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samstree · 3 years

Note

hi dear!! what about 37 for the pining prompts?? only if you feel like it 💞💞

37. "Characters cannot touch for plot reasons." Thanks for the prompt Chrysa!! Here's more empath!Jaskier!

Unfinished Story

Empath!Jaskier, 2.4k, soft geraskier, ciri has a nightmare, hurt/comfort, mentions of past violence

Part of the Empath AU

Read on AO3

Ciri’s scream pulls Geralt out of his doze.

He springs up immediately, knocking Jaskier’s arm out of the way. The bard grumbles something incoherent on the bedroll before fully waking. “G’ralt, what is… Oh, shit.”

The scream continues, Geralt’s medallion thrumming because of the chaos carried by the sound. The ember is dying but the moon provides enough light for him to see Cir in a fetal position, her face buried in the crook of her elbow. Her ashen-colored curls obscure the view.

Geralt half-scrambles to her side, familiar panic seizing his heart. It’s been so long since she had a nightmare this bad, so long that it’s taking him a second to react.

“Ciri.” He shakes her shoulder gently, but she flinches away. The smell of fear rolls off of her in waves. “Ciri, wake up. You are dreaming.”

The sharp wail trails off to a quieter one, but her eyes stay shut, her brows agonizingly knitted tight. Geralt tries to soothe her by stroking her hair, only to have her snatch his hand and holding onto it for dear life. He squeezes, hoping it’s a comforting gesture.

Each of Ciri’s cries sends a pang of regret in Geralt’s chest. If only he could go back in time. If only he had found her earlier, before the horrors of Nilfgaard—

“Hey, let me help.”

A hand falls to Geralt’s shoulder, and Jaskier meets his gaze in the dim light, the bleariness in his eyes completely gone.

Please, he wants to say. The word gets interrupted by the girl’s writhing.

Jaskier takes over Ciri’s hand, despite her reluctance to let go of Geralt. She clings to him during bad dreams, even when she can’t properly wake up, but the witcher knows it’s important not to touch either of them right now. The wolf medallion vibrates more as the empath works, calming her through the touch.

“It’s okay…” Geralt murmurs helplessly to the girl still asleep. “It’s okay, cub. We are here.”

The empty space around Geralt is excruciating. Under the clear night sky, his witcher senses allow him to see the two of them basked in the silver moonlight—Jaskier kneeling at Ciri’s side, one hand clasped around her wrist and the other carding through her curls. The girl’s pained expression eases slowly.

“Oh… Don’t be afraid, sweet girl,” Jaskier shushes her, the flow of chaos buzzing in the air. “Let me take your fear away, all right? Don’t fight me. Let me in, so you won’t be scared anymore…”

The bard continues to murmur sweet nothings to the girl, easing her resistance to his empathetic powers. At this point, Jaskier’s magic is like a second layer of skin to Geralt, gentle and warm and weaving around their hearts. Even when it’s not directly used on him, he feels somehow pulled to their connection.

To Jaskier and Ciri.

His empath bard and his child surprise.

Two halves of his world.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed to concentration, taming the waves of Ciri’s distress. The action exerts him, Geralt can tell from his elevated heartbeat and the slight slump in his shoulders. The witcher catches himself before he reaches out subconsciously. The gnawing urge to help almost makes him scowl in frustration.

Inaction has never been Geralt’s strong suit.

Finally, finally, Ciri’s eyes flutter open. She’s holding back the tears, as always, even when she’s confused from these dreams, even when she’s reliving her past and desperately searching for her family in the present.

“Geralt?”

Her voice is so small and he has to lean in to hear.

A relieved sigh escapes Jaskier’s lips as he lets go of the girl’s hand. With the magic dissipating, so does the stench of fear. The air settles. As soon as the medallion stills, Geralt surges forward to put a hand on her arm, so she knows he’s here.

On Geralt’s periphery, he senses bard stand and walk to the other side of the campfire—the empath usually needs a moment to collect himself after absorbing someone’s emotions—but right now Geralt’s focus is on his child.

“It’s okay. You are safe, Ciri,” Geralt whispers.

“I dreamed—”

“You are not there anymore.”

“It was burning…I—there was fire… and the man.” She sniffles, stubbornly refusing to cry. His child is tough, probably too tough for her own good.

“It wasn’t real.”

“Because you found me?” There’s a sliver of doubt in her voice that Geralt wishes more than anything to remove.

“Because I found you, Ciri,” he reassures. She’ll need reminding tonight. “You are my destiny and more. I’m here so you’ll never have to be lost again.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Geralt tucks away a strand of hair on her face and watches her eyelids droop heavily.

“I’m not. Not now that I’m awake.”

He returns the smile, although she can’t see it that well in the shadows. “That’s because of Jaskier.”

“Oh.” She searches for the bard. When Geralt looks back at the empath’s silhouette, he’s leaning against a tree, a few paces away from camp. “Thank you, Jaskier. Again,” she says.

“Of course, princess,” Jaskier says softly, “I know how scary nightmares can be, no matter how long it’s been. Those things may have happened a long time ago, but sometimes…they come back and haunt when you least expect it.” He pauses, looking to the distance for a moment. “I’d chase them away for you any time.”

She murmurs another thanks before her eyes close with exhaustion.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt tucks Ciri’s blanket in, before taking her hand again, his thumb tracing a little circle on her skin. “Sleep, cub. We’ll be here. Both of us.”

It doesn’t take long for her to fall into a deep slumber, peacefully this time. Geralt sits next to her for a while longer just to be sure. When he finally leaves Ciri’s side to see to his bard, Jaskier is still standing with his back against the tree. He seems to be miles away, his expression hidden in the shadows, distant and inscrutable.

“Jask?” They are far enough from the girl but Geralt keeps his voice low.

With a surprised gasp, the bard notices him approaching and almost flinches. “Don’t—”

“Don’t touch you, I know.”

Jaskier rests his head on the tree bark. “Just for now.”

Geralt’s fists clench and unclench at his sides. Using those powers takes a lot out of Jaskier, and it leaves him unbalanced. The empath is so wary of hurting him by accident when he’s like this, with raw energy still rippling under his skin.

But in truth, Geralt doesn’t care. He wishes Jaskier could let him in, let him share the burden. Right now, with the space between them, he’ll have to rely on words instead of action.

It really isn’t his strong suit.

“Another nightmare… ” he decides to distract the bard while he recovers. “It’s been too long since Ciri had an episode. I thought it was all over.”

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. “We should all know better.”

Geralt frowns at the haunted look on his bard’s face. The tips of his fingers reach forward again, but he quickly hides the movement by crossing his arms before his chest.

“You sound like you are speaking from experience, Jask.”

“Do I?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s stomach turns at the way Jaskier speaks about the girl’s trauma. “You know if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Jaskier squirms, chewing on his lower lip. Now he’s truly nervous, tense even. The witcher sees the way his posture stiffens and quickly adds, “Or not. Uh—it’s okay if you don’t—"

“No,” Jaskier interrupts him, shaking his head, “No, I want to tell you. I should tell you everything, at this point.”

Silence hangs between them as the bard adjusts his breathing. In and out, like he would before a performance.

“Years ago, when you first identified my powers” Jaskier chooses his words cautiously, the moon shining in his eyes. “I asked if you would use silver on me.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. “I would never, Jaskier. I—How could you ever think that?”

“Oh, relax, my love. I know.” the bard chuckles tightly. “Even back then, I knew you to be a decent man under all the gruffness. You wouldn’t even harm those confused monsters who drifted to human territory on accident, remember? You claimed that your life was just coin and contracts, but to me, it was clear that you were so much more.”

“You are not a monster,” Geralt argues.

“No, but someone else might think differently.”

The leaves rustle in the breeze, the air cooling as the night stretches on. Without the blanket, Jaskier shivers with only a thin chemise on his back. Geralt’s body gravitates toward him of its own volition. Fuck it, if he can just hold Jaskier right now…

“I was thirteen.” The bard is lost in memory. “This man, a magic user, came to our door. It was just me and my mother. He somehow knew about our identities and asked for her help. You see, she had been keeping it a secret for so long, so she couldn’t trust this man, this mage, who somehow just knew that we were empaths.”

He lets out a shuddering breath before continuing.

“His request was… weird. Something about a king or a royal court. I remember thinking that whatever he said sounded so sinister, it couldn’t have been any good. Mum sent him away on the spot, but afterwards she got so scared, like he’d come back again or something. That night, she barred the door and told me to hide in a storage chest. I refused, so she made me. She kept me obedient the entire time.”

Geralt frowns. “Her powers were the same as yours?”

“Stronger.” Jaskier starts pacing, a few twigs snapping under his feet. “She didn’t need contact to manipulate someone’s emotions like me, and she could influence many at the same time. I’m not as powerful—my father was human.”

“What happened next?” Somehow, Geralt knows the story will not end well. A mage usually means trouble. Or in this case, the shadow hidden behind Jaskier’s bright smiles and chirpy songs.

“She kept me calm the whole night, even when she wasn’t with me, but I could feel her fear. It’s was like an undercurrent beneath my skin. I could feel her emotions change. Then I heard the sound of fighting, but I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t go and help her…”

The salty tang of tears assaults Geralt’s nose, but they don’t fall. Jaskier looks up to the sky to hold back the grief that makes his hands tremble.

“Everything got fuzzy after that, but I still remember the pain and the despair. It was like a part of me was hurting with her. Part of me still does, during some nights.” Jaskier closes his eyes in agony. “When I got out the next morning, no one was there. Our home was wrecked, ruined. There was… There was so much blood, Geralt. I—I couldn’t…”

“Oh, Jaskier.” Geralt watches as Jaskier’s shoulders shake, whimpers choking in his throat. Under the night sky, the bard retreats into himself, making his frame look so much smaller. He sways a little and Geralt extends his hands again, hovering by his elbow. “Can I please touch you now?” he pleads.

With a sniffle, the bard composes himself. He flexes his hands to see if his magic is in check. “I think so, yes—oh.”

Geralt pulls Jaskier in for the tightest hug, his arms wrapping around the bard’s frame protectively. Through the thin fabric of the shirt, he can feel another shiver running down Jaskier’s spine, so he rubs small circles into his back to get some heat back in.

He breathes in Jaskier’s scent, not knowing if the lingering stench of fear is from Ciri or the bard.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jask…” Geralt keeps murmuring into the soft hair by Jaskier’s temple. Gradually, the bard sags against his shoulder, letting himself be soothed and supported. Geralt then places his lips to the skin under Jaskier’s ear, and then his cheek, his chin, all the while holding him impossibly close. He’s ready to help the empath restore his energy with all the brimming love in his chest. “Do you want me to…”

“No,” the bard shakes his head. “I’m good. For now.”

They stand there for so long, swaying gently while the world sleeps, before the bard speaks up again.

“I looked for her, and him, at so many courts.” Jaskier’s slightly colder fingers rest on the nape of Geralt’s neck, buried into the hair there. “No mage fit his description. No trace of her either. I think that deep down, I already knew that she was gone, even back then. Otherwise, I would have felt her in there somehow. No matter how far away she was, but all I had was just this emptiness. I was alone since then.”

“You are not. Not anymore.”

“No,” Jaskier pulls away, the tears have dried. Geralt brings the pad of his thumb to trace those streaks anyway. Under his touch, Jaskier smiles. “You see, back in Posada, I met this witcher, a dashing and heroic one. He fell for me so hard that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without me, so he begged me to become his travel companion.”

“And you agreed?” Geralt chuckles.

“Not at first, but he wore me down eventually.”

The bard is the most ridiculous man Geralt knows, and yet here they are. Shaking his head in amusement, the witcher steers his bard back to their bedrolls. As they settle back into their usual position, Geralt can’t help but pull him closer, making sure they are touching from head to toe.

