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redrobin-detective · 6 months

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the things we lost to the ice

It didn't quite sink in until Gunter put on the crown and became an Ice... something that it was all over. He was back as himself, with his body and brain and awkward personality, permanently. It didn't feel like last time, like each breath was bringing him closer to his last. Simon was also somehow back in his old favorite suit, with its worn elbows and his glasses clean and unbroken. He even couldn't feel the crown whispering in the back of his mind anymore. It was as GOLB had taken him back to just moments before he'd worn the crown for the first time, intending to tease Betty.

Oh Betty.

"Hey so uh, who are you?" Simon looked up from the rock Marcy had set him on to see Flame Princess staring at him curiously. Right she was... literally made of fire. He knew that, Simon blinked. Wait he did actually, his brain retained lots of facts about Ooo and it's people. It was his or, well, Ice King's personal experiences that felt fuzzy. "Because you came out of the GOLB thing together with Finn but I've never seen you before. Marceline seemed to know you though." She tilted her head and frowned, "Finn told me he was the last human, was that another lie?"

"Get away from him!" He heard Marcy screech as she rocketed over from where she'd been talking to Bubblegum and some other candy people. Her arm wrapped protectively around him, her sharp nails digging into his clothes and her batlike face pressed against his own. Her skin was cold like death. He hated how he tensed with instinctual fear at having a predator so close. This was his Marcy, his precious little girl. She was different than he remembered but she loved him, she wouldn't hurt him. He clenched his fists so they didn't shake.

"Hey Marcy! Don't worry, F.P. is cool!" Finn shouted, galloping over with a big grin on his face. "Oh man, so much just happened but Simon are you back-back, like for realsies? That is so math!" Finn hug tackled him and Marcy.

"Still waiting on an explanation," Flame Princess grumbled.

"So she actually got you free, how joyous," Magic Man -no, Normal Man- said with a small smile but his eyes were sharp. "I suppose the power of GOLB is the only thing strong enough to undo elemental wish magic. Congratulations, Ice King, welcome back to reality."

"Wait Ice King?" Flame Princess gaped and Simon realized that -with the major world ending threat neutralized - they were now the center of attention. It's only just occurring to him that his window to divorce himself completely from Ice King and pretend he was someone else was about to close forever. Just like the chance to hold Betty in his arms again.

"Yea!" Finn explained, wrenching around to address Flame Princess and gagging Simon by putting him in a headlock. "It's a long story -seriously long, he's like over a thousand years old or something- but Simon put on the crown only he didn't know it was hecka cursed. It possessed him and piloted his body like a meat puppet, turning him into Ice King and made him act all Banaynay."

"It took him a while for him to become Ice King though," Marcy said, shifting Simon slightly out of Finn's grip so she was hugging him from behind with her chin propped on his head. "He rescued me when I little before I was bit by the Vampire King. Simon took care of me after the world ended, he even showed me the basics of playing guitar." She nuzzled him and gave him a gentle squeeze, "I missed you so much, you have no idea."

"I missed you too, Sweet Girl," he murmured back. He'd been here the whole time but at the same time, been very far away. There's hazy memories of this older Marceline, her songs echoing somewhere in his head. Mostly he remembers her frowning over whatever crazy thing Ice King had been doing at the time.

"Whoa, you taught Marcy! I had no idea you were so musical," Finn shouted before looking thoughtful. "Well I guess IK used to play on his drums or his keyboard a lot now that I think about it." He smiled, a goofy teenage smile despite the missing teeth and scars from numerous adventures. "I guess you weren't totally gone."

"It doesn't justify the constant harassment and kidnapping of innocent Princesses," Bubblegum said primly.

"Bonnibel," Marcy growled.

"But I'm willing to forgive past grievances so long as it doesn't happen again. You are, after all, practically a new man." Bubblegum noted. "I presume it was born out of subconscious desire to find Betty again, the crown fixating on that desperation for love. Of course, Betty is gone now so it's all rather a moot point, isn't it?"

"Bonnie, seriously, now is not the time," Marcy warned. The fresh reminder of Betty's sacrifice, the permanence of it hit him again. Insanity had overwhelmed his depression and loneliness and loss of identity, redirected it. Now nothing could distract him from that sucking chest wound of loss threatening to consume him.

"Uhhh hey Simon!" Finn interrupted with a manic smile. "Can't wait to learn all about human stuff from you! I bet you can even teach the Islanders a thing or two, pretty sure they've forgotten what it's like to be human. But you know all sorts of humany stuff I bet. It's gonna be awesome learning where I come from." Good lord, was someone going to love and support this beautiful child or was it up to him again?

Finn reached out with his remaining hand and grabbed one of Simon's own, lacing them together. Simon jolted and looked at their conjoined hands before spreading their palms and fingers together. His pinky finger only met empty air.

"Oh my god Finn, have you only ever had four fingers?" He balked. Ice King's memories weren't that reliable, he couldn't actually recall.

"Don't you mean glob and uh yeah, that's the normal amount I think," Finn shrugged, squinting at Simon's pinky. "What do you need that extra one for anyhow? Does it have special powers or something?"

"Yeah, I always thought that was weird," Jake said from somewhere behind Finn. "Marcy has an extra one too, figured it was just how things were before the Mushroom War."

"It was actually a nuclear holocaust that wiped out pretty much all life on earth and mutated the rest beyond recognition but sure," Simon said with a hysterical edge in his voice as the weight of his situation pressed down on him.

He was a thousand years removed from the world he knew, a world that now only existed as ruins or twisted, funhouse mirror replicas. Simon was totally alone, the only person who remembered the way things were before. Marcy was here but she'd made the journey through time naturally, she'd adapted and likely forgotten. He no longer had magic and, without it, he wouldn't be allowed into Wizard City. The Ice Kingdom was now Gunter's and the humans of the future have changed in ways he could hardly recognize.

Sometimes the past is a different country, sometimes it's a black hole taking everything down with it.

"Hey dude, you've probably gotta use the bathroom like super bad," Jake said as he broke through the crowd. He gently manhandled Simon away from the well meaning arms of people who were both dear loved ones and strangers all at once. "You haven't whizzed as yourself in like a million years, we better find a place to get your man biz done."

"Wait but-" Marcy said reaching out but Bubblegum grabbed her hand and pulled her away. The rest of the onlookers slowly backed off, going back to the post fight cleanup. As Jake led him away, he made brief eye contact with Normal Man who'd once been a magical god and was now just a man. Simon would probably have out and out collapsed if Jake wasn't steadying him.

"Look, we're just gonna walk away and when we round this corner where no one can see, I'll leave you alone to do whatever you need to do." Jake soothed. "I can hold off Marcy and Finn for maybe 10 minutes, 12 tops. You focus on your breathing and if you gotta hurl, just do it, holding it in jacks you all up." He lowered Simon to the ground once they were out of sight. Simon immediately went into the fetal position.

"You're good at this," Simon noted even as the stress and panic and misery washed over him. He pushed his glasses up into his hair and buried his face in his knees. Jake rubbed his shoulders, it felt good, grounding.

"I've talked Finn through a lot of these episodes before, the kid's been through a lot. You have that in common. You and Finn might have some different physical traits but you're both human. You just had a lot of junk thrown at you so you don't need to figure it all out now. That's what the rest of your life is for. I'll keep the worry squad off your back as long as I can. Take it easy, Simon but, either way, you gotta take it."

