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cat-writes-sometimes · 10 months ago

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The Face of Desire, Chapter 17

“Is it dead?”

“If it was dead it would have disintegrated.”

The body of the boy lay motionless in the clearing, its shoulder jutted out above the wild grass. It was very much not disintegrating.

“It could be paralyzed, that was one of my strongest bullets. It’ll take a while to heal from that.” The sorcerer who fired the shot reloaded the sniper rifle. The shell flew up in the air as he put the new bullet in the chamber.

They approached the body carefully, stepping through the tall grass that formed gentle waves in the breeze. The sun was punishingly hot and the humidity was as thick as glue. Each one of them drew their weapons and readied their cursed energy, the short ranged fighters came to the front and longer range to the back.

“It looks so…normal.” A sorcerer said. The boy had crumpled to his side, thick black liquid trickled from a bullet sized hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes were open and glassy.

Haruto still had his bow drawn. He knew it was a curse but his heart still clenched at the sight of the boy on the ground. It looked just like him, down to the smallest detail. Even the little scar on his hairline…

“Who is that?” The sorcerer in front of him asked. His name was Isamu. His technique allowed him to create walls, three being his maximum, which paired well with the cursed mace he held in his right hand.

Haruto's gaze remained glued to the black ooze coming from the wound on the boy's forehead. It was the only thing keeping him from insanity.

“Its my son.” Haruto said.

“Jesus Christ…”

Even the greenest sorcerers of the group knew the story about Harutos son who died 10 years ago. How the curse looked anything like him when they were only able to find pieces, it was mind boggling.

Ema watched as Harutos face changed through a thousand expressions in just a few moments. Pain, anger, fear, sadness. Everyone was keeping a 15 foot distance from the body. Ema put her cursed energy into her sword and stormed toward it. This thing had to die.

“Stop!” Kamo ordered. Right when she was within striking range, its eyes moved.

One second Ema was raising her sword, the next she was flying into the treeline.

The curse began to stand. Immediately Kamo rained a shower of hardened blood spikes over it but every one that stuck into its body was pulled like it was nothing more than a splinter. As it ripped the last one from its thigh it tilted back its head and the hole in its forehead closed shut.

“Attack it! Now!” Kamo screamed. The broken pieces of bloody spikes on the ground became a solid mass that latched onto the curses feet, chaining it down. Isamu immediately formed two walls which fell from the air behind it with an earth shaking thud. Guns fired and arrows flew as it stood pinned against the corner. The assault was relentless, the curse turned into a pin cushion for projectiles of all kinds. Isamu fueled his mace with cursed energy and slammed it into the curses head which whipped to the side with a sickening crack. Black blood splattered the walls behind it.

He hit it again and again and again until the dry thuds became squishy. Others with hardened blood weapons joined in on the attack. Stabbing, slashing, hacking, pounding. Kamo kept chaining it down, sinking the curse to the ground inch by inch with every hit until it was flat against the earth. Every weapon they had on hand was used until the walls were painted black and its face and body was an unrecognizable pile of mush.

One by one the sorcerers stood back gasping for air with sweat and black dripping down their faces.

Kamo continued to keep it secured down even as the other sorcerers backed away. The walls behind the lump of flesh broke down into a pile of bricks and faded into obscurity.

Kamo couldn’t feel it move under his chains. Even more concerning, it didn’t even struggle as they tore into it. Not even a flinch. Something wasn’t right.

“Everyone stay alert.” He said. “This isn't over yet.” He wrapped his blood around it in the shape of a coffin, hardening layer after layer. “Someone go check on Ema!” Haruto nodded and ran into the trees.

“It's not dead yet?!”

“No” Kamo said.

The coffin walls were almost a meter thick. He had never used this skill on a special grade curse before but in his experience not even a first grade curse could scratch it. It was Kamo’s ultimate skill: Iron Lady. He hardened his blood until the pressure became so intense it could create diamonds. It was unbreakable. Even the corrosive curse from the beach couldn't destroy it no matter how hard it tried. It took a lot of cursed energy to create, a lot of stamina, and a lot of blood. Sweat trickled down his temples and back. If he could keep it in place long enough for backup to arrive they may have a chance of killing it, or maybe they could transport it…

He looked to the mountain range to the west. The others in pursuit of the girl should be catching up with her soon. They had strict orders: kill on sight.

“Are you sure? It looked like ground meat to me.” A young sorcerer with a pistol in his hand walked up to the coffin and examined it. It sparkled like rubies in the sun.

“Stay back!” Kamo snapped, the sorcerer jumped. He put up his hands and walked towards Kamo.

“Sorry, do you want me to-t” The sorcerer stopped dead in his tracks as the rest of his words turned to sputtering nonsense. Something wiggled on his chest, right under his shirt. The man spat out a mouthful of blood as the tip of a jet black tail ripped through bone, skin and fabric. Ribs jutted out as the tip tore through and wiggled, almost like it was waving.

The sorcerer looked down and put his hands around the hole in shock as dark blood began turning his white shirt red. Still skewered by the pitch black appendage, it picked him up and whipped him to the side like a paper doll before slowly sliding back into the coffin. A large hole gaped from the top. All of the sorcerer's faces went pale.

The curse broke through his skill so cleanly Kamo didn’t even feel it.

Everyone scrambled. A large clawed hand burst from the ruby coffin shattering it like glass. First one hand, then the other until a monster straight from hell pulled itself into the light. No scratch showed on its inky skin as it emerged from the cocoon. Half-exposed It watched the remaining sorcerers before making eye contact with Kamo. As he sank into the pits of its eyes, Kamo realized how badly he underestimated it. This wasn’t a battle anymore, the sorcerers weren’t on the defensive, they never even crossed the line into the offensive.

A gun fired and hit the curse in the shoulder breaking the tension. The sorcerer with the sniper rifle suppressed his shaking as he reloaded. Before the shell of the bullet hit the ground his world went dark. In a second the curse was behind him and in a spray of red his head and shoulders separated from his body.

Isamu and the other sorcerer around him watched in fearful silence as the curse spat the top of him out while his bottom half folded. Only nine remained, they all looked at Kamo for instruction but Kamo could only watch with his mouth agape as blood mixed with spit dripped from its teeth.

The cursed lifted its head and bellowed out a sound that wasn’t natural to the world. Everyone covered their ears as the screeching roar echoed through the valley. Birds swarmed from the trees and ran for their lives. The silence that followed was deafening.

Kamo knew their only chance of remaining alive until backup arrived; they needed to get closer to the backup.

“Run!!” Kamo screamed. “To the ridge!”

Isamu put three more walls down in front of the curse as they ran for the trees back the way they came. As they went back into the forest the crumbling of the walls resonated behind them followed by heavy footsteps.

A sorcerer holding a blood dagger changed it to a machete as he ran through the bushes at lighting speed, cutting down the vegetation in his path. Others with similar abilities did the same. One condensed the blood around his feet to propel him even faster forward. The sorcerers without the ability to use blood manipulation relied on their own strength to get them through. One chose to jump along the treetops using their chain linked daggers to move from branch to branch.

As they got closer to the ridge, gasps and gags erupted as they came across the ones that didn't make it to the clearing. Limbs and torsos hung from the trees and littered the ground like leaves. Kamos yukata became stained with red as the blood covered leaves and branches left their marks as he passed.

The curse tore through the forest like a train behind them. Not 30 seconds later the screams began again.

Hunting them down was easy, their stench of their desire lingered in the air, and the desire to live was always the most potent. It slid through the trees using nothing more than its body to fuel its shattering speed. It was a body that was millenia in the making. Muscles and bones were tuned to perfection by time and with Its heavenly restriction fully in place, nothing they could do would come close to killing it. The world could be destroyed into chunks of rocks floating in space before it could be killed.

It caught up to the first sorcerer quickly, he had two pistols on his hips and a long curved sword strapped across his back. Its claws slid through him like butter.

The next one had a bow across his back, he turned around and screamed as it approached but the screaming stopped as his body wrapped around a tree.

The Curse of Desire had never killed so many sorcerers before. At least not at once. It never was one to enjoy violence and even as blood flowed like wine and covered its skin in a slippery lotion it felt nothing. The curse has witnessed centuries of violence, saw humans kill each other in ways that became increasingly more horrid and destructive than the last. Violence was, and had always been, such a dirty, disgusting, pointless thing. But in that moment it was a necessity and would continue to be as long as their desire to kill Akemi filled its nose.

After the Curse of Desire took two more sorcerers to their end before it stopped and sniffed the air. The ones that remained had adopted a stealthy approach rather than running for their lives like frightened deer. Some decided to hide. Very well. The curse slowed its pace and moved silently through the brush.

Kamo kept his head low and he moved from tree to tree, the others did the same keeping a wide distance between each other. They were close to the ridge and if his timing was right backup should be arriving any minute. They just needed to kill the girl, that was the most important aspect of the mission. Then they could run for it.

He slid behind a boulder covered in moss before tripping over a leg. Only this body part was moving and very much not severed.

From behind a wall of bushes and rocks, one of the younger sorcerers jumped and looked up at him with a tear and blood stained face. He was one of the sorcerers that didn't make it to the clearing, Kamo thought he was dead. A twinge of relief spread across his chest. The young sorcerer was Kamos nephew twice removed. He had the Kamo clan's hereditary technique and showed promise as a sorcerer and potential clan head. At least that was the case before, now he was a sniffling mess in the dirt.

“Please! Clan Leader! I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die” the young man held his hand in his head and rocked back and forth.

“You need to stay quiet!” Kamo whispered.

“It killed them..it killed them all…I can’t feel it. Why can't I feel it?” The young man asked, grabbing onto the bottom of Kamos yukata. He must be referring to the abnormal absence of cursed energy.

“We need to go, backup will be coming.” Kamo whispered. The young man shook his head but Kamo pulled him up and began to drag him behind.

Minutes felt like hours. Just when the rockslide at the bottom of the ridge came into view a branch snapped behind them. Kamo turned and a red ball of blood formed over his hand ready to strike. The young man pressed his hands together and readied himself to do the same.

But there was no monster behind him. Instead, just two meters away, a woman in a yellow dress stood with a shocked look.

“Mom?” The man asked, he lowered his hands and walked forward as the woman approached him. In a couple steps she was in front of him and gently put her hand on his cheek with a smile.

“Stop!” Kamo yelled, the young man was in the way. If he just moved a foot to the side Kamo could have a clear shot. “You fool that’s not your mother it-”

CRUNCH

The man fell to his knees before hitting the ground with a thud, his neck bent at an impossible angle. His body twitched and gurgled as blood spurted from his mouth. The woman looked back at Kamo and in a couple blinks her eyes turned black.

“You fucking bitch!” Kamo screamed, he launched a razor sharp beam of blood at the woman. Like a laser It cut through the air at the speed of sound, blasting right through the woman's chest. Black blood splattered across the trees behind her. Kamo saw the green leaves drip with black rain through a baseball sized hole in her chest.

But she didn't fall, she didn't even flinch.

“You cannot kill me.” The curse said. Just as fast as the hole appeared it closed.

Kamo grit his teeth. “What the fuck are you?” he growled. The ball of red hung beside him in the air but his hands shook as his stamina began to fail him.

It tilted its head to the side as its face shifted slightly, like a reflection in a pool of water being disturbed. “Haven’t you figured it out already? Or do I think too highly of Jujutsu Sorcerers?”

“I know who you are, Acai.”

“Acai?” The curses brow furrowed but soon realization spread across its face. “It's been a while since I heard that name. Is that all you had in your records?” It wiped the black blood from its chest and flicked its hands. “Then again, I would find it surprising if you had any other history on hand. I imagine most sorcerers wouldn’t put on parchment that their greatest achievements were assisted by what they are sworn to kill.”

Kamo swallowed dryly. As a monster it was scary, but when it spoke so calmly and intricately it was more terrifying than words could describe. This wasn’t like any curse he had seen or heard about. It was smart, articulate, and old. Dangerously old. There was over 5,000 years of strength of knowledge engrained in its being. It wasn’t a special grade, it was in a league of its own. “We do not owe shit to you.” he growled.

“If that helps you sleep at night, then you are free to believe that.”

He needed to stall. Backup would be arriving at any moment. He glanced up at the ridge and began to move towards it slowly.

“What kind of a curse doesn’t use cursed energy?” He asked.

“I don’t need cursed energy to kill you.” It moved towards him and with every step its form changed. First its face, body, arma then down to the tips of its fingers until it was the shadowy monster from before. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar head moving in the bushes behind it.

“What, you save your cursed energy for party tricks? Is granting other people's wishes that fun? I didn’t take you for the charitable type.”

As the curse got closer he continued to back away. He could smell blood on its breath.

“Or maybe that's all you can do with it? Ha! That would suck, your entire existence being a glorified genie.”

It still did not respond. They were still getting into position behind it. If it noticed them it was over. Goddamit, what could get under its skin?

“But what about the kid? Since when do curses want to be parents? You even gave her a name, that's rich. Where did you get the name Akemi anyways, from a baby name book?”

The curse's pace slowed, hope flickered in Kamos chest.

“I can’t figure out for the life of me why you raised a kid. Did you know that was a Gojo clan bastard? Were you planning on using her to get revenge on them or something?”

“Don’t assume I am the same as you.” The Curse of Desire wasn’t planning on answering any more of the sorcerer's questions but the words slipped from its teeth.

“But the kid is, isn't she?”

The curse bared its teeth and growled, the sound was so low and strong it reverberated through Kamos body. Suddenly the cursed jerked forward.

Haruto fired an arrow into its back which exploded into a burst of spikes. Right as the curse turned towards him, Ema slid underneath its belly and unleashed a simple domain. The air swirled around her in a circle and in that moment she released all her cursed energy in a single attack that her domain ensured would find its target. She slashed it from its chest to its groin like a fish being gutted, black blood and guts rained on her as she quickly slid out from underneath it.