The cover sets heavily over Jaskier's body, slowly warming up his skin. His heart beats against Geralt’s ribcage steadily, showing with solid proof that the empath has survived those horrors.

“I found you too, Jask,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss between Jaskier’s brows.

“Good.” The bard's reply is muffled by Geralt's skin. Not far from them, Ciri is still breathing evenly, sound asleep. Geralt has everyone he needs to protect right here with him, tucked away from their separate demons.

And yet, his mind drifts to Jaskier's story. It’s a tragedy with no end and no closure. There was never a body to bury, no vengeance to seek either.

Somehow, he doubts that an unfinished story will stay unfinished.

---

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @theultimatenerdd @percy-jackson-is-sexy-

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #empath!jaskier #empath au #witcher fic #soft geralt #soft jaskier #hurt/comfort #hurt jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri has a nightmare #cw: past violence

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strangely-constructed-soul · 5 years

Text

Not My Enemy Chapter IV

Fic Masterlist/ Main Masterlist

Elain

“Checkmate!” Elain squealed as she finally finally beat Az in chess. He chuckled before wincing at the sound of the guards outside the door coming to attention at Elain’s excited cheers. Both of them were quick to quiet and fearful glances were exchanged between the two. One of the soldiers burst in, and with a disapproving glare, he slammed the door shut on his way out.

Elain was so overcome with relief that she wound her arms around Azriel’s neck, and despite everything, she giggled. Azriel tensed before sliding his arms around her waist and placing her on his lap. It was so good to have a friend here, after Tamlin’s insane notion that her sister would find out about his interest in Elain and become jealous. Elain believed that Feyre would be revolted at the notion of her ex-lover and sister together, especially if the way that Tamlin had treated Feyre was anything like the way he was treating Elain.

The past three days of being dragged into the debauchery and malice of Hybern’s affairs in the main hall had finally caught up to Elain. She found her eyelids were beginning to droop and her head becoming too heavy to lift. She fell asleep on a warm, muscular chest and she found that, for the first time in weeks, she felt safe. Even though she knew she was running out of time.

Azriel

Azriel was in deep trouble. He had become far too tempted by the allure that was Elain Archeron in the past days. He was scared of how quickly she’d gotten past his walls and how quickly he’d allowed himself to trust her with every piece of his broken heart. His heart, that she’d somehow managed to both warm and heal and hold in both of her delicate hands.

Azriel resolved that he wouldn’t tell her how he felt, for she was too precious to him to risk losing her. However, it was incredibly difficult to deny the staggering beat of his heart and the longing that he felt when she was asleep like this in his arms. Smoothing her hair with a scarred palm, he allowed sleep to finally grasp his consciousness as well.

Feyre

Feyre hadn’t truly slept in a long time. When she succumbed to the temptress that was slumber, she was bombarded by nightmares, the likes of such she hadn’t had since she was with Tamlin. Tamlin had never once woken up, or at least he’d pretended to be asleep when she hurled her guts up or cried at the memory of her parents dying. He would complain, though, that she had been too loud in sleep the night before. Feyre sighed and got out of bed to make herself some herbal tea.

The second she opened her door, she heard noises coming from down the hall. Rhys’s room. She hesitated, wondering if, perhaps, he had brought someone home. They hadn’t spoken of their kiss in the days since it occured. The tension between them was starting to become unbearable for Feyre, and she longed for the sensation of Rhysand’s full lips on hers.They hadn’t made any promises to each other, nor had they discussed what existed between them. Even still, Feyre didn’t think she could stomach seeing-or hearing-him with someone else.

The noises began again, but they were not the sounds of her- of Rhys in the throes of passion. No, they were the screams of someone in agony.

Rhysand

“Kneel.” Red hair red hair red hair. Blood blood my blood. Get me out save me stop this. Rhys’s mind and heart were racing. A sinister smile flashed across the forefront of his mind. That same smile as she strangled someone else. Golden-brown hair and bloodshot blue-gray eyes. Rhys began screaming and sobbing and tearing at the sheets of his bed. His chest and forehead felt damp. Suddenly, there was a weight on his chest, and he tensed, preparing for the worst. Except nothing happened; the weight on his chest wasn’t hurting him, wasn’t making him uncomfortable. “Rhys? Rhys!” The voice was pleading with him now.

Hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him back into reality.

Hybern

Hybern had Rhysand and the Night gang right where he wanted them. Once Feyre was with Tamlin again, the leader of the Spring gang would help him seize control of the manor that the royal family had once inhabited. Everything was falling into place. Except for Hybern’s greatest fear. No, the prince was dead. There was no possible way he could have survived the destruction that had been wrought upon the city when Tamlin and his father had killed the High Lord and the High Lady of Velaris. Even if tamlin himself had told Hybern that the young prince had not been executed that night.

He called for Azriel to bring his latest reports. Hiring the boy had been a godsend, not that Hybern believed in any god. No, to him, the true god was power, and since he had the most of it, he believed himself to be the most holy.

Azriel dutifully told him news of the movements of the Day gang and the Winter gangs’ spies. None of them, it seemed, were too keen on attempting to penetrate Hybern’s security.

Hybern thanked Azriel and asked him to send a maid to deliver Amarantha’s nighttime ‘tonic’.

“Oh, one last thing,” Hybern beckoned his guard back to his throne in the top floor suite of his hotel.

“Yes, sir?” The young man raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“In two days time, you will be required to either escort Elain Archeron to the lobby or… you will be required to shoot her in the head. Understood?” He searched the man’s face for signs of hesitancy or betrayal. He found neither on his solemn face, but in his eyes… fear.

“Understood, sir. Will that be all?” Azriel’s voice was stiff, almost too stiff but not quite. The silent man didn’t have the demeanour of someone how was disloyal, but Hybern sensed that he was missing something important.

“That’s all.” Hybern pursed his lips at the man’s retreating figure. Once the door was shut, he allowed himself to smirk.

Hybern found that poisoning Amarantha to motivate her was invigorating. And no one suspected anything.

Feyre

Grasping her warm mug in her hands, Feyre listened as Rhys explained what he had told Az to do and what the spy had reported about Elain’s state.

“She’s okay, Feyre.” Feyre nearly collapsed against the counter she was leaning on in relief. A few moments passed in comfortable silence as Rhys poured himself a cup of tea and sat beside her on the counter.

“Are you okay, Rhys?” No answer. “When I heard you earlier, I thought- I thought that maybe there was someone with you,” Rhys’s head whipped around to look at her, eyebrows raising up to his hairline. Feyre continued, “Then I heard you scream. Rhys, I’ve never been that scared in my entire life.” She released a breath.

Rhys shook his head. “I’m not completely okay, Darling. I don’t know if I’ll ever be, but I feel better every day. You have no idea how much you make me want to feel okay. You make me feel alive, more alive than I’ve felt since her. Thank you.”

“You make me feel alive too.” Feyre whispered, warmth spreading through her at the tender look in his eyes. He smiled at her, a real, full smile that made her feel like she was floating.

Feyre reached up to trace his smile and Rhys’s eyes fluttered closed. When they opened, they were half lidded with desire. “Feyre.” He purred, and she surged forward to press her lips against his like she’d longed to since their last kiss, even sooner if she were being honest with herself.

When she slid her tongue along his lower lip, he pulled away, leaving Feyre confused and cold without the warmth of him. “We can’t, Feyre. Not until this is all over. All of this Hybern business. I would like to properly court you, and I can’t do that while Hybern is still ruining this city.” He looked just as disappointed as she did, but Feyre understood. She nodded. He ghosted a lingering kiss over her forehead, causing her to shiver and him to smirk.

Feyre watched Rhys’s retreating figure walk all the way down the hallway until he turned around at his room to murmur, just loud enough for Feyre to hear, “Don’t let the hard days win.”

Despite the horror surrounding her, Feyre fell asleep smiling.

———————————————————————

A/N: I did it! Thank you so much for your paitience, I’ve been struggling with mental health lately, and I finally felt good enough to write. Hopefully everyone liked this chapter, it’s a little less angsty than the last one(whew). 💜

P.S. If anyone gets my bizarre reference to ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ they can be my best friend. :)

Tag list:

@alwaysfullybooked @floatingfaith @tangledraysofsunshine @booklover242 @light-in-the-shadows72 @thefandomhighqueen @mis-lil-red @rowaelinforeverworld @iamaelinashryvergalathnius @l0sts0uls1128 @lightattheend @jasisteih @they-call-me-cuatro @amusedowl @emmejo26 @highladyofthesith @ghostlyrose2 @schmlip-scribble @fourshizzle149

#feysand fanfiction #alternate universe #love #fanfiction #musicalfae #feysand #fanfic #elriel fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #fluff #angst #gangsters au

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sinkingorswimming · 7 years

Text

‘Til We Let the Spectrum In: a companion to ‘Til I Tear The Walls, ‘Til I Save Your Heart

For the amnesty week of @knockyuuriupweek: prompt of “labor/labor induction.” Stands alone primarily, though knowledge of the Ballad of Tam Lin may help. The prior story can be found here on AO3.

It wasn’t just that Victor had to adjust to the march of time since his imprisonment in the roses. He also had to help with marriage arrangements and the complications of his sweet one’s pregnancy.

Doctor Nishigori forbids his love any strenuous activity after Samhain, and so he spends much of his days reclining in bed or on a chaise in the library with Minako assisting in his education as always. Lady Katsu--Okaasan brings Yuuri soothing teas and carefully prepared meals, which Victor lovingly feeds him until the day Yuuri slaps the spoon out of his hand and berates him about his hatred of coddling.

(Upon retiring to their chambers---yes theirs, as Otousan wryly points out since the question of Yuuri’s purity is quite settled, to be sure---Yuuri sheds tears with loud hiccups, ashamed and apologetic. Victor kisses him, stroking his back until he sleeps, watching his bethrothed slumber with diamonds in his eyes as he tries his best to love him.)

On occasion, Victor takes Yuuri on a slow, small walk by the hothouse. At first the perfumes of the different flora trigger Yuuri’s nausea, but after a few months it abates so he can enjoy his family’s efforts once more.

Once a week, Victor has the horticulturist make Yuuri an arrangement, bringing him this small boon as a sign of his suit. They always avoid red roses by unspoken agreement, but one particular bouquet with the red camellias so prized by the Katsukis strangely moves Yuuri to the point of tears.

Minako pulls Victor aside before afternoon tea to explain their meaning sotto voce. Victor then reserves them for anniversaries, his birthday in the late autumn, and the celebration of St. Valentine.

The wedding happens as promised, their families united by the sacred and legal bond. Cousin Mila, with all the brightness of Polaris in her smile, introduces a dark-haired beauty as her companion, Lady Sara Crispino of the Southern Crispinos. Lady Sara is just as pleased, her lilac gloved hands and amethyst collier matching her unique eye color.

The wedding is successful, the party the talk of the nation for years, and Victor adjourns with Yuuri to one of his family’s estates, a seaside castle with a golden gate. The marriage chambers have fur blankets and a roaring fire, and Victor presents Yuuri a token that belonged to his late mother.

It is a necklace of molten gold and black opals that remind Victor of the sky under which they met. It is meant solely as a dowery, but when Victor takes a moment to gather the mulled, spiced wine for their nightcaps, he returns to his sweet one draped in front of the fire in the necklace and nothing else, not even his spectacles.

(”We shouldn’t---Doctor Nishigori---” Victor weakly protests, because Yuuri is beautiful, somehow more than the first time ever he saw his face, more than the night he saved his mortal soul.

