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wraithsoutlaws · 2 months

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TITLE: Perfect Drug CHAPTER ONE: Jawbreaker WORD COUNT: 4,309 PAIRING: Dagger/Dum Dum CW: Light violence, gore mention The story of how two fucked up guys become one fucked up couple.

The sky changed colors in the city. The endless scroll of neon gave it an artificial glow, and from the first moment he crossed the desert line, Dagger had resented it. Nothing looked real. Nothing was–not the food, the music. Certainly not the people. He found himself looking up as he drove further into it’s clutches, searching for a sliver of sky that felt familiar, but the only thing he found was a thinly veiled layer of bullshit. Northside was different, though no less oppressive. The smokestacks kept the air murky, and no matter how many times he blinked or re-calibrated his optics, he couldn’t quite clear his vision of the red haze that defined it. But unlike Night City, it took pride in it’s own ugly. And he liked that.

The All Foods factory sat like an icon at the center of it all, more mythical to the locals than even the crumbs of Arasaka littering the district. Dagger stood outside with a cigarette, gazing into it’s shuttered maw.

A week had passed since he found his way to the building for the first time, toting a severed head in one hand, and a duffel of recovered Militech cargo in the other. He had taken both from a smoldering warzone in Sierra Sonorra where two behemoths fought their last battle; a cadre of Maelstrom gangoons and a unit of corpo dogs. He could have taken the wreckage back for the Wraiths. The gear would have fetched a pretty enny, and the head of a Milietech sergeant would make a lovely hood ornamented for his Quadra–but Dagger never cared for money, and he had plenty of heads already.

He brought the cargo home to Northside instead, head in hand like a peace offering, still bleeding fresh after decapitation. He wanted a deal, not a payday. Something worth more than a shiny new car, or a pair of genuine leather boots, and after one long blurry fucking night, he got one.

The Wraiths would protect Maelstrom’s interests in the Badlands and the ‘borgs would give them leverage in the city, pushing to wipe Sixth Street from Santo Domingo. Dagger would move between them, lending his skills to one while extending his power in the other.

In the end, he'd puppet them both.

His mama always said to dream big.

He pressed at a dwindling bruise over his ribcage as he double checked for his smokes in his jacket pocket. Each breath came with a dull ache that hadn’t quite quelled from that night, even a week later. He’d paid his price for admission. He could still feel the wreckage in his bones as he stood at the entrance of the garage, cigarette half smoked already, waiting for an answer at the door. The security camera at the edge of the roof peered down at him, it’s blinking red light a mimic of the trademark optics that were watching him from inside. And they were watching him. Making him wait, though they were the very ones who had set the meet. When he glared up at the lens, he could feel them on the other side.

Another minute passed. He threw his cigarette down, banging a fist to the rusted metal with impatience. After a moment of waiting he considered going around to the intercom, but it felt too much like defeat. He knocked again instead, kicking with a steel tipped boot for good measure and flicking another glare up to the camera.

The noise must have worked. The door swung open with a growl, sudden enough it nearly took an inch off his nose. Before he could blink, the front end of a revolver shoved itself against the scar on his cheek, forcing his back to the wall with its presence. Seven eyes peered over the muzzle, a shiny chrome scowl beneath them. Dagger’s fist moved on instinct, nestled now against the underside of Dum Dum’s chin where the skin still felt human. The steel claws in the chassis of his hand inched in the sheaths between his knuckles, hungry for a drop of blood. They stood still, entwined in each other’s violence, neither one ready to budge.

“Keep that gun in my face any longer and I’ll get real acquainted with your fleshy bits.” He wasn’t sure which lens he should look at, or which ones were looking at him. His icy gaze settled on the ones that looked most like eyes, though he couldn’t read them. The tip of his claws met skin, just slightly. Enough bite to prove he wasn’t lying.

Dum Dum didn’t sweat it.

“You think your trigger is quicker than mine?”

“Might be fun to find out.”

The sound that came from his throat could have been a laugh. A moment later, Dum Dum drew the gun back and slid it into the waistband of his pants. Slowly, Dagger followed suit, letting his hand fall away with a tinge of disappointment. A click of his tongue.

“Scared?”

“My bullet would rip through your meatpan before your chrome even touched me,” Dum Dum said. He sounded sure, the weight of his optics nearly prying Dagger apart, scanning his hardware in bemusement. He wouldn’t find much, except maybe that his assessment was correct. Which begged the question: why not pull the trigger?

Dagger grinned.

“You gonna invite me inside?”

Dum Dum didn’t answer, turning a corner toward the street without looking back at him. “Nothing in there for you.”

“Is that right?” Dagger pulled his cigarettes from his jacket and lit one as he followed. A busted up Chevillon was parked on the corner, garish Maelstrom colors splattered across the rusted paint like a badge of honor. Ugly, like everything else around it. He smiled. “Taking me out to pasture then?”

Smoke slithered from his lips as they walked.

“You wanna play with the big dogs you’re gonna have to work like a bitch.” Dum Dum stopped at the car, and spared him an indecipherable look. “That means you do what I say, when I say it, how I say it. If I tell you to lick the shit off my boots you better fucking get on your knees and do it, yeah? Piss me off and it’s bye bye with a bullet. We’ll sell your meat to the Scavs without a second thought.”