Jake went back to the crowd leaving only his wisdom. He was right, no matter how miserable or overjoyed he was over the circumstances, this is the way the dice fell. He had no choice but to take it, to use Betty's sacrifice on his behalf to do whatever he wanted with his remaining time. And he was mortal now, time affected him once more so he had to learn quick.

He had no idea what he would do or even who this new Simon Petrikov, PhD student and aspiring antiquarian was. Just being able to think coherently and regulate his words and actions was a strange miracle he hadn't fully digested yet. Things would be okay, he would be happy once more but, for now, he thought it was okay to sit here in the dirt and cry for everything he'd lost to the ice.

#adventure time #simon petrikov #finn the human #marceline the vampire queen #its been so long since Ive done any writing this was fun #takes place like right after Come Along with Me #still thinking about simon coming to grips with being himself again and now he has to DEAL with all that baggage he didnt as IK #not to mention the rest of Ooo matching up IK with Simon #Jakes a good dude #also lol sometimes Finn is drawn with 5 fingers sometimes 4 #I think its a fun nod to cartoon characters having 4 fingers but also an easy way to show that Finn and Simon are both humans but different #simon is also adopting him no take backsies #anyway here's a sad old man

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mutantninjamidlifecrisis · 1 year

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very rough sketch of future Donnie for my latest chapter

I always had a cyberpunk-ish design in mind for his mask/respirator and was inspired by hiroto ikeuchi's pieces.

#future donnie #rottmnt #wanted this a little cleaner but ive been in the middle of exams & really wanted to get my visual idea of him out there #i've been planning on painting this but its been a long time since ive done art and there's a lot of detail in that mask #i dont have any computer software/digital training for art so im going in with the acrylics and that may... not go well #if it doesn't work ill just go back and sketch up a cleaner image #my boy is EXHAUSTED #mutant ninja midlife crisis #tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise donnie #rottmnt fanart #my art

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southern--downpour · 1 year

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MY WORK FOR @dsmpherozine !! @salt-oftheearth did SUCH a great job on the script and it was so fun to work on this with everyone!!!!! So happy with how this came out and SO fuckin hyped seeing everyones works put together!!!!!

#dream smp #philza #kristin minecraft #philza minecraft #cphilza #god its been so long since ive posted any dsmp related art lmao #this will. probably also be the last! but im really happy i got to be involved in this its such a cool project i had so much fun with it #virgil arts #man this is so cool #im gonna keep saying that over and over again lmao #also. shout out to the mods for being so nice about delays lmao i got so busy the last month and was trying so hard to get it done on time

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feline-evil · 1 month

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(OC x Canon) Jax is making song suggestions, Nathan is not listening <3 Duuuuude you should totally make a song about like. Cyborg warrior orcas....

#metalocalypse #nathan explosion #mtl oc #oc x canon #my art #I HAVE BEEN WANTING TO DRAW MY SMOOPY W MY STUPID SELFSHIP/OCXCANON GUY FOR A WHIIILE TEEHEE #LIL NERVIS ITS BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE IVE DONE ANY FANDOM STUFF LIKE THIS B4 JAX BUT UM. BE NICE IM HAVIN FUN

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nerosdayinanime · 8 months

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wait. random idea. Pathetic(blame candy) muzan & kokushibo are exes from Centuries ago and he has Complaints hed like to talk about w him but all hes getting to now is Nakime. hes so sick of his bullshit and just enduring it and goes to kagaya like 'i have to kill kibutsuji. ill help you kill him & the other upper moons just PLEASE im so sick of this shit. i need to kill him' 'well you arent killing me so ill give you the benefit of doubt-'

since they broke up he's hacked at the curse to the point he can snap it Whenever without muzan noticing, he finally did so & went to kagaya bc he can Feel shit's gonna pick up soon. he has his memories but he Ignores Them bc hes ashamed and kinda projecting it onto muzan. he has to kill muzan to kill his shame kinda fucked up coping mechanism yk?

the hashira try to kill him On Sight together but he calmly deflects everything while explaining hes working with them to kill kibutsuji. reluctant acceptance with the note from kagaya giving him a pass. most of them fully believe its a trap tho.

koku seeing tanjiro & his earrings and starting to approach, giyuu already has his blade lodged in his neck as a warning/threat & tanjiro staring at him in shock like 'HUH?? THE MAN FROM MY DREAMS?? HES A DEMON NOW? WAIT WHATS HE DOING HERE-'

#allied kokushibo au #he gets to have a conversation w tanjiro (giyuu watching like a fucking hawk) about his brother & sun breathing and all that- nezuko and her #conquering the sun- koku agreeing that of any demon she deserves to have the sun's blessing. not fuckin *muzan*. he'll want his grubby #little hands on her as soon as he finds out. You. practice sun breathing Right Now you have to be Ready for this.#kokushibo #tsugikuni michikatsu #kny spoilers #<probably need to add that since this is like Entirely surrounding the final few arcs #he talks to tomayo&yushiro and shinobu and gets in on their plans. maybe stop shinobu from her suicide attempt & deals with douma himself #leaves more than just tanjiro and giyuu to fight akaza #i dont remember how kaigaku's goes isnt zenitsu the only one? if so he can keep that thats his atonement whatever for jigoro #nakime however is going to have much more of a Time defending against like 4 hashira at once #yadda yadda less casualties happier ending. koku not knowing what the fuck to do now. stop the need to Eat People to live obviously but what #the fuck. he still hates himself. all the tereible shit hes done and for What. does he kill himself? walking into the sun seems like a good #way to go. fitting yk? but if he becomes fully human like nezuko did what the fuck does he Do. just. Live? after all the shit he did? no..#cool at the beginning but the ending has many questions #i do think he'd want to kill himself but i also think he'd be scared to see his brother in the afterlife. in canon it feels like a spur of #the moment Explode Yourself bc the emotions were overwhelming in the moment #or maybe its been way too long since ive read the manga and this shits ALL out of character #whatever it was funnie at first but then i put too much thought into it #def wanna see somethn with him & tanjiro talking about how theyre connected #kny manga spoilers

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whumble-beeee · 17 days

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What's In a Name?

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 8

Content: mentioned past attempted noncon, hysterical whumpee/nervous breakdown (seriously yall, it gets bad), disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, past captivity references

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[While following this guide, as well as generally while playing the wonderful game that is villainy, you will find that the advice can rarely be fitted to every specific scenario. But one piece of advice is universal: If you value your freedom, your loved ones, and your life, you must never reveal your secret identity to your captured hero. As soon as you do, there is no more facade. Villainy is no longer a game. It is your life. And heroes will not hesitate to destroy your life if it means they can win the game.

If a hero (or ANY untrusted party) ever happens upon your secret identity, it is your responsibility, as a villain and as a human being, to accept the end of your life as you know it…

Or to ensure that the hero can never tell another living soul.]

* * * * * * * *

“See you soon?” Deeby repeated Sweater-vest’s last words incredulously. “See you soon?! Christ, and you know he knows– god, he just needs to stop being such un pendejo and shut the hell up, stop making everything about his goddamn god complex and shoving it en las caras de todos–”

The sudden anger from the usually cool and smug Deeby did not help the apparent panic attack seeping ever so quickly into Stan’s consciousness, especially with said seething bounty hunter circling around the room like an angry shark as he muttered to himself and gesticulated wildly.