“I’m not waiting almost half a year for a proper cunsummation of our marriage,” Yuuri offers with a frown. “I asked Yuuko---if we take steps to move carefully, all will be well.”

How is Victor to refuse such an offer? Only a fool would lack the sense to reject such a suggestion, and it has been too long his passion could only simmer below the surface, threatening to ignite in the evenings upon retirement to the solitude of their bed.

Victor is full of longing, and thus Victor gives in.

He gives in half of every week’s nights without fail thereafter.)

Time passes so quickly that Yuuri becomes round like a hot air balloon with back pain and difficulty sleeping. He walks more, and before they know it, the third phase draws close.

Nishigori has arranged for a surgery when the time comes to safely birth the baby. He and his wife take up residence in the guest cottage as Yuuri may begin his labor pains any day and the village is too long a coach ride for such an urgent event.

Two days before the official date, Yuuri asks to be drawn a hot bath midday. It is done, and as he undresses to sink into the water, something causes him to call for Victor.

Victor enters to find Yuuri in only his shirt holding his trousers and small clothes. The groin area on both have been soaked through with clear and red fluids. Victor stares at Yuuri with a sense of escalating panic.

“Victor---” Yuuri manages with a supernatural calm. “Victor. Get the Nishigoris.”

Victor cannot move, rooted to the floor like he was a field of enchanted blossoms.

“Victor!” Yuuri snaps. “Go!”

This springs him to action, Victor breaking a land speed record to reach the cottage, all but destroying it like a puff from a big bad wolf. “Yuuri---baby---time---” he manages before sprinting back.

Yuuri, with no care for his mostly nude state, has lain by the bed on the floor. He groans, and the husband and wife time gently place him on their bed. Nurse Nishigori has a watch, and she focuses on it as Yuuri lets loose a bray, breathes, then does it again.

“This is fast,” she says. “Your labor pains are only five minutes apart.” She smiles. “Your child is eager to meet you both.”

Victor wrings his hands then takes the back steps two at a time, begging the cook for aid. After what feels like years, he is given an almost over-flowing cauldron of boiled water.

Yuuri’s cousin, Phichit, hears the commotion. “Has the time arrived?”

“Get linens,” Victor instructs. “They’ll be needed.”

Phichit does so without a question or complaint, the two of them bursting into the rooms with nods to the Lord and Lady Katsuki as well as Minako who wait outside.

Doctor Nishigori has given Yuuri a low sedative, it appears as he moans in sleep. “I have brought boiled water and towels as well as old sheets!” Victor declares.

Nishigori pays him no mind, but his wife favors Victor with a blank stare. “That’s...very good, Victor,” she says with audible confusion. “Set them out of the way.”

Phichit obeys---Victor does not. He cannot because he sees the size of the scalpel being employed for the cesarian, and immediately collapses to the ground in a spell.

In addition to Minako’s palm impacting with his cheek, the sounds of a baby’s cries rouse him from unconsciousness. “He’s fine,” is all he gets from the governess as she helps him into a standing position. When he has reoriented, he sees a proud doctor and midwife, a beaming young Lord Chulanont, and---

Yuuri, now half-awake and his arms full of a wriggling infant with tufts of jet black hair on the crown of their head. Victor silently weeps as he sits on Yuuri’s side. Yuuri is tired and wan in a precarious position aided by a large pile of pillows. His stomach is surely sore and weak from the incisions. He favors Victor with a smile and wet eyes. “Meet your son.”

“Perfection, the both of you,” Victor assures him with a kiss on the cheek. He strokes the boy’s hair---it is exactly as Yuuri’s. There is no doubt he is theirs, Victor believes as he takes in the insistent Nikiforov cheekbones and mouth.

After everyone greets the new little one and someday heir to both fortunes, they are left alone with their son. He begins to fuss and Yuuri feeds him like any mother would, though they have not decided to have the child use such a title.

A fire is stoked for them, and while a nursery has been made with the typical trappings, for now he is too young to sleep down the hall. There is an elegant bassinet close to their bed, and Victor holds him as he rocks him to sleep until an early morning feeding.

Yuuri watches him with love. A sudden gust causes a window to blow open, and Victor puts the baby in the bassinet and then closes it. His back is to Yuuri and their baby, but he hears Yuuri shout a warning.

Victor turns, and in the dim light, four pairs of eyes glow: one green like a barn cat, one blue like midsummer lightning, the third a different shade of blue like bioluminsecent fish, and the final pair simply reflect like a polished piece of obsidian.

The darkness clears and Victor grabs the fire poker. “Leave this place,” he orders the four fae men.

“We are not here to take the child or cause you pain,” the black eyed man whose cloak has a bear fighting an eagle embroided in gold says.

“We come bearing gifts,” says the dark blue-eyed man, tall and in a regal shimmering purple befitting of a king.

“There are no tricks or deceptions, and we do not require anything in return,” the blue eyed man clad in the colors of an oil spill that has mixed with water.

“Let us grant these boons, and we shall vanish,” says the youngest, a towheaded changeling boy in white and feathers.

Yuuri is scared and determined as he was on Samhain, but Victor spent over half a century as one of their kind. They cannot refuse lest they risk insulting them.

Noting frightens Victor worse than insulting the Queen of Air and Darknesses court. “Do as you will,” he says.

“Victor---” Yuuri begins, but the look in Victor’s eyes makes him quiet.

The fae gather around the baby. The black eyed man is first. “To you, child, I bestow wisdom and the willingness to work hard, completing all tasks with grace and strength.”

Ebony and gold light glimmer onto their son.

The violet king is next. “To you, child, I bestow confidence, charm, and song, so that you may never forget your noble heart.”

Emerald and aubergine sparks cover the baby.

The shimmering witch goes third. “To you, child, I bestow passion, empathy, and a great desire to love, as well as the necessary objectivity so you do not lose sight of your own self.”

Several shades of blue glimmer on the baby’s skin.

Finally, the last gift. “I bestow upon you, child, your father’s courage, your other father’s devotion, and their combined loyalty and truth. May these never fade or dim, no matter the adversity you face.”

Silver and yellow cover the baby.

The quartet bow as they vanish, the window blowing open a second time in spite of being latched. Yuuri shuts it this time, and when he finishes, he clings to Victor, both of them trembling as they look at the inkling dark to ensure they do not return.

They do not.

After deliberation, they name the baby Sora, for when his eyes open they are Victor’s color with Yuuri’s shape, like a shimmering, windy sky. He grows healthy and handsome, beloved by all he meets. He is kind and wise beyond his years, hardworking and gentle to Vicchan and upon the small dog’s final breaths, a larger poodle they name Makkachin.

He flourishes and grows, and the fae are true to their word...though sometimes if Victor is out with Sora alone on the grounds, he senses someone observing them to only find a yellow striped cat with green eyes.

He brushes it away, and basks in the joy of his son and sweet one.

#knock yuuri up week #sfw #sunday: labor #dommi's fic #tam lin au #victuuri fic #yoi fic

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themanicmagician · 7 years

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Reign - Chapter 7

Summary: Papyrus seizes the crown for himself, and declares Sans his queen. A series of one-shots covering the highs and lows of their reign, and everything in between.

Chapter Summary: The Royal Guard - Part 1: After Sans returns home injured, Papyrus vows to become stronger, to protect his brother. No matter what it takes.

Papyrus sits by the front window of his father’s estate, waiting for someone to return home. Gaster has been holed up in the Lab for two weeks, and their cupboards have become bare enough to prompt Sans to dig around their father’s room for spending money and voyage out into the capital himself. Papyrus had wanted to go with him, but Sans insisted he stay here. His brother said he should keep watch in case their father returned, but Papyrus isn’t an idiot babybones. Sans is afraid. Striped shirts don’t grant the same leniency they used to. Without Gaster’s presence, leaving the house has become dangerous.

Papyrus fiddles with his cube, one of the rare gifts from his father. The colored squares are curling at the edges. He peels the plastic up before smoothing it down again, and shuffles the cube around. Solving its initial purpose was a day’s work; now, he arranges the cube colors into different patterns, or just revolves squares to keep his hands busy as he thinks.

Sans is strong. He must be. Their father is close friends with the king, and King Asgore wouldn’t permit weaklings in his court. So if their father is strong, it follows that that strength has passed down to them as well.

He has nothing to worry over.

And still, he waits at the front window, which gives him a view of the large lawn. At one point, Papyrus tries to leave the house, but turning the doorknob makes his knees knock.

The hours stretch on. The Underground grows darker, and he can’t wait a moment more. He stands, legs stiff with inactivity, and hurries over to the red rotary phone in the drawing room. The number for his father’s secretary is written on a sticky note posted on the wall above it.

Papyrus dials her number. He wraps the curled cord around his hand as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

“Dr. Gaster’s office, how may I help you?” She sounds terse, no-nonsense.

“I, um,” Papyrus squeaks.

“How may I help you?” She asks again.

“I need to speak with f—with Dr. Gaster.”

“And who is speaking?”

“I-It’s, I’m his son?”

There’s a brief silence, and Papyrus fears she might hang up on him, thinking he’s a prank caller.

“Dr. Gaster has asked not to be disturbed for the moment, but I can take a message for you.”

Papyrus swallows. What to tell?

“Could you just tell him that Papyrus is asking him to come home? It’s about Sans.”

“I’ll relay your message.”

There’s a click and the line goes dead.

Papyrus returns the phone to his cradle, feeling sick. Has he made the correct decision? If he bothered Father for no good reason, if he made Father angry—

There’s a crackle of displaced air near the front door, a sound he’s come to associate with—

“Sans!”

Papyrus rushes to greet him. His relief warps into horror as he reaches the front door. His older brother is leaning heavily against the door for support. His face is scratched, filthy with dirt. He’s holding tightly to a brown paper bag of groceries.

“Heya, Paps.” His stupid brother is trying to sound cool, in control, but Papyrus sees how he winces with each small shift of his body, hears the reedy rasp to his voice. “I got us some eats.”

“Forget the dumb food!” Papyrus cries, moving closer to him. Where else is he hurt? “What happened?”

“Ran into a few punks on my way outta the store, is all. I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” Papyrus stamps his foot. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I called Father, he’ll be here any minute!”

Sans scowls. “We’re fine without him.”

“You were gone for over six hours! Six!! I d-didn’t know if you were, you were h-huh-hurt, or…”

Papyrus’ breath hitches as tears spill from his eye sockets.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t cry.” Sans pushes off the wall, and wipes away Papyrus’ tears with the sleeve of his sweater. “You know I hate that.”

Papyrus scrubs at his face. “S-Sorry, I…Sans!” He gasps, alarmed. Where Sans had been leaning is now a smear of red. “You’re bleeding!”

Papyrus circles around Sans to check his back, and fresh tears spring to his eyes. There’s five distinct rips in his sweater, like a large claw had swiped his brother’s back.

“Relax, Paps, it looks worse than it is. Let’s start cooking dinner, okay?”

Sans only makes it a few steps towards the kitchen when he starts to sway. When Papyrus tries to steady him, Sans pushes him away.

“Just a little dizzy for a moment, I’m fine,” Sans says.

But after another step his eye lights gutter out, and Papyrus catches him as he crumples to the floor. The bag of groceries falls from his hands, food rolling out across the carpet.

Papyrus doesn’t care about that. His brother is hurt. He slaps Sans’ face lightly, then harder, but he remains slack and unconscious.

“Sans! Sans!” He shakes his brother, screams his name. Still, he does not stir.

He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t been taught how to use healing magic, but he tries anyway. Magic sparks and sputters at the tips of his phalanges, but goes no further. His pants are slowly soaked with his brother’s marrow. He can’t leave the house for help; anyone with half a brain would see them as easy pickings, free EXP for the taking.