Dagger raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes as he took another drag from his smoke. “My god, I think I can see Royce’s hand up your ass using your mouth like a little puppet. Don’t you wanna be a real boy?”

Dum Dum looked tough, but Dagger had seen enough already to know that he folded for the big man as easy as paper. He half expected the gun again, but to his surprise, he only saw a smile on the other man’s face–teeth that looked too human to belong to him. The tension in his shoulders seemed to drop.

“You are one stupid motherfucker.”

He almost sounded impressed.

Dagger stared him down with the same grin, head tilting. Anyone else, he might skin them alive for the assertion but Dum Dum could be useful. No doubt more than any of the other rusted lugnuts lurking in the gang who’d still be more than happy to kill him. If he wanted this to work out, he’d need someone watching his back, and he’d already proved he wouldn’t pull the trigger.

Dum Dum slid into the driver’s seat and gestured for Dagger to go around. He wasn’t thrilled about playing passenger, his own car parked down the block, but he decided not to push it. He didn’t know his way around the city yet, let alone wherever the fuck they were headed. Or why.

He climbed into the Chevillon, choosing to play nice, a decision quickly waning as he waited for an explanation that never came. He blew smoke toward Dum Dum, a juvenile attempt to get his attention as the engine turned over.

“Got a problem, princess?” Dum Dum asked without looking. At least his head didn’t move.

Dagger leaned back in his seat. “Just wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.”

“You’re the one who knocked.”

“Funny.”

The car pulled onto the street.

“Got a pick-up.” The flat drone of his voice gave away his own annoyance in the silence. “And I wasn’t bullshitting before. Do as you’re told and we won’t have a problem.”

Dagger rolled down his window to vent the smoke from his cigarette. “Pick-up? And here I was hoping for a little fun. Ain’t you lot known for your violence? No offense but thats a waste of my talent and I’m keen to believe it’s a waste of yours too.”

“Royce wants to know you can follow orders. You might be hot shit to those desert dogs but you’re a long way from the top out here.”

Something in the gravel of his tone indicated a warning, but Dagger flicked it off with the ash from his cig. He glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, watching the city blur past the tinted glass. Northside was less colorful than the rest of Night City, all smoke and concrete. In a way, it reminded him of home–the badlands, an endless sprawl of sun bleached dirt, harsh and rigid. Vibrant in its decay. They bore their similarities alright. He could smell fire in the air. A laugh lodged itself in his throat as he finally looked over.

“So that’d make you what, then? The babysitter?”

A grunt. There might have been humor in it. Or a threat.

“You should count yourself lucky. Anyone else prolly woulda shot you by now.”

Dagger didn’t doubt it for a second. Dum Dum was different from the rest, and somehow just the same. He followed orders, and crumbled like soggy paper for the top dog. Out of fear or loyalty, he couldn’t tell yet, but he lacked the self-respect to see that Royce would throw him out as soon as he wasn’t useful. He wondered what might happen if those strings pulled taut. If something sharp happened by to whittle them down.

Dum Dum’s voice caught him by surprise.

“I’m actually impressed you’re still walking. Didn’t think you’d show up after that beating last week.”

“That right?” Dagger said, casually flipping down the visor ahead of him and examining his face in the two inch mirror. The bruise beneath his eye had faded from plum to a brown rot and for a moment he could feel the impact of the metal punch that knocked him on his ass again. It wasn’t the only one. His body was littered, like the canvas of an old painter–splashes of color hemorrhaging against his skin. He knew there was a cracked rib, probably a concussion, too. A few busted teeth, and more. Welcoming gifts from Maelstrom. It was his own suggestion, a last ditch effort to get close to the gang without having chrome shoved up his ass. An initiation plucked from his smuggling days. Each member got a single hit. If he was still alive by the end of it, he’d get in.

And Dagger always got in, smiling and spitting blood. He’d do it again just to prove that he could.

“Hell, I thought that left hook from Lars might kill you.” Dum Dum laughed.

Dagger flipped the visor closed. “You kiddin’? My Daddy hit me harder for stealing a cigarette when I was eight years old.”

“You were prolly just a pussy back then.”

A grin cut across his lips as naturally as the sun cresting over the cityscape. “Well, he had a harder swing than you, at least.”

“Makes sense.” The car turned a tight corner and Dum Dum’s head tilted toward him for the first time. “Considerin’ I pulled my punch.”

Dagger met those empty red lenses with a raised brow. “The fuck you did.”

The crack of his own teeth rang out in his ears again, as if that chrome fist was crashing into his face all over. He could still remember his seven eyes watching him as he stumbled back, spitting blood and enamel in his face. He tongued the empty space on his bottom gum where the molar used to sit. Dum Dum had extracted it more seamlessly than the world’s best dentist ever could.

Pulled his punch.

Dagger scoffed.

Dum Dum didn’t show any sign of humor. His silence said it all.

“And why the fuck would you do that?”

A pause. And then finally a smile.

“‘Cause the harder we hit you, the louder you laughed. Didn't wanna give you the satisfaction.”

Dagger’s face fell, as expressionless as the red lenses in front of him, which seemed now to burn holes through his chest in the silence. He should cut them from his skull, but the feeling passed at the sight of a smile on Dum Dum’s lips.

“Fuckin’ lunatic,” he said, somewhere between affection and dismay.