The Curse stumbled and held its stomach. Kamo turned the red ball into a razor sharp whip, cutting into the curse again and again, Haurto let loose every arrow he could create. He prayed that the attacks from before may have weakened its ability to heal. Suddenly the whip burst like a water balloon as Kamos stamina gave way and the arrows ceased as Harutos cursed energy waned. The curse lay on its stomach with gashes cut deep into its flesh and chunks missing from its body. It still wasn’t disintegrating.

Kamo’s face was pale and his body unstable, his heart palpitated erratically in his chest and he fell to his knees. Ema ran to his side, other than the dried blood which caked the back of her hair she looked ok.

“Sir, we need to get you to a hospital.” She said and looked around, “What about the others?”

Kamo shook his head, her lips tightened.

“We need to go before it heals.” Kamo said. He put his arm around Ema shoulder as she picked him up.

“Get down!” Haruto screamed. Kamo pushed Ema to the side as the grip of death came for him. Kamo made a shabby shield of his blood which shattered in an instant under the Curse's claws. Chips of red crystals flew through the air.

He thought he had more time.

“No!” Haruto screamed as he tried to make another arrow but with a whip of its tail Harutos body fell to the ground and his head beside it.

In silent terror, tears slipped out Emas eyes as Kamo tried to shield her with his body. His chest and left arm hurt beyond imagination and his vision began to blur. The Curse of Desire was upon them. Death was upon them.

He led them all to their deaths. Emas tears fell on his arm as her life flashed before her eyes.

From the corner of his mind his mentor's words whispered in his ears, “All Jujutsu Sorcerers die with regrets…” He hated how that son of a bitch was right.

Just as Kamo closed his eyes in acceptance a whistle sang across the valley followed by a sharp explosion. A flare. The curse looked up as a trial of red smoke stained the sky to the west.

With shaky breaths, Kamo wiped the blood from his forehead and laughed.

“Got her.”

**Want more? Check out The Face of Desire on A03 by Catrin.**

#jjk fanfic #original story #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu sorcerer #a03 writer #creative writing #jujutsu gojo #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk original character #horror #horror fiction #jjk horror #fiction #a03 fic #a03 fanfic #read on a03 #fanfic authors

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fatexbound · 2 years ago

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@kaeruninja said: In all honesty, Chie didn’t seem to be the type who cared about staying warm during winter, especially if she went outside in shorts while snow was piling up. Still, Yosuke ended up with a pair of earmuffs, a St. Bernard looking dog on both of the ends. It kinda looked like her huge dog, too. It was a little on the kiddie side, but he figured it could be something she’d just wear indoors, or it was just some weird decoration she could put on her dog’s head. Perhaps a little too on the nose, he left it in a box and wrapped it in a shade of medium light green, not unlike the color of that (probably) sweaty green jacket she wore almost everyday. Having done his Christmas shopping early, there was nothing to do but wait and keep Teddie from bombarding him with billions of questions. With a backpack carrying his smaller gifts and the rest in his arms, Yosuke hiked his way through the snow to the Dojima household, where the party was. It was hard to knock on the door or ring the doorbell with his miniature leaning Tower of Pisa, but he was able to make it inside and neatly place his gifts along with the dozens of others. There were no rules to this party besides having a good time, cake and hot chocolate, so when he spotted Chie, he immediately scooped up his present and handed it over. “And a Merry Christmas to you too. It’s a normal present, I promise.”

Christmas asks | Accepting

Yu's uncle was a saint for letting him host a party at his house after last year. Nothing bad happened, but they all showed up unannounced and he wasn't too pleased, but let it go. Now that they had his permission, they went all out with this one. Naturally, she brought presents for everyone with a big smile on her face. Frankly, she was mostly looking forward to the delicious cake and free food.

Everything went through her enormous stomach.

Almost everyone had got there on time and while she was making small talk with Yukiko, who wanted to watch a Christmas horror movie instead of a classic wholesome one, her attention turned to the door being knocked-- or was it getting hit by an elbow? Yu was quick enough to open it and she smiled at Yosuke, waving him over to the couch. Her present for him was sitting on it nicely and comfortably.

But he beat her to the punch first. "Ooooh, what'd you get me?!" Without even waiting for a response, she tore open the classic green wrapping paper, and gasped in delight. "Aww, these are adorable!" She picked up the earmuffs to inspect them from the side. "And they got Muku's face too?! Wow, who knew you were so... sweet, Yosuke?" She sure didn't. Now it was her turn to sweep him off his feet.

"Here, Merry Christmas!" She presented him with a nicely yellow-colored wrapped box with a red bow on top. "Since you like video games... I got you this new hack-n-slash one a day before its official release online! It cost... a lot, but it doesn't matter! Hope you like it, and invite me over to play with you sometime, 'kay?"

#kaeruninja #Chie answers;#Don't Stop Running | Post!P4 Chie #long post #it's DMC 1 frfr #it came from your HC tag don't look at me #look at them instead

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ultrameganicolaokay · 3 years ago

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Hack/Slash: Hot Shorts by Tim Seeley, Jim Terry and Daniel Leister. Cover by Seeley and Matt Herms. Variant cover by Suzi ‘Suspiria’ Vilchez. Out in October.

“Slasher hunters Cassie Hack and Vlad are back with a one-shot collecting the all-new short stories from the HACK/SLASH DELUXE EDITION HARDCOVERS. Our heroes battle bloodstains in ‘Slice of Life,’ written and drawn by SEELEY, while a new kind of monster slayer stalks the backroads of America in ‘Highwayman to Heaven’ and Cassie meets up with the baddest bad girl in the multiverse in ‘I Will Destroy You All.’ Also contains all-new pin-ups! The perfect celebration of the slasher season!”

#hack/slash: hot shorts #hack/slash #cassie hack #image comics #tim seeley #jim terry #daniel leister #matt herms #suzi vilchez #variant cover #one-shot #horror #comics

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kingdomcomicscenter-blog · 3 years ago

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#HackSlash #HackSlash Hot Shorts #Hack/Slash #HackSlash Comic #HackSlash Preview #HackSlash Comic Preview #Hack Slash #Image Comics #Image #Image Comics Preview #Image Comic Preview #Kingdom Comics Center

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grinbrothers · 6 years ago

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youtube

Code Vein Part Final - Souldin Short Start!

Souldin finishes his first impressions of Code Vein. Nanka jiggles, fights an evil Lillymon and ends her adventure relaxing in the hot springs.

18+ Warning Art by STARteam2017: https://starteam2017.deviantart.com/art/Full-color-Com-R18-Warning-Sign-for-Sould1n-722348987 Souldin Short Start Art by RinnieKuu: https://rinniekuu.deviantart.com/art/COMM-Nanka-736009883 Evil Lillymon by Pedrovin: https://www.deviantart.com/pedrovin/art/Evil-Lillymon-793473385 Code Vein is available on Xbox One, PS4 and Windows.

Date Made: 7/10/2019 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXCFgLZmjBeMCt-QbSoDhVA Tumblr: http://grinbrothers.tumblr.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/GrinBrothers

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maraschino-bullet · 2 years ago

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Throne and Sickle Ch.1

Chapter 1: Tell Me You Caught That

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Turtle bros x fem!parkour!reader

Summary: In which the turtles record their training one fateful night, and find the rooftops hold stories with a beginning....and an end.

Author Note: Helloo Hii! This is my very first fanfic that I’ve chosen to post publicly! I’ve written before, long ago in the time of dinosaurs 🦖 lol and over time I felt I lost my touch. I sincerely hope you enjoy this, and I’m welcome to constructive criticism! Please be as honest as you can, within reason of course. Thanks for being here on the start of my journey to becoming a better writer and fellow fan :)

Disclaimer: I don’t own ROTTMNT, sigh.

Genre(s): A bunch of stuff, really. You'll figure it out ;)

WARNINGS: Heavy topics NOT for the lighthearted; like seriously it’ll get dark in some parts. Mentions of s*xual assault, bl**d, sh*rp objects, and more. I will do my best to organize in a way that readers can identify the warning sign!

City lights, when viewed with naked eyes, seem to get a new life.. -Aishini.

Ah, New York. What a town. If its combination of musty gas, hot dogs, and mutants were on Us Weekly the headline would be ‘Mama Just Killed a Man’ with the sub-headline of the possibility of contracting an identity crisis being free.99. But alas, who knows. The fine art of bullshit was such a wide range that it left room for all kinds of adventures. For a group of four turtle brothers, this one was for the books.

The night was bustling with pedestrians, and the twinkling lights left little to the imagination of what Christmas was like even though it was February. Faint honking horns of angry Boomers could be heard, paired with the occasional loud radio stations blasting from stereo speakers. It seemed like everyone was outside of their homes tonight, and thus would be one of the riskiest patrol slash training sessions they’ve ever done.

“Aaaaand there! Hold still hold still~.” Donnie muttered. Nimble reptilian fingers only scientists and artists could applaud set up the inner workings of wiring miniature video cameras to multiple buildings, and somewhere in the back of his head was a small whispering voice claiming this was a dangerous idea as he reached up to the small device. It was, but the four of them agreed it would probably help in seeing their training mistakes via camera footage. Shiny, purple cubes were discretely attached to all buildings that were on their designated path tonight, and everything in between had been so easily hacked. He couldn’t be more positive that there was nothing short of a fruitful night out.

Sharpie eyebrows rose in smug satisfaction.

His dear brother on the other hand, wasn’t convinced. Donnie could tell by the way his hands continuously cradled his chin or crossed over each other in contemplation. Behind Leo were his other two brothers: Raph sitting down Mikey for a brief pep talk. As expected, really, for their youngest would attempt to showcase a new fighting move tonight. Each of them had one training session to present which was a pretty decent piece of advice given by Splinter. He mentioned along the lines of adapting to any kind of situation thrown at them- the need to be creative in order to defeat crime. (Or about pineapples and lime- couldn’t really understand with the disgusting mush that was ratatouille in their dad’s mouth). Anyway, at least one special move would suffice for now. They can regroup and share pointers but moving forward it would be commonplace to improve because staying at their current level of skill was just utterly unacceptable.

Raph was the first to come up with something and wasn’t afraid to show it off last month. Leo followed shortly after, but the blue-clad turtle scheduled his move during a rainstorm. Most would say it’s brave, others would say it’s stupid. But in the spirit of enlightenment; a kind elderly civilian had forgotten their laundry hanging outside in between an alley. Leo had plenty of time to rectify his maneuvering, the twat, there’s no way he did not have it coming. Donnie himself wouldn’t do his yet, but tonight was Mikey’s night.

Leo huffed, “I seriously doubt these little rubix cubes are going to help us stay on the downlow. If none of you remembered, we just had Meat Sweats get spotted by the cops-like have you seen the theories people are coming up with on the internet? Aliens. Cosmetic surgery gone wrong. Gwyneth Paltrow! I can’t afford being thrown outta town before basking in their praise. Donnie-bro-Donnie look at me does this look like a face that needs to be blacklisted?”

“Are you saying my tech isn’t enough as security, you little shit?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

A vein popped on Donnie’s forehead, fist trembling, “Well if you ran like your mouth, you’d be safe from being spotted.”

Leo’s eyes blew open, “Swing hermano-!”

Raph stumbled in between the brothers, “Don’t make me send your spiffy little butts on home! Let’s do what we came here to do, fellas. Leo, you’re right to be worried but Donnie wouldn’t give the green light if there was too much risk for us tonight. We’re here to help Mikey. Capiche?”

Leo sighed and waved a hand. Mikey turned to Donnie, “How are your cameras going to help us?”

“I’m so glad you asked, little Angelo!” Donnie posed, flowers and stars flowing behind him as he stuck a tongue out at Leo, “These babies have been modified to detect thermal energy- heat emitted by humans and mutants would be caught on surveillance. If their trajectory path interferes with ours, S.H.E.L.D.O.N will capture it live and send me the real time feed. All of the other cameras I’ve hacked have been wired to follow along and save to file- there isn’t anything that we won’t see. Not to worry.” He placated as he quickly typed into his arm brace.

“And we are…set up to begin. Ready on your mark, Angelo.” Donnie perked, finger guns out.

A pat on the shoulder from Raph, and a thumbs up from Leo did nothing for Mikey’s nerves as his three brothers readied themselves on the building ledge in camera view. The orange clad box turtle took the biggest breath possible. They’re right, he thought. Things would be a-okay if they said so. Time to blow them all away!

Within a snap of a finger, four wisps of rising dust were left to be seen.

•.*.•

Things were not okay! He nearly killed three innocent pigeons- aww what kind of monster hurts little birdies they ain’t hurt nobody! Mikey panicked, dodging cable antennas as he sprinted across rooftops. It was only ten minutes since they started, and he’s tripped over cable cords and trash bins. Raph had a short two-minute melee with a gang of pigeon miscreants. How was he supposed to pull this off with things bumbling and tumbling like this?

“Mikey! Take a deep breath buddy you can do it!” Leo’s voice echoed on a building beside him.

“O-okay!” He called back. Cold sweat made him clammy all over now. What if the sweat made him slip on something?

Raph crouched down on the building before him, causing all brothers to halt in their place on different buildings. With a worried frown, his eyes bore into Mikey’s.

“It’s alright if you need to restart, little man. Take a second to get yourself together and then we can focus on simply getting from Point A to Point B.”

“Technically we’ll be facing inevitable discrepancies of the plan if we stop for even 5 minut- shutting up now.”

Mikey stood upright so stiff his muscles began to clench painfully. He didn’t understand what was getting to him. Maybe it’s because he didn’t get enough rest, or maybe it’s because he misplaced his favorite can of spray paint. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t it. Glancing to each of his brothers he noticed urgency growing in their voices. Their looks. Their postures. It’s been frustrating nearly losing most of their battles now that the Foot was searching for the armor. But no, it wasn’t that either, as much as it made sense.