Papyrus doesn’t know how long he’s held his brother, until suddenly his father is there as well, prying Sans from his arms. Papyrus instinctively clings to Sans.

“Let me heal him.” Gaster says, but it takes several repetitions of the sentence before Papyrus comes back to himself enough to release his brother.

Papyrus watches, hawk-like, as his father turns Sans carefully onto his stomach. He presses both hands gently to his back, and a flood of healing magic lights up the room.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll survive.”

His father asks why Sans was out of the house in the first place, and Papyrus explains.

“So weak,” Gaster comments. He finishes off the wounds on Sans’ back, so he turns him over again to tend to the injuries on his face. “Weaker than I expected, at his age. Do you want to prevent this from happening again?”

Papyrus nods.

~*~

This is the second time he’s been to his father’s Lab. It’s clinical, with its white walls and sanitized smell. It gives off the sense of efficiency—there’s no idle gossip, no easy banter, just hundreds of scientists hunched over their respective tasks. Papyrus is attracted to every room and experiment he passes by, but his father’s quick, long strides hurry him along.

They get into an elevator. Gaster punches in a code, and they descend further into the Lab.

“This level is my private workplace,” Gaster says, as they step out of the elevator. “The king has given me free reign with the capital’s pool of degenerates, and that’s what we’ll be working with today.”

Gaster brings him into a room. There’s a monster inside, unconscious on a hospital bed. He’s hooked up to multiple monitors.

Gaster puts a hand on Papyrus’ shoulder. His touch feels heavy.

“Dust him.”

Papyrus looks up at Gaster, astonished. “But I can’t just—”

“Why are you arguing with me? Did you not want to get stronger?”

“Yes, but…” The monster’s just lying there.

“You’re weak right now. You’d be useless against an actual threat.” Gaster pushes him forward. “You need LOVE to protect your brother.”

Papyrus approaches the monster’s bedside. His eyes are sunken into his skull. A machine breathes for him. Papyrus touches the curve of his palm—it’s freezing. This monster is as good as dead already. And his father said he was a degenerate. No one would miss a monster like that, not even a brother.

“How do I do it?”

“Sans has taught you how to summon a bone attack, yes?”

Papyrus nods. Pulling upon his magic, he crafts a long femur bone, glowing red. It hovers above the comatose monster.

“You need to pierce the monster’s soul. A direct hit will dust him instantly. But you must strike with the intent to kill, or you will fail.” Gaster’s tone implies that failing him is not an option.

Papyrus aligns the bone attack over the monster’s chest.

With a sharp gesture of his hand the attack pierces down.

The monster’s body jolts upon impact. He lets out a low croak of breath before disintegrating into dust.

Papyrus gasps as a wall of euphoria slams into him. Gaster steadies him when he wavers.

“How do you feel?”

Sick, strong.

“Alive.”

~*~

Slumber eludes him for days after his first kill. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees himself in that monster’s place. Trapped in the hospital bed, unable to so much as twitch a finger as the monster rips magic through his chest. When he jerks awake in a cold sweat, his own gasping breaths in his ear sound like the monster’s last rattling lungful of air.

The second monster is easier. He hesitates less before delivering the blow. His LOVE ticks upwards again, but he doesn’t feel the same dump of rapture as he did the first time—not until a fourth monster is dead by his hand.

It was whispered around the schoolyard that LOVE changed a monster; the higher it was, the less they felt, until they became a callous killing machine. Papyrus feels nothing of the sort; rather, he feels more powerful, more confident, more belligerent.

Gaster has not praised him, but Papyrus did not expect him to. He merely leads him from one room to the next, collecting the dust Papyrus creates into large glass jars.

After Papyrus has felt the surge of power three times, Gaster brings him to a target that can actually fight back.

The cat monster leaps up on her feet as Gaster and Papyrus enter her cell. Her claws primed, she charges for Papyrus’ throat—his magic instinctively rallies, and the wave of bone attacks hobbles her, ripping muscle and chipping bone from her legs. She’s still yowling, curled in a ball and clutching at her ruined limbs when Papyrus silences her forever.

Pleased with the demonstration, Gaster begins to train Papyrus, in addition to his dusting sessions. His father is a grueling teacher, his lessons tempered with experience from the war Aboveground, with the humans. Fueled with determination to not disappoint his father, and to protect his brother, Papyrus excels in each task that is put before him. Gaster even spars with him on occasion. Papyrus has never landed so much as a scratch on him. It’s not a difference of LOVE, but Gaster’s own cunning. He takes advantage of Papyrus’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities in his battle techniques. Each time he’s knocked down, Papyrus learns a little bit more on how to defend from creative, underhanded tactics. For months, everything goes smoothly.

And then Sans finds out.

Papyrus doesn’t know how he learned of his training sessions, but one day he just showed up right as Papyrus executed his target, the smell of burnt dust still thick in the air.

Ignoring Papyrus, Sans marches right up to Gaster, roiling magic burning from his left eye socket.

“What the fuck have you done to him?” He spits.

“The same I’ve been doing for you,” Gaster says, calmly. “Preparing him for the world.”

“You had no right—no right—”

“Brother, it’s okay!” Papyrus wills Sans to calm down. Gaster is not a patient monster. “Father is helping me to get stronger.”

“Stay out of this, Papyrus,” Sans says, without so much as looking at him.

Unbidden, white-hot anger flashes through him. How dare Sans be so dismissive, like he’s some kid who doesn’t know what the grownups are talking about.

“We’re not going to be your guinea pigs any longer.” Sans says. “It’s over.”

“Brother, I asked him to teach me, I want to help.”

“Papyrus is leagues stronger than you were at his age. Would you really rob him of the opportunity to prove himself? That would be the cruelest thing you could possibly do, Sans.”

“He’s not going to be your little killing machine. I don’t give a fuck how you justify it. We’re leaving.” Sans grabs Papyrus by the hand, roughly tugging him towards the door. Papyrus yanks his hand away.

Sans sighs, like Papyrus is testing his patience. “Papyrus—”

“Stop treating me like a kid! Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because you don’t understand a goddamn thing you’re saying! Don’t argue with me.” Sans reaches for his arm again and Papyrus sees red.

“No!”

His magic lashes out with his anger, and Sans is knocked viciously to the floor.

The haze of his rage evaporates as Sans groans in pain, clutching at his mouth. Papyrus gasps at the sight of blood welling in Sans’ mouth.

Sans hisses as Gaster pulls his hand away from his mouth, inspecting the injury.

“You cracked his tooth.” The words hit Papyrus like a damnation. “That’ll have to be pulled out. Let me—”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Sans knocks Gaster’s hand away, and retreats.

Stricken with guilt, Papyrus tries to approach him.

“Sans, I’m sorry—”

“Save it. You’re just like him.”

Papyrus flinches back as Sans disappears with a crackle of magic. He didn’t mean—he didn’t want to hurt Sans.

“Ignore him. He’s merely upset.” Gaster says, patting Papyrus’ back. He leans into his father’s touch. “I do think this is a good indicator that we should proceed with the second half of your training.”

Papyrus looks up at him. “Second half?”

“It’s time for you to enlist in the royal guard.”

~*~

Papyrus eyes his new living accommodations, trying not to let his distaste show outright. The cabin is a quarter the size of his room in his father’s house, and he shares it with three others. The room is sparsely furnished. There are two bunkbeds, wedged against either side of the room. The mattresses are thin, the pillows flat. There are four small dressers for each of them, presumably for their clothes and personal effects.

Since he’s the first one to arrive, he claims the bottom bunk on the right for himself, setting out his new training uniform to stake his territory. A small axolotl enters moments later, shy and silent. He clutches stuffed dinosaur in his claws, stroking its fur repetitively with a nervous energy.

It doesn’t take long for their two roommates to arrive. Papyrus hears them well before they burst inside. They’re a pair of loox monsters, hulking, thick-muscled, and worst of all, old friends. They stumble into the room together, elbowing and jostling playfully. They snicker down at Papyrus and the axolotl. One of them snatches the stuffed dinosaur from the axolotl’s hands, and holds it high out of his reach as he inspects it. Papyrus subtly shifts away from the sniveling axolotl.

“The hell is this?”

“This isn’t a fun little summer camp for babies,” The other sneers. “How’re you going to survive the Rabbit Farm like this?”

Rabbit farm? Papyrus hasn’t heard anything about a rabbit farm yet, but he doesn’t dare ask for further information.

The loox holding the stuffed dinosaur rips it to pieces, before throwing it on the floor of the cabin.

“Better wise up now, kid. Or you’ll end up just like your toy.” The weight of the bully’s glare settles on Papyrus. “You got somethin’ you want to say, bone boy?”

Papyrus shakes his head mutely. The monsters shove past him on either side, and claim the right set of beds for themselves. One of them, noticing Papyrus’ extra sets of clothing are already set out, knocks them off the bed and onto the floor.

“That’s my stuff,” Papyrus says, tightly. The axolotl watches him, bug-eyed.

“Well it’s in my way,” The loox sneers.

The two friends approach Papyrus. He stands firm. He can defend himself.

“Maybe your skull is a little thick. I’m Loto,” Says the loox that’s a duller shade of green. “And my friend here is Byron. As long as we live in this cabin together, you two toothpicks need to know your place.”

Growling, Papyrus summons a bone attack. Raising it like a club, he charges for Loto.

Loto catches the attack mid-throw. Papyrus tries to tug the bone out of his hand, but his grip is too strong.

A flicker of fear flashes through Papyrus as the two monsters advance.

“Looks like you need more of a demonstration.”

Papyrus is beaten down with humiliating speed. The axolotl is of no help, shivering in the corner. When the recruits are called to line up that afternoon, Papyrus is reprimanded for the tears in his new uniform, and that night, he sleeps on the lower left bunk.

~*~

Barely a month into their training, the Commander tells them to prepare for a class trip. Whispers spread through the recruits. They’ve all heard the term “Rabbit Farm” by now. Their senior classmates have mentioned it without explicitly stating what it is. The recruits with brothers and sisters in the program lord their knowledge over the rest, discussing preparations for the Rabbit Farm with knowing smiles. Papyrus can’t even tell if it’s a mental or physical exercise, so he quietly prepares best he can for any eventuality.

The day of the trip they’re awoken three hours earlier than normal, and after they all quickly get dressed, they file outside. The Commander assembles them in neat lines.

“Today is the last day you will be lined up by your father’s names. After today, your father’s name will mean nothing. Who you were before you came here will mean nothing. All that will matter is your personal performance today, and your resulting rank.” The Commander walks down the rows, appraising them. Papyrus keeps his head high, his spine stiff and straight. “Your initial rank will determine which classes you attend. Your performance in these classes will ultimately determine your final rank. Dependent upon your score, you may be stationed as lieutenant in one of our four districts. Or you might end up cleaning officers’ boots for the rest of your life. It all depends upon your actions, beginning today. Now, march!”

The recruits assemble, three abreast. They follow their Commander, marching out of the barracks. Older students hoot and holler as they leave, shouting sarcastic encouragements and making bunny ears with their fingers.

The Commander leads the group, while additional guards flank the sides of the group. Thanks to his father’s last name, Papyrus is situated near the middle of the pack.

The swift pace is unrelenting in its speed, and soon becomes brutal for some. Papyrus has not brought along a timepiece, but he figures it must take at least two hours for them to leave the capital and enter Hotland. The weariness of the recruits is compounded by the punishing heat. It’s not long before recruits are gasping for breath, sweating profusely as they struggle to keep the pace. Papyrus is one of the fortunate few, skinless; though the march is taking a slight toll on him, the heat barely touches him.