Dagger took it for a compliment. He grinned, and a bruise sang triumph beneath his skin.

The car pulled off the street beside a painted wall that looked nearly identical to every other street corner in Northside. Dagger could find his way through every small vein of dusty road across the Badlands with his eyes closed but ask him to distinguish between one block or the next within the industrial sprawl of the district and he’d be lost. He pressed his forehead against the window and looked up. Not even the sky could help him. The shadow of the city all but smothered it.

Dum Dum cut the engine.

Wrecked cars littered the crowded alleyway where they sat now, nothing but skeletal remains, picked clean by the vultures. But there was one ahead of them, a black van that stuck out among the rest. The pick-up, if he had to wager.

“What are we waiting for?” he asked, his cigarette almost nothing but ash. He finally flicked it out the window.

Dum Dum didn’t answer. He studied the van ahead of him in the quiet, and after a moment Dagger pushed his optics to scan it too. Standard. No heat signature inside, though there was something stored in the back, a chemical signature he couldn’t get a specific read on. Drugs, more than likely. Of course it was. He had heard the ‘strommers had their own brand of shit. The kind with enough kick to push past the thirty pounds of chrome in their head.

“Something the matter with it?” On instinct, Dagger looked in the rearview, scanned the surrounding area. A flash of light flickered somewhere behind them and disappeared. He waited for it to happen again, but he saw nothing.

“Gadge ain’t here,” Dum Dum said, tone flat. Once more unreadable.

“Taking a leak?”

A grunt. He leaned back in the seat, hand dropping down to the revolver wedged between his seat and the middle console. He flicked his head forward, toward the van. “Well, go on, bitch boy. Check it out.”

Dagger’s eyes narrowed, but he pushed back the urge to tell him to fuck off. He lit another cigarette on the way out. The street was quiet, though somewhere a few blocks down a siren echoed off the smokestacks. He paused when he reached the back of the van, head turning over his shoulder. There was nothing here. Nobody in sight beside those seven glowing eyes behind the glass, and still the hair rose on the back of his neck.

No Gadge. No blood. No struggle. So why did he have a bad feeling? He focused his attention back to the van as Dum Dum waved a hand at him impatiently. Another quick scan told him the same information before he finally reached for the handle and pulled the bed open. A creak of metal cracked through his ears.

It almost deafened the gunshot.

Dagger ducked, dropping low without thought. His cigarette fell to the ground half burned, mocking him as another bullet riccochetted against the back of the van. His first thought was Dum Dum. Royce had changed his mind on the deal, ordered his execution. A quiet hit didn’t sound like his style, and Dagger was almost disappointed he wouldn’t get to see the ugly bastard one more time just to call him a fucking pussy to his face, but a moment later he could hear the ‘borg’s static voice yelling at him from the car to get the fuck up.

He stayed low, unable to pinpoint the direction of the gunshot, and made his way back to the passenger’s side of the Chevillon.

The engine sputtered to life at the same time as the van in front of him. He crawled inside just in time to witness the driverless van crash through a charred Mackinaw to the next street over.

“Fuck!” Dum Dum yelled, flooring the pedal before Dagger could get his foot pulled in all the way. “Shit’s hacked. Gonk’s don’t know who they’re messing with.”

He rammed through the same debris as the van but caught a harsh edge of metal, and the Chevillon stalled for a moment before struggling through. The ringing in Dagger’s ears hadn’t stopped, and he only realized his hand was bleeding when he reached for his third smoke.

“Hack means their close.”

Dagger rolled the window down and stuck his head out, catching the stale air of Northside in a suffocating wind. He could see the van ahead of them like a black smear, but it wasn’t the van he was interested in. Quickhack on a vehicle was useful, but it had drawbacks. One being proximity. Had to be close or you lost connection, even with boosted gear.

A small Hatchback swung suddenly out from a sidestreet, narrowly missing their car as it sped past. Dum Dum swerved and lost a foot of paint on a fire hydrant in attempt to keep steady. Dagger scanned it as it followed track with the van, spitting chooh2 to catch up. Two signatures inside. A runner.

He ripped the gun from Dum Dum’s seat and pulled himself halfway out the window to take aim. He shot quickly and near blind, bullet lost in the wind as the chase veered left.

“Fuckin’ shoot steady,” Dum Dum yelled over at him.

“Drive fuckin’ steady,” Dagger snapped, and this time he held his breath as he aimed for the speeding car. A shot came back at him in response and he ducked back into the window before firing again. The windshield spiderwebbed but the car stayed true, zipping through a line of traffic as they headed into a busier part of the district. A horn blared beside him. The hatchback disappeared between two trucks, and Dum Dum struggled on the wheel, crashing into the edge of a turning car and nearly throwing the gun from Dagger's slick, bloody grasp when he shot again.

He couldn’t track where the bullet hit, but he could tell that it missed.

With a growl, Dagger reached over for the wheel.

“Switch me places.” It was a command more than a question, but Dum Dum didn’t protest. He ripped the gun from Dagger’s hand as Dagger pushed his leg over to the gas pedal and shimmied across the seat in an awkward dance, climbing over him without slowing the vehicle until they both settled into their new positions.

Dum Dum took aim as naturally as Dagger did the wheel. He was no stranger to this, or to the electricity running through his chest as he gripped the wheel knuckle tight, grin spreading over his lips.