Well…there is that one thing; Mikey thought back to yesterday when April texted them an article. A group of civilian ruffians skilled in parkour were making quite a bit of unrest on the police scanners. People talk, and if their kids are around, those chatterboxes would catch the entire human population’s attention. Rumor had it this group was the modern Robin Hood- stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, and as fast as they appeared, those guys were gone in seconds. Some pretty powerful organizations have been outed in result of these ‘Robin Hoods’ meddling into their affairs and a few riots too many have taken place. Ironically, authorities have been ordered by higher-ups to stop these Robin Hoods. Mikey could see the problem when their numbers coincide with the brothers. What’s worse, him and the others could easily be mistaken as those criminals if they were caught… but training was a time-sensitive priority now.

Add to the fact that the problem did not only affect the brothers but all mutants; villains and allies alike. The cards dealt were:

On one hand, remain in the sewers and halt training- leading to repeated losses in their war at their level of strength. But. They would be safe from risk of arrest and human police authorities can do their job without spotting them. On the other hand, get ahead in their skills while the enemies remain low- but play with the high chance of being mistaken as the Robin Hoods and take the fall.

Glancing down at his hands, Mikey studied his mystic chain whip in hand and thought back to when they first got the weapons. Mystic mumbo jumbo didn’t play a critical role in their upbringing, but it felt like destiny called the four brothers to come across Mayhem nearly a year ago for important reasons: to be the greatest ninjas out there. To be heroes. To keep the city of New York safe.

Mikey sighed; he wasn’t making things better by standing here. The orange terrapin tightened his grip. He had to do his best. Mikey was in no position to downplay his skill just because he was nervous that he won’t do it right before even trying. No matter what his family and him could handle anything. He could do this.

He took a deep breath once more, eyes welled up in renewed confidence as Mikey whirled to Raph, “Nothing to it! I’m ready to get this party started!”

A large grin spread across Leo’s face, pleased. “Alright, there ya go!”

As Raph sighed in relief Donnie huffed, unable to fight the lift of his lips. He tapped away at his brace.

“Alright, restarting the session in 3…2..1!”

Mikey took the lead once more, darting rooftop to rooftop as they were marked with cameras as feather-like footsteps followed him immediately. A flick of his wrist resulted in the chain whip unfolding, length exponentially increasing in its glowing glory until the chains made a large circle around him. Lights of buildings and lamp posts all around became blurs, and ahead was the infamous Grand Central Station: his chosen starting marker. It was time to get down to business.

“Donnie! I need you to send multiple shots at me from every direction while we run, think you can help me out?”

Battle shell expanded; Donnie bowed in mock politeness “But of course! Any range in particular?”

“Stick with mid to long range, thanks!”

“As you wish.” Donnie flew a few meters ahead and hid from view while Mikey turned to Leo, who perked up in attention with a smirk as they ran.

“I’m ready for a speed-off, Leo. How about you?”

“Oooooh count me in. What do you need?”

Mikey bounced off a passing apartment balcony and gave a toothy grin, “While Donnie sends attacks at me, focus on attacking my chains. I wanna try to use tempo and defense for my ultimate move.”

His brother gave a wink and disappeared into a portal to who knew where, but he’d be waiting for Mikey. Last but definitely not least, Mikey faced Raph. The red clad brother excitedly beaming down at him from the higher buildings he was jumping over.

“Big Red, I need you to do something really important. From here to the end, do your best to catch me or get me off balance.”

“You got it!”

Raph nodded and pulled back, positioning himself a few meters behind Mikey. Said turtle nodded to himself, apprehension causing sweat to roll down his scaly green cheek as he neared Central Station. About 300 meters left. The second he got there would mean his best chance of accomplishing his special move was to use his senses and by no means slow down.

200 meters. If he failed this, it wouldn’t really be failing. His brothers were crazy smart to understand his motive and still work together to come up with a similar battle strategy. Either way this was gonna be epic.

100 meters.

50.

10.

All at once purple, blue and red streams of mystic energy swarmed him much like a colony of bees. Donnie weaved around all brothers, neon laser beams whizzing out and Mikey wasn’t going to lie, those things hurt. A few stung his arms as Mikey maneuvered his hands waving high, swooping low, faking left, reversing right, gyrating around- all motion available to bend the chains to his will. Most of the beams were caught by his chain, the neon light merging into the golden glow before disappearing. Mikey wished he could see the flabbergasted look on Donnie’s face. Then he remembered this was all being recorded.

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have laughed out loud at that because Donnie’s expression morphed from shock to annoyance in a snap. The purple turtles’ jet pack with guns grew even more guns- bro whAT-!

Now that Donnie kicked it up a notch, Mikey felt the rising energy in his chains orbiting around him begin to resonate a whirring sound when a blue crescent light sliced centimeters from his face.

“Eye focused, Mikey!” Leo’s shout echoed somewhere from the side, dashing into multiple open portals for his convenience. Uh-oh. Mike forgot about those. Swinging in between cellular towers, Mikey feigned directions just out of Raph’s mystic hands as he was too big to fit into those spaces like Mikey could. But it was working. His chains were intact around him at the speed of light but now he had to move them fluidly to his advantage. Donnie furrowed his brows in the distance, dodging laundry lines mid flight and began using the power of everything in his arsenal at his baby brother- only for the chains to keep absorbing his shots. Leo, Mikey could tell, was running out of options in keeping up with the chains. Instead of Leo’s attacks disrupting the circular movement as before, every time he tried slashing them from any direction the speed of the chains was knocking him in momentum of the weapon. Leo and Donnie were growing restless, dedicating further to their task and thus quadrupling their efforts. Not to say Mikey wasn’t breaking a sweat, everything was burning, but he couldn’t tell them that this was his plan.

However.

The chains gave a loud clang when Raph swat at the weapon in order to duck under and grab him.

“G-ah!” Mikey gasped, immediately dropping down along the length of a building and allowing gravity to swoop him through an alley. This was dangerously getting too low for them where civilians can see them. On the other side of the alley, luckily, was a drop off to a construction zone, miles wide where no lamp posts reached. Mikey could use that space for his move, though Raph would also have a better means to catch him without anything in his path. Passing the last of laundry lines and apartment bricks, the group dashed into the open in pursuit of the orange terrapin now basically floating with bright orange chains as his wings when he felt a large hand grip onto his ankle. Caught in a panic Mikey sent energy to coat his leg and swung it down to slice through Raph’s red mystic energy. Hearing a hiss of pain he dashed away, but his chains wobbled off balance. Leo took this second to strike slashing waves of blue energy to dent into the chains range of motion as Donnie shot more lasers from above. Gritting his teeth Mikey gulped.

He had to get this back in control.

Mikey stopped atop a dirt hill and swirled around to face them, catching them off guard for a moment before closing his hands into fists and slowly moving them towards the center of his chest. The chain orbit spun faster, and faster, and faster until all they could see was a white halo shrinking into layers that enveloped Mikey in a cocoon-like state. But it burned. It burned so much so close to his skin that it felt like he was being roasted alive. Sweat stung his eyes: he shut them too tight he began to see stars behind his eyelids.

“Mikey, what are you doing?! If it’s hurting you then stop!” He could hear Raph and the others shout at him.

Just a bit more.

“Mikey!”

Bringing his fisted hands together, Mikey felt the trembling of the chains coiled so impossibly tight that the energy soaked in them was beginning to overwhelm them. Like a tire being pumped with too much air.

Like the stars colliding to create-

“SUPERNOVA!”

Leaping up sky high with his limbs spread wide, Mikey grinned in the millisecond it took for the chain to explode into tiny little beams of light, flickering between blue, orange, and purple variations of energy. Metal once welded together became individual sources of his mystic weapon shooting out all around. To them, Mikey resembled a firework. Bright, striking in his display of light. They watched in awe as Mikey let out a breathless exhilarated laugh, an “it worked!” reaching their ears. Raph, Leo, and Donnie noticed the disbanded chain remained still in the air around him until Mikey slowly shifted a hand, a dozen pieces of metal shifting in tandem and each straightening out into miniature needle points.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Leo cheered, followed by Donnie's whistles. The three turtles joyously cheered, celebrating this display of talent and execution Mikey put in so much effort on his own to showcase.

“O-okay, somebody please catch me!” Mikey sputtered, causing Leo to dart over and up as Mikey fell from the sky in exhaustion. Landing in Leo’s arms, the group of brothers circled around him, gasps of breath being the only thing he was capable of mustering. Donnie typed a million codes per second as Leo and Raph both spoke over each other- but Mikey barely registered most of it. He shakily lifted a thumbs-up. His mystic chain, now devoid of mystic power, swiftly returned to its original form, jingling to a drop on the dirt hill with a thump.

“I-I need a lot more kinks to work out *gasp* but this is good for us, r-right? It’s good?”

Raph gently shook Mikey’s shoulder, “It’s more than good. You did amazing tonight, big man. We can do a lot with this! But right now, we’re gonna get you to tip-top shape to be able to handle this strain on your energy. That’s first. Did you get all that, Donnie?”

Typing met his ears, “Yeperoos. Cameras remain functional, no damages, no alerts” Donnie mused, lifting his eyes from his screen with a smirk, “I say this was an exceptional showcase. Brava, Angelo. A well-thought-out plan of action.”

“Those baddies won’t know what hit ‘em.” Leo praised, then he grimaced, “But seriously, those chains sting like a mother-man my arms are gonna be sore for weeks.”

Mikey’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from his constant smiling and rested his head on Leo’s plastron.

“That’s great, guys. I’m just gonna…*yawn*I-Ima just… take a break...” He mumbled off, exhaustion quietly sending him off to dreamland.

“Poor champ’s all tuckered out.” Leo snickered.

Raph opened his arms to Leo, “Give him here, you open us a portal home.”

Gently handing Mikey over to Raph’s arms, Leo whipped out his odachi when Donnie’s wrist beeped. Donnie scowled, the light of his screen illuminating the tense frown lines on his face and causing Leo and Raph share a serious look. The camera cubes Donnie constructed were labeled along the path by numbers beginning with 0-1 and spaced out gradually by quarter mile, then to half-mile, and quickly to full mile on the account of the increasing speed they rallied throughout the path. The last camera cube designated to follow them was 5-0; about sixty meters from their position on the hill.

Camera 4-9 pinged.

“Get down.” Donnie muttered. In sync the three brothers crouch down and slowly, ever so quiet, shifted to the other side of the hill for cover. Donnie cupped a hand over his brace, dimming most of the light as Leo discreetly peered over the field in the direction of the apartment building they passed right before reaching the construction zone. Leo’s gaze hardened; with their mutated bodies, enhanced senses were part of the package. Although, it was easier to find the camera with no light sources obstructing his view. Immediately Leo spotted the smallest circle of red light from a camera lens on the roof, where a figure was still but… he couldn’t tell what they were doing. This wasn’t good. He crouched down beside Raph and leaned over him to meet Donnie’s eyes.

“We got a bogey on the roof.” The blue terrapin whispered. Donnie furrowed his brows in concentration, flickering between Leo’s eyes and the camera feed on his brace. A frame popped up, switching from thermal imaging to night vision. Raph, Leo, and Donnie found the figure to be female; petit in stature, and maybe around their age give or take a few years. Her figure was donned in simple athletic gear. Form what they could tell no weapons could be seen, no knives. No guns. She was angled to where they couldn’t see her face clearly, and from the way one leg was on the roof and the other on the ledge it appeared as though she had no qualms being on such a high altitude.

And how many times have they heard about humans being ‘comfortable’ around on rooftops? Thousands. On police scanners.

“…She’s gotta be one of them.” Raph whispered. Questions whirred up a mile a minute within each of them. What did she want? How long has she been watching them? Was this an ambush? The turtle brothers watched with bated breath when she slowly, not a sound made, turned her head over her shoulder straight at the camera cube.

Her face was concealed, a cloth type of material covering the lower half of the face and the breeze of the night shifted her hair over her eyes. But they felt her eyes stare into the camera. Into them. If they hadn’t gotten enough surprises, the next moment stunned them all into stillness.

A card was shown.

S.O.S

...

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🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

Aaaaand that's a wrap! Please let me know what you think! Stay tuned for Chapter 2! Thanks for reading :)

Fun fact: An appendage on the alligator snapping turtle's tongue resembles a worm, helping this ambush predator lure prey 👀

🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

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towritecomicsonherarms · 3 years ago

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Hack/Slash - Hot Shorts

#hackslash #hack/slash #cassie hack #vlad #comics #image comics

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rxttenfish · 2 years ago

Note

Mmmm you've mentioned miravi beginning with them growing to trust each other through like, actual fights before they really knew each other, maybe writing up one of these, and Aaravi going home and decompressing afterwards?

oops this took me too long to write and i'm not happy with it but i don't want to look at it any further

The sneer is the worst part.

It sits on the far end of the spectrum, opposite of Aaravi's own hack-slash grimace, twitching lip where the impulse to bear her teeth is almost too much — a fact which belies the whole problem.

No, the princess doesn't have the decency to be too-ragged at the edges, too-messy, too-unthinking. It is schooled. Perfect. It wicks up and over the curve of her jaw like the warm blanket of shallow waters over a sunken sandbank, hinting at the structure beneath but never fully diving down long enough to reveal the bones of it. Even though Aaravi has never so openly spoken to royals before, she knows the gesture all the same, burned into her mind through association until the smile makes her molars clench down as though she might shatter them.

It's all the same. All the same holier-than-thou smile, a caricature even before it graced anyone's lips. It's an oil portrait hung up and over a fireplace that says that Aaravi should be grateful for even being allowed this meeting, that no one else like her has even come in here before, and yet all the same she's stared at as though she is out of place, something that just missed the rim of the trash can and might yet be sweeped out without any further fuss.

In short, Miranda’s grin, the expression that creeps up and over her mouth while her eyes gleam and half-lid above, is perfect. Beautiful, even. It’s the kind of smile that makes people drip with want, that makes hearts beat faster and the edges blur and sends the world into a cascade of pink and ivory and velvet tinged around the edges and the kind of tipsy that makes people pliant. It is a smile that knows this too, that is designed for this want, this decorum. Never once does anyone look at that smile and not know Miranda’s title, never once do they not want to fling themselves off of that cliff for her.