Stan cowered to hide his shirtlessness from said angry shark. His chest and limbs started to buzz from all the excess oxygen entering his system as he took in heavy breaths, his head spinning, dizzy, hurting, every muscle clenching.

“--y quién se cree ese cabrón para venir a joderme MI TRABAJO?”

He was so angry. So loud, talking so fast, and what the hell was he even saying?! It was too much, too much.

“Y la puta Lana no puede ni aparecer para decirme que me está jodiendo la vida OTRA VEZ porque es lo único que le encanta hacer, joderme TODO lo que–”

Stop it stop it stay calm stay calm please not now please please please not now you can’t show weakness like this in front of your kidnapper you can’t stop it STOP IT–

He took in an involuntary loud heaving breath. Then fell into a stuttering slew of smaller breaths as he tried to keep quiet, and Deeby finally took notice of the state of his captive.

Stan squeaked and pulled the jacket around himself tighter. He was small, he was silent, he was invisible.

Then he gasped in another desperate heaving breath with an involuntary cry of panic when he suddenly ran out of air. He’d stopped breathing entirely with all his efforts.

“Stan? Qué es–... Ah, you good?”

Stan nodded quickly, shaking. “F-fine, fine.”

Deeby raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t lie to me. What is this, you having a panic attack?”

He couldn’t get his eyes to focus, but he shook his head fervently. Then reeled as it made the dizziness and headache so much worse.

“Stan, talk to me, chiquito. If he actually did something to you, tell me. I need a good reason to kill him, you’d be helping me out a lot.”

He didn't actually even hurt me, did he?

“No–! I-I u-uh-uh yes-s-s, but– but–”

I don't WANT to ‘help you out’! I don't want to talk about it! ESPECIALLY not with you.

He let out a whine and failed to swallow the giant knot forming in his throat.

“Alright, is this about the shirt then? Or the uh, the chest thing? Is that why you went from colonizer white to ghost white when you thought I was gonna make you strip earlier?” He walked over to the tattered shirt and scooped it up. “Because if that's what got you, I can assure you I don’t give a single crap what you’ve–... got in your...”

Deeby trailed off as he held up the grey strips of fabric that used to be Stan's button-down.

And just stared.

Stan gawked at the unrecognizable shredded fabric hanging in the bounty hunter's hands. His breath caught in his throat. He hadn't realized how utterly destroyed his beloved shirt was. What was he supposed to wear now?

“That… Motherfucker…” Deeby muttered, almost as as aghast as Stan. “Christ, I knew he'd pull some grade-A bullshit, but this–”

“Y-you KNEW?!” Stan gasped out, surprising himself with the volume of his outburst. “You– You knew he was gonna– gonna try to...”

Deeby didn't look up from the tatters in his hands. “Yeah. He's predictable, if nothing else.”

Stan's entire body felt like it was full of angry bees. “You–... You left me-e alone with ‘im. On pu-urpose.”

“And everything turned out fine, you're fine. Look runt, we need to have a little talk about what–”

“NO!” Stan cried, ignoring the drop in his stomach when Deeby's eyes took on a slight challenging glint at the interruption. “No, don’t change the subject! You left me alone with him! You knew he was gonna try to– to rape me and you left me alone with him! Handcuffed, chained to the floor, powerless, immobile, beat up to hell and– a-and unable to defend myself and you-you left me alone with him!”

The floodgates were opening. The stifling sense of justice suffocating Stan from the inside out wouldn’t let the injustices go unsaid any longer, crashing through his body and just about ready to make him burst. Ironic, given the everything.

Deeby’s jaw set. “Stan. I wouldn’t have left that shit-for-brains alone with anyone if I didn’t have to.”

“Oh, but you– you had to?” Stan taunted, hoping the sarcasm came through in his voice even with the stuttering and heaving breaths. “What, Dee-deeby the great bounty hunter actually answers to someone? Enough to put the uh, the bounty in danger? Or are you just scared of him, wanted to get away?!”

Deeby snorted.

“Hell yeah, I'll do whatever if the buyer asks it,” he proclaimed. "And I'm not scared of that human cringe-fail. The day I'm scared of him is the day I'm dragged away screaming and turned into… well, you, basically. But I mean, that's when he's actually dangerous…"

He seemed to think on it for a moment. Then crouched down in front of Stan, smug grin replaced with something like the look a friend gives when they think you're about to ruin your life with a single dumb decision.

“Honesty, bud… I wouldn't be so tough around a guy like that if I were a guy like you. Best to just fuel his ego.”

Stan physically recoiled. “Don't tell me what–! Who-wh–…”

That insult sounded way too genuine. Since when was the mercenary genuine?

“Wait, wait, you'd…” Stan shook his head, trying to untangle his thoughts from the spaghetti of his mind. This concussion was killing him. He could barely think. “If you were… Who even was th-that?”

Another chuckle. “What, Tweedy? That was Vaughn. He said that earlier, though I applaud your ability to block him out. Wish I could do that.”

Then again, the hunter was most likely just trying to psych him out. Get him to behave again. Stan wouldn't fall for something like that.

“No, idiot, I mean–... I meant who is he? Why is he going to-to see me soon?… And– and for that matter, are you working together? Because it seems like you hate each other.”

Deeby let out a huff of air. “Look, bud, we need to talk about that phone call I had to take, the boss–”

“You're avoiding the question.”

“Well frankly, there's more important things to talk about,” Deeby dismissed quickly. “So I was talking with the boss-lady on the phone while you were–”

“I don’t care about what that Lana person has to say!” Stan said, slamming his hands on the floor for effect, a breath-stealing pang running through his ribs at the jostling. “Jus– Just tell me who you guys are, tell me why I’m here, tell me why I should be scared of ‘a guy like that’! Who ARE you?!”

Deeby narrowed his eyes slightly. “We need to talk about what's going to happen to you next. And you're gonna listen to that. Not yell demands at me like some asshole 6-year-old, because you already know I don't deal with all that ‘who am I, secret identity’ crap, so you're not getting those answers.”

Well actually, judging by the horrible sticky weight that slammed Stan in the gut when Deeby said that, he didn't want to know what horrors awaited him next. So next best thing? Keep being an asshole 6-year-old.

“Why?”

“Anonymity is the most valuable tool you can have in this game.” Deeby recited it like a script, exaggerating a monotone boredom. “Also I'm not an idiot, it's protocol that's saved me before, it helps me do my job without getting invested… take your pick.”

“You're not even wearing your mask any more!” Stan cried. “So much for secret identity!”

“I think what you're meaning to say is ‘thank you for rushing to save my damsel-in-distress ass from some twink with scissors when you heard me screaming for help even though you were dealing with a really important phone call from the worst person ever’. And you're very welcome. Now we need to talk about what I found out in that dumbass phone call and what it means for you.”

He always had an answer for everything, huh? Always another quip.

Stan's blood started to boil, and he may have actually, genuinely growled a little.