The tight streets were no match for an open road, but it got his blood pumping all the same.

He could barely make out the back of the car up ahead, but he could see the rear light explode as Dum Dum fired beside him, leaving red glass sparkling on the pavement like blood. Another shot bellowed, and the hatchback veered wildly, nearly toppling sideways as it made a sharp turn.

Dagger followed, cutting the same corner with the ease of sharpened steel. He couldn’t see the van further up, but he locked his optics onto the car. Blood splattered the window, and he knew that Dum Dum had hit one of them inside. The engine groaned as he pushed it further. The Chevillon didn’t have the same gumption as his Quadra. He could feel the waiver in her gait, but they were close now. Dum Dum felt it too. He braced his arm on the roof. One good shot is all they’d need.

Dagger seamlessly crossed over the center line, taking the opposite lane to blow past several cars that separated them from their goal. Traffic sped by, so close it rocked the car, but he didn’t flinch.

One. Good. Shot.

Dum Dum fired.

Blood sprayed the windshield.

The hatchback veered suddenly into a passing car, which came to a skidding stop, halting the traffic behind it and keeping Dagger from passing back over into the right lane. His mind raced, and on instinct he took a quick left to avoid collision, and then another.

Dum Dum screamed in his ear, but the words were deafened from wind, the ringing, the sirens. Neon lights burned together, flashing against his corneas.

“Wrong fuckin’ way!” He heard finally.

The streets grew narrower, and then he understood.

He could smell the ocean.

Northside’s warehouses were a shadow in the rearview as they headed toward the bay into Kabuki. Tyger territory. They had crossed the district line.

Dum Dum reached for the wheel in a last ditch effort to change course. The momentum of the turn threw them upward, tires leaving the ground. The car spun uncontrollably, flipped, crashing through the barricade on the side of the road in a explosion of crunching metal.

He could see the ocean.

A smear of open blue that could match the sky his heart yearned for. It was beautiful.

Almost.

And it hit like a fucking rock.

His vision blacked for a moment before the water caved in around them. Slowly, then all at once. He barely had time to take in a lungful of air. Kicking at the door wildly, he swam away from the wreckage as the sea pulled them under. His gaze shot upward, searching once more for the sky to lead him. He followed the light up and up, chest starting to ache, until finally he found it.

Dagger gasped as he breached, shaking water from his eyes. He didn’t recognize the city around him, but he spotted a dock nearby. He swam toward it, then stopped. Looked back. The only remains of the Chevillon were petering bubbles at his back, and smooth water beside that. There wasn’t any sign of Dum Dum. By the look of him, he’d sink as quick as the car.

He glanced between the dock and the bubbles and back again.

All that fucking chrome…

Walking back to All Foods without the drugs and their sergeant at arms might earn himself a spot in that industrial microwave that Maelstrom liked to boast. Dum Dum was the only one who didn’t want to kill him, after all.

“Fuck.”

He spit water then took another breath and dived.

The car left a trail like ink in the murky water. Dagger clawed toward it, dragging himself further down into the dark depths. Day turned to night. The city was different here, peaceful, and if not for the pounding in his ears, quiet.

The distant red glare of those eyes shined like a beacon further down. He followed them like the north star, pushing himself to go faster. Dum Dum kicked despite himself, maybe instinct, maybe panic, but his weight worked against him, pulling him down quicker. Dagger pushed harder, reached further. Dum Dum finally noticed him, lenses fixed and unwavering, a calm coming over him as he finally got close enough to grab. Dagger heaved upward, working against the ocean’s cold grasp and the anchor like weight dragging him down. His chest began to burn, and the sky still looked so dark above them.

He considered letting go, eyes squeezed tight, angry ‘ganic lungs ready to burst.

And then he could breathe again.

He reached blindly for the dock ladder, trying hard not to heave. Dum Dum climbed up beside him, still as a corpse.

“Fucking gonk shit,” he muttered.

Dagger almost didn’t catch it over the sound of his panting. He laid flat on his back, taking in the welcome blue above him. He could finally see a break in the cityscape, clouds sneaking in at the edge of his vision.

“Quite a fuckin’ thank you,” Dagger said without taking his eyes from above.

“Oxygen reserves. Could sit down there all day.”

He sat up slowly, running a hand through wet, matted hair. “All the good it’d do you. Be a pile of rust by the time they found you. If they found you.”

Dum Dum laughed. Short, quick static. Somehow it sounded genuine.

“And I’m sure you did that outta the kindness of your heart.”

“What fuckin’ heart?” He said flat, patting down his pockets for his cigarettes. He pulled the pack out, sopping wet. He didn’t bother trying to light one before he tossed them into the bay with a sigh. “Owe me some fucking smokes.”

Dum Dum opened his mouth to speak, but the words never made it. He lifted his head, and though he couldn’t see exactly, Dagger knew he was looking past him. A gun cocked at the back of his head. Cold barrel against his skull. He clenched his jaw, and turned to see a woman he didn’t recognize staring down at him behind glass eyes.

His automatic translator picked up her words better than his ears.

“Welcome to Kabuki, bitch.”