As if that wasn’t enough, even Aaravi’s not immune to it, an insult even greater than just how much the princess looks down on her with humor. It makes her grow hot at her temples and wrists, collects over the back of her neck with the prickling of hair, clenches her fists together as she stares down into the maw that shows only the barest hint of fangs.

It’s insulting. Demeaning. Every part of it throws Aaravi back into the fray with a fury, mind halfway behind her head as she flings herself forward, all biting words and flashes of her own teeth, lips pulled back to destroy the lovely image of lace and seafoam. It might have been easier if Miranda were not so obviously, blatantly pretty, a fact that Aaravi can’t ignore, only put aside. Of course she flushes hot at those smiles, imagining lips or teeth wrapping around her neck, and of course the very animal nature of it burns harder and deeper than anything else, a fact of her being that haunts her like a spectre.

Everything occurs as it should.

It’s a comfortable sort of back-and-forth, at least. The first time Miranda spoke to Aaravi, she had grinned that lovely grin and asked her why she was so jumpy, that if she wanted her laid out, then neither of them would be standing there. This fact was plain, practiced, and it took nothing for Aaravi to conjure up images of that long body pinning her down somewhere in the dark, wet and slick like the pale slabs of meat at the butcher’s counter, cold and clammy like the underside of something vile, an ambush predator and no one to hear Aaravi scream.

Aaravi, in turn, had countered that she would never, ever be caught off guard by something like Miranda, and had dared her to try, thinking of all the private hideaways for knives she had stitched into her clothes. The way it made Miranda’s fins flick made Aaravi’s blood run hot and cold at the same time and a ringing start up in her ears, a ringing that almost obscured Miranda’s promise that they would both see about that.

She had kept it up, pressing in here and there, finding private gasps of breath to steal away from Aaravi’s relief. It’s an invasion, though a strangely scheduled one. There’s an art to this, an art to darting in where she does not expect and yet still providing entrance in a way that suggests this was always fated, that Aaravi should have expected this. She jumps, cusses, shoots crossbow bolts into the ceiling. Miranda always sidesteps them as though they could have never touched her, and presses idle little questions in through the ignorance of her own mortality.

Never before has Aaravi dealt with someone so unconcerned with her own life and death.

It feels like every time Miranda appears, Aaravi’s body tenses, muscles flexing against her skin too-taut, as though she might rip through herself like a poorly made suit, her skin not created with her in mind. Blood sings in her ears as they fold back against the crescent of her skull and she focuses down on the breath that flutters in Miranda’s throat. She clenches teeth and knives both, swords held in her white-knuckled grip, eyes searching desperately for the trap entrance that Miranda keeps crawling out of.

The princess doesn’t care. She thinks it’s funny, even, laughs and freely abides by Aaravi’s questioning. More than once Aaravi’s pointed the wrong end of a blade at Miranda’s throat. Every time she laughs and flutters her eyes like they had lashes to beat, an uncomfortably familiar gesture on a body so beyond Aaravi’s own.

Once she had rested her chin on the very end, right against the soft crease in her throat, and asked Aaravi, “Do you want to kill me, then?”

Aaravi had given some answer, some comeback that stumbled on the tip of her tongue and against too-long canines, some threat that had made Miranda laugh, and went home that day and showered and scrubbed her skin until it burned red and angry.

Aaravi had always cared far too much about her own life, always gripped it blindly and with total convinction, that everything else might crumble in around her if she ever loosened her hold on her will to live. Survival consumed her, kept her going with a mad dash that was too terrified to ever look behind her, that if she ever were to stop then her heart would have stopped too. Both built a strange rabbit-existence, panting and staring with open eyes behind cage wiring and thinking only of the moment someone opened the door.

It was inconceivable then, that she might want to stop. That anyone might want to stop. There wasn’t a place in the world that had held her without her full intention to escape, to claw her way out the windows or to break down the door, and to stare at someone now who did not run was madness.

It did make her hot and heady, like how anyone would, high on her own fumes that she had learned the truth of the world where Miranda hadn’t, and the thoughts came quicksilver and tempting.

But Aaravi also wasn’t stupid either.

It was, in its private manner, terrifying. The name of the fear eluded her, changing its shape every time she looked at it, but all the same, it was there, stalking in the shadows. Sure, she could blame Miranda’s own stupidity for that, but what good would that have done?

Reason told her that if someone wasn’t running then it was for good purpose, and that Aaravi should be very, very careful with the complete and utter confidence Miranda held in Aaravi’s inability to hurt her. When someone helps you angle a gun at their heart and dares you to shoot, you cannot assume they don’t know what they’re doing.

Something was being held under the table, and that drew out obsession better than anything else. Aaravi did have a bad habit of chasing secrets, and she knew this, but the completionist streak in her was stronger than her fear.

Even moreso, she couldn’t bear Miranda having something she didn’t have, knowing something she shouldn’t have. There was something there, and it wasn’t just a matter of pride to know what it was. She had to check. She HAD to know.

Unknown things were dangerous, unknown things WERE going to hurt her, and she was a slayer. It was her duty to run into the darkness, and that was the only way to ensure that they were on equal footing.

And if there was something deeper in her mind, something that tugged at her and offered upset at Miranda just blinking at her and waiting for her to give the killing blow?

Well, that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Aaravi said it didn’t matter, and she would make sure it didn’t matter.

Monsters always pretended to be your friends first, after all.

#all the care guide says is 'biomass'#asks #apocritast #aughghghhh i don't feel like i did the prompt justice but also #just. staring in ''how more specific can i go without planning out Way Too Much Shit''#Monster Prom #miravi.txt

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cordria · 5 years ago

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Fixing Mistakes - DP

Danny groaned and curled up in a ball, very suddenly awake. His head hurt, his leg sparkled sharp and painful, and he felt oddly sticky. “Ow, ow, ow, ow,” he hissed, a few swear words working their way through his teeth as he kicked his brain into trying to think through what was going on.

His eyes crept open, studying his surroundings. Dark. Quiet. Bars.

Bars?

His eyes opened just a touch more, turning his head. Bars on all sides. He was in a cage.

Memory flooded back into his brain - of the school bell ringing, of walking through the park with Sam, of cold rushing down his back, of an unfortunately successful ambush by the ghost world’s most annoying hunter. “Damn it, Skulker,” he whispered.

Having determined himself to be alone in the room full of cages, Danny sat up and slowly pushed fingers through his hair, searching for the source of the pain. It was from right over his left ear, a dull throbbing that was definitely sore, but no blood. Head trauma. Something that would heal with time, nothing to be done about it for now.

He turned his attention to his leg, noting with a frown all the glowing blood smeared across the bottom of the cage. He poked and prodded at his leg, locating the worst of the damage: a huge slash down the side of his right leg. Almost as long as his fingers could spread, it was already mostly sealed over - thank Clockwork for not being knocked out until he was in ghost form. In human form, the blood loss would have killed him.

The fact that a slash that big was almost sealed over made him wrinkle his nose. That had to have taken hours and hours. Perhaps overnight. He’d been out a long time.

He sighed. “I was having such a good day, too.”

Although the cage wasn’t big enough to stand up in, he tried putting his foot on the ground and putting weight on his leg. Would he be able to stand once he’d gotten out of the cage? The pain sharpened, making him gasp and collapse. “Nope, nope, nope,” he whispered. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, don’t do that again.”

Blood started to ooze from the gash again. He’d broken open the scab.

With a scowl, he pushed and pulled himself, maneuvering until he was leaning up against the door. From the fizzy feeling against his skin, knew they wouldn’t be something he could phase through. He’d have to find a different way out. He reached a hand out through the bars to pull at the padlock, studying it. It was the same type of padlock Skulker always used for locking his cages closed. The tiniest of smiles curled the corner of Danny’s lips.

It wasn’t quite true that ghosts couldn’t learn. Skulker had learned new hunting techniques over the last eighteen months. Skulker had learned to keep Danny in human-proof cages. But ghosts learned so very slowly, and struggled with putting together facts they couldn’t see. Skulker knew Danny could get out of his cages - but, never having witnessed Danny perform the feat, couldn’t figure out how. And so he kept doing the same thing over and over.

Danny squirmed and moved around, digging a little box out of one of his pockets. Sam had gotten it for him for Christmas last year, along with lessons as to how to use it. Lock-picking was a skill Danny had assumed would be difficult, but it turned out to be hilariously easy, if a bit time consuming. Danny made sure he kept the kit with him.

It took longer than he’d hoped to open the lock. The pain from his leg kept distracting him and the hit he’d taken to his head was making it hard to focus. But he eventually placed all four of the tumblers, gave them a twist, and the lock fell open.

He grinned, short and sharp, and worked the lock back through the rings on the cage, catching it before it could hit the ground. “Screw you, Skulker,” he whispered, pushing open the cage door and floating himself out, putting the lock into his pocket. He was careful to keep his leg from hitting the ground - even the smallest movements sent sharp shards into his mind. “I’m keeping this as a souvenir.”

Just before he was going to leave, Danny heard a sound from the corner. He tensed, instantly assuming Skulker had been hiding. The glow around Danny kicked up a notch with his anxiety, and he twisted around.

Nothing?

His hands came back down, letting the tenseness fade away. He floated forwards a few steps, noticing a cage far into the darkest corner of the room. There was the faintest glow coming from inside - it was almost like the afterglow of looking at a bright light for a moment too long. Too faint to be a ghost in any reasonable shape. “Hello?” he whispered.

“Mind if I borrow your lock pick set? I lost mine.”

Danny hesitated. The voice was very… human? And didn’t sound at all in pain or sick. The scratchy voice was also not bothering to whisper. “Who are you?” Danny asked, floating closer.

“I’m me, obviously.”

“Helpful,” Danny muttered, drawing up just close enough that if something were to lunge and reach through the cage, it wouldn’t be able to grab him. An odd scent tinged the air, making Danny’s nose wrinkle. He held up a hand, palm towards the thing in the cage, and upped the power flowing through his hand. The glow kicked up and, like a flashlight, illuminated the contents of the cage.

It was a human male, raising a hand to block his eyes from the glow. Red-orange hair raggedly pulled back into a ponytail and a beard that looked hacked short with a knife. Perhaps in his twenties, skinny and tall, and dressed in layers of rags. He had a cloak-looking blanket wrapped around him, and calloused feet wrapped in cloth that left his toes hanging out. Dried, reddish-colored flowers dangled everywhere from his clothes. Danny blinked at the man, startled. “You’re human.”

Teeth glittered as the man smiled - an easy, pleasant smile. At least two of the teeth were missing. “Mostly, anyways.” The scar-covered hand lowered. Eyes that were too bright and green to belong to a human peered at him, blinking against the light. “Lock picks? I’d like to get out of here before the hunter comes back.”

“Skulker’s annoying with his cages,” Danny agreed, lowering his hand and the light. His brain wasn’t working quite right. This… human?... was something like him? ...How? “What happened?”

“I was just a tad too slow. Lock?”

Danny glanced over his shoulder, noted the still-quiet room, and settled his body gently back down at the ground. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning from the pain. Then he opened up the little box of picks and started to work on the lock. It was easier from this side, where he could see what he was doing.

“How did it come to be that a ghost knows how to pick a lock?” the human asked.

“This ghost gets hunted a lot. Not the first time I’ve seen the inside of Skulker’s cages,” Danny muttered. “Friend got me the lock pick set.”

“A human lock pit set.”

Danny hummed. “And how did it come to be a human in the ghost zone?” There was a soft click. He twisted and yanked the lock off.Danny floated back up in the air, fighting a wince of pain, and nodded.

“Very long story. Too long for telling inside this lair.” The human pulled himself out of the cage, unwinding his long limbs and stretching upright. From this close, Danny could see the young man was incredibly lean and tall. Too thin. Too tall. Even though Danny was floating, the man’s head was on level with his. Something was off with this human, and it made the hairs on the back of Danny’s neck raise.

This close, Danny could see the dried flowers hanging around his neck were blood blossoms. Before Danny could float backwards and out of the way, the man reached out and clapped Danny on the shoulder, still with that same easy grin. “Thank you for the rescue.”

“Do you…” Danny hesitated, thinking about the fact that the man was a human and they were on a floating island haunted by a hunting ghost, “need a lift? Like, to get somewhere?”

“Away from here would be nice.” The human’s smile faded just a bit. He was studying Danny. “I’m not a flyer. I’d appreciate a lift to… anywhere, really, that’s not right here.”

Danny held out his hand. “You got a name, human?”

The man grabbed his wrist, his fingers burning hot against Danny’s cold skin. “Flynn.”

The feel of the blood blossoms tingled down his arm, an interesting counterpoint to the drums beating against his brain and the stabbing pain in his leg. Danny lifted the human off the ground and took the shortcut through the window, back out into the glowing green of the ghost zone. “Nice to meet you, Flynn. I’m Danny.”

#Danny Phantom #fixing mistakes #I woke up this morning wanting to write #for once #I've had an incredibly sucky fall.#Very much sucks.#Quick writing.

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soggy-platee · 4 years ago

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It Goes Both Ways

Rating: M (Somewhat graphic talk of injury)

Pairing: Din x GN!Reader

Summary: You take a hit for Din, feelings and angst ensue.

Note: Hello sorry this is literally all angst, a tiny bit of fluff. I can't stop myself, I just love the whole "feelings being revealed through injury" trope. If anyone wants, I was thinking about a smutty part two to this one! Let me know. Also, y'all were so kind with Doubt, so thank you!

...

The fight went bad from the second it started.

Well, before that, if you were being completely honest. Everyone in the cantina had been too still, too tense when you and Mando entered. It was so clearly unnatural for the usually boisterous atmosphere of a Nevarro night.

Yet somehow, you both missed it.

The kid was really to blame. He had been a ball of energy all night, practically bouncing off the walls of the hull while you and his father did everything in your power to get him to calm down. You were both annoyed and tired as your set out to meet the contact, should have known there was no hope of success. When the eight men in the cantina converged on you both, you were immediately thrust into the defensive. Exactly where you knew Mando hated to be. You had taken down several attackers, using your blade to slash and hack until it broke off in the chest cavity of some blue creature. You had lost just a moment as you attempted to wrench the hopeless blade from the now lifeless corpse, but it was enough time for a rough tug to pull you to the ground and a heavy weight to climb on top of you. You remembered the previous night almost fondly as opposed to the impossibly tight grip on your throat now.