“S-so-so so what, you are scared of her, then? You're scared of her and that's why you left me with that monster?!” He tried, spitting back as much smug asshole-ness as Deeby had been throwing at him. “Is that why you hate them, you’re just their damn lackey doing whatever they tell you to do?! Just a puppet for them to guide around, running around capturing supers and serving them up on a silver platter like a good little servant?!”

Deeby stared at him, genuinely stunned by the sudden venom in the captive's words. His fists clenched by his side.

Hm. Stan may have gone too far.

“Look, McKellen,” Deeby spat as he took an authoritative step forward, voice slow, low and dark. “There are things at play here that you can’t know about–”

“Why not?!” Stan felt like he was losing it, voice creaky and high and hoarse. “Obviously I’m gonna be trapped here with you assholes for the rest of my short life until you kill me with some new form of torture experiment bullshit! Why not tell me everything?! Why not do whatever you want with me?! Just tell me! Please!!”

Stan glared desperately at the bounty hunter. He knew he wasn’t even just crossing the line at this point; he was sprinting over the line and stomping on it repeatedly in a panic-fueled frenzy, kicking at it and letting out his full fury as if the line itself had done this to him, as if absolutely decimating the line would somehow fix everything.

Way deep down, almost too far down to admit to himself, he almost hoped the mercenary would see through the insults and the fighting to see the pleading, hurt, scared man underneath. And then take pity. Just let him have this one thing, before he broke entirely.

But the bounty hunter glared right back at him.

“No.” He stated venomously. “Right now, you're going to shut up. And listen.”

As if Stan would ever listen to the orders of his kidnapper. Of a villain.

A small laugh, just a little chuckle, took root his chest. A disbelieving smile cracked across his face.

The absence of the signature unbothered grin, the absence of the mask, the deathly seriousness? Not to mention the gun, the knives, the chains, the handcuffs, the power suppressing collar, no cane or crutch or any viable mobility aid in sight, and beaten so hard multiple times that he probably couldn't run properly anyway even if he did have a knee that actually worked…

This really was hopeless, wasn't it?

He could rage against the dying of the light all he wanted. Scream and shout and cry and fight and say witty things to hide the excruciating, never-ending pain.

But the light would still die all the same.

He clutched Deeby's very own stupid cowboy-ass jacket around his shoulders. He couldn't even defend himself from getting his shirt ripped to shreds right off his body!

And this bitch–

“You– you don't think…” he had to pause to let out a barrage of inappropriate giggles, then shoved up shakily to his feet, back braced against the wall. “You don't still think I'm gonna– that, that I'm gonna escape, do you?!”

Deeby gave pause, eyeing Stan up and down. Really thinking about it. He took a deep breath. A low grumble emanated from the base of his throat.

“No. I don't.”

Stan laughed out again, full force this time. Desperate. Tearful.

“Then just–... just TELL ME!! IT DOESN'T MATTER!! IT DOESN'T!! IT'LL DIE WITH ME!!”

The mercenary's mouth pressed into a thin line. Was that confusion etched into his features? Or worry? Maybe anger…

“It does matter,” He growled through gritted teeth. “It's probably the most important thing you could know, who I am. Who we are.”

Stan let out a loud cry of anguish, screeching out every single frustration at the unfairness of the world, at this situation, at Deeby and Vaughn and whoever Lana was, at the collar and the chains and the cut and bruises and broken bones and his broken, useless knee into a single, guttural sound.

“WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME ANYTIN-GAH-AH!!”

Very, very suddenly, the lapels of Deeby's loosely draped jacket tightened around his body and slammed him back into the wall, the fleece-lined collar of the jacket twisting and pulling on the power-suppressing strap clamped around his neck, contracting it, choking him just as the slam forced all the breath out of his lungs.

Stan clawed back against the force, only managing to grasp at Deeby’s forearms uselessly as they twisted the jacket ever tighter around him. Pinning his arms. Trapping him. He had to heave in and out gasping breaths just to get enough air to breath through his half obstructed airways.

“Look at me, chiquito,” the bounty hunter snarled. “Look me in the eye!”

Stan's panicked eyes paused their sporadic dance around the room. They locked dead onto the mercenary's fiery gaze.

“Did you break your damn brain in the 3 minutes I was gone?” Deeby hissed into his ear. Stan almost screeched in terror. “I don't know what sort of fuckery your mind has been conjuring up that you can't get this very simple concept without going insane,” he jolted Stan and dragged out an involuntary whimper from his throat.

“But whatever it is, shut it down. Now. I'm gonna tell you the bare minimum of what you need to know, and you're gonna sit there and listen or else I won't tell you jack shit and knock you unconscious so I don't have to deal with your bullshit. Agreed?!”

“I– Ah, a-ah, I– No, I- I, no-no no No-o–”

He couldn't get his thoughts to line up properly. They swarmed around his head like locusts in a dust bowl, bouncing into each other, frenzied, an indecipherable cloud of fear and frustration that his horrible attempt at defiance, futile as it may have been, always just made everything worse.

He could never stop himself.

Angry tears rimmed at Stan's eyes. His body hurt. His brain pounded in his skull. His ribs cried out in protest as they pressed into the wall. The various bruises and their dull, throbbing aches, the cuts and bleeding wounds and their sharp, searing screeches, the sticky and caked on dried blood, so familiar now it was almost a second skin, Deeby's weight pinning him to the wall, so similar and yet so different to the way Vaughn had done the same.

No. No, no, no, no.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears finally falling in hot, fat drops down his cheeks. The bounty hunter was so close, too close. Stan tried to pull away, and he just leaned on him harder, their faces barely inches apart.

“Agreed, chiquito?” The voice rumbled through his entire body, sending shivers up and down his spine.

No no no no no no no he needed to get away, get away now, please please that's all he needed he couldn't get away he couldn't even move his arms he could barely breathe–

“WHY DON'T YOU JUST RAPE ME ALREADY?!” Stan screamed into the endless cacophonous void.

And silence.

And the entire world went still.

Deeby’s mouth fell literally agape.

His grip on Stan loosened considerably. Not out of pity or any other considerate emotion. Just shock.

At least Stan could finally breathe again. Not that he took a single breath in the silence.

“I–...” Deeby finally choked out. “I-I beg you finest fucking what?!”

“Just fucking do it,” Stan hissed, gasping. “We both know you could. I couldn't even stop Vaughn, you think I could stop you?!”

The words spewed out of his mouth faster than he could stop them, like a volcano that had finally exploded its top off in a fiery glory. And the way Deeby looked at him, as if his features were having an all out war over shock, horror, or honestly very justified anger? Oh, that did nothing but fan the flames of Stan's sorrow-filed hysteria.

“Tall ass muscle-bound freak with an actual gun that captured me and beat me up again and again then left me to die?! I don't even know who you are! You can do whatever you want and I can't do jack shit to stop you! Just do it, hurt me, rape me, it doesn't matter! Vaughn knew that, you can too!” Stan attempted to shove the bounty hunter off, but he still didn't move.

“Please, please, I'm begging you, is that what you want?! I'll get on my knees!”

Stan collapsed against Deeby's hold, and to his surprise, Deeby finally let him. Well, not ‘let him,’ more like ‘recoiled and jumped back when he felt Stan collapsing in his grasp'.

All the same.

