyone else, and I could have jabbed the needle all the way in with the kind of strength I was using,” Jeto testily explains. “No, the problem here is you’re a fucking rock person and our needle isn’t gonna punch through rock.”

Ashton stills at those words, fears confirmed. 

“...What do we do?” The words slip out, quiet and scared.

“Keep an eye on it and hope the caretakers give a fuck if it gets infected or some shit,” Jeto says in a practical tone with a shrug.

And they do. But it’s so fucking slow to heal, while any sharp moves or blows cause it to start bleeding again.

Ashton doesn’t find a solution until he’s left on the ground after a fight, watching his dark blood bind the dirt and sand into mud. Some strange instinct that never existed in him before insists he gather the earth bound in his escaped blood and return the whole mix to the wound it left. His rational mind screams that this is stupid and exactly how wounds get infected. But packing and plugging the wound with something to stop the bleeding isn’t that stupid. And at the worst, the wound will get infected and the caretakers will throw a fit about having to get a proper healer to fix him up.

And Ashton is an earth genasi, so maybe…

He follows the instinct. Scoops up the almost clay-like slurry and presses it into the aging stab wound, into the larger gashes this recent fight has left him with. 

It doesn’t feel bad. (It feels right. The earth returning their strength, their health)

He doesn’t tell the others what he did. Ashton doesn’t want the lecture, the arguments, the proclamations of idiocy. It’s not like they know how Ashton’s body really works anyways. Sure, it’s the same shape as a half-elf’s, but they’ve all already seen that the stone composition of it changes things. So who the fuck gave them the right to judge?

The others find out. Of course they do. 

But by the time they know, Ashton’s already found that those strange instincts were correct. Their blood mud sealed the wound, stopping the bleeding reopenings of the injury. And weird as it fucking is, their body seems to be integrating the mud, compressing and shoring it up into the same stone as the rest of them. Even small cuts heal faster with blood mud.

They call it fucking weird and strange (and creepy behind his back), but Ashton can’t find that he necessarily disagrees, even if it does make a strange sort of sense given his elemental nature. Mostly he’s just glad to have a solution for when he needs stitches.

So yeah. While I thought of the "blood mud to seal wounds" way before the titan blood reveal (actually back around when I first started writing Rockin' It, back during the Museum Heist), at this point, I'm kind of inclined to make it a titan blood thing. Ashton is just so wholly of the earth because of the titan blood that shoving dirt/mud in their wounds is helpful, like slip or sealant or daub.

[masterqwertster]

54-kidnapping. For the guy in a situation prompts. With a focus on Ashton. Could you please continue on from the presumed dead prompt you recently did? I really liked that one. Bells Hells would never let someone take their punk rock.

Continuing this prompt answer

Ashton is tending a field, a garden. Small animal-shaped eidolons gambol along in his wake, occasionally helping at his direction. Everything is green and growing and beautiful. He breathes in fresh air, appreciating the place he's carved out for himself in the world.

It’s so fucking peaceful.

–e u– –hton.

There's a sound on the breeze. Words they can’t quite make out.

Wa– up, –on.

Ashton quiets his small companions, trying to make out the message on the wind.

WAKE UP, ASHTON!

___

Ashton gasps awake.

Fucking fuck. He hates it when his stupid vivid dreams show him the nice shit he can never have.

Not that there’s really time to be upset about the random shit his brain throws at him. Imogen wouldn't poke into his head like that without a good reason.

Which is about the time it registers that this is not where they remember going to sleep. Because they sure as fuck hadn’t been chained up in a crate before they went to sleep.

So Ashton does the obvious thing: he rages and does his best to break the chains. Or crate. Whichever comes first.

The chains, unfortunately, are well-done. Even their raging strength isn't enough to make up for the lack of leverage from having their arms thoroughly pinned to their sides and legs bound together.

They are not, however, enough to restrain Ashton’s thrashing to a level that won’t break the crate. And wood splinters as Ashton’s feet and head slam into the planks.

The thing is, Ashton hadn’t really thought this through. Breaking the crate can get him out of it, but it doesn’t change that his ability to move is restricted to inchworming around because of the chains. Which means running or fighting is–

“Fucking hell! That should have been enough to keep a half-giant out for a whole day!”

–near impossible. Especially when his captors are still around.

Magic wraps around their body, stopping even what struggles Ashton can make chained up as they are. Someone opens the crate, though Ashton can only catch their silhouette from the corner of their bad eye thanks to the position they’ve been locked into.

“Right. Back to sleep with you,” the figure says. 

And something pierces into Ashton’s neck. He can feel whatever poison or drug is on it– in it?– seeping through his system. Ashton does his best to hold onto consciousness, but that shit is still being put into him. More and more, until he loses the fight to remain awake.