Your fingers dug into the hand around your throat to no avail as the man- a Twi’lek, you now realized- bared his teeth down at you. Hot breath brushed over your face and you grimaced even further. Eyes rolling, you managed to steal a glance at Mando who was engaged in his own battle. There were two on him, one managing to get Mando’s arms behind his back in a tight hold while the other approached with a raised blade as you looked on. Fear shot through you at his vulnerable position and you doubled your efforts.

Your fingernails finally caught purchase on the arm that held you down at the same moment you bucked your hips with everything you had. A hiss came from above as you managed to pull one leg above the hips holding you down. Twisting hard, you flipped the man into the floor at full speed, his cheek cracking against the hard dirt. On your hands and knees now, you whipped your head up to see the armed man raise his blade and prepare to strike at Mando’s exposed neck. The fabric of his cowl would do nothing to stop the glowing, razor-sharp weapon that was mear inches from him now.

You shot up, your boots digging into the dirt as you righted yourself directly into a sprint. It happened in a split second. You reached Mando just as the blade completed its arc, half-throwing, and half-pressing yourself in front of his armored chest in a protective stance. You followed your first instinct, forearm coming up to block the blow.

White-hot pain bloomed along your arm, reaching all the way to the bone, as the blade cut through you like butter. Gasping at the initial shock, you managed to get a gut punch into the man in front of you before dropping to one knee. You clutched your forearm, trying your hardest to not collapse and curl up right then and there. You dimly registered fighting directly behind you through closed eyes, hoping to God it was Mando dealing with the last guy.

No offense to him, but you felt like you had done enough.

A wave of nausea came over you as you dared to open your eyes, taking in the bloody mess that was now your arm. The cut wasn’t overly long, but it was deep. You knew you had felt it hit bone, but jeez, you didn’t think you would be able to see it.

A blaster shot from behind you gave your enough adrenaline to rise on unsteady feet, turning to see Mando with his arm still raised, blaster smoke rising from the body of the final hostile in the room.

He turned to you with an immediacy that made you sway, the speed of the movement causing another wave of nausea to rise up. You doubled over as he approached, pressing your good hand to the back of your mouth. He was mumbling something as he approached you, Mando’a you would realize later. His hands found your hunched shoulders as you finally heard a word you recognized well,

“Cyare-hey, hey, look at me-”

With your hand still planted firmly over your mouth, you glanced up at him. You were taken aback by just how shook up he looked, even underneath the armor. His hands were tight around your shoulders, almost bruising you with their intensity. His chest was heaving, but it couldn’t be from the fight now. His voice nearly shook.

The pain almost blinding you was nothing compared to the icing feeling that crept down your spine at the sheet panic he was radiating. It wasn’t right, you had never seen him simply break like this.

You had seen him trembling underneath you, above you as he came, but he was still always in control when you were together. This was different.

This was frightening.

His hand pulled up to cup your jaw as you faced him, tilting it back and forth, frantically searing you even though the source of your pain was obvious. You wanted to say something, anything, to get him to calm down. But when you managed to pull your hand from your mouth, all that escaped was a low groan of pain.

Well that didn’t work, you thought faintly before your face collided with Mando’s chestplate, blackness overtaking you a second after.

…

The swaying was what woke you. A constant, fast motion shook you all over. Most pertinently, it was shaking the hell out of your arm. Something was wrapped around you, holding you close to a hard metal surface.

Why did it hurt again?

Ah yes, the cut.

The cut. The fight.

Mando.

You forced your eyes open, instinctually pulling away from whatever was retraining you. A gruff voice spoke to you as you turned your eyes to face the dark fabric of Mando’s chin.

“Stop.”

His faceplate didn’t even turn to you, just one word directed outward to the now-dark street ahead of you. He was carrying you through the town bridal style, your damaged arm tucked up into your chest as your calves swung with each footfall.

The memories of the night flooded back to your in greater detail, mainly your injury. An injury, you now noticed, hurt a lot less than it had...a few minutes ago? An hour?

Your confusion formed a question. Fighting the dryness in your voice, you huffed out, “How long was I out?”

“Not long.”

Another short answer, again not facing you.

A frown tugged on your lips, brows furrowing. Had something happened you didn’t remember? Why was he suddenly pissed at you? Finally, you glanced down at your arm. Wrapped in several bacta patches, secured with more bandages.

When the hell did that happen?

“Cantina had supplies”

Sometimes his ability to read you pissed you off.

You finished the trip in silence, doing your best to let off a pissed-off vibe. It was childish. You knew how to communicate, you knew Mando hardly ever did. But you were tired, hurt, and you didn’t know why that was such a huge problem to him. You had saved his ass, anyway.

You should be the pissed one if anything.

You approached the Crest’s ramp and you prepared to be set down, tensing your legs and starting to push off his chest with your good arm.

His grip simply remained firm, however, showing no indication he would be letting you down. You twisted your head in an attempt to look him in the visor, confused as all hell. His face remained stubbornly to front, much to your continued irritation.

You pushed off him a few more futile times, wiggling your hips in an attempt to loosen his hand around your knees.

Nothing.

You just slumped in his arms then, waiting for what seemed like the world’s slowest ramp to hit the ground.

He stomped into the ship and didn’t set you down until the ramp started to raise. His demeanor still remained stony, but he set you down with a gentleness only reserved for you and the child. He steadied you as your feet hit the ground, but his hands pulled away as soon as he confirmed you could stand alone.

Before you could even speak, he was gone, heading to the ladder of the cockpit.

That was it, you had absolutely had enough.

You threw your good hand in the air before shouting across the silent hull.

“Yeah, thanks for the ride, I’ll just go fuck off then.”

It wasn’t your best line, but you were pissed. And confused.

And hurt more than anything.

To your credit, the words were enough to stop him, hand on the first rung of the ladder. You stood expectantly, breathing heavily from your words and your injury.

Silence.

You made an incredulous sound, turning around and folding your arms to the best of your ability.

“Leave it to me to fuck up and save your ass, my bad, it won’t happen again.”

You winced as the words left your mouth, it was mean. It was terrible. You didn’t mean it. You would lay down your life for him at any moment and he knew it. Well, you thought he knew it. You thought he would do the same for you, too. But here he was, acting like you were a liability. Like he didn’t care about you at all. It made you defensive. Maybe you misread things between you too. Maybe you were just sex to him. Maybe you didn’t go any further.

That was fine, you could handle that. You just needed him to tell you, and not do whatever this was.

Leather creaked as his hand tightened on the metal with your words, but silence persisted. The fight in your was waning as your thoughts continued to run wild.

Your next words came out more defeated than aggressive, “If I’m an issue, just tell me. I’m gone.”

That sparked something in him, hand flying off the ladder as he whirled to face you. The movement caught you off guard, combined with the weakened state it made you stumble back a step Then another, then more as the suddenly fervent Mandaoliran stalked toward you across the hull. Your back hit the wall before he finally stopped a foot away from you, helmet tilted down at you as his shoulders rose and fell with deep, ragged breaths.

His helmet searched you, looking you up and down while his hands came to hover near your shoulder. He didn’t touch you, however, simply grasping at air several times in contemplation before fisting them once more at his side.

“Of course you’re an issue, you are the issue -my issue.”

His tone was unreadable, half-angry, half-desperate.

You gaped like a fish in his face, trying to make sense of what the hell was going on. Where was this coming from?

Your silence rushed him forward. Pushing a finger into your chest, he rambled, “You did fuck up- saving me. I didn’t want you- you shouldn’t have- I didn’t need it.” He spat the final words, but there was something underneath it, far too similar to his tone earlier, his panic.

Still, his words reignited your anger and confusion. “What do you mean you “didn’t need it”. That knife was going for your neck!”

He threw his head back, hands coming up to grip the sides of his helmet.

“Exactly! A knife which you jumped in front of, with no plan, no defense. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want you to die, idiot! What the hell did you think I was thinking?”

He stumbled, whatever retort he had dying soundlessly on his tongue. Then, he spun from you, crossing his arms over his chest as he did. His next words were quiet, dismissive but firm.

“I didn’t ask for that. Never do that again.”

You literally could not comprehend his train of thought. Did he want you to just let him die? You grabbed his shoulder with your good hand, trying to force him to face you to no avail.

“You don’t get a say, you don’t have to ask. Don’t you get it? If I want to take a hit for you, that’s on me.”

He rounded on you once more, helmet coming so close that it nearly made contact with your forehead. “You don’t get to make that choice”, he growled, low and urgent.

Oh, now that was fucking golden.

“What? I don’t get to make my own choices with my own life? Is that what it’s come to now? Clearly, you don’t trust me, but I at least thought you could afford me my own autonomy.”

Finally, his hands came up and grabbed your shoulders, shaking you with intensity as he shouted in your face.

“Would you just listen to me? I won’t- cannot lose you. Not for me. Not ever.”

Your shoulders tensed in his grip and your eyes shot wide. His words startled you, the meaning washing over you in steps. They first relived you, convinced you that you felt the same way about each other, regardless of the fact this was the first time you were both voicing such outright feelings. But they also struck that same anger in you.

“So you get to protect me but I can’t do that same for you?”. Your voice was calmer now, eyes searching his visor for some sign he understood how unfair- if touching- his words were.

His hands loosened on your arms, shoulders dropping from their tense state. His helmet dropped from your gaze, swinging loosely before he sighed, “...Yes.”

His voice upturned at the end, almost in question of his own words. Of course. He knew how stupid it sounded.

Anger left you at his defeated look, head hanging between his shoulders. You raised your good arm, slowly placing your fingertips on the bottom of his helmet. He tensed for a moment at the touch, but you pushed gently enough on the metal that he simply followed your guidance. His visor came to face you once more, the blackness reflecting the look of concern in your eyes. You could only imagine that his held the same look.

Gloved fingers found your bad arm, still drawn tightly to your chest. They brushed over the patches gingerly, making their way to your hand and intertwining with your own digits. Your eyes fluttered at the touch, the familiar feeling melting away the residual pain like water down a stream.

He sighed heavily, before speaking with a subdued sincerity.

“You make me so fucking scared, pretty. I’ve never-I didn’t know that feeling until you and the kid. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t lose you- can’t live without you.”

His fingers tightened around yours as he spoke, and your soft smile was reflected in silver back at you.

“Do you not think I feel the same thing, feel the same way about you?”

He gave your hand a squeeze before breathing, “...I do.”

Your smile faltered at his admission, worry coloring your next words.

“Then why do you think I could live without you?”

It was times like these you cursed his helmet, his creed. You wanted- needed to know that your words were getting across to him, that he understands just how fucking much he meant to you. While his face was unreadable, a short breath through the modulator and another sharp squeeze of your hand told you that you had hit the mark.

You took a deep breath before saying, “Listen. We protect each other. Equally. That’s how this works. You can’t stop me. So if you want to keep me out of harm’s way, then you have to keep your own metal-ass safe, yeah?”

You swore you heard a chuckle from underneath your helmet at your comment, and you broke into a grin. You pulled your good hand from his and placed it behind his helmet, tugging it toward you and resting the cool metal on your forehead. His hand mimicked your position, coming up to intertwine with the hair at the base of your neck.

You let your eyes slip shut before saying, “Do you understand now, dummy?”

His hand gripped your hair tighter, pressing your closer. His words were thick when he spoke, “I do.”

You released your grip on him, righting yourself, but his hand simply slid down your back. He still held you close when he said, “And I’m sorry… for the way I acted. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I was just…”

He faded off, but you knew where he was headed. You chuckled and flashed another smile, “It’s alright, make it up to me by taking the next knife, huh?”

The usual huff of laughter at your stupid comments didn’t come however, his helmet simply tipped down to take you in, hand tightening on your lower back.

“Actually…” he started, voice growing lower, softer, “I had another idea about how to make it up to you”

#the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #pedro pascal #din djarin

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kinglazrus · 4 years ago

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Deep Wounds Ch. 1 - Who's to Blame?

Phic Phight | Next | AO3 | FFN

Submitted by @q-gorgeous: Identity reveal. Dash finds out Danny is Phantom. Could be swagger bishie or not, either or is okay.

Submitted by @aj-itated: Dash catches Danny changing after gym, and spots a huge (poorly stitched) wound on his side. Dash is now convinced Danny is either abused or part of a gang, and has no idea how to deal with either - or how to interact with Danny, now that he can't bully him.

Summary: Dash didn't mean to see it, not that it was his fault. If Danny didn't want anyone to notice the bloody mess on his side, then he shouldn't be checking his bandages in the middle of the boy's changing room. But it's too late, and Dash has no clue what to do now that he thinks Danny might be getting hurt at home.

Word count: 4253

“He’s gonna know.”

As Tucker's shadow falls over him, Danny starts, rudely yanked out of his daydream. The hand cradling his chin drops to his lap, fingers brushing the grass, and he fixes Tucker with a confused glare. "What?"

"You are super unsubtle," Tucker says. "He's gonna knooow."

Tucker and singsong aren’t two words Danny would normally use together, but it is the best way to describe the lyrical bounce in Tucker's voice as he drops onto the grass. Too bad his musical prowess seems limited to teasing jabs and not the screeching caterwaul Danny usually associates with Tucker and singing.

"What are you talking about?" Danny asks, his annoyance mounting.

"Oh, come on." Tucker leans back and sweeps his arm out to the field, motioning to the warm-up game some of their classmates are playing, which Danny had been watching fervently until he was interrupted. His gaze skims over the scuffle taking place over the ball, settles briefly on Dash lounging in front one of the nets, then goes back to Tucker.

"I don't know what you mean," Danny says.

"Tucker, be nice. Don't tease the oblivious," Sam cuts in. Sitting on Danny's left, she is flipping through a book rather than watches the scrimmage. How she got the book past Tetslaff, Danny has no idea. Magic, maybe. The more likely answer is that Tetsflaff saw it and just didn't care since Sam one of the best students in their class.