“Chiquito,” Deeby rasped. “I'm– not exactly sure what or why you're demanding, but I'm not going to–”

“Why not?! It doesn't matter!” Stan assured, holding his arms out to fully present himself now, shedding the jacket onto the floor behind him and taking a daring scoot forward. “I bet you just kicked Vaughn out because you wanted me all to yourself! I bet you just love seeing me scared and helpless and half naked in your stupid fucking yee-yee jacket–”

“Alright, Stan, enough!”

“AT LEAST VAUGHN had the decency to not pretend like he was a decent fucking person like you!” Stan yelled. “We both know you're not above it, fucking professional kidnapper and torturer! So just do it! Like Vaughn wanted to, like he tried to! Finish what he started, you have me all to yourself now! DO IT! DO IT I DARE–”

“The name's Declan.”

The statement was a whisper in the storm. Stan almost missed it. But the resolute certainty of the southern twang stopped him dead in his tracks.

“What–… What did you just–?”

It was astounding how quickly his voice had turned meek from the cacophony of chaos mere seconds before. Dark freckles stood out against an even starker white face than usual.

“It's Declan,” the mercenary stated once more. “My name. My name’s Declan. You wanted t’know who we are, who I am? Fine then, I'm Declan. Want the last name too?”

“I– wait–!”

“It's Cansano. Declan Cansano.”

Stan was shaking, a million thoughts crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. If he weren't already on his knees, surely he would have collapsed.

He hadn't actually… meant any of that. No. Had he? No. He couldn't have. He didn't want to know who the mercenary was. No, he didn't. He didn't, not really! He would never want that! Never!

“That’s not… Wh-why would you…?”

The bounty hunter shrugged. “You wanted to know who I am. You asked, you screamed, you insulted me and you went fuckin’ nuts over it.” His thunder-filled eyes betrayed his completely relaxed demeanor. “Declan Cansano. Don't forget‘t.”

“I just– That's not what– Wait, Deeby, you– Where are you going?!”

Deeby was already halfway to the door when he swiftly spun around, fists clenched and any trace of the easy demeanor vanished in those bright blood-stained eyes.

“I can't fuckin’ deal with you right now!”

Stan nearly launched himself back in fear, right back onto Deeby's stupid, soft jacket. He grasped it up as a barrier between him and the mercenary without even thinking. The mercenary's demeanor relaxed from absolutely terrifying to merely extremely angry at the sorry sight.

“I'm leaving for a bit.” He whipped around and grasped for the lapels of his jacket to yank it on, only for his grasp to come up empty. He whipped around a third time. “And I'll be expectin’ my coat back when I get back! You better've calmed the hell down by then, if you know what’s good for you.”

Wait, wait, he was leaving? No!

Stan tried to scramble after Deeby, but immediately fell to the agony of his knee and the length of his leash.

“Don't go, please!” he pleaded.

Deeby didn’t stop. “Why?”

What if you come back with more torture tools?

What if you don't come back at all?

I still have more questions for you.

You can't just leave me here, I'm hurt!

I shouldn't be alone right now. I can't. I'm scared of what will happen, I'm going insane.

Even you are better than no one at all.

“What– what if Vaughn comes back?!”

Deeby scoffed. “I'm not going that far, damn. Eat some protein bars while I'm gone so you don't die, should help with the insanity. Back soon.”

And the door to the room closed shut behind him, the click echoing off the walls in the sudden unbearable silence.

Stan collapsed to the floor, defeated.

He clutched the jacket closer.

Pulled it tight around his shoulders, fingernails leaving small crescent-shaped indents on the well-worn hide. The cotton lining was so surprisingly soft against his skin. Hell, he could smell the dirt and musk that permeated the jacket from years of use, the smal signs that this jacket had seen the capture of dozens of supers.

Declan.

Declan Cansano.

Professional Superhero-Hunter.

Stan screamed into the endless abyss around him.

And this time, Declan didn’t come back to save him.

* * * * * * * *

Next (when posted)

#whump #heroes and villains #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #mentioned noncon #tw nervous breakdown #GOD this one took SO LONG TO EDIT #AND WRITE #its basically unrecogniseable from its first draft bc i just kept having new ideas that fit the themes better #and changing it to help make it make sense #usually it wouldnt be this bad but i wrote it over like 3 serperate weeks in short bursts #so i didnt have any of the usual writing fervor in it at first and the pacing was FUCKED lol #I FINALLY GOT IT THO #its still not perfect but its pretty good and i CANNOT work on this any longer #ALL OF THIS was done on my phone btw. horrible time #would not reccomend #use a computer if you can #anyway ive been thinking about this specific scenario literally since before i started writing the actual story down #it was one of the main story beats #a changing of the tides #theres gonna be a lot of those pretty soon actually

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pepprs · 9 months

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i literally need there to stop being situations circumstances events developments complications and happenstances. for the fucking love of god

#purrs #but there will never stop being any of those things so actually what i literally need is to learn HARD AND FAST how to stop getting so #fucking triggered over a situation i know is NOTHING so bad that im anxious for the entire rest of the day and can’t even get any work done.#like (jade from tesco voice) girls… im not gonna lie to you. i think therapy is not working. i think i am not mentally or emotionally strong #enough to work in this job and i think i am never going to get mentally or emotionally stronger. ive been stuck in the quicksand too long #and now im atrophying. i cannot develop the situational awareness and motor skills or awakeness (and i mean AWAKEness.) to safely and #consistently drive a car. i cannot develop the intellect and drive and courage to get an advanced degree or be in a leadership position that #everyone actually sees as a leadership position lmfao. and i cannot develop the emotional intelligence and inner peace to not get triggered #out of my fucking mind at work to the point where im having anxiety heart palpitations and fighting back tears. i am just stuck as i am #forever. and you know how i know that? BECAUSE IVE WORKED AT THE NATIONALLY RENOWNED CENTER FOR YOU-ARE-NOT-STUCK-AS-YOU-ARE-FOREVER FOR #FIVE FUCKING YEARS SINCE ITS LITERAL FOUNDING AND HELPED TO FOUND IT AND IM STILL LIKE THIS!!!!!!!!!!!! i go back to square one EVERY #FUCKING DAY!!!!!!!! how am i supposed to tell other people who they are is what they bring and the world can change and whatever when i am #the fucking antithesis of that. when i don’t even believe my own words. like the way i want to punch out every window in this building rn i #HATE BEING LIKe this i hate being in the psychic prison of scared little girl mode all the time forever no matter what and being beyond help #and disappointing and burdening the people around me because i can’t be fucking normal about like. hierarchy and institutional politics LOL #delete later

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bulbabutt · 3 months

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i flip flop between the 3 states of being able to do art, being able to communicate with others, and being able to communicate my own thoughts. these do not exist all at once.