___

Ashton has the helm. 

Most need a compass, an enchanted one at that, in the Shattered Teeth, lest they get lost among the fog and shifting islands. But he is of Ka’Mort’s power, and the Empress of Earth’s power suffuses these isles. Ashton knows where the islands are, can feel them in his blood. Not to mention the eidolons here are the most eager and obedient to their requests over any other place they’ve sailed.

He breathes in the salty air. Blows out a whistle to the air and water eidolons to speed The Hellion along its course.

“There you are, Ashton. I’ve been searchin’ all over for you.”

“I don’t know why, Captain. It’s my shift at the helm,” Ashton says, leaning against the wheel as they eye the sorceress. Odd. She’s not wearing her captain’s coat. Imogen loves that thing, mostly because Laudna made it for her.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about, Ashton? This is a dream,” Imogen insists.

Everything freezes. Everything except him and Imogen.

“Ow,” Ashton says, hand going to their head as it sparks wildly. Realizing that this shit is a dream is a first. As is having Imogen poking in like this.

“Sorry about that,” Imogen apologizes. “Considering how wakin’ up didn’t go so great for you last time, we decided me jumpin’ into your dream to talk with you would be easier. I didn’t realize how much you got caught up in these dreams.”

“You’ve seen my dreams before?” Which probably isn’t the part they should be locking onto, but fuck it, this is, apparently, their dream.

“I go pokin’ around sometimes when I can’t sleep,” Imogen explains with a shrug. “And that’s besides the point. We’re comin’ to rescue you. We’re not gonna to leave you behind. So just hang on, alright? I promise, we’re comin’.

Her words echo through Ashton’s head, loosening a tension he hadn’t even realized was there. He’s alone, but not alone. Bells Hells isn’t going to abandon him to whoever fucking kidnapped him. And Ashton is kind of thankful he’s the only one these fuckers took. A rescue is probably more manageable than breaking out, and they’ll only be short him going in.

“Okay. But you better move fast, or I might get out on my own,” Ashton replies, challenging her, challenging them to come faster. 

“...And thanks.” for coming at all, they don’t say. But they think she can catch that anyways.

“We’re comin’. Promise.”

Had some fun playing with Ashton's alternate life dreams and how the Grim Verity/Omen Archives study of Exaltants said that they could enter others' dreams.

[masterqwertster]

20. “You’re right.  I don’t understand.  I may never fully understand what you’re going through.  But please let me help you get through this.” with Ashton and Orym please? Preferably with Orym asking 😁

For the Noticing Trauma prompt

Honestly surprised to have someone taking me up on the "Wait a month" part of my pinned post. But I'm a creature of my word, so let's go! Also slight spoilers for ep69

Orym finds Ashton seated, contemplating a rock held in their hand.

"Gonna try meditating again?" Orym casually asks.

Ashton flinches before turning to look at him, and Orym mentally berates himself for not being obvious enough in an approach from their left side.

"...Maybe?" Ashton answers, doubt and worry coloring his tone.

Orym wanders over to sit beside the genasi, near but not encroaching on their space.

"Would you like some company? I think some meditation could do me some good as well," Orym gently offers.

Ashton blows out a breath, the vocalization beneath it conveying something between annoyance and resignation.

"So I wasn't thinking, exactly, about meditating," he confesses, turning the rock in his hand, creating a soft clicking of stone on stone.

"Okay," Orym says, curious, and maybe a bit wary of where Ashton may wish to take this conversation.

There's silence for a few moments as Ashton purses their lips, obviously considering their next words.

"I don't want to give you more shit to worry about when we've already got so much going on. And I'm not falling down on this, so I don't need you to pick me up on it."

Yet, Orym can hear going unsaid. He can at least appreciate Ashton trying to hold to that promise they made in Issylra to keep each other functional and upright. Even though Orym's pretty sure that not catching Ashton before they hit the metaphorical ground in these situations will make pulling them back up much harder than catching them earlier.

The solution is simple enough, at least.

"I won't mind. It's kind of easier to face other people's problems than your own," Orym offers. "Plus, we're already doing all we can for the big problems we're working on."

Ashton snorts. "Yeah, I can fucking agree with that. Fuck."

Another sigh as Ashton's free hand comes up to rub his face.

"Alright. So, um... when I went to pick up my clothes, I, uh... I might have had a bit of a panic attack, in a side-alley," he confesses, voice lilting in that way that's begging for Orym not to be upset by this revelation.