#cyberpunk 2077 #oc: dagger #dum dum #x: perfect drug #my fic tag #well i fussed over this too much so im just gonna say yolo and post it #that also means i have to start on the second chapter. hm.#anyways..........its been a long time coming dklsajfdlsa #linked the song i got the title from for soundtrack purposes if it suits you UwU #sad to tell you all that cockroach won't appear until ch.2 despite being in the above image v.v #false advertising im sorry

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crissiebaby · 7 months

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The Pampered Curse: Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: This story contains diaper usage, humiliation, domination, masturbation/diaper sex, hyperwetting, mental regression, and other ABDL themes. I hope you enjoy!

Commissioned By: BlossomBitchDolly

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“No…Nonono! This isn’t happening!” screamed Edan, who was awestruck by the large, white behemoth resting between his thighs. These were not the boxers he’d fallen asleep in last night. How did he end up diapered? Moreover, WHY did he end up diapered?! Did someone sneak into his house? A million questions circulated in his head, none of which had clear answers.

The one thing Edan knew for certain, though, was that he didn’t want to be diapered for a second longer. He moved to unstick one of the tapes, deciding that his next step once freed from his padded confines would be to take a long and thorough shower. However, much to his confusion, the tapes felt like they’d been glued on with Edan failing to get a fingernail under any of the four tapes.

Frustrated, Edan climbed out of bed and moved to yank the diaper off his body by force. After all, it was just a diaper. A bit of tugging should be enough to pry it off without removing the tapes. Sadly, after a few feeble attempts to slide the diaper around his hips and buttocks, the diaper had barely moved an inch in any direction. “UGH! C’mon, please!” he grunted before throwing his hands up and huffing an aggressive breath through his nose. Whoever had diapered him had made sure that he would not be removing the padding on his own.

Looking around his room again, Edan meekly cried out, “O-Okay! Funny joke! Christina? Royce? Whichever of you fucks did this better come out right now and get this off me!” Expecting to see one of his buddies burst out of his closet or through his bedroom door, he sat down on the side of the bed and waited. But as time slowly ticked by, so too did his patience, “Alright, fuck you! I’m done with this shit!”

Storming out of his bedroom with his enraged fists balled, Edan stomped his way into the kitchen and instantly moved to retrieve the kitchen sheers from his knife block. He then sat down on the tile floor with his legs spread wide and began hacking away at his nappy’s waistband. Or at least he would have had the scissors managed to slice through even one millimeter of the plastic-coated diaper. For some reason, his incredibly sharp kitchen shears were nowhere near strong enough to cut into his new, bulky undies.

Furious didn’t even begin to describe how Edan was feeling as he gave up on piercing the waistband and started jabbing at the base of his diaper, hoping to poke a hole large enough to rip the diaper open with his fingers. Much like with the rest of the diaper, this failed to do anything more than make him feel foolish. In a moment of rage, he chucked the scissors across the room, creating a small hole in his drywall.

Glancing around his room anxious and helpless, Edan couldn’t feel more utterly defeated by his humiliating predicament. He sunk down and placed his head in his hands, doing everything in his power to keep from bursting into tears. He refused to let himself cry, though, stabbing his canine teeth into his tongue to prevent the waterworks from kicking on.

Once he had his emotions under control, Edan let out a painfully long sigh, clearing out both his lungs and his head. The last thing he needed to do right now was panic. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like he had much to be cheerful or calm about, with his only solace being that it was a Sunday and he didn’t have to worry about confronting his boss in diapers. Fixing a hand on his chin, he contemplated how he could’ve possibly ended up in a diaper in the first place. It wasn’t like this was something he’d voluntarily wear. Only a total weirdo would…do that…

Recalling his bizarre interaction from the night before, it suddenly dawned on Edan that the reason for his padded state may be supernatural, as crazy as that might sound. A new kind of fear rose inside his chest as he stared at his padded confines. That woman being a ghost would certainly explain the disappearing act she pulled last night. But he didn’t actually believe in ghosts…did he? “Um…shit, what was her name?” he scoffed at himself, realizing he’d never asked the strange woman what her name was, “...let’s see, uh…magic ghost-spirit, I-I would like to humbly apologize if I insulted you last night! If this is all to teach me some big lesson, well, consider the lesson well learned! Haha!”

Edan’s forced laughter only made it more apparent how ridiculous he felt. Being trapped in a ghostly diaper? There was no way that could happen. And yet, he failed to come up with any alternate explanation. He needed to find a way to confirm or disprove that something paranormal was at play here.

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“Please return all archive materials to the desk when you're finished,” said the elderly librarian as she placed a set of documents on one of the many empty tables for Edan to browse through. It had taken him all morning to track down anything he could about that house and its owner online, only to be met with dead end after dead end. It wasn’t until he stumbled upon an online record of his local library that he discovered a promising lead.

Sitting down at the table, Edan started sifting through the various public records and newspaper clippings associated with that cursed house as he struggled to keep his paranoia at bay. He frequently found himself checking over and tugging on his baggy outfit to ensure that his hoodie and sweatpants kept his diaper well hidden. All the while, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, adding to the anxiety he felt over his attire. Misery didn’t even begin to describe Edan’s mental state. Pushing those vicious thoughts to the far recesses of his mind, he buried his nose into his research on the house’s mysterious owner.