#no i havent done any art since i post update i have been making a long ass post about transformers that ive just fact checked myself on #half of it is now debunked #also art time ends up being gaming time so 😵‍💫#diagnose this! *falls asleep*

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girlcrushau · 30 days

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#me? about to use tumblr as a diary again? in 2024? unfortunately:/#but here have a waterfall i saw on a hike last week as payment #i am sO tired and exhausted emotionally after dating #there's this guy that i fr thought was going to last and be around for a long time. we spent like every moment together that we could for 2 #months straight and if we werent physicaly together we were texting or calling or on ft . just every part of our day had the other in it #not once did i ever feel unwanted undesired or uncared for. not once did i feel that i wasnt sure of his intentions. i felt safer with him #in those 2 months than i ever did with any one else i could think to compare to.#until one day he just didnt think it important to communicate any more. after 3 days of nearly nothing .. hardly any talking . i asked if #he was ok if we were ok. what was going on in his head. he said some ive just been with my buddies and family and havent been on my phone #and just. immediately thats heartbreak yanno. thats :// thats what they say when theres a new girl. but there'd never been a reason to think #there was another girl so i was like ok we're gonna trust bc this dude has been So good in every way. so i said imy but i understand. enjoy #your time with your buddies and with your fam -- i cant wait to hear about it (and hold you)#and i havent heard from him in the 3 weeks since. just randomly #so last night #i send the dreaded 'i miss you' text.#i dont expect to hear back and i accept the hurt that will come with that and the confusion that i've felt settles deeper into my heart #until this afternoon i hop on ig and see a hard launch that was posted an hour after my text was sent #that shit kinda hurt different. but also sent me into a bit of a delirious state where all i could do is laugh bc are you for fucking real #did she see my message? i know it. bc i know him and i know that he wouldnt hide anything from the person he's giving his heart #and his softness to. i can almost imagine how he showed her and promised her theres nothing to worry about #and there really isnt anything to worry about because he genuinely is the type to give his all to the relationship he's in #which feels silly to say after what happened w us. like no there wasnt a title ever #it sucks to call it a situationship because a month ago we were laughing in bed together about how we could never bc we were all in.#just the timing of the hard launch makes me giggle. did my text push them to have a conversation about what they are. was she really the #reason that he went away on me.#im trying not to blame myself . trying not to think about the phone calls i didnt answer. about what i could have done differently. trying #not to think about where we would be if i didnt let my anxieties hold me back. if i wasnt scared about what he'd think of the parts of me #that i keep hidden just a little bit longer than the rest.#and at the same time im trying not to put him on a pedestal. but that pedestal is just where i wholeheartedly believe he belongs #he set the bar for me. he set the standard. i was never too much. i was never too little. he made me feel perfect just as i am

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baconplasm · 2 years

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outfit redesign, based off viking/gladiator class.

probably something my danchou would wear if clothing customization is a thing ww

#gbf #granblue fantasy #djeeta #Bacons art #man its been a long time since ive done any full rendered pieces #i was on a roll last night

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clockworkflicker · 2 years

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In Sickness and In Spite

3.5k words, F cold. Familiarity with the source material is not required.

Fi/re Emb/lem Thr/ee Ho/pes — platonic Hubert & Monica. Snzfic + character study. These idiot rivals begrudgingly care about each other, your honor! Cue mlm-wlw bickering. Inspired by this post about ice magic. We love a sniffly traumatized mage.

Content warnings for wartime medieval fantasy setting, referenced past imprisonment, and mess.

“Return to the eastern encampment at once, and see to it that our reserves are told to prepare for the capture of Arianrhod.”

The faintest of smiles threatens to tug at Hubert’s lips as he hands a letter off to the courier standing at attention in his quarters. His expression, which the courier might later describe as “reeking of malicious contentedness” is one that Hubert’s fellow commanders are slowly growing used to as this war drags on, but it still sends a chill down the spines of those less familiar with the man’s more dubious qualities.

“Count Bergliez is to bring his troops to Arianrhod to hold the city in our absence, do I make myself clear?”

The man’s voice is smooth as dark chocolate, and equally rich, the courier finds himself thinking as he accepts the letter from Hubert. Of course, now is no time to indulge in chocolate, nor thoughts of admiration of a man’s voice. How foolish.

“I’ll see it done.”

Hubert folds his arms and gives a subtle nod. “Good. Well then, safe travels.”

The courier leaves, and Hubert finds himself once again alone in his quarters. He considers stepping out to check in with Lady Edelgard and discuss upcoming battle plans, but he thinks better of it once he pulls the drape from the entrance to his tent and sees that the sun has already set. They’ll be marching again early in the morning, and Her Majesty is likely to be asleep (or attempting to sleep, at least) by this hour.

He lights the lantern at his desk and sets a kettle to boil for coffee. His body feels heavy after the day’s skirmish at Magdred Way, but his mind isn’t quite ready to sleep. His troops encountered those damn Agarthan mages looming between the trees at Magdred. Evidence of their continued presence in this war, pulling the strings from behind the curtains, is enough to keep him up at night — not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. Given that he’s not sleeping just yet, there’s no sense in squandering an opportunity to get some work done, so he settles down with a stack of paperwork and quill.

Outside, a chorus of crickets come alive for the night, cautiously chirping along with the smoky early-autumn breeze and the occasional chatter from other commanders and soldiers passing by. After some time, the sound of a harsh sneeze pierces the white noise. Hubert casts a slow glance to his tent’s entrance. It sounded close by, but no one’s immediately outside the tent. He sets the distraction aside and returns to the list of provisions he was perusing.

But he can’t help but notice that the crickets’ song is punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Is that new, or has he only just noticed it now, he wonders. After a few minutes, there’s another sneeze, this one more high pitched than the last, followed by a slow, laden groan. It’s a familiar groan, he realizes. He knows exactly who it belongs to.

Unlike Monica von Ochs, Hubert does not possess a perfect memory. But given the frequency with which the woman expresses irritation around him, he would be remiss not to recognize the sound of her grumbling.

Her tent isn’t far from his. “I’m Her Majesty’s vassal just as much as you are,” Monica had insisted when they’d been setting up their base camp last week. “If she has need of me, I wish to be prepared and nearby.”

While Hubert finds her near-constant presence and general lack of composure to be somewhat grating, he certainly cannot complain about the woman’s dedication. Monica is, above all else, a valuable asset to the army and confidant to Her Majesty.

The kettle boils. He sets his quill aside and finds the coffee grounds he’d packed in his satchel. His eyes fall on the Almyran pine tea blend he keeps handy next to his stash of coffee grounds — a provision should he find a spare moment to enjoy a warm beverage with Ferdinand.