"Oh, Ash," Orym says softly with sympathy. "We would have helped with that. You didn't have to-"

"I didn't want coddling," Ashton cuts through the reassurance. Not harshly, but still a solid stop. "I just wanted some space to freak out for a minute and pull my shit back together without being disturbed. Okay?"

Orym nods solemnly. With as many of his own panic attacks and other breakdowns as he's put off to maintain strength for others, he can't say he doesn't see the appeal of doing what Ashton did. To let it out and then put it back in its box without witnesses... he's done that a time or ten.

"Anyways. I had a panic attack, and while that was going on..." Ashton's gaze falls to the rock being turned in his hand, a small contemplative silence dropping over him again. "...And while that was going on, I think... I think I saw the bits of stone on ground near me... shaking. Vibrating. And I'm not sure if it would be worse if that was real, or if it was my mind playing fucking tricks on me."

It takes a few seconds for Orym to figure out why vibrating rocks while Ashton was having a panic attack is cause for concern.

"You think you were shaking them?"

"Seeing as I've apparently got fucking titan blood..." Ashton trails off, words filled with frustration, and a slight undercurrent of fear.

Orym's small hand reaches out, covering the rock Ashton's rotating in their hand, stilling it. He almost expects the rock to be rattling between their grips after that little talk, but no. It's just a normal, motionless rock trapped between his small fingers and Ashton's larger ones.

"I know I can't understand what that's like, what you're going through. That none of us really can. But I'm here, we're all here, to help you get through it, to figure it out. If you'll let us," Orym reassures Ashton, squeezing their fingers around the rock.

Ashton deflates, blowing out another deep breath.

"Yeah. I know. Having all of you is probably the main reason I'm not having a complete breakdown over this shit," they gently murmur.

Orym gives their hand another squeeze. Bells Hells has each others' backs, no matter what.

[masterqwertster]

Well, I decided to write more for the Breaking, Mending timeline, since Fresh Cat Grass shenanigans have been bouncing around in my head. Though we don't yet get into those (much) here in ch2

Wake Up, the New Body Just Dropped

Fresh Cut Grass really didn’t expect to come online again.

It’s not that he doubts his friends love him enough to bring him back, but more the manner in which he died.

Theoretically, resurrection magics will work on Fresh Cut Grass. They have a soul that can be retrieved from death and a body to return it to. But, resurrections generally require a mostly intact body, as they close the mortal wound and get the body going again. And FCG had not only destroyed their power core, the closest thing they had to a heart, but the force of the detonation of their core would have sundered the rest of their body into scrap metal (that had sort of been the point. One final blow that could fell Otohan Thull before she could kill any of the others, even as it took his life).

But maybe a new body could be built for him. Fresh Cut Grass’s original body was built, created and enchanted in some ancient forge long destroyed. Maybe incorporating what was left of him into a new build would make it still count as his body. Like an extreme parts swap or modification. It’s not like FCG wasn’t swapping parts out before, this would just be far more extensive than anything he’d done in his life (that he could remember).

Regardless, Fresh Cut Grass returns to consciousness from the (eventually) eternal rest of death.

The new body Bells Hells has had constructed for him sure seems to be something. 

Even in the brief moment of initial return, FCG can tell that this body gets a lot more data input from its surroundings than their old one. There’s so many more sensations coming through from all over this new body. Some of those sensations they barely recognize from the few times they’ve been polymorphed, though it all seems so new now that FCG has their full faculties to process what animal instinct had easily worked through and often dismissed as unimportant. 

Though whatever programming is built into the sigils and arrays that allow FCG all of this sensory feedback seems a bit… messy, he supposes is the best way to put it. It doesn’t neatly sort and categorize to give him a basic idea of what he is dealing with based on whatever knowledge was built into him (maybe. Fresh Cut Grass doesn’t remember the first time he truly came online, back when he was Faithful Care-Giver. He doesn’t know if his basic facts were taught to him or written into him). Instead it is all sensation that his mind is struggling to make sense of, leaning into the experience of his previous body and those animal brain distorted memories of Polymorph.

Continue on AO3

[masterqwertster]

Sci-fi 1 or mystery 5 from the genre prompt list sounds interesting if you feel like it.

Genre Prompt Went with Sci-fi 1 "I can't breathe."

Ashton can’t breathe as he moves through rock and stone. 

It’s almost like most people can swim through water but not breathe it, though he’s pretty sure there’s less effort to his movement because the stone doesn’t resist him like water does people. He doesn’t have to make an effort to stay suspended in one spot like treading water either. Earth is oddly solid and liquid to him like that. No, moving through earth is more like a person using a Fly spell to move through air: just thinking a direction and simply heading that way. An effortless glide in any direction through “open” space.