Danny could never get away with it, though. "Seriously. What are you guys talking about?"

"Oh, poor Danny." Tucker tsks and shakes his head. "In time, you, too, shall mature enough to understand your own emotions."

"I'm mature enough to ectoblast you in the face," Danny says.

"That is literally the exact opposite of mature."

"You're the exact opposite of mature."

"Game time!" Tetslaff's bellow cuts off what surely would have been a clever retort from Tucker. Her booming voice, powerful enough to challenge Danny's father's, echoes across the field and brings the scrimmage to a halt. At the far net, Dash rises to his feet and brushes the grass from his shorts.

"Captains!" Tetslaff calls. Valerie and Dash's hands shoot into the air, faster than anyone else's. Sam, still focused on her book, raises her hand half-heartedly, then lowers it to turn the page. No one else offers to be team captain, but Tetslaff doesn't seem to mind. This is how their classes usually go when they do team sports. "You know the drill. Pick your players, take your positions, and for heaven's sake, someone take Fenton."

Snickers break out through the class. Danny drops his face into his hands, muffling a groan against his palms.

He hates gym class for a lot of reasons. For one, sports aren't really his thing. He might be strong, thanks to his ghost half, but that doesn't make him any better at sports. Because of that, he's usually the last picked when it comes to games like soccer. And then there's Dash, who sucks sometimes, but he used to suck more. A lot more. He has mellowed out since freshman year, although he's not opposed to jostling Danny in the hallway now and then.

But the absolute worst thing about gym class is playing when he's injured; it doesn't happen often. Danny's been ghost fighting for nearly three years now, and he doesn't get hurt as much as he used to. Experience has wizened him up to the wonders of dodging. His enemies still get lucky sometimes, though, and last night, Technus got him good. Hacking and slashing isn't usually Technus' thing, but the rabid dishwasher the ghost sicked on Danny was damn good at it. He has the deep slash across his left side to show it.

It's healing well, but a wound like that needs more than a few hours before he is back in peak condition. Sam, whose house was closest after the fight, stitched Danny up as best as she could. Both she and Tucker had gotten good at that over the years, but for all Sam's skill, she was still just a high schooler who learned off YouTube tutorials. Before bed, Danny bound the wound tight, took a couple of Advil, and slept with an icepack slapped against his side.

It still hurts like hell, though.

A sharp whistle pierces Danny's thoughts. He winces at the noise, along with most of the class. Dash and Valerie, the victims of Tetslaff's ire, actually flinch.

"Baxter, Grey, stop bickering," Tetslaff says.

Caught up in his thoughts, Danny hadn't noticed their argument, but it's impossible to miss the tight anger in Valerie's crossed arms or the annoyance in Dash's glare.

"Baxter, Grey made her pick. Mr. Cheong goes with her." Tetslaff points at Kwan, then jerks her thumb toward Valerie. With a despondent sigh, Dash pats Kwan on the back, watching his best friend trudge to Valerie's team as if he was going to his grave.

"They're so dramatic," Danny says.

Tucker nods in agreement. "I know, right?"

Sam lowers her book to stare at them. "You cannot be serious."

"What did we say?" Danny asks.

Sam sighs and rolls her eyes but doesn't elaborate further.

Back on the field, Valerie gestures to the dwindling number of classmates yet to be claimed. "Your next pick," she says to Dash.

Dash scans the lineup, his gaze lingering on Danny for a few moments before skipping right over Tucker to Sam. "Manson, you're with me."

"Ugh, of course." Sam marks her page and passes the book to Danny. "You gonna be okay? How's your side?"

He holds back a grimace. "I'm good. I'll tell Tetslaff I'm sick or something so I can sit out."

Sam nods, satisfied, and joins Dash's team.

"Tucker!" Valerie calls.

"Good luck, dude." Tucker gently pats Danny's shoulder before stepping onto the field.

With his friends gone, and the rest of the class distracted by the team pick, Danny shuffles over to Tetslaff. "I don't really feel good. Can I sit out?"

Tetslaff looks him up and down. "You gonna throw up?"

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"You got a fever?" Before Danny can even answer, Tetslaff slaps her hand against his forehead. He flinches back, wanting nothing more than to peel her warm palm off his skin. She holds it there for a few seconds before finally drawing away. "No fever. got a doctor's note?"

"Uh... no? I've been at school all morning."

"If you feel like you're about to throw up, book it off the field. Otherwise, you're playing."

"But—"

"Fenton, do you really want to be the only kid in Casper High history to fail gym class?" Tetslaff asks.

The threat might have been more effective if Danny hadn't spent half his high school career one bad grade away from flunking out, but he doesn't have the energy to fight her on it. "Okay, Coach."

"That's the spirit! Now get out there and show me some hustle!" Tetslaff slaps Danny on the back. He bites back a cry of pain as he stumbles forward, one hand shooting to cradle his side. Tetslaff's hand, though broad, missed the actual injury, but the sheer impact made his bones rattle and his wound flair with pain.

"Okay," Danny mutters. Just stay out of Dash's way and move enough to escape Tetslaff ire. It can't be that hard. He presses a hand to his side, feeling the thick gauze through his shirt. Closing eyes so that no one sees them glow, he phases his palm through his shirt and ices over his injury. The numbing cold helps, somewhat, and it should hold up for the whole class.

"I can do this." He falters when he steps toward the field. It looks like Valerie and Dash finished picking their teams while he was busy with Tetslaff and the game is already underway. He hovers on the sideline, unsure where to go.

"Getting worked up already?" Valerie's voice startles him.

Danny flinches and twists toward her, sending a sharp twinge across his ribs. He hisses, regretting the sudden move, and squeezes his side once more.

"You okay?" Valerie asks.

"Just fine. Sorry, what did you say?"

"You look like you're stressed out already. It's just soccer."

Danny rolls his eyes and nudges her arm. "Sure. Tell me that when Dash's team is up by five and I have stop you from kicking his kneecaps in."

Valerie laughs, no denial falling from her lips. "Oh, please. We both know I'd go for the throat. You're with me, by the way."

"Oh, thank God."

"Don't kid yourself, Danny. We both know you'd love to be on Dash's team."

Danny's mind blanks for a moment, his cheeks growing hot against his will. "Uh... what? He literally used to beat me up every day."

"Keyword, 'used to.' And I never said you had good taste." Valerie shrugs. "Except for me, at least. But don't worry about it. Now come on; I want you on defence. You suck at scoring, but at least you can take a hit."

Danny hopes he doesn't need to.

—

No hits come his way, to Danny's immense relief. At least they are playing soccer and not football. Or floor hockey, God forbid. Danny's ankles still smart from the last time they played that. With soccer, there's not a whole lot of opportunity for Danny to get knocked around. Stuck on defence, he even has an excuse to hang back, hold off on all that "hustle" Tetslaff wanted to see. His teammates charge up and down the field, shouting and jeering as they fight over the ball, and Danny gets to trail behind, halfway between the throng and his team's net. He spends most of his time watching Dash. Purely so that he's ready if Dash decides to go after him, not for any other reasons.

"Suuure that's the reason," Tucker says when he notices Danny staring.

"It is!" Danny's protest falls on deaf ears.

Dash catches Danny's gaze more than once. Rather than looking away, Danny can't resist offering a shit-eating grin and a friendly wave every time. If he had any self-preservation skills, he would stop immediately. But there's a reason he's half-ghost now, and it's definitely not because of his critical thinking skills.

He manages to stay out of the action, for the most part, only rushing in when the ball comes close to him. Otherwise, Tucker and Elliot handle the rest. Tucker knowingly spares him the pain of ripping his stitches. Elliot, meanwhile, likes to swoop in at every opportunity to show Danny up. It might have gotten a rise out of Danny any other day, but right now, when his side throbs every time he takes a step, Elliot is welcome to do whatever he wants.

When they have class outside, Danny can't tell how much time is left. He guesses they are about halfway through, and nothing bad has happened yet. Maybe he can get through this, after all.

That's when he jinxes himself.

"Heads up!" Valerie's warning shout comes just in time. Danny ducks instinctively, hissing when his injury pulls. The soccer ball flies over his head, skimming the top of his hair. Then, Dash collides with Danny, his shoulder digging into Danny's side. He cries out as he goes sprawling, hands shooting to his side. It burns, searing across his ribs, almost as bad as when he first got the wound. The pain makes his head spin and his breath ragged.

He must blackout for a moment, because one second his face is pressed against the cool grass, and then suddenly he's staring up into Tetsalff's concerned face, Valerie, Sam, and Tucker hovering behind her.

"Deep breaths, Fenton," Tetslaff says.

It would be great advice if breathing didn't make his chest expand, and his chest expanding didn't make the gash on his side strain against the few stitches that hadn't popped when Dash rammed into him at full speed. What the hell. That was such a dick move.

"Okay, Fenton. You're out for the rest of the class. Go to the nurse if you need to," Tetslaff says.

He nods but makes no move to get up. He doesn't know if he can.

Tetslaff sees his plight, whether she understands the reason for it or not, and barks over her shoulder. "Baxter! Your fault, your problem. Help Fenton inside."

"We can take him," Tucker says. At the same time, Dash whines, "Come on, Coach. There's no way I hit him that hard."

Tetslaff sticks out an arm, holding Sam and Tucker back. "Get to it, Baxter."

Dash groans but relents and steps into Danny's field of view. Rather than kneeling, or doing anything actually helpful, he bends down a little and sticks out his hand.

Danny stares at it.

"Well? You're holding up the game, Fenton."

Danny almost gets up on his own, just to spite Dash, but the second he tries to lever himself up, his side screams, and Danny has to bite back another cry of pain. Reluctantly, he grabs Dash's hand. Dash hauls him upright, far from gentle, and sets Danny down on his feet. Dash starts forward, but Danny hangs back.

"Hurry up," Dash says.

"Just... hold on a second." Danny squeezes his eyes shuts and clamps his hands against his side. The pressure helps, a little. If he's bleeding, it'll at least hide the evidence. He really hopes he put enough gauze on the wound. He didn't exactly think he'd be dealing with this today when he wrapped it.

"Dude, we can take you," Tucker says. He and Sam haven't moved away. Even Valerie still hovers close by, giving Danny a concerned look over his friends' shoulders.

"Manson, you're team captain until Dash gets back. Foley." Tetslaff shakes her head. "Your grades aren't much better than Fenton's here. Let's go, back on the field. It's game time.

"But—"

"It's fine, guys." Danny tries to smile, but he is sure it comes out like a grimace instead. Neither of them look like they believe him.

"Ms. Tetslaff!" Valerie steps in front of the teacher. "Danny's on my team. I want to make sure he's okay. Kwan can take over as captain for me."

"Okay, fine. Now let's get back to the game, people!" Tetslaff puts a hand on Sam and Tucker's shoulder each and pushes them toward the field. Over her shoulder, Sam mouths "Thank you" at Valerie.

"Can we just hurry up?" Dash says. Before Danny is ready, Dash's hand clamps down his shoulder and starts driving him forward. Danny stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and is forced to open his eyes or else go tumbling all over again. Valerie appears on his injured side, walking fast to keep up with Dash's pace.

"Are you okay?" she asks. She reaches toward Danny, but holds back, her gaze flitting down to the hand over his ribs.

"Yeah, totally fine. I, uh, got caught up in that ghost fight yesterday, got a little bruised," he says.

"You should have told Tetslaff. She would have let you sit out," Valerie says.

"Yeah, I should have." Too bad Danny hadn't thought of that lie before. And it wasn't even a lie, technically.

The walk to the gym doors feels much farther than it did at the start of class. Dash yanks the door open once they're close enough and deposits Danny on the nearest bench. "There, you're fine. Whatever."

"Don't be such a dick, Dash," Valerie says.

Danny wobbles, bracing himself against the wall as he sits down. While Valerie helps, grabbing his arm and keeping him steady, Dash doesn't make a move.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm just gonna sit for a bit."

"If you say so." With one last concerned glance, Valerie leaves the gym.

Danny sits, one hand pressed against his side, feeling the deep, pulsing ache that won't leave. The ice he applied earlier hasn't faded yet, but if Danny's stitches are ripped as he suspects, a little numbing cold won't help for much longer.

Dash clears his throat, reminding Danny that he hasn't left yet.

"What?" Danny glares at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Sorry, or whatever. I thought you were gonna move, okay?"

"You sure sound sorry."

Dash bristles. "Whatever, Fenton. I was trying to be nice, but I guess I'll just fuck off then."

"Yeah, you do that."

Dash stomps out of the gym without looking back, slamming the door behind him. The bang echoes through the empty room. Alone at last, a whimper slips through Danny's lips. You would think that, over the years, he would get used to getting injured so much, learn to adjust to the pain. Whoever first said that was such a liar. It never stops hurting. Dizzying pain is dizzying pain no matter how often you experience it.

Danny sits for a few minutes, breathing slow and even, bracing himself for what he knows is coming. Peeling his hand away from his side, he checks his shirt. Faint pink splotches greet his eyes, not a lot, but enough to make him groan. He reaches under his shirt, slipping his fingers underneath the bandages, and probes the tender skin. His fingers come away slick and red.

"Shit." He applies a fresh coat of ice, enough to seal over the wound, and pushes himself off the bet, slick hand sliding against the wood. The entrance to the boys' changeroom lies only a few feet away, but it feels farther. He shuffles inside, bracing one hand against the wall. The hall leading in stretches for a good ten feet before cutting into a sharp right angle and opening into the main room.

The silence inside is just as oppressive as the quiet of the gym. Even though it's the middle of the school day, being here without the chatter of other boys as they change feels odd.

Danny lets himself slump onto the bench, breathing heavily

"I'm gonna kill Dash," he says to the empty room. But knowing his luck, Dash would come back as a ghost and haunt the hell out of him. It seems like the kind of asshole thing he would do

Danny fumbles for his bag, hooking his finger around the strap and dragging it close. It takes him a minute of digging to find his phone, which he stuffed inside at the start of class. He quickly checks the time. There are ten minutes left of class. More than enough time to check his side and get patched up before Tetslaff dismisses everyone to get changed.