They’re midway through Hotland when a monster several rows ahead of Papyrus sways and crumples. One of the guards marching alongside the group hauls the recruit upright again, and the company continues on. Some time passes, and then the same monster wavers again, stumbling out of the group. The same guard lifts up the monster—and dusts them.

“The royal guard has no time for weaklings!” The guardsman roars, for all the recruits to hear. “If you falter here, you are not worthy of the title!”

The threat puts an extra jump in their step. No one wants to be singled out and picked off.

They pass by the Lab. While some monsters have gathered to watch the procession, Papyrus sees neither his father nor brother within the crowd. It’s not too surprising. Father has plenty to work on, and Sans…

A few hours more and they pass through the worst of the heat, entering Waterfall. The Commander shows no sign of stopping, so they continue on. Just how far is he taking them all? To the ruins of Home? Papyrus hates the uncertainty, unable to know if he’s pacing himself properly.

Waterfall is cooler, at least, but presents its own obstacle: marching through the muck. The Commander is leading them through via the most direct path, which is not always the travel-worn roads, but instead through muddy marshlands, where the footing proves both treacherous and laborious. No one wants to stumble and fall out of the company, but the mud suctions to their boots, making it difficult to keep pace.

On and on they march. Glowing flowers seem to mock them, echoing back their gasps for air. Papyrus’ father had brought him and Sans here, once. They had delighted in pointing out glimmering rocks in the ceiling, had whispered funny words to the flowers. Coming here now, the dark caverns just feel empty, isolated.

The false light that illuminates the Underground begins to dim as they finally reach Snowdin Town. The cold hits Papyrus harder than the heat, perhaps because his uniform has been soaked through with mud and swampwater. Beneath the damp fabric, his bones rattle softly.

“Company, halt!”

The sudden command jars him from his stupor. The recruits stop, air puffing visibly from their mouths. Fluffy flakes of snow have started to drift down.

They’re in the center of town. Houses are illuminated in the dim, monsters poking their heads out from windows to get a look at them. There are several long tables to Papyrus’ right. There are at least a hundred bowls on the table. He watches a rabbit monster ladle soup into another cup and set it with the rest. They each look piping hot, steam billowing from the bowls.

Papyrus’ mouth waters. Food, and warm food at that. It’ll provide a much needed kick to his magic, pull him back into peak condition.

The Commander’s voice carries over the group. “You will have a 15 minute rest period. Help yourself to the food, if you can.”

The Commander’s final words are like a gunshot at a relay. The recruits rush the tables. Papyrus tries to squeeze his way through the throng, but he doesn’t have enough mass on the other recruits to effectively shove. Bulkier monsters knock past him, and one jars him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Papyrus instinctively covers his head, as the remaining part of the herd step over him. He winces as they step on his hands, his spine. But when the crowd has diminished, and he’s returned to his feet, at least nothing is broken.

Monsters at the front grab two, three, four bowls of soup. Crying out in victory, they guzzle down the meals. Papyrus watches, along with the weaklings. Seething.

He sits. The snow seeps into his pants, unpleasantly, but his aching legs are grateful for the reprieve. While some of the other recruits squabble over leftovers, Papyrus’ gaze wanders from the demure rabbit, to the Commander, talking with the group of guards. The march alone wasn’t the test. The recruits number around 150—and yet, the sophomore class boasts a lean 75. There’s something yet planned for them.

When their 15 minutes are up, the recruits are called back into formation. Oddly, one of the rabbits joins them, their arm held in the firm grip of a guard. The Commander leads them past the edge of Snowdin, and into the woods beyond. The forest is dense; thick, dark trees tower over them. It seems to stretch on forever. The overcrowding of the capital seems ludicrous, looking at the forest’s expanse.

“Recruits, halt!” The Commander stands upon an overturned log, so they all can see him. “Today you will be taking part in an exercise we call the Rabbit Farm. How well you perform today will result in your base rank, so it will be in your best interest to perform adequately.”

The guard with his arm on the rabbit leads him up to the Commander.

“Scattered throughout the forest are hundreds of monsters like this one.” The Commander grips the rabbit by the ears; he can’t help but squeak as he’s lifted up into the air. “You have until daybreak to return with a minimum of three scalps.”

The Commander summons his magic, in the form of a ruby sword, and lops the top of the rabbit’s head off. The Commander keeps the rabbit’s ears, and top of his scalp, in his hand, while the rabbit drops to the snow, already dead.

The sight makes Papyrus’ gorge rise. He doubles over and heaves. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, so all that comes out is stringy, sour magic. Nearby recruits snicker at his display.

“You will notice that the rabbit is not dusting.” The Commander continues. “They have been fed beforehand with an embalming agent. There are few rules once you’re inside the forest. The rabbits will fight for their lives. You might tear into each other. The only absolutes are that you must return with three scalps by dawn, and you cannot leave the perimeter of the forest.”

Two guards grab hands, channeling magic between them. A field of energy crackles to life out of them, expanding to form a magical barricade, fencing them in to the forest.

“Begin.”

Monsters scramble in every direction. Some split off into groups; distantly, Papyrus notes that his two burly roommates have grouped together, shouting their plan of attack to each other. Papyrus stands still as monsters bump and brush past him, still in shock at the sight of the greying rabbit at the Commander’s feet. His father had him kill degenerates, scum of the Underground. Monsters that deserved to die. But these rabbits—what are their crimes?

He had agreed to join the guard because he understood their purpose—or thought he did. The guards are supposed to keep order, and punish wrongdoers. This hunt, this game, flies in the face of everything he believed them to be.

Papyrus startles as a guard slaps his back, making him stumble forward.

“Better get moving, recruit. The night won’t last forever.”

“I—I don’t understand.” Papyrus says, sickened. “They don’t deserve to be hunted down like—like animals.”

The guard shrugs, uncaring. “Life ain’t fair, kid. But if you don’t bring back three scalps, it’ll be your head rolling.”

The guard beckons for him to get moving. Still stunned, Papyrus lets his legs carry him away, into the forest.

“Isn’t that the doctor’s son?” One says to the other, before they’re out of Papyrus’ earshot.

He can’t dust someone that doesn’t deserve it. But if he fails to bring the scalps the Commander requires, that’ll be the end of him. He doesn’t want to die, but still. Still. There has to be another way out of this.

Papyrus’ pace slows, until he stops entirely. He can hear the sounds of skirmishes faintly, deeper inside the forest. Sans would know what to do, if he was here.

But he’s not.

In the bushes nearby, a twig snaps. Papyrus whips around towards the source of the sound, bone attacks sparking to life above his head. He strains his sight, but he can’t spot so much as a shadow. Was it a small animal?

He hears quick footsteps from behind, and realizes he’s been had. They’re approaching too swiftly for him to react properly—he’s barely turned when a strong fist catches him in the temple. He’s struck to the ground hard, fresh snow shoving its way through his nose and eye sockets.

Papyrus coughs, his head buzzing, when a firm clawed hand presses him further into the snow. It’s not a rabbit that surprised him, but another recruit, a gargoyle monster. Stone-faced, he raises a knife, aiming for Papyrus’ neck. A flurry of bone attacks force him to back off, give Papyrus enough time to stagger upright again. He backs away. The gargoyle circles him, studying him, trying to find the best place to strike. Three pairs of furred brown ears are already tied around the gargoyle’s belt loop.

“You’ve already gotten what you need.” Papyrus says. “Why attack me?”

“Commander didn’t say there was anything wrong with thinning the herd.” The gargoyle tosses the knife in his hand.

Papyrus checks him.

ALASTOR LV 7 HP 473/500

Alastor grins. “And you’re a measly 5. But don’t worry—it’ll be quick.”

Alastor catches the knife and lunges for Papyrus again. Papyrus barely dodges, the knife whistling by his head with inches to spare. Alastor’s tail lashes out, knocking Papyrus flat on his back. Alastor stabs down, and Papyrus rolls out of the way.

Papyrus flings a bone attack his way, but Alastor catches it. He squeezes it in his fist, until it splits with a sickening crunch. It dissolves in a shimmer of magic.

Papyrus sends more, but the attacks bounce off Alastor’s unfurled wings harmlessly.

“It doesn’t matter how you try to attack me. Your LOVE is too weak.”

Drawing deep from his magic, Papyrus walls his opponent in with a cube of attacks, before enclosing them around Alastor. He might be able to shake off some of Papyrus’ attacks, but he can’t dodge them all. Though his back and wings are unharmed from the barrage, Alastor yanks out a bone that pierced his stomach. Grainy dust trickles from the puncture wound.

“You little shit,” Alastor snarls. Dropping the knife, he goes down onto all fours and rams into Papyrus, catching him in the chest. Papyrus chokes as the air is knocked out of him. Alastor yanks up his uniform shirt, exposing his chest. Alastor’s hand wraps around a rib.

“Don’t—!”

Papyrus shrieks as Alastor snaps off his rib. The gargoyle tosses it aside, and reaches for the next.

Forcing himself past the pain, Papyrus sits up. Alastor hasn’t let go, and Papyrus can feel his second rib starting to give beneath his grasp.

Papyrus reaches up for Alastor’s belt loop and snatches a pair of rabbit ears. Fearful of his prize being snatched away, Alastor reflexively releases his grip on Papyrus, and reaches out for the ears—

Papyrus punctures Alastor with a sharp bone, and drags it through his insides. Sand spills out, pouring onto Papyrus and the snow.

Alastor lets out an unearthly shriek, but the damage has been done. He collapses upon Papyrus, motionless. The gargoyle bursts into a mixture of sand and dust, spraying Papyrus.

Revolted, Papyrus sputters and coughs as he spits out Alastor’s remains. He lays there in the snow for a moment, breathing hard. His chest burns with every jagged inhale.

Gingerly, he sits upright. His ribcage protests the slightest of movements. He muffles his yelps of pain with his glove.

He scatters bone attacks around the clearing. He pulls himself upright, and starts to search. Finding a white bone somewhere in a field of white snow is no easy task, and pain blooms in his side every time he bends down to search.

He’s not sure how much time passes as he looks for his rib, but his fingers are numb and he’s sweaty with the combined exertion and pain as he lifts the bone from the snow. He brushes it off, and lifts his shirt. He had broken his tibia once, falling from a tree in the front yard. Sans held his hand while Father slotted the bones back together and applied healing magic.

Papyrus winces as he presses the disconnected bone to the remainder of his rib. No one’s taught him proper healing magic, but after Sans’ collapse in their house, he scoured their library for books on healing techniques, so he wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. He tries to recall the lessons left in the old tomes. Healing magic is about molding raw magic with care and compassion. By default, it’s easier to heal a loved one rather than yourself, as one must trick the magic into the compassionate state for the latter. Papyrus’ eye lights dim. He’s vulnerable, out in the open like this, but if he doesn’t heal his rib immediately, there’s a likelihood it won’t reattach later.

He lets his mind go back to that day, with Sans bleeding on the floor. His phalanges heat up, and the green magic gets to work. Papyrus feels a flash of giddiness—it actually worked!—but tamps down on it, keeping the scene in his mind until his rib is firmly reattached.

He traces his fingers around the joined segment. His rib is whole again, but the area is still tender. He tugs down his shirt again, and makes his way back over to Alastor’s dust. Two bundles of rabbit ears are mixed in with the dust, and the other set is a few feet away, half buried in the snow.

Disgust wells within Papyrus at the sight of the scalps. Most would steal the rabbit scalps and be done with it. But not him. The rabbits have done no harm, and do not deserve death. There has to be another way.

Papyrus leaves the dust and rabbit scalps behind. It’s grown pitch black, so he calls his bone attacks from the clearing. He dismisses most of them—it wouldn’t do to provide a beacon for his position—keeping only three to illuminate his path over gnarled roots and deep pockets of snow.