Madam Petunia Wick. That was the name that was listed on the final deed of ownership, which was signed almost 60 years ago. While living, she was well-known throughout the town to be a very perverse woman with an insatiable sexual appetite. She housed a number of kinky guests and would frequently throw lavish parties, much to the rest of town’s dismay if the numerous hit pieces written about her were to be believed. It also happened to be the exact person that Edan had run into the night before, at least if her photo was anything to go off of. Only, that shouldn’t have been possible considering she had died nearly four decades prior, fueling his conspiracy that the being he’d met last night was no longer of this world. Shaking off the eerie feeling that came with such dreadful knowledge, he continued reading.

Surprisingly, despite the house remaining unowned since Madam Wick’s passing, there was a whole mess of stories written in the local paper that were all dated around the turn of the century. According to an article written in October of 2002, a young man named Thomas Landing ran screaming into the police station declaring that a spirit had placed a chastity cage on him. He was sent to a mental asylum after he became irate and refused to let up on his outrageous story. It’s said the chastity cage was never removed as there was no key and no way to cut it off without risk to his genitalia. Specifically, Landing named the same mansion that Edan had stumbled across as the location of his ghostly assault, though no evidence was ever discovered. If even an inkling of this man’s crazy story were true, then it was likely whatever ghost placed a chastity cage on him was the exact same one who had magically diapered him overnight.

*Twinge!*

Scrunching his legs closer together, Edan had been fighting off the urge to piss for several hours now. However, over the past ten or so minutes, his need to relieve himself had become far more pressing, making it virtually impossible for him to focus. Resting his head on the pages of archive materials, he knew continuing to ignore his aching bladder was an effort in futility. He closed his eyes and wrangled in his breathing as he slowly began to push.

Much to Edan’s astonishment, it was far harder to willingly use a diaper even with how badly he needed to go. He applied as much internal pressure as he could but barely managed to dribble out a few drops. As if the act of wearing a diaper wasn’t bad enough without his body fighting him at every turn. Blushing slightly, he pulled out his phone and quickly looked up, “How to pee in a diaper when your body won’t let you.” Thankfully, several results popped up, with the most doable advice being to stand up and pretend he was in front of a toilet.

A very remorseful Edan scooted away from the table and slowly got to his feet, finding himself once again scanning the area to make absolutely certain that no one was nearby. Other than the librarian, who was stationed at the front checkout desk, the coast was clear. Not that he was exactly thrilled about that. Groaning dejectedly, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to envision the apartment bathroom. All he had to do was let go…let go…let go…

*hss…hsss…hssssssssss*

After a few pained attempts, Edan relaxed into his urination as he finally managed to muscle through his years of potty training to relieve himself. The warmth that grew in the front of his diaper caused him to stop momentarily a few times, unable to fully believe what he was doing. He was also a tad shocked by the sheer amount of pee that was coming out of him. It felt like he’d been pissing for a full two minutes before the flow finally slowed to stop. A beleaguered sigh escaped his lips now that the strain on his bladder had washed away. Sadly, his relief wasn’t meant to last.

*Bzzzzzzzzzzzz!*

Immediately after his wetting came to an end, Edan was sent crashing to his knees as the supernatural diaper started to vibrate without warning. “Stopstopstop!” he said frantically, struggling to keep his voice to a whisper as a horrifying, yet undeniably pleasure overtook his diaper area. It was as if the padding were alive and reacting to its own newfound sogginess. He had no choice but to moosh his hands into the base of his diaper in an attempt to stem his diaper’s horny advances, but all that did was amplify the sensations that were leveling his body and his resistance.

As much as Edan didn’t want to admit it, the euphoric touch of his diaper had him desperate to cum. Deciding to hell with it after enduring nearly a minute of non-stop buzzing, he began to rock his hips back and forth while perched atop his nappy, kneading his cock into the mushy, pliable diaper fluffy. Tragically, right as he was getting into a good rhythm and could feel his pending orgasm rise, the vibrations halted. Not wanting to give up on the much-needed climax, he grinded against his pulpy diaper a few more times but ultimately fell short of getting over the final hump. Frustrated and disgusted with himself, he let his arms fall to the wayside and leaned back against one of the table legs. Misery was no longer the word that was most closely associated with Edan’s mental state. Not when “pathetic” was so much more apt.

Stumbling on shaky legs, Edan collected his materials and returned them to the front desk before beelining straight to the exit. He’d learned everything he could from what the library had to offer. Sticking around now would no doubt only lead to further embarrassment. The best thing he could do now was barricade himself and his blue balls inside his house and wait for this whole mess to blow over, though he had to confess that he was using the word “best” rather liberally.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Edited by AllySmolShork

#ab/dl #ab/dl art #ab/dl stories #ab/dl girl #crissiebaby #diaper art #diaper stories #diaper humiliation #dirty diaper #diaper messy #wetting diaper #md/lb #mental regression #hypnosis #diaper hypno #diaper humping

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spotsupstuff · 5 months

Text

Iterators, of course, aren't made capable of resting. They are here to work.

Even if biological to a degree, the components of the Hiveminds either take careful turns for a shut eye or they work themselves to death from exhaustion. Terrifying-, is Three Sparrows' opinion on that, -but they can't live any differently. Just like moths without mouths or crazed fish fighting against the streams of oceans, that's just how their Cycles are predetermined.

But there's these few rare days... Especially with the newer Iterators- those that are still chugging through life like newborn rain deer fawns, unsure in their existence, a little too vulnerable- when they slow down for a thorough, long debug session.