The smart thing would be to go into one of the showers, make sure he has complete privacy, but he doesn't want to put in the effort of walking that far.

"It'll be fine," Danny says and gets to work

—

Dash doesn't return to the game. As the gym door slams beside him, he leans against the wall and stares down at his shoes. Outside, he looks composed, but in his head, his thoughts tumble about. He can't shake the image of Valerie's glare. Fenton couldn't take a hit, so what? It's not like Dash actually didanything. He's gotten Fenton a lot worse than that before. It's not his fault the guy was already banged up from some dumb ghost fight. Not his problem.

And yet, the pained cry as Dash bowled Danny over, the sight of his crumpled body on the grass... it makes Dash shudder.

"I apologized," he says. There's no one around to hear it, to justify him. He wonders what his therapist will say about this, if Dash bothers mentioning it at their next appointment.

Valerie's glare flashes through his mind again.

"Okay, fine!" He throws his arms up and shoves away from the wall. One quick moment to check on Danny, then he'll return to the game. He's only doing this so that his therapist doesn't give him that look on Monday; the look that isn't quite disappointed, because she could never be disappointed in one of her clients, but comes pretty damn close.

Dash only receives that look when he does something dumb, like shoving nerds in lockers or taking his anger out on someone else.

Dash eases the door to the gym back open and peeks inside. The bench he left Danny on is empty. A smear of red stands out against the pale wood. Dash creeps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. His heart sinks as he nears the bench, and comes to the unmistakable conclusion: blood.

Not my fault, Dash reminds himself. It does little in the way of reassurance. Walking briskly, he heads for the doors leading further into the school. If Danny is bleeding, he must have gone to the nurse. Which means he will be fine, but Dash needs to be sure.

A low groan stops him in his tracks.

For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, but then it comes again, accompanied by a pained hiss. The sound comes from the changing room. Holding his breath, he turns from the door and enters the changeroom.

Short, sharp breaths greet him, growing louder as he nears the main room. A shaky whimper cuts through, followed by a gasp.

Dash peeks around the corner. He sees Danny's shirt first, discarded on the bench. Next to it is a pile of wrappings. It looks like the ace bandages Dash uses whenever he gets a sprain, although he doesn't remember seeing Danny wearing any. And then, he looks to Danny himself and pales.

One arm drawn back, head tilted forward to see his side, Danny peels a stained gauze pad away from his bloody ribs. Suddenly, Dash can't breathe. His throat feels clogged. His heart hammers in his ear. The gash in Danny's side is easily the length of Dash's hand. It rips across his ribs and curves up toward his armpit, ending just under his arm. Dash doesn't know much about first aid, but the stitches holding the wound together look sloppy. They pull in different directions, turning what appears to be a clean cut into a wobbly mess. Around it, Danny's skin is stained red. Blood seeps between the stitches.

A few small drops slide down Danny's exposed skin as Dash watches, pooling briefly against the waistband of his gym shorts before they are absorbed

"Fuck," Dash whispers.

Danny jumps back, spinning mid-air to face Dash. In his horror, Dash doesn't think to question the impossibility of that action. Danny drops the gauze pad, which lands bloody side down on the floor, and clamps his arm down over the injury.

"What are you doing?" Danny's voice hitches, caught between an accusing growl and a startled squeak.

Dash gapes, mouth opening and closing as he searches for something to say. His mind comes up blank. "Danny, what... what the hell? What happened to you?"

Dash's voice seems to snap Danny out of his shock. All at once, his body goes rigid and his expression turns cold. "Get out."

"You need to go to the nurse!"

"DASH!" Danny bellows.

Dash stumbles back, falling against the wall. Tetslaff's laugh voice is loud. Jack Fenton's voice booms. But just now, Dash felt the floor shake under his feet. Danny's voice rumbled in Dash's chest, knocked him off his feet. The whole school must have heard it, they had to.

"I won't say it again. Get the hell out right now," Danny says.

Dash obeys. Whether it's out of fear or a genuine desire to follow Danny's will, he can't tell. He books it out of the changeroom, across the gym, and bursts outside, only to come face to face with Kwan and the rest of the class.

"Whoa!" Kwan reels back in surprise. "You missed the rest of the game. Val's team won."

"Oh, the game. Right." Dash takes a deep breath, struggling to get himself under control.

"So... you gonna let us in?"

Dash doesn't move.

"Get out of the way, Dash," Valerie says. Pushing to the front of the group, she tries to shove past him.

Dash leaps in front of her. "No!" He can't let anyone else see Danny.

"Dude, not cool. We want to check on Danny," Tucker says.

Dash wavers. Danny's friends have to know what's up with him, right? There is no way he could have stitched that up himself, not with how much struggle it took to even look at the injury. When Tucker and Sam slip by Dash, he makes no move to stop them. Their entrance opens the floodway, and soon enough everyone is pushing past Dash into the gym.

"Wait!" He latches on to Kwan's arm as his best friend passes.

"Did something happen?" Kwan asks.

Dash swallows, unsure how to answer. "Sort of?" Now isn't the right time to tell Kwan, though, not with their classmates around them, and the rest of their friends absent.

"Let's go get changed." Kwan pats Dash's shoulder and guides him forward. Every step closer to the change room, Dash's anxiety mounts. Danny reacted so poorly to one person finding him. Dash can only imagine what will happen—what stricken look Danny will wear—when half their class walks in on his shirtless and bloody.

Except, when they turn the corner into the change room proper, Danny isn't there. His stuff is gone, too. Tucker's crumpled gym shirt covers the spot where the gauze pad landed. There are no signs Danny was there at all.

#phic phight #phic phight 2021 #phanfic #phicc #dp fanfiction #danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #danny fenton #dash baxter #swagger bishie #danny/dash #deepwounds

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amporella · 3 years ago

Note

Hot take: Not all people who demonize or mischaracterize Kyle are Kyman shippers, some people simply don’t like Kyle because he’s either too bitchy or underdeveloped.

I blame Trey and Matt for picking favorites and is very clear that they favor Cartman and Randy over the other main characters, they’re not the only cartoon creators to do that, though(hello, Vivziepop).

Sure, I do like Kyle but Trey has a nasty habit of pushing him to the side or making him the butt of Cartman’s antisemitic jokes, it’s a shame that the only main character that is part of a marginalized group(he’s Jewish) is treated like dirty by the show’s creators. The marketing and even the games for this show also either sideline Kyle or portray him in a very early seasons way while the other boys generally get more accurate portrayals.

I’m not in the South Park fandom anymore due to personal reasons btw but I needed to clear this up because a lot of people believe that only Kyman shippers have a low opinion of Kyle when it’s far from the truth.

This is an interesting ask - and while I agree in that yes, not everyone who demonizes or mischaracterizes Kyle is a kyman shipper, I also feel safe saying that among the South Park fandom (or at least the slash fandom) kyman shippers do have the highest rate of mischaracterizing/demonizing him in fanworks. There are obviously other people who do so, but in my experience, I find that they aren't members of the actual South Park 'fandom'; they're much more likely to be people who watch the show for Cartman's antics and end up sympathizing with him as a result. Really, the Cartman sympathy is the root of all evil when it comes to mischaracterizing/demonizing Kyle, whether it comes from a kyman shipper or someone who isn't actively participating/interacting with the fandom; those who find Cartman to be in the right, even some of the time, often are the ones who subsequently find Kyle to be in the wrong.

I'm sure there are members of other areas of the slash fandom who follow the Cartman sympathy -> Kyle mischaracterization pipeline, but you'd be quite hard pressed to find one when compared with the proportion they exist in in the kyman subfandom. I think the aftermath of the Post Covid: Return of Covid special is a good example; many kyman fans (often big name ones) flipped their shit following Cartman's bad ending. I've seen absolutely insane takes come from that side of the fandom - including that Cartman should have legitimately killed Kyle during their fight, that Kyle was a 'hack' of a therapist and didn't actually care about anyone, and that it was Kyle's fault that Cartman 'reverted' to the way he used to be - all of which often fall under the umbrella of 'no seriously Cartman is reformed, trust me bro!!!!'. Not all Kyle demonizers/mischaracterizers are kymans, and not all kymans demonize/mischaracterize Kyle, but the dynamic inherent within kyman often lends itself to a higher frequency of that behavior among shippers.

That being said; I don't think Kyle being 'underdeveloped' is a good reason not to like him. Kyle may not be quite as developed as some of the other characters, but he's certainly undergone his fair share of character development - and I find it quite telling when people dislike Kyle for his underdevelopment yet adore Cartman despite the fact that 90% of his character is based on various types of bigotry. If a character should be disliked for their lack of legitimate 'character', Cartman should be the one getting the hate - and I don't think I need to spell out the reason why Kyle gets the short end of the fandom stick in his place.

Anyway, thank you for the ask! This was an interesting one to answer.

#asks #as always this isn't representative of every shipper

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wherethewordsare · 4 years ago

Text

I’ll Stay with You

Hey everyone, a little up front, this is a major character death fic and nearly 4k long. Be advised. Content warnings include: Bloody and Injury, Fatal Injury, Major Character Death, and Implied misuse of potions. Please be advised before reading! Thank you!

There had been no warning. Only the sound of a sword being drawn above him woke Jaskier from an already fitful sleep. He just managed to roll out of the way, Geralt’s name already on his lips.

A firm arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down to the ground as a volley of arrows whizzed overhead, close enough to ruffle his hair. His heart hammered as they stood, each taking defensive positions.

It hadn’t been the first platoon Nilfgaard had sent for his witcher and it wouldn’t be the last, but Jaskier would die on his feet before he let anything happen to Geralt. His own short sword connected with flesh and he yanked it back again before swinging for the next soldier. His form had gotten better and he had learned to fight, not just slash and hack under Geralt’s tutelage.

He wasn’t a witcher though. He wasn’t able to hear the notch of a bow and the release of an arrow as it flew through the throng and buried itself into his thigh.

Jaskier cried out but kept his feet. He still fought though he was growing faint and the hot wetness that was soaking the outside of his trousers was too much too fast. They needed to get away.

“Geralt!” He yelled and the witcher was there, his arm wrapped tightly around Jaskier’s middle, pulling him close.

“Hold on,” Geralt breathed against his shoulder. Magic vibrated in the air around them as Geralt let loose an aard, sending soldiers flying back from them and then another wave of magic as Jaskier broke the talisman around his neck.

A one way portal dropped them into another clearing miles north of where they had been. Jaskier fell to the ground, gasping as his fingers fumbled for the arrow that was still buried in his leg.

“Geralt, fuck, help.” He shook as he looked down. There was far too much blood. Even Geralt seemed to go pale as he looked down at the damage. Most of their packs were back where they had been ambushed. The only thing left to them was what Geralt had grabbed, Jaskier’s own pack with only his notebook, a spare shirt, and a salve for minor cuts.

“Hold on, Jaskier, hold on.” Geralt moved quickly, making quick work of the spare shirt, tearing it into strips and tying above the wound. “Here, take my hand,” he whispered, his voice gentle, his eyes wide with fear.

“Geralt- Geralt, dear heart. Listen…” Jaskier swallows and takes Geralt’s hands, lacing their fingers and squeezing as tightly as he can. “If I don’t make it, if you have to go on-”

Before he could finish his thought, Geralt pulled the arrow from his leg in one smooth motion. Jaskier screamed through clenched teeth, his body shaking from it. Geralt was quick to bandage him up, all the while murmuring softly to Jaskier.

“There’s an oversized bed with your name on it at the keep, you just have to stay with me,” Geralt said, his eyes never leaving the wound.

Jaskier took back Geralt’s hand after it was done with the bandages and squeezed it again, this time barely having the strength to press down into that firm palm.

“Always, dear heart, always going to stay with you.” He licked his lips and gave a wet laugh. It was now or never or he was going to go to his very early grave regretting it.

“I know where we are. This is the tail end of the path into the Blue Mountains. We’re so close I can smell Eskel’s goats.” Geralt was worried. He only talked like this with sick children and shriveled old women he couldn’t save.

Jaskier only swallowed and nodded. They set camp that night and in the morning began the long and painful trek into the mountains.

Three days. They had been on the move for three days. Every hour, Jaskier could feel his strength leaving him and every hour he tried to make Geralt face him, to hear the words he needed to say before…

Jaskier sat against a cave wall, shivering as sweat soaked through his shirt. His leg had been itching like mad since he had woken up and he feared that there had been more to that arrow than just steel. He wondered if Geralt had smelled it on him, if that was what was causing the Witcher to climb as quickly as they could into the mountains, to where there might be safety.

He looked across the small fire where Geralt cooked two winter-thin hares. He looked haggard with the closest thing Jaskier had ever seen to true fear on his witcher.

“Geralt?” He croaked, his voice cracking.

“Hmm?” Geralt didn’t even look up, seeming to instead find anything else to look at than Jaskier’s fading body.

Jaskier gave a sad smile and weakly patted the bedroll next to him. “It’s going to be cold tonight. Why don’t we have those for breakfast and you come get some sleep?”

Geralt looked up at him then, his face drawn into something he couldn’t interpret but took the rabbits off the flames and nodded.

He crossed the small space and slipped in next to Jaskier, pulling him gently down until they were tucked in the bedroll, his arms winding around the bard with barely a word. He felt rigid and unsure under Jaskier’s hands as he shifted, careful of the wounded leg.

Jaskier pressed in close to Geralt’s chest and timed his breathing to the sound of the witcher’s heartbeat under his ear. Geralt, for his part, wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him close, burying his nose into his hair. He thought with a faint chuckle that he must have reeked but Geralt didn’t seem to mind, only pressing in closer.

Sleep came for Jaskier sooner than he thought it would. He did not dream, nor did he really notice the pain. All he could feel as he drifted off were warm, though chapped, lips pressing to his forehead and words he couldn’t quite catch.

They sounded like “Stay with me”.