He walks almost aimlessly, while his mind runs through a thousand potential scenarios, none of them viable. He could look for a weakness in the force field perimeter, scamper home with his tail between his legs and beg forgiveness from his father. He could convince three rabbits to return to the Commander with him. He could try to persuade the Commander to give up this aimless, wasteful exercise. Papyrus scowls. Each idea he comes up with is more futile and ridiculous than the last.

Papyrus stumbles over something in the dark. He peers down, holding the glowing bone attacks close. It appears he’s tripped over a rabbit hole. It must lead to one of their warrens, surely. He’s more than small enough to fit inside. Before he can second guess himself, he shimmies down, into the hole. He goes in head first, so he can crawl with his arms, and see where he’s going. The soil loosens as he passes by, but he’s light enough that he’s confident the tunnels won’t collapse.

The tunnels have to lead to one large space. If he can get to the center, he might find some rabbits in hiding that he can reason with. Then, maybe his half-formed plan of leading the rabbits to the Commander will bear fruit.

But there seems to be no end to the tunnels, as Papyrus continues to crawl. His breathing is shallow in the cramped, dark space. Clods of dirt have gotten into his joints, his mouth. He’ll need a thorough bath after this is over.

The air changes as he turns another corner. It smells fresh. There must be another entry hole further ahead. He can pop out and get his bearings. He continues squirming his way through the tunnel until he reaches the exit. He claws his way up, until he’s reached the surface again. He breathes deep of the crisp, clean air.

Suddenly, a tail wraps around his neck. Choking, he claws at it, trying to break free. He’s pulled out of the rabbit hole and flung on to the ground. Something crawls atop him, peering down at him with beady eyes. Then the tail around his neck loosens.

“You’re not a rabbit.” He says.

“Obviously,” Papyrus grits out. His magic illuminates the area—standing before him is the axolotl from his cabin. His uniform is stained with dirt, but he appears to have gotten through most of the Rabbit Farm unscathed.

“Don’t think we ever introduced ourselves, did we? I’m Tully.”

He extends his hand. Bemused, Papyrus shakes it.

“Papyrus.”

“Why are skeletons always named after fonts?” Tully gripes. “So weird.”

When Papyrus doesn’t respond, Tully nudges him.

“Hey, relax. We’re on the same side here.”

“You tried to choke me to death.” Papyrus states, flatly.

“I didn’t know it was you. Why were you even in a rabbit hole to begin with?”

Papyrus rubs at his sore vertebrae. “But still, you’re dusting rabbits?”

“Uh, yeah? Are you not?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought you were strong, you know? It took guts to stand up to Byron and Loto that first day.”

“It’s not about guts. It’s wrong to kill these monsters when they haven’t done anything wrong.”

Tully shrugs. “You know the rules. It’s kill or be killed.”

“But…”

“Come on. You’re half-frozen. I set up a camp not too far off from here. Got a nice fire and everything.”

The axolotl sings a familiar arm around his shoulders, leading him along. Tully hadn’t been nearly as friendly and open in their cabin, but perhaps he’s grateful to see a recognizable face in the darkness. Papyrus knows he is.

“It’s just through these bushes,” Tully says.

Papyrus pushes through the foliage. Sure enough, there’s a campfire.

But he doesn’t expect to see Loto and Byron present, warming by the fire with a stack of limp rabbits stacked between them. There’s a pile of bones and fur as well, and Papyrus’ stomach roils. Not only have they killed rabbits, but they have been eating them, too.

“What…?”

Tully’s tail whips him hard in the back, knocking him to the ground. Papyrus growls. He’s getting tired of being attacked from behind.

Tully comes forward, wrapping his tail around Papyrus’ neck again. He’s dragged by the neck closer to the fire.

“What’s this?” Loto asks.

“If it isn’t bone boy!” Byron exclaims, seemingly delighted.

“I found him out by the warren,” Tully says.

“Smart of you, bones.” Byron bends down, knocking two knuckles against Papyrus’ skull. He snarls, ready to lunge for him, but Tully tightens his hold in warning. “But if you were a little smarter, you would’ve gotten there hours earlier to beat us to it.”

“I-If he was real smart, he wouldn’t have enlisted in the first place.” Tully jokes, weakly. He laughs at his own joke, but quiets as the two larger recruits throw him withering looks.

“Now, bones, what are we going to do with you?”

Loto grins, displaying his razor-sharp fangs.

“Chop him up and throw him in with the hares.”

Loto’s lips smack. “I’ve heard cooking with bones brings out the flavor.”

They laugh, all three of them. Papyrus can feel something within him breaking. He’s exhausted, injured, pushed to his absolute limit. This isn’t—this isn’t what he’d wanted, he can’t die here, why won’t Sans save him—

“Aw, look!” Byron coos, lifting Papyrus’ head up by his chin. “The babybones is crying.”

Byron smacks him before letting him go. They keep laughing at him, and it’s all too much. He’s been beaten, mocked, betrayed by his fellow recruits. They’ve killed innocents. They…

Papyrus’ hands curl into fists. They’re filthy degenerates. His father taught him what to do with degenerates.

Papyrus whips his head around and bites down on Tully’s tail with all his might. His serrated teeth puncture Tully’s skin. Blood wells in his mouth, but he keeps biting, forcing his jaws shut until they crunch through bone.

Tully yowls, releasing his hold on Papyrus as he stumbles away. He clutches his tail, whimpering.

Byron and Loto watch Papyrus regain his footing. Wary, but still confident.

Something roars inside Papyrus, eager to be let out. Papyrus lets the whirlwind of feelings in his chest manifest. Before him materializes a massive animal skull, with red magic flaming from its mouth like fire.

“What the fuck—”

The skull opens its maw and a raw beam of magic bursts free, catching all three monsters in its radius.

There’s screaming, swiftly silenced, then the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Papyrus stares in awe at the skull he’s summoned. It’s unlike anything he’s ever crafted before, unlike anything he’s ever seen. Papyrus shudders as a wave of EXP crashes upon him. He hunches in on himself, bones rattling with pleasure.

The skull rumbles lowly, and then it flakes apart, until a gust of wind carries the magic away entirely.

Papyrus approaches the three recruits. Their HP counts all read zero, but their bodies haven’t dusted. It must be because they’ve ingested some of the rabbits, and thus the embalming element inside them.

Papyrus is filthy, exhausted. His meager bed at the cabin would feel like heaven. He doesn’t have much time remaining before dawn hits. He looks over to the pile of rabbit corpses, and summons a bone attack.

~*~

Most of the recruits have already returned by the time Papyrus trudges back to the Commander’s position. A guard, catching sight of him, beckons him to present his prizes. Papyrus keeps his back straight as he makes his way to the front. The air stinks of the dead. Other recruits brought in the bare minimum, while some brought in several more sets of ears. The recruits are in various states of filth. Some emerged covered in grime and blood, while some came out virtually unscathed. Most have a distant, hollow look on their faces.

A small group of disgraced recruits have returned empty-handed. They’re kept separate from the main group by a few royal guards, but there’s been no movement to dust them—the task must be left to their parents, then.

When Papyrus reaches the Commander, he has to wait for the previous recruit to finish. She’s a small fish monster, smaller than him, even. But beneath her frizzy red hair is a wild yellow eye, and her blue body is soaked in red. She radiates savagery. Her other eyelid is glued shut with blood, but she doesn’t seem to care.

The recruit is pulling scalps from her inventory, adding to the already impressive pile. She hands over the last set to a guard.

“That makes 34, sir.”

“Impressive.” Says the Commander. “You’re undoubtedly the best of the group. Count on your rank being one, Undyne.”

She grins a toothy smile. “Thank you, sir.”

The Commander gestures to one of the guards. “Have her eye seen to.”

“Right away.”

The guard escorts Undyne away. She makes eye contact with Papyrus, briefly. He makes sure to telegraph his disdain.

The Commander steps around Undyne’s pile of scalps, and peers down at Papyrus.

“Now what do you have for me, on the heels of that excellent display?”

Papyrus pulls the three scalps from his inventory, and tosses them at the Commander’s feet. The Commander nudges what was once the top of Tully’s head with the tip of his boot.

“These are not rabbits.”

“No, sir.”

“And am I to assume there are no rabbits in your inventory, either?”

“That is correct, sir.” He’d felt nothing as he carved off the scalps of the dead recruits. But he did dig a massive grave for the rabbits Tully, Loto, and Byron had desecrated. Burying the unfortunate souls was the least he could do. “But if I may—”

“You may not.”

“You asked for scalps, sir,” Papyrus speaks quickly. “You did not qualify what species of monster you required.”

Papyrus’ soul thuds in his chest as the Commander mulls over his words. The royal guards are watching him, too, hands on the hilts of their blades.

“You pass, strictly on a technicality. Thus you will have the pleasure of being the lowest rank of your class.”

“…Thank you, sir.”

The Commander moves on to the next recruit in line.

#another two parter #i've looked at this chapter for too long idk if its any good anymore #my fic #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underfell gaster #royalfell #king papyrus #queen sans

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foxofthedesert · 6 years

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RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 10

Chapter 10 – Despair (Ao3 Link)

When Regina regains consciousness, it is the dead of night. The fire stoked in the hearth does nothing to dispel the chill that has settled into her muscles and bones. Other than the crackling of wood surrendering to the insatiable appetite of the flame, eerie silence reigns within her chambers. The curtains lining her extravagant and enormous windows are not drawn, and outside she can make out half of a pale crescent moon hanging high in the sky.

She groans when she tries to move, feeling achy and lethargic from having expended so much of her energy during the fight with Zelena. The discomfort is worth it, though, if only for the sweet memory of the witch's tangible disbelief and dismay. The broccoli colored bitch had not anticipated being defeated by the little sister she had dismissed as an inept non-threat.

"Don't get up too quickly," a familiar male voice instructs from her left.

Directing her attention to the source, Regina finds her father slumped in a chair against the far wall, partially shrouded by shadows. The creases around his mouth and his haggard complexion make him appear more old and weary than he has since the end of the Dark Days. He had not fared well while his only child was busy building a reputation for herself as a bloodthirsty tyrant. Dark circles are also prominent around his eyes and his lips are pressed into a tight line that is uncharacteristic of late. He presently resembles the days after Cora's coup and subsequent reign of terror temporarily wrested control of the throne from their daughter. Unforgivable atrocities were committed against the kingdom's subjects and his beloved daughter-in-law, both of which weighed heavily upon his tender heart.

Prince Henry, seventh son of Xavier, never forgave himself for his youthful inability to recognize Cora's manipulations for what they were. Given free reign to practice her dark magicks, she slowly succumbed to an insidious influence that gradually transformed her into a hideous monstrosity who repeatedly abused their only child. His guilt only deepened after Cora returned from exile in Wonderland and thereafter put his daughter and daughter-in-law through the proverbial wringer. Even so, until the very end he harbored a soft spot for the miller's daughter whose audaciousness won her the hand of a prince and a title to go along with him.

Some infinitesimally small part of Regina sympathizes with her father's plight. No matter how much hurt she endured, she still cared about the heartless witch she called mother and always would. Unlike her father, however, that did not stop her from doing what was necessary. Executing her mother was the hardest thing she ever did. It was also the most righteous. The unerringly selfish woman more than deserved to die. For far too long Cora had escaped her just dues, the universe itself had demanded satisfaction for her many atrocities. Furthermore, Regina wasn't about to let her get away with all she had done to Red. Hell, even Cora's ludicrously merciful husband grudgingly recognized the justice in crushing that coal black heart into so much dust.