Hubert briefly regards the pine needles. Certainly not the ideal tea for a cold, and he can’t imagine his neighbor would particularly want his company. And yet...

~~~

There’s ice in her veins and haze clouding her head, and that’s really all there is to say on the matter. She sits at her desk, bundled up in her cloak with a quill and stack of paperwork. The flickering light from her lantern blurs her vision, eyes half-lidded and threatening to grow too rheumy to make out the words.

Not that it matters much. The chill gnawing at her bones from the inside out is enough of a distraction on its own that Monica finds herself wholly unable to make a dent in the status report she’s meant to have on Her Majesty’s desk by tomorrow morning.

She sniffles in irritation. She’d managed to doze off immediately after returning from Magdred this afternoon, but sleep held little respite. After a few hours of tossing and turning, she’d gasped awake, shivering with ire and cold sweat, unpleasant memories distorted by the whims of her feverish subconscious still vivid in her mind. With some effort, Monica had forced herself upright, shakily grasping the glass of water beside her bed and taking a drink.

She’s never forgotten what it’s like to be locked up in a cell — how could she? They say time heals all wounds, but such a thing can’t be true; not for her. While the sands of time are kind enough to erode others’ painful memories, weathering away sharp edges into manageable curves, Monica needs only close her eyes to find herself back on that cold stone floor, every detail in place, nothing forgotten. Exactly 296 stone blocks comprised the wall she had been chained to. That horrible woman’s raucous laugh, which always hit G#, no higher, no lower. The gleam of her athame, teasingly pressed below Monica’s jaw with just enough force to draw a thin line of fresh blood. The warm ferrous odor intermingling with the cool musk of the dungeon and that woman’s near-intoxicating scent of patchouli, sage, and mahogany.

And knowing Her Majesty was put through something so much worse; held in a cell and poked, prodded, sliced open, then reassembled as a tool of war? It makes her blood boil.

Her head had swam from sitting up so fast; a reminder that this Goddess-forsaken fever is going to literally boil her blood if she’s not careful.

Against her better judgement, she’d lit her lantern and dragged herself to her desk to take care of some paperwork. As much as she’d love to drift back off to sleep, the thought of going back there — even if only in a dream — is more than enough to keep her wide awake for a few more hours. Normally, she’d go out for a run or a swim to clear her head and simmer down, but she frankly can’t imagine her body will comply today.

Pinching her nose with a handkerchief that has long outlived its usefulness, Monica distantly wonders what would’ve become of her in that cold dark cell, had Her Majesty not come to her aid. She’d be dead, probably. It’s a useless thought, but one that plagues her nonetheless. Her nose is no less damp when she pulls the cloth away, so she sniffles again and resigns to just cleaning herself up with the inner collar of her cloak, soft fabric feeling like sandpaper against her nostrils.

“Monica?” A low voice from outside her tent startles her back to reality. “It’s Hubert. I have a matter I’d like to discuss, if you wouldn’t mind my company at this hour.”

She hesitates. Company is the last thing she wants right now. Well, perhaps she wouldn’t mind if it was Lady Edelgard or Dorothea...

“I’ll leave you be if you’d prefer it,” Hubert continues when she doesn’t reply. “But I thought it prudent to offer some tea.”

Still no response. Hubert briefly wonders if she’s managed to fall asleep. But then a small sniffle breaks the silence, followed by the sound of shuffling blankets. Monica draws aside the thick cloth draped over her tent’s entrance, eyes tilted up to meet his. Her brow is knit in confusion, but her gaze is glassy and distant. By the look of things, it was indeed the prospect of tea that coaxed her out.

She finds Hubert stood before her, holding two cups, warm steam gently rising from both. Monica doesn’t need her sense of smell to know their contents. One black coffee — a preposterous choice of beverage at this hour — and one Almyran pine tea. It’s almost a comedic image, the way the man's usual looming presence is kneecapped by something as mundane as a warm drink.

“You keep Almyran pine needles on your person specifically for Ferdinand,” she says plainly, her voice hoarse around the edges. “Why offer them to me?”

A slight frown draws Hubert’s lips. This woman is irritatingly perceptive and straightforward, especially when it comes to relationships he would prefer she kept quiet about.

But even in the low light, he can see the exhaustion plainly written across Monica’s face; dark thumbprints pressed beneath her eyes, a glimmer of moisture sits below her pinkish nose, her pallor framed by a mess of untamed burgundy locks. Judging by the paperwork strewn about on her desk, he figures she’s been just as busy as he’s been this evening. It’s not all that cold out, but her slight frame is swallowed up in a heavy winter cloak. Despite this, she looks to be shivering a little, and Hubert makes a mental note to check later if any of her reports from this excursion will need to be rewritten due to shaky handwriting.

While Monica is objectively the shortest commander in the Adrestian army, her shrewd demeanor and prowess on the battlefield are more than enough to compensate for what she lacks in height. But for the first time in years, Hubert finds himself thinking that she just looks small.

“You’re ill,” he says, matching her matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes, and?” Her eyes narrow, unfocused, and she inhales an uneven breath, then another. She ducks to the side with a horribly gruff sneeze, snatching the collar of her cloak up to meet her face as she shudders forward with the force of it. “ihh- hheh-! hHT’CHHUHshh!”

“And tea serves the dual purpose of perhaps offering some relief while also coaxing you away from your paperwork.” Hubert gives a small sigh, still looking stoic. “I should admonish you for working late in such a state.”

She scoffs, the watery phlegm crackling in her airways making her sound far more pitiful than disdainful, much to her chagrin. Wincing, she snuffles and rubs at her nose through the fabric. When she clears her throat, it does absolutely nothing for her wrecked voice. “As if you’re not guilty of the same.”

“Unlike you, I possess the sense not to work myself sick.”

“If you say so.” Knowing the man’s work-life balance (or lack thereof), Monica finds that statement highly unlikely. If she weren't so sick, she’d call him out for it, but she can’t quite muster the energy to get worked up over it at the moment. Another chill shakes through her, and it occurs to her that she’d much rather be sitting than standing, and a warm drink really does sound nice. She swallows thickly and glances away. “Anyway, I, um, I won’t say no to tea. If you’re offering.”

“That is why I’m here, yes,” Hubert says with a hint of levity, handing her a cup.

She gratefully accepts it, the deliciously warm ceramic prickling her cold fingertips. The rising steam causes her nose to run a bit more than it already was, but she revels in its gentle heat. “You said there was something you wanted to —” she pauses to sniffle, and exhales a tired, drippy guhh. “— to discuss?”

~~~

The two sit beside a small fire, tucked away at the edge of the base camp. On any other day, Monica would have simply invited Hubert to join her in her quarters, but she can’t imagine she’d be able to keep this damn cold to herself in such a small enclosed space, so this will have to do.

“Were you unwell when we marched on Magdred this morning?” He asks, settling down on a fallen log once he’s convinced he’s fed the fire enough wood to sustain itself. The flames dance, bathing them both in a warm glow amidst the dusky woods.

She shakes her head. “What, would you expect me to delay our troops because of a sore throat? I simply did what was necessary.” Monica takes a careful sip of her tea. Swallowing hurts, but it warms her from the inside out. Although her senses are too dulled to get a good handle on the flavor, she finds the tea has a distinct, earthy quality. It reminds her of simpler days spent hunting in the mountainous woodlands scattered about inland Ochs territory.

“And last night?” Hubert raises an eyebrow.

“I thought it was just exhaustion and nerves, at that point. We’d been marching all day, after all.” Smoke from the fire makes her sinuses burn, prompting her to retreat further into her cloak with a watery sniff, almost like a turtle into its shell.

“For someone so perceptive, you certainly posses an impressive lack of self-awareness.” He tilts his head with a slight smirk. “Perhaps if you didn’t so frequently find yourself flush with rage or affection, you wouldn’t struggle to tell apart fatigue from fever.”

She glowers. “Perhaps if you grew flush with rage every now and again, you wouldn’t have the complexion of a coffin-dweller.” Smoke catches in her throat as she speaks, completely stripping the insult of any teeth it may have had otherwise. She muffles a few weary coughs against her collar, causing a bit of mess to spill from her nose and create another dark patch on the fabric.

Hubert exhales a dry laugh. In spite of everything, it’s good to see that she’s at least well enough to quip back. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now. But do try to be more conscientious of your limits.”