When morning came, Jaskier couldn’t explain what he was doing standing near the entrance of the cave, looking in where Geralt was still huddled with his back to him. His head felt foggy like he couldn’t quite remember what it was he was doing.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called suddenly, “Jaskier!”

“I’m right here,” Jaskier took a step towards Geralt and found that his legs felt sound under him.

“Jaskier…” Geralt sat up, leaning over something in front of him, his shoulders shaking. “No, no no, you fucking idiot, no. Not like this, Jask, please.” There was panic in Geralt’s voice and he was on his knees leaning down.

Jaskier stood frozen behind him as he watched over Geralt’s shoulder, where he, Jaskier, lay, pale and blue-lipped.

Geralt leaned down, trying to breathe life into his body, Jaskier's name a chant on his lips between every curse and promise he could make. Jaskier touched his own lips as they seemed to tingle for a moment but then the feeling was gone.

Geralt only pressed against his chest a few times but seemed to quickly give up before gathering Jaskier into his arms, his nose pressing back into his hair.

“Jaskier, no. I’m sorry, I’m so… I…” There was a choking sound echoing in the cave and Jaskier realized it was broken sobs as Geralt only held his lifeless body closer.

“Geralt, dear heart, I’m still- You don’t have to be sorry, Geralt. You’re safe, that’s all I could ask for.” Jaskier came around the other side and dropped to his knees, his hands reaching out for Geralt as he sat there, rocking back and forth on the frozen stone floor. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We weren’t supposed to end like this.” He wanted to scream.

“You were supposed to stay, Jask. You were supposed to stay with me.”

“Always,” Jaskier promised, “I’m always going to be here. I’m not going anywhere, Geralt. I love you, I’ll stay.”

Geralt laid his body down gently, bringing the bedroll they shared over Jaskier’s face. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I got you killed.” He looked away, swallowing, tears streaking down his face as his eyes slid right over where Jaskier’s ghost knelt in front of him. “I love you. I’m sorry I never told you.”

Jaskier was sure if he still had a heartbeat, it would have skipped right before he shattered into a million pieces. There was nothing left for him to do but to keep his promise. He followed Geralt from that cave, watching as Geralt cast an aard that closed the entrance, burying Jaskier inside, his face completely void of any emotion as he did so.

The rest of the journey to Kaer Morhen was quiet, Geralt barely stopping to eat or sleep until he had finally reached the keep. Jaskier trailed behind him in the halls, catching the looks that Geralt missed from his brothers, from Vesemir, from Yennefer when she showed up with Ciri not three days later.

He followed his witcher into his rooms and watched as he drank himself into a stupor that still couldn’t bring him sleep.

“You don’t have to do this to yourself, Geralt. I’d die for you a thousand times if it kept you safe,” Jaskier whispered. He couldn’t brush back the silver hairs that fell into Geralt’s face as he slumped over his writing desk.

He looked down at the book that was open and recognized it as his journal. He was sure he’d blush if he could. It was a page towards the back that Geralt had opened to, where Jaskier had done a rough sketch of Geralt grooming Roach. It hadn’t been his best work, but he kept it with him anyways.

“Oh, you were never meant to see that,” he winced, sliding up onto the desk beside Geralt’s outstretched arm. He reached down as if to grab his hand and sighed when his fingers only managed to slide through it without so much as a twitch.

“Should have protected you, should have saved you. Always losing you,” Geralt slurred, his eyes closed. “Always losing the ones I should have protected.”

“Oh, dear heart,” Jaskier leaned his elbow onto his knee, wiping a hand over his face. He wondered how long he would be like this, not that he was complaining. He had promised. He was still going to follow his witcher.

The years slipped past them, Geralt witchering, Jaskier following. The only difference seemed to be that Geralt had finally found it in himself to start talking to Jaskier, only when Jaskier couldn’t respond.

That first season out, Geralt found a contract on a notice board.

“Looks like a cockatrice, Jask,” he murmured quietly, reading over the paper. “They’ll swindle me for sure, always with fucking cocatrices.” He gave a small smile looking up. “You know, the only time they didn’t was when you’d come flying at the alderman like a cockatrice yourself, all color and spit and barbs.”

“You always stopped me though.” Jaskier leaned against the board, his head resting on the worn wood as he watched Geralt fondly. “I worry you’ll never see a proper payment again unless you find another bard.” The idea twisted something where his chest used to be. Geralt travelling with anyone else always seemed to do that, even before his untimely demise. “But at least now I can follow you into battles without you having to worry about me getting hurt, eh?”

Jaskier followed Geralt like he always had, trailing behind him as he met with the alderman, to his room at the inn, watching as he checked over his potions.

“Come back in one piece.” Jaskier winced at the old habit that hadn’t seemed to die with him.

“Stay out of trouble while I’m-” Geralt turned and frowned at the empty room. “Right then.” He only growled and slung his swords over his back before stalking back out of the room.

They had stopped on the edge of a ravine and Geralt looked down the craggy face, scowling. He downed his potions without a second thought and began the climb down.

And then-

Jaskier was suddenly back in the room at the inn, Geralt with his back to him, grunting as he curled in on himself.

“What the fuck just happened?” Jaskier asked. He came around the other side of Geralt. There was a nasty cut along his arm but it wasn’t anything Geralt couldn’t handle, he knew.

“Bollocks! Really!? Finally, a way to follow you into battle and, what? I can’t? Why?” Jaskier threw his arms in the air in frustration.

Geralt made a low sound, the needle shaking in his hand as he stitched his arm. His eyes kept flicking up to his potions, lined across the low table. Jaskier looked him over, watching the last of the toxicity fade from his veins.

“You know, I keep asking why am I here, but I’m starting to wonder.” Jaskier tried to run his hands through the muck that still clung to Geralt’s hair, sighing as his fingers simply faded through him. “Am I here because you’ve chosen to let me haunt you?” He clucked his tongue. “Foolish witcher, let me go. You don’t need to punish yourself.”

“Hmm.” Geralt stood, crossing to the basin to wash away the remaining blood on his arm and hands.

Jaskier climbed into the bed and waited for Geralt to take his usual position beside him. He sang quietly as his witcher drifted off into his usual restless sleep, Jaskier’s name never far from his lips.

And so it went for several seasons, Geralt fighting battles Jaskier could not witness, only able to linger beside him when the nights grew quiet and Geralt would try to drown himself in women and liquor and the desperate pace of travel.

After one fight, Jaskier returned to find Geralt hunched over his potions, muttering to himself as he pulled one from the bag with surprisingly shaky hands.

“What are you doing? Did you not kill the beast?” Jaskier was kneeling in front of him, unable to reach out, unable to be heard. He looked between the bottle and Geralt’s face and frowned.

“I see,” he whispered softly.

It had been a long time at this point and Jaskier was realizing that the only time he was not with Geralt was when Geralt didn’t think of him, so far only when he gave himself over completely to his witcher senses and instinct.

“Does thinking of me hurt you so deeply, Geralt?” If he were able to cry he would. Instead all he could do was look on as Geralt slowly uncorked the bottle. “I do not blame you for wanting to outrun your ghosts, but please. Not like this.”

Geralt brought the bottle to his lips and for a moment it felt like his eyes had flicked to Jaskier’s, wide and wounded. He pulled the bottle away, corking it and shoving it back into his bag.

“You’d think me a coward, I know.” Geralt pulled out his flask instead, taking a hard pull of the White Gull he kept with him constantly now.

“Still the bravest man I know.” Jaskier smiled sadly.

As years went on, Jaskier noticed he was starting to lose time. Slowly there would be a day missing where he started with Geralt in one place and ended up somewhere else completely. Usually when he would appear again, Geralt was already settling into a room or brushing down Roach, idle things that let the witcher’s thoughts wander.

“Would you have written new songs by now? You’d be what, sixty?” Geralt hummed. “You’d hate old age, vain as you are- were.”

“Oh, back to this are we? Haven’t been insulted in a while. Though kind of you to say sixty. I think we’re coming up on eighty easily, dear heart.” Jaskier murmured fondly, leaning against the stall to watch Geralt work.

The time between these moments was clearly growing. Every time he saw Geralt he looked more worn, more weary. New scars were cropping up between his visits. He especially hated when he came back to find Geralt sewing himself back together after a particularly bad fight or when he was being chased out of various towns.

It felt like that was when he thought of Jaskier the most, when there was no one there to defend him. No one to care for him. He showed in the moments Geralt felt most alone in the spaces Jaskier used to fill. His gaunt face still holding the same disappointed scowl it always did when villages turned on him. Jaskier knew it made Geralt feel like a monster. It filled him with a rage so powerful, it nearly vibrated the medallion on Geralt’s chest.

“You’re not, Geralt. I know you’re not! I wish you listened to me then or could hear me now.” Jaskier pleaded, pacing in front of the witcher, his arms thrown wide. “You’re still a hero.” He would have wet his lip the way he used to if he could feel it. “Still my hero, witcher.”

“Maybe they’re right. I just bring death wherever I go.” Geralt murmured as he set up camp.

Jaskier felt himself slowly fade, flickering as Geralt knelt for meditation, every breath blurring his vision until the void took him again.

It was dawn or maybe dusk, but all Jaskier knew was that it had been a long time since Geralt last thought of him. There were too many scars along his wiry arms where his sleeves were pushed up, his feet dangling into the water of a stream. He sat on the edge of a rock, his head in his hands.

Jaskier went to say something and found that he couldn’t, his mouth opening and closing but no sound came forward.

“A hundred years,” Geralt swallowed. “A hundred years and I’ve forgotten the sound of your voice.” He sounded wounded, his voice cracking with sorrow and age. “I’d give every single one of them back if I could just… remember.” He pressed his palms over his eyes and shook. “The world keeps changing, and you’re still gone and I’m still here.”

Jaskier dropped to his knees beside Geralt, his hands reaching out to touch the man that would not let him go.

It was his hands that caught his attention. They were barely shadows at the ends of his arms. Jaskier looked down in silent panic as he realized he was fading. Geralt was forgetting him. A mixture of relief and agony tore through him. All he wanted to do was scream but all he could do was sit there in silent horror as he watched Geralt fall to pieces.

Rest, witcher. He thought, swallowing down the silent tears he was no longer able to shed. Rest, my love, your path is almost at its end. Do you know all the good you’ve done?

Geralt took a steadying breath, looking up and out over the river, his once brilliant yellow eyes dulling around the pupils.

I’ll stay, Geralt. I promise. As long as you’ll have me, I’m going to stay. Jaskier silently promised. He leaned forward as though to press his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder. He could have sobbed when the world tilted and he simply passed through him, unable to even comfort him from the other side.

Beside him Geralt took another breath before pulling his feet from the stream. He turned and gathered his swords and once more, there was nothing.

Time had lost meaning. There had only been brief fleeting moments where Geralt seemed to remember his bard, unable to perceive the ghost that followed him still. Jaskier’s own memory was starting to grow fuzzy. Why was he here? Why did he want to protect this man sitting alone by the fire? Where was his voice?

He remembered having a lute and a book of songs and an amazing adventure filled with heroics and heartbreak, with destiny and death. He could remember the taste of wine and the smell of sea salt and the feel of a calloused hand cupping his cheek as he laid in a cave decades upon decades ago.

Jaskier stood in the door of a dusty stone room, the window overlooking a mountain range he could not name.

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” came a voice, cracked and ancient and so very very tired.

Jaskier followed the voice to a pile of deteriorating furs. He knew that face, scarred and weathered as it was. He knew that song. Something in him flared as he reached out with almost solid fingers.

“Geralt?” He whispered.

The pile rose with a shaky breath and then the man, the witcher, his witcher, drew no more breath.

“Oh dear heart, you took so long.” Jaskier chuckled sadly. “I’m so glad you thought of me. I’d never be able to live with myself if you died alone.”

“Can’t live with yourself anyways,” came a rumbling voice from behind him.

Jaskier whipped around and gasped. Geralt stood only a few strides away. His body whole again, the scars faded to fine silver lines, like threads of moonlight caught under his skin. Around him was a warm glow and it called Jaskier home like a beacon.

“Geralt!” Jaskier stood frozen on the spot.

“You stayed.” Geralt hummed, taking a small step forward.

“You asked me to. Besides, what was I going to do, let you go on without me?” Jaskier laughed, his arms itching to reach out, to see if he could just…

“Stubborn,” Geralt growled but there was no heat to it as he stalked closer.

“Yes you are, dear heart. Come here.”

“Two hundred years, Jaskier.” Geralt took another step, his chest seeming to heave.

“You took so much longer than I thought you would.” Jaskier shot back but he was grinning.

“Jaskier.” It was the same old warning bite that Geralt used when he was treading on thin ice.

“Hello.” He was beaming. The room around them had been dim when he appeared but now it seemed to glow.

“Hard-headed.” Geralt surged forward, his arms wrapping solidly around Jaskier, lifting him easily as he buried his face into Jaskier’s neck.

“Are you going to kiss me, witcher or just keep throwing-”

He was cut off when Geralt pulled back just far enough to crush their mouths together, warm and perfect and bright as the sun.

“Absolute bastard.” Geralt smiled as he pulled back, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier laughed, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck. “I’ve missed you too.” He felt tears, actual tears slide down his cheeks as he clung to Geralt. The room around them seemed to vibrate as they clung to one another, filling with a warm light once more before falling forever dark again, the wind whipping through where they once stood.

They say deep in the Blue Mountains, if you are brave enough, there is a keep that once belonged to the witchers of old. For many years, they said it was haunted by the ghosts of all the ones the witchers had lost.

They say Jaskier had stayed. He had stayed and waited, doing in death what he had done in life; following his witcher. That only when his witcher followed was he able to finally leave, hand in hand.

But that is only if the stories are to be believed. The ghosts of the witchers have long since departed, only staying as long as they were needed.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cw: blood and injury #cw: fatal injury #ghost jaskier #lonely geralt #cw: main character serious injury #cw: violence #cw: blood #life of a witcher #geralt feels guilty #promises kept #sad geralt #bittersweet ending

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