Perhaps the strangest part about the whole sordid episode was that rather than cause strife between herself and her father, it drew them closer together. Once, the sight of him was a nuisance she often wished she could rid herself of. In many ways, he was her second shadow, only with a voice and a conscience and an annoying penchant for exercising both at the least convenient moments. Back then, she simply could not tolerate unwelcome reminders of a time when she was full of optimism and kindness. Yet even at her worst, she never forgot that he was the only person who ever openly showed her any form of affection in her youth, which is why she could never scrounge up the strength to banish him from her presence once she was crowned. It is only now that the soulless winter season of her life has so dramatically shifted into vibrant spring that she has developed an appreciation for his immutable devotion. He has always been a man of insufficient will who let his imperious wife run roughshod over him, but he was – is – a good father.

It is because of that affection that Regina permitted his constant interference and insufferable moralizing once she became Queen and, later on, the Evil Queen. For all of his sanctimonious preaching, he lacked the constitution to openly oppose her, so she never heeded his warnings about how her violent behavior would forever stain her soul. She was aware of how it pained him to watch her commit crime after crime, to hear about her most recent lapse of self-control that almost always resulted in mass casualties and exorbitant destruction of property. He held his peace for the most part because she was his little girl, having loved her in spite of her wickedness just as she loved him in spite of his weakness.

Regina could not – or would not – acknowledge the parallels between herself and her mother, however many times her father tried to get her to. It was only after Red reawakened her slumbering heart that she began to question the way she was conducting her life. With each tale related concerning her many vile acts, Red deftly and respectfully helped her to see how frightfully similar she became to the heartless monster she called mother. It was no wonder that her father quickly became Red's biggest fan when he had been trying to tell Regina the exact same thing for years without success.

Having fallen under the sway of Red's easy-going manner and simplistic charm like every one else, Henry quickly grew attached to his daughter's new paramour. Mostly Regina chalked that fondness up to how happy Red made his only child. Via Red's influence, the Evil Queen was slowly receding in favor of the daughter he had lovingly raised and doted upon at every available opportunity. The reemergence of her softer side pretty much sealed the deal on Red's sainthood insofar as her father was concerned.

Beyond that reference to their mutual love for Regina, there was also genuine affection between the two borne of interests she probably should have guessed they would have in common. Many times while she was taking care of urgent state business, they would sneak off to go hunting or fishing. Both of those were activities the former prince had always cherished but never got to indulge in while married to Cora, nor had he been permitted to teach Regina such undignified skills. Because he was so distant from the throne, his father extended him plenty of latitude to pursue his interests, and he took advantage of it as often as he could. When she was a girl, he used regale her with stories of how he used to go on month long hunting trips, living off the land and what he caught, learning how to respect nature and to fear it. He was a talented archer and fisherman in his day, preeminent among his peers in his ability to track game with only the most minuscule clues. He had lived his entire youth on up into his adulthood out of doors, and Regina could distinctly remember how sad he seemed to reminisce knowing that the days of his wilderness adventures were long behind him.

Red, on the other hand, was born without a silver spoon in her mouth. As a child, she had to scrounge and fight along with her grandmother for every scrap and morsel she could wrench from the stingy grip of the earth. She had learned her skills out of necessity, but along the way she also learned to appreciate the freedom that can only found beneath a sprawling blue sky, and to genuinely enjoy such activities inextricably associated with surviving natures constant quest to kill the living. She is a forager able to outpace the most veteran apothecary assistant or herbalist and a hunter without peer who utilizes her vastly superior senses to track prey far beyond the range of a normal person. Her expertise with a bow is also becoming legendary, especially since she beat Robin in a fair and square archery contest. Once zeroed in on her quarry, whether it be deer or pheasant or turkey or boar, Red can strike a fatal blow with a single arrow from two hundred yards away, even if the animal is on the move at a full sprint. Regina had witnessed this ability personally, else she would have scoffed at the notion of such a feat. And not only was Red an incredible huntress, she would also lug her score back to the castle without aid, where she would then gut it, skin it, clean it, and then quarter it with the precision of butcher. Her grandmother had taught her that wastefulness was disrespectful of the life that had been sacrificed so that they could live another day or week or month. It was a lesson that Red took to heart, which is why she utilizes every scrap of the slain animal that she can.

There was one particularly harsh winter that Red and Regina's father had teamed up to pick up the slack when food stores began running low. Being that her father was old, he could not do as much as he wished, so he helped where he could by hunting or fishing while Red foraged deep within the foreboding recesses of the surrounding forests. Once Red came back from her gathering excursion, Henry would retire for the day, and upon sorting out their gains to their proper places, Red would venture back out again not return until the sunrise. After an hour or two of sleep in the wee hours of the morning, she would be back at it, and it was in large part thanks to their diligent efforts that half the staff of the castle did not starve.

This mutual affinity for nature created a bond between Henry and Red that was unique and endearing, and which Regina sometimes envied. It was almost like Red was the daughter he wished he could have raised her to be, and she had to admit that her life would have been much easier had he been allowed his druthers in her rearing. She would have preferred hunting and fishing to the boredom and drudgery of court life. But even though her upbringing was not easy, things worked out for the best, so she tamped down on her envy. How could she be anything less than thrilled that the two most important people in the world to her were so deeply fond of one another.

Her father's clear concern at Red's state, then, is understandable. He has to be feeling as if he is on the verge of losing an adopted daughter. It couldn't have helped that his biological one passed out from over-exertion in a magical fight with the perpetrator of this unreal fiasco. All of the stress has to be taking a terrible toll at his advancing age.

Regina would offer whatever consolation she could were she not too wrapped up in her own anguish. Any sympathy from her right now would sound empty and meaningless when her wife has been cursed by the sister she didn't even know she had until this afternoon.

At the thought of Red and that damnable apple, Regina springs up, eyes widening as panic sets in. "Where is she, Daddy? Where is Red?"

"Calm down, Regina," her father says, standing to make his way over to the bedside. Once there, he clasps one of her hands tightly. "I had her moved into the guest chambers opposite yours. She is safe."

Regina's eyes began to swim with unshed tears as all that had happened with Zelena storms back into the forefront of her mind. "But she's not safe, Daddy. Not at all. The witch that killed Robin did something to her, cursed her so that even True Love's kiss did not wake her as it should have."

Her father's gapes at her for a moment. "True Love's kiss?"

Regina nods as she grips her sheets with her free hand, straining her fingers against the luxurious fabric as she struggles with her overwrought emotions. "When Zelena confirmed that she had cursed Red, I knew I had to try. And it worked, Daddy, much to my shock. I saw the magic burst from our bodies when I kissed her." As she looks up at her father, a tear escapes her lids and slides forlornly down her cheek. "Red is my True Love, yet she did not wake up."

"Regina, that's wonderful!" he exclaims, latching on to the positive just as he is so prone to do. He had missed the most important part.

"Yes, the first part of it is," she agrees, but her tone is anything but happy, and her father finally notices that.

He gives her hand a squeeze. "That's what I meant, of course. But I am confused as well. If True Loves kiss worked, why does Red still sleep?"

"Zelena did something to the curse," she explains. "It's not like the one I put Snow under. She somehow altered it so that no magic can break it, and she has also designed it to slowly drain its victim. If I don't find a cure, Red will wither away and die."

Dropping her father's hand, Regina slides out of bed, careful not to tilt over when she puts her weight onto her legs. Her father is there to steady her, but she brushes off his attempt to help. After running a hand through her errant hair to smooth it down, she shuffles over to the door only to be stopped short by her father's voice.

"Can you do it?" When she turns, he is staring at her with tears of his own gathering at his lids. "Can you find a cure?"

The gravity of the situation has finally hit him in earnest, it seems. A pang of sympathy tugs at Regina's heart for her elderly father. He looks so very frail. Losing Red would likely strain him precariously near to a tumble over the crested edge of a deep depression from which there might be no escape. But however much she hurts for him, she cannot afford to let concern for anyone else distract her. Selfishly, her main priority is Red – and herself by proxy, as her own survival hinges upon Red's.

A sharp stab of pain lances through her chest. Red cannot die. Not now. The seven years they have spent building a happy life together have accumulated a net value exceeding any computation. In that span they have won the admiration of a kingdom through concerted efforts to improve the lives of all citizens. And they have made so many memories of love and laughter, of nasty quarrels and unforgettable apologies, of lazy morning cuddles and nighttime passion, more memories worth treasuring than the rest of Regina's thirty-seven years combined. To be sundered from her True Love now, having accomplished the previously unthinkable, would break Regina beyond repair. The delicate shards that Red so patiently and lovingly reconstructed will simply shatter all over again, this time into a million jagged shards that can never be put back together. Whatever distorted form emerges from the wreckage, whatever sad reflection of humanity she can salvage from the destruction, it is guaranteed to be grotesque. If the Evil Queen was born out of Daniel's death, what monstrosity will arise from the molten ashes of Red's? Regina does not want to find out. Frankly, the thought petrifies her. She does not ever want to be that woman again.

At the same time, she also knows she has to be honest, if not with her father, than with herself. Managing expectations is the only way she will survive the coming crisis without driving herself straight through the amorphous threshold of insanity.

"I don't know," she tells him frankly. "I wish I could say otherwise, but I simply have no answers right now. All I do know is that I will do whatever I have to do to save her. That much I can promise you. Beg, plead, steal, kill, break hearts or minds or bodies, or burn the world to cinders...I will do what is necessary to save her. And if that means I die in the trying, so be it."

"Please don't talk that way," her father says, his legs momentarily faltering. If possible, his already thin, waxy skin looses even more color. "Losing Red is bad enough. I can't lose you, too."

"She's not dead yet, Daddy. Neither am I. And I don't intend for either of those facts to change." Drawing in a shaky breath, she shakes her head. She has wasted too much time already. Her heart is crying out for Red and she must obey. "Stay here or go elsewhere as you please, but I need to see my wife now. Alone." Her father nods sadly at the dismissal, and with that, Regina throws open the door, heedless of her disheveled state of undress, and strides out into the hallway.

Garbed in only her favorite black and royal blue lace nightgown, she ignores the gawking eyes of the servants as she makes her way across the hall to stand before the door of the royal guest chambers. She doesn't bother knocking. Upon barging into the room, her eyes immediately fall upon the bed. And there lies Red, looking for all the world like she is merely sleeping. If her own memory of what befell her wife were not enough to break that idyllic – and infinitely preferable – illusion, the rumpled form of Victor Frankenstein scrunched up in a chair next to the bed does. All but comatose from exhaustion, Regina has never seen the man more bedraggled.

She does not say a word to the Head Physician as she crosses over to the far side of the bed. As carefully as she can, she nestles upon the edge next to Red's hip. Her heart ramps up pace until it is pounding erratically against her breastbone, and as she leans over Red's inert form, she brushes a lock of dark brown hair away from a fevered forehead. Her fight against the sob bubbling up within her chest is increasingly a losing prospect when all she wants to do is claw at her eyes and tear at her hair as she rages and weeps uncontrollably at the cruelty of fate. How perverse is it that Red is paying the price for Cora's chronic inability to be a decent human being? The callous abandonment of Regina's half-sister was the first domino to fall, sparking a chain reaction of ruined lives that culminated in this detestable catastrophe.

Emotionally reeling, Regina ignores Victor's abnormally unassuming presence as she leans in to press a loving kiss to her wife's sweat-dampened forehead. Red's skin, normally warm to the touch, is on fire, burning within from the unnatural malady coursing through her veins. Perhaps this symptom, Regina laments to herself, might even be a physical manifestation of the inescapable torture of the Burning Room to which Red is currently being subjected. The idea of her wife suffering in that horrible place wrenches a choked sob from Regina's throat, and she dully notes that the bitter tears she'd tried so valiantly to suppress are now steadily dripping from her chin onto Red's face.