For the citizens this means a little dimmer day. A little bit of detoxification from screens as nonessential devices shut down or receive far too little power from the hearts of the Iterator. As those beats slow down and the energy that does get generated from them is more focused internally.

For her, as his Mechanic, this means an especially busy couple of days. Anxiety inducing ones, too.

First thing in the morning of the first day, Sparrows sends her charge a question- "how did the debug start up go?"- then remembers that the drama queen that is Caper of Euros does not wish to be bothered to formulate as horrendous things as whole words at this stage, because, in his words: "You don't understand just how *draining* it is to put together syllables in such a state!". So she adds a little unprofessional "doin good?" supplement message right after.

It takes unnaturally long for him to respond (twenty whole seconds!!!) with a singular checkmark. She breathes a sigh of relief and allows herself to go about her day now.

The city of Ales keeps relatively quiet. The typical churn of energy, cogs and thoughts of a behemoth beneath her feet is near silent even in the depths of the inner subway system. The traffic lights blink a little slower, the fake birds overhead sing just that tad bit louder. The children freed from school thanks to the low current bump into her by accident as they chase each other through the city square. Three Sparrows clutches her breakfast, gives the little rascals some mock chase with her fist waving in the air and then she sits down to finally scorf that food down.

First day is the hardest. This one is dedicated to check ups of the hearts, gravity generators and the memory arrays. All of that is functioning at its bare minimum right now and she better make use of that! Less thunderous beats for her body to weather even through the suit specialized for this, less frustrating fights against complete antigravity and less train of thoughts for her to derail by accidentally bumping into the softer bits of his mind.

She won't get to really interact with Euros today- or well... at least he won't be able to respond much to her day's worth of effort like he'd usually do. It's still strange to think of that. Running all around someone's body yet not actually properly interacting. This job forces a person through so many paradigm shifts... It gets exhausting to change one's understanding of simply *being* so many times.

So today she ensures his hearts are without a single scratch. That the Void Fluid trapped inside of the water is still spinning right (that part is always needlessly scary. the Void stuff can't be trusted, no matter how holy the preachers say it is, Three Sparrows on a Wire doesn't give a damn). She checks all the cables and tubes surrounding them, the antigravity generators solely dedicated to only this giant chamber all the while trying to keep her own little heart from panicking at the loud noise.

Manually she visits all the major generators sprinkled through the facility and runs diagnostics on the lesser ones through her watch. She amputates and treats the biological parts of the arrays that need it, tells hi to a sleepy yet determined Inspector that came to check it out, pries neuron flies out of weird places they somehow managed to wedge themselves into and takes a peek into Euros' mental state as per regulations.

She already knows his priority list won't make the demanded norms. Her own name shines at her from the first spot, forcing all too familiar self-blame to bloom in her chest. With a swipe of a finger, the screen disappears. Her final report will have lies in it again, then. Nobody can know.

At 23:11, fifteen hours since the beginning of the work day, Three Sparrows stumbles out of the stuffy biomechanical guts of her boyfriend without popping into the puppet chamber once absolutely destroyed.

"Oh, I always forget how sweet the evening air is. Void below, wow," she says, taking a deep breath before dragging herself home.

Aching limbs force her to skip normal dinner for easier-to-prepare and consume nutritional supplements, but they don't manage to stop her from making it to the daily family call. Or from quietly hacking into Euros' systems afterwards.

There's a spike of panic in the entire Hivemind, according to the live diagnostic program running on her watch and she looks on as his systems reach for the firewalls he unconsciously dropped alongside his damn heart rate (most likely, she has yet to catch the moment when he actually drops them). Three Sparrows can't help but grin to herself a little as she turns off her computer's cloaking *just* before the firewalls reactivate. The recognition of her IP address is instantaneous- telling by the sudden stop of Euros' frantic efforts at self-defense.

At least for a few seconds. Then he's rapidly purging her out and slamming the firewalls back into their place behind her. She barely manages to burst into laughter and her watch already pings with a new message. Message in question? Only reads a singular period.

But oh, those few pixels somehow manage to obtain all the dramatic affront, anger and disbelief a typical Euros rant would have. It only makes her laugh harder.

When she finally wills herself to stop, lest she gets a headache, she replies: "when will you finally remember to *not* become a sitting mouse for hackers during your debugging. you dumbass you!"

Euros replies with another period.

"watch out for yourself, ok? just bc im tots willing to break a guys face in the name of keeping your giant eight legged box butt safe doesnt mean im exactly itching for that kinda situation" "now good luck during the night. i gotta go take a five everything hurts"

Two periods and a second later, a heart.

Sparrows smiles at the screen a little, turns off her computer and climbs into the soft bed sheets.

The next day flies by a little easier. This one is dedicated to check ups of technologies related to production of the biological Hivemind members. There's quite a lot of those scattered through the whole body of Caper of Euros, but at least the hearts are beating a little faster today which means the gravity generators everywhere are stronger and that again means Sparrows gets to call upon an Inspector to hitch a ride with it for the whole day. No solo swimming in 0g this time!

All the production centres end up being more or less perfectly fine. Any damage caused by use is miniscule enough to not matter and be fixed naturally in a matter of days. As it should be with all Iterators out of their test run phases.