Monica narrows her eyes with a sniff. “I know very well how hard I can push myself, thank you.” As if to deny her claim, the irritation in her airways causes her breath to hitch. Her eyes squint shut and her face contorts into an expression somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. She snaps forward with a desperate and distressingly sick-sounding sneeze, frantically aimed at the fabric resting atop her shoulders. She’d meant to stifle, but there’s only so much one can do when attempting to restrain such a forceful sneeze hands-free. She fumbles her cup of tea, spilling a bit in the process.

“And yet I can’t help but find your form as of late to be rather... rash.” Hubert turns his eyes back to the fire, not wishing for his gaze to be a source of further embarrassment for his stricken companion.

The gesture does not go unnoticed, and she’s grateful for it. The space between her nose and lips is slick, and a string of glistening mess dangles precariously from her septum to her cloak before falling against her chest. She instinctively snuffles, and immediately regrets doing so, as it produces a horribly soupy sound and reignites the burning itch. She hastily sets her tea aside and clutches at her collar with steepled hands, trembling with a flurry of quick, audibly damp breaths, until —

“ihheH- hH’KSSCH’ue! …hh? …hht’KSSCH’uhh!”

The second sneeze rends her throat, leaving her airways and collar absolutely drenched. With a small, exhausted groan, she allows herself just a brief moment of feeling sorry for herself before tending to her nose. She’s soaked through the fabric in her hands, and finds herself wondering if she needs to worry about running out of cloak. After finding a suitably dry spot, Monica draws a handful of cloak to her face and begins cleaning herself up. The stinging sensation of dry fabric against slick, inflamed skin makes her wince. “How so?”

“Lady Edelgard tells me you’ve had quite the talent for fire magic since you were young, and I must agree. The army would be remiss without a skilled mage such as yourself to set enemy strongholds ablaze.”

If she were alone, Monica would have blown her nose by now, but the thought of doing so in front of someone else makes her stomach twist in a knot. Clearly, if his unprompted arrival at her tent with tea is anything to go by, she's assaulted Hubert (and the rest of the camp, for that matter) with far too great a volume of sick noises as is. Goddess, she hopes Her Majesty hasn't overheard any of this. Monica settles for gently pinching her nose between the slick fabric, which does, blessedly, remove a decent amount of moisture. She gives a tired sigh, cautiously reaching down to retrieve her tea, almost afraid another sneeze will cause her drop it without warning. “What’re you getting at?”

Hubert gestures to the jet black tome strapped to her hip. “You’ve been teaching yourself ice spells recently. Why?”

“What kind of question is that?” She crinkles her nose. “Sometimes it’s more beneficial to freeze an enemy in place than set them on fire. Anyone can benefit from being more versatile.”

“Is versatility truly your reason, though? The elemental whiplash you must be giving yourself can’t be healthy.” Hubert gives her a knowing look as he raises his coffee to his lips.

Monica stares at him, then looks down at her tea. Assailing an enemy with flames, followed up by an ice spell, is going to inflict more pain than fire alone. That’s her reason. It’s that simple.

“We’ve recently been fighting more of the people who imprisoned Her Majesty and me. The dark mages at Magdred, for example. I...” she pauses with a sharp sniffle, frustrated with this cold, frustrated with Hubert for prompting her to confront one of her more wicked impulses at a time like this, frustrated with herself for being such a deeply bitter person. “I want it to hurt.”

Hubert remains silent and his expression unreadable, much to Monica’s annoyance. She presumes that his lack of reaction means she’s just confirmed something he was already aware of. Goddess, she hates how he seems to know her vices better than she knows them herself.

Finally, he speaks. “I understand.” His voice is low and surprisingly sincere. “Not a day goes by that I don’t lament my failure to protect Her Majesty when it mattered most.”

‘I understand’ is a bit of an unspoken compromise between two people who will never truly see eye to eye. Their ire for Edelgard’s captors is not equivalent, and they both know it. Hubert is cold and calculating, more than able to channel his emotions into neat, underhanded tactics that will serve Her Majesty well. But for Monica, it’s a spiteful, burning hatred that hungers for vengeance. It’s selfish and cruel and everything she wishes she wasn’t.

Hubert continues. “But, for Lady Edelgard’s sake, if not your own, I ask that you don’t do this to yourself. Even the most skilled mages aren’t equipped to deal with recoil from opposing elements. I suspect you’re intimately aware of this fact.”

He’s not wrong, Monica must admit. Ice magic has a way of chilling its caster to the bone, and alternating between fire and ice always leaves her a sniffly mess. It’s caused easily-ignored colds to turn debilitating more times than she’d care to let on. She doesn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected anyone, let alone Hubert, of all people, to care.

Before she can fully sort out her thoughts, a familiar burning sensation bristles at her sinuses. Her mouth hangs slightly open in uncertainty, brow furrowed, and a small, wavering breath sifts through her teeth. Monica teeters on the precipice for just a moment. Watery mucus drips down one flared nostril, then the other, pooling above her lip. She dares not sniffle, or else —

“ihhh-? hehh- hED’SSHuuh!”

She ducks to the side and clings desperately to her teacup as a half-stifled shivery sneeze seizes her, sending another unfortunate deluge of soupy mess down her face. Goddess, she’s tired. “snndffl. ghuhh. You could say that.”

Once again, she sets aside her tea and takes to tending to her nose. “Look, Hubert, I appreciate the concernd, but I...” she trails off with a congested groan and shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Far be it from me to lecture you,” Hubert says, standing from his seat on the log and turning to leave, “but destroying yourself won’t change the past.”

“Where are you going?” Monica looks up at him, confused.

“To fetch my kettle. You’re still shaking, and have just about spilled the last of the tea.”

Pulling her cloak a little tighter around herself, she watches him walk back to his tent. She thinks that perhaps, just this once, he might have a point.

#y'alllllll it's finally FINALLY done!!!!!!#i've been working on this since late july and it went through like three rewrites so I Am Thrilled To Be Done. happy sicktember!#monnie is one of the worst written characters ive ever seen in a video game #she had so much potential to be interesting and the breadcrumbs are certainly there but GOD #the writers hecked the fuck up #thankfully i know how to write her Correctly #the devs just straight up handed us a canon lesbian and said #'she's horribly traumatized and has a ton of ugly emotions simmering below the surface but we're not going to address any of that'#anyway i had a great time writing about these two. monica is just So Much and hubert is hubert [affectionate]#also this has almost nothing to do with this particular fic but you can't tell me that monica doesnt fuck a sneeze okay #the sky is blue. capitalism sucks. mon/ica von o/chs is a sneezefucker. these are immutable truths #the fact that she canonically has a running tally of how many times edel/gard has expressed concern for her health is proof enough #(i looked it up. the tally is at 208 at the time of the cutscene she mentions it)#this woman is unhinged we love to see it #i'd also point to her love for tea (and making tea for edel/gard) if it weren't for the fact that 90% of the cast loves tea #'oh lady edelgard! it's chilly out! would you like some tea? a coat?' girl. honey. i know what you are.#th/ree hou/ses and th/ree ho/pes are such funny games. these bitches really do just swing swords and drink tea all day long #my art #my writing #btw this isn't beta'd so if you see a typo or something that makes no sense please PLEASE tell me

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