Despair, thick and palpable descends upon her, and for a lung-crushing moment, she suffocates on it. Red is cursed, dying, and she no fucking idea what to do. How is supposed to fix this? Or how can she ever live with herself if she fails to deliver a cure? How is she supposed to ever sleep again without Red's familiar weight next to her or slung half atop her or rest for a single second without that preternatural warmth engulfing her and providing her with an essential sense of satisfaction that seeps down into her very marrow? How is she supposed face another moment without Red's smile to illuminate the darkness of night and put the sun to shame during the day? And how is she meant to survive without the half of her heart, of her essential being, that makes life worth living? She honestly does not think she can, which is why she said what she did to her father.

Her wedding vows ring in her mind, an echo of the past unexpectedly shedding light upon her future. She can see now that they were so much more than perfunctory words merely part of an elaborate ceremony. She had meant every word as she spoke them, of course, but it is only just now she realizes how profound and prescient they were. Her life is now tied to Red's, for better or worse, and that is not a metaphor or some flowery declaration of devotion. It is the literal truth. If Red dies, so will she. Maybe it won't be by natural causes or the severing of some supernatural cord that has tied their life forces together. If not of a grief Niobe could not fathom then it will surely come purposefully by her own hand. Either way the result will be the same. Red will be dead and so will she. There is only one other possible outcome and it is totally unacceptable. Death would be far preferable than descending one again into madness.

Overwhelmed by an agonizing misery she cannot contain, a strangled sob pries free of past her lips. They are audible expressions of her untenable emotional distress, harbingers of a collapse that seems so horrifyingly imminent. Her earlier resolve to resist the despondence clamped around her entire body dissolves into so much vapor. In the background ambiance of her mind, she hears the darkness calling out to her and can feel it wrapping its seductive tendrils around her heart.

It would be so easy to give in, to surrender to the path of least resistance like she'd done once before. The road has already been paved long ago, and it lies before her an unending avenue of onyx bricks rolling ominously toward a horizon alight with raging hellfire. It is a manifestation of the apocalyptic path terminating within her innermost malignant depravity and it's familiarity brings a comfort she now knows to be hollow. Capitulating to evil the first time gained her only a cold throne and won her an ultimately unfulfilling power. The pervasive loneliness and a constant misery that followed was interspersed with brief flashes of ecstatic debauchery that nearly extinguished the faltering flame of her humanity forever.

With great effort she pushes back temptation, for Red's sake more than her own. It had been Red who rescued her from the ignoble fate she is now sure awaited her should she have remained steadfast in her single-minded obsession for revenge on Snow White. Red had shown her a route to escape the clamoring horde of her personal demons and then encouraged her to rejoin the wider world in a constructive capacity, all without losing in the process who she fundamentally is as a person. With Red, she can be loving and decent without the shameful naivete and spinelessness that characterized her youth. She can be soft and hard at the same time without sinking into the oxymoronic. And maybe the gray existence she has settled so fluidly into isn't what heroes like Snow would define as acceptable, but it's one that suits her just fine.

Temporarily de-fanged, the slavering beast within subsides into the fringes of Regina's psyche. It will leave her alone for a while, at least, though the stalemate won't last should she fail to save Red and somehow persist after burying her better angel. Should the unthinkable come to pass, there will be no halting her meteoric descent into a new level of malevolence that will eclipse anything that ever came before. She'll become a true monster then, one that even the Evil Queen would cower before.

Heedless of the audience, with hope warring with pessimism over the future, forlorn and angst-ridden over her wife's fate, she slumps onto Red's barely moving chest and finally surrenders to her sorrow.

#once upon a time fanfic #red queen ouat #regina x ruby #The beginning of some tough times for our Queen #Henry Sr. and Red would totally be Bros #Regina needs a hug too bad she won't accept one

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d-llewyn · 7 years

Text

The boy next door

He was cute, dark hair, a Beatles' cut coming down over his brown eyes a bit. And he had a smile that cut through to my heart. Not much younger than I was, except he was summer born and I was winter. We would hang out in my room above the garage, usually after we went swimming.

We'd been neighbors for a number of years, sharing backyards and pools, just two guys. He was in private school and I in a public one. In ninth grade, he joined the wrestling team. I had been taking judo for a few years, so I would practice partner for him. At first, we would just practice various moves, especially ones he saw on TV. Over time things got interesting beyond anything we ever had ever imagined.

Eventually we would start in the pool, chasing each other, so slippery when wet. Then stroll back to my room, maybe playing a little grab ass. Sometimes I would let him win. He was bit shorter, but stockier than I, so we were evenly matched. He was a bit stronger and would take advantage of his slightly lower center of gravity. But I was wily, wiry and wriggly, especially when wet!

At some point, after ages of serially sharing the shower, we discovered that naked was infinitely more fun. Parallel bodies. After the first time we tried it, it was de rigour. The feel of our bodies sliding together always made us so very aware of our mutual manhood, our shared pleasure points.

At first we were always in a rush. Over those first few years we learned to slow down, to drag out the pleasure to fill the time allowed. Sometimes we would lose ourselves in an entire weekend if both sets of parents were away.

We were grabby, horny teenagers. You know the type, insatiable. We touched and explored each other any, I repeat any time we were alone. Once, when our parents had dinner together at his home, we each had a hand in the others pants, albeit discreetly, at various points during the evening. I believe it was an underwear optional evening.

We were both circumcised. He was beautiful and would come to full attention at the touch of my fingers. Sometimes I would just put my hand on his thigh and he would harden so quickly in his tight jeans that he would yelp in discomfort as there was no room to expand! We were at it as often as we could manage. He was a little shorter down there, about a half inch, than I was. His testicles much tighter and drawn up than mine. And surrounded by a a lovely crown of dark shiny pubic hair that was soft, curly and tangled as my fingers explored the base of his phallic glory. Slightly thinner at the base, expanding a bit as it came to the crown, the glistening corona, that which I craved above all else.

As you can tell, I was, and still am, a very oral person. The scent of his always Ivory clean white briefs always beckoned. I would lower his jeans and press my face to his crotch and revel in the clean smell of Ivory soap that was ambrosia to me.

There were times he stepped, clean and scrubbed from the shower, a mini-god in my hands as I gently dried him off and attended to his manhood. We tended to think of ourselves as hedonistic Romans or Greeks. And we knew about the the naughty bits of Greco-Roman history. That made it so much fun! Long before NatLampCo's Animal House came out we had fun with togas.

I remember well the day I saw him in the shower playing with himself. I had stopped to pick up so chips and soda from the main house. Even with the creaky stairs of the ancient garage apt he didn't see me enter and take in the water dripping off his sweet tan skin, running off those lightly fitted orbs. I ran, sliding on the tile as I went to my knees before him, inhaling his cock as I tickled his balls and teased his tender taint. I gently grazed the clean wrinkled arse. It pulsed as I traced a delicate finger tip around it.

It was a supremely intense happening.

As mentioned, he was in a private school, Catholic, and I in a public one. This was fantastic. We could each have our separate, public, more sexually "normal" lives, at least for the 60s. Our school buddies never had to know.

Now we were just two guys that had sex together. It was good clean, if often sticky, fun. Neither of us really thought about the implications. There a book the parents library, a psychology text, that explained that what we were doing was normal for boys our age. Exploration was natural.

Then one day, the world changed.

We liked to camp. I was damned good at low weight, high comfort bedding. I like my comfort, but I don't like to lug too much around. Extensive Boy Scout experience.

It was one fine Spring morning as we camped under a blooming dogwood tree. White petals were strewn around us on a soft bed of pin needles. The scene would have made a beautiful painting or picture, had I a decent camera. The tall pines swayed gently around us as the morning sun danced and peeped between them. It was so very quiet except for the rustle of the trees in the gentle morning wind. Glorious and sensual privacy, yet exposed to the world.

My god I loved my dear friend and bedroom adventurer! And sex with him was always more passionate and sweaty than it was with my girlfriend. She was good, but someone the same sex always had a better clue as to what turned you and them on. And a hard phallus was always so damn obvious in its desire to cum.

Anyway, I woke this absolutely beautiful morning and gazed over at my friend. We slept under a simple tarp, a lean-to, but open on all sides, exposed in slumber, except t-shirts and sleeping boxers. I had woken his my usual teenage morning boner. (CisGuys will understand this!) He lay, sleeping on his bedroom, his blanket mostly tossed off during the night. He so obviouly was erect, his shorts tentpoled. After a few moments of quiet appreciation and rather horny thoughts, I got up and crossed to his bedroll. I gazed down and reached out, tracing butterfly touches about his manhood. He twitched a bit and, dare I imagine, smiled! I took this as a sign to dip down and kiss it. I had done this a thousand times before, but this was different. He was, in this moment, the most lovely and desirable person on the planet.

I realized that sex with him was right and normal in my life. And then I promptly deep throated him for the very first time without trace of discomfort while comfortably breathing through my nose as I worked my lover's sweet business.

Even if I could not let most of the kids a school know, I enjoyed sex with both sexes rather equally, although each supplied unique pleasures to relish and sometimes wallow in. And I knew then that I always would love a good man and his cock.

Now, here's the part some people find surprising. Even though I started my sexual explorations and dalliances in early junior high, 7th grade, I remained a virgin with men and women till I was 21. This was not for lack of desire or trying.

Part of my issue was that I am and always have been very adamant about consent. There was also my style. I was polite, yet obviously interested and girls liked that. I just played hard to get. From the first, I never touched unless invited.

For example, the first time I ever played a hand on that other most glorious creation, the breast, I was sitting under a tree in a park on a pleasant day. Peggy lay with her head on my thigh, my hand on her stomach making light, lazy circles on her stomach.

At some point she looked up, a look of pleased exasperation on her face, a smile in her eyes, mischief a making. She reached down and took my hand in hers, squeezed, gazing into my eyes, a sense of secure satisfaction in her visage. Then she lay it upon her breast.

First impression, soft! I suppose I should mention that she was, ahem, 34DD and soft like pillows of finest down. And this in spite of the fact that I prefer smaller B cups. I was quite pleased with myself. She was rather pleased with my seeming natural talent for playing with her nipples with what was to get the proper amount of gentleness and roughness. She didn't have to know I developed the skill with my buddy and his cute brown little nubbins.

Yes,I have a talent for the art of gentle, barely restained and appreciative eagerness that anyone, regardless of sex, gender or interest, who was capable of sexual arousal sorely appreciated.

Now you may rightly get the impression I was politely and discretely brazen. Indeed I was. However, parents, for the most part, liked me and, gasp, trusted me, more or less. It was to my benefit that I was (usually) a well dressed long-hair. (Preferred classical, but Led Zep and Zappa had their place amongst my interests.) I was unfailing polite without pandering. I would take a date to a play, get ourselves off on the way home, then discuss the play, say Brecht's Galileo, with a parent. They would mostly ignore the fact that we had missed curfew a bit.

Dressing up or down was both natural and schooled. I could pull off pink, single needle shirts, with French cuffs, and arty, modern cufflinks to match at school without being thought of as different. I also had a penchant for old saddle Oxfords with red rubber soles. Classy looking, yet good on the court.

I learned early in life that the manners my grandmothers taught worked with almost everyone, no matter the situation, or desire. Always polite and at the ready to hold the door for friends and especially the sweet young things, irrespective of gender or sex. I was a gentlemanly, exceedingly polite collection of intellectual interests and animal desires.

(Not quite finished yet. This is relatively unedited, so far. Will be breaking it down as I go. A sort of autobiography, slightly fictionalized for a variety reasons, that will probably morph, expand and sprawl, much as any living thing might, then divide into more discrete and coherent chunks. Enjoy.)

#gay #bisexual #desire #longing #autobiography #memoir #awakenings #exploration

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