And Ashton has to remind themself that they can’t breathe, that they even need to breathe, when they’re in the earth.

It’s strange. A part of them insists, quite strongly, that being in the earth is right. That they can exist like that for as long as they like, for forever. And another part is tracking every last bit of air in Asthon’s lungs, preparing for the desperate burn that means they need to surface soon, now, or suffocate for their stupidity.

But, Ashton can hold his breath for a long fucking time compared to most (not as long as he could before the Spark, but still pretty long). And he can move so easily through the earth that it doesn’t add any strain to the use of that trapped air. So there is wholeness in being one with the earth, exhilaration in burrowing through it so smoothly, for a few minutes. Even as that feeling of elemental rightness wars with mortal limitations.

They are Mortal. They are Primordial. Ashton exists on the line between the two, and doesn’t know where they’ll fall in the end. They think they’ll probably be killed while still existing in this state of inbetween. But if they’re not… well, something has to give eventually.

(Ashton suspects his mortality will fade. He is a vessel already changed by the powers within him. A vessel capable of taking on more, even as it strains him to his very mortal limits. It only makes sense that such overwhelming power will further change Ashton into something not mortal)

For now though, they are elemental enough to glide through earth and mortal enough to breathe. A contradiction, always.

[masterqwertster]

Noticing trauma prompts - oh boy, you'll be getting a couple of these from me!

First up: #23 with Ashton and Imogen or another member of Bell's Hells of your choice.

23 "Don't focus on them. Just focus on me." Honestly, a great pick for Imogen and Ashton given their respective brain magic deals. Prompt

"Hey, no no no. Don't focus on them. Just focus on me."

Which, probably isn't the best advice in the world, given their whole crazy chaos-magic-in-the-brain thing. But better their mildly-known brand of bullshit than whatever the fuck these creepy fuckers have going on in their heads that is freaking Imogen the fuck out.

Ashton grabs Imogen's face and makes sure the only thing her unfocused eyes have to look at is his face. The last thing she needs once she's back here with him is a reminder that they're in a fucking shitty situation.

"Come on," Ashton pleads, giving her cheek some gentle pats. "Get your mind out of whatever fucking gutter they live in. Think in. Fuck."

This would be going so much better if Laudna were here, what with the way Imogen's practically addicted to the spook's thought music or whatever. It'd probably be better with any of the other Hells here, since their minds aren't potential psychic bombs like his. But it's just Ashton and Imogen caught by these ghosty red motherfuckers.

Finally, they feel that hard to describe but familiar sensation of her mind brushing against their own. Ashton tries to make their mind feel welcoming, safe. They don't have a fucking clue if they can do that, don't know how. But, they have to fucking try.

It must work, some-fucking-how, because Ashton can sense her mind settling against his own, gently tangling at the edges. Imogen's presence feels weaker, thinner, more wrung out, than he's used to. And fuck, it's instinct to wrap her into a protective embrace, psychically and (maybe?) mentally, when she's looking so rough. They're not particularly close among the members of Bells Hells, but Imogen is still part of that family, one of his people. And Ashton takes care of his people.

"There you go. You're safe with me," Ashton mumbles the soft encouragements into her hair.

____________________________________________________________

Imogen takes a shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of leather and stone.

Ashton?

"I'm right here. I've got you."

The sound vibrates against her forehead. The swell of thought just as rumbling and steady and calm.

She burrows in deeper. To the solid mass gently wrapped around her sitting form. To the mind of rumbling sand and gravel and stone and crystal-

Imogen pulls back from the tinkling sound of vibrating crystal. That way lies the dangerous infinity of Ashton-but-not-Ashton.

She skirts around the clattering gravel whose shards threaten to cut and hurt. Sometimes pain is grounding, but she hurts enough already.

The sand, though. The sand is nice. Gentle sursurs from a breeze blowing it from one spot to the next, a soft crunch underfoot. It's a little uncomfortable grittiness, but that's just it's nature, a warning not to stir things up into a storm.

Not that Ashton's mind really storms. Not in her experience. Their rage is tectonic. Loud and cracking and crashing and crunching and roaring and threatening to entomb you in unforgiving rock.

But Ashton isn't raging right now (it's always a low rumble beneath the surface, ready to truly quake the world, written into the bedstone of Ashton). Instead they're trying to be soft, to be sand. Or at least keep her in the gentle sands and away from the noisy, prickling gravel and the deep rumble of crushing stone and the echoing crystalline infinity.

Imogen appreciates it, coiling a little more snugly into the space she's been provided.

Thank you.

"You're welcome," rumbles through all of her contact with Ashton.

She lets out a content little sigh, happy to hide here from the danger they're in as long as she can.