A small feeling of pride settles warmly behind her ribs. Another thing she can be almost certain to check off the long long list of her duties as a Mechanic, another Euros' step towards being completely self-dependent and, for the lack of biomechanical term on an Iterator scale, fully mature.

He's progressing despite small hiccups here and there and she couldn't be happier.

Though, one thing she will admit.

As she gives her goodbye to today's guide, Sparrows just can't wait for this day to be over. It won't be admitted aloud, especially where Euros could hear her, but she's starting to painfully miss their usual interactions.

Sure, today her interactions with him were... "closer" than yesterday, but it still wasn't it.

Another dissonance. Even being near something more closer to her level than the entirety of his physical body is not exactly a direct mutual interaction. The Inspector nuzzled to her, held her, clicked at her in some attempts at communication. And it was Euros, but... also just such a small piece of him.

So small, that it almost borders on meaningless. But it hurts to think of anything with such personality and role in the grand scheme of him as meaningless so she quickly shakes that thought out of her head.

It is strange. But she doesn't mind calling the *puppet* meaningless. That thing is what her heart yearns for now, whose embrace she's currently missing- its carmine coloration and big dark lenses are what her eyes are searching for. And still, the cynical and rational part of her dubs that piece useless without an issue.

Because the puppets are useful with their emptiness. The uselessness makes them precious, paradoxically enough.

She's even writing a paper on this subject, questioning if the existence of these masks or decoys- essentially inherent lies- are really so important. So naturally, her thoughts spiral further as she's walking back into his facilities during the third day.

Today is deep puppet chamber maintenance day. A whole day dedicated to the bullshit.

In her paper, Three Sparrows argues that puppets are installed more for the sake of the Anemon population more than the Iterators themselves. In the grand scheme of things, can it be said that these priorities will pay out?

Yes, certainly, there are aspects to puppets that are helpful for the Iterators themselves too. Mainly that the relatively little things are the central focus point of the Hivemind- a means for the entirety of the scattered person to come together and form an Individuality seamlessly.

'But,' she asks, 'isn't That a condition Created by The Puppet's Existence? If We direct Our Attention to the Iterator Inconvenient Sporadic Change, she was known to exist Outside of her Individuality Without Complications! Research shows that she performed just as well if not better in Her Duties than the other Iterators of Her Time Period- which, if I May remind The Reader Kindly, are some Monumental Names. Better output than that of Boreas' Blessing, Orion's Pathway and even The Dedicated Aftertaste of Disdain.

Her Processes proved to be Seamless, Direct, Quicker. Reports are Also Kind Enough to mention the Need for Maintenance- Be it Physical, Psychological or Emotional- was at a sweet Minimum.

If a Puppet of an Iterator Should not be Given, is it Possible that the Hivemind would find a Different, Healthier Way of Coming Together? Of My educated Opinion, I'd dare to Say Yes.

The Consciousness would have the Free Choice of expanding Outwards, to the Limits of the Superstructure, rather than Claustrophobically Inwards. This Change of Procedure would Potentially Result in Absence of These known Disorders that Plague Your Great Gifts to the World:'

Then there is also of course the benefit of pearl reading and printing, but really? Her computer doesn't need a whole person just to burn her a picture, song or some text into the surface of a pearl and then also read it back. This function of the puppets is a weakness if anything. Why not exchange the entire chamber setup for something like a series of pearl readers so they might as well multitask in this, too?

Euros certainly could be reading twenty pearls at once and burning information onto thirty other, for sure. Maybe that would sate his programmed hyperactivity at least a little before he gains access to his predetermined role as a Phone Operator Chief of the Eo group.

The puppets are just a ginormous fumble at optimization of the Iterator blueprint and that's that.

And still...

Three Sparrows climbs through the pipe into Caper of Euros' puppet chamber. This place is like another heart, despite its function being nothing like a real one. A hub of his mind, maybe. An important, precious piece of him, even if those epithets are forced onto it by circumstance.

Her feet hit the floor and the chamber brightens up just that bit to signal at least a piece of his attention is now dedicated to the happenings within the room, but stays deep carmine instead of turning light pink. That signals he's still working, just as she instructed him.

Overseers come and go to take a look at her, some stay to watch her. Understandable, since the puppet is slumped over in the middle of the floor, sitting with its eyes half closed- for once, he is the one frustratingly limited in his ability to interact with her properly even though she's right here.

"Good morning, Caps!" Sparrows cheerfully calls into the more or less empty room, giving the Overseers a quick salute in greeting. They reply with quick spins of their tendrils, the room itself greets her back with a pleased purr. One that she can feel shaking her legs even through the metal soles of her boots as she walks over to today's main point of interest.

Kneeling next to it, she rests a hand over its chest in support. "Alright. As always, we'll get through the detachment sequence and you can go fully back to finishing off the debugging. How close are you to being done?"

Something whirrs and then a projection appears on the wall in front of her of a progress bar. 87%.

"Nice! You are getting faster. Come on now, then."

During a deep maintenance of the puppet, it is advised to nearly fully disconnect it from the rest of the structure. The purpose of that is to give the systems some rest, but also to avoid stressing out or making the Hivemind uncomfortable by sticking a hand into what it perceives as its very personal very own chest.

The first step is for the Hivemind to pull back from the body, to avoid the shock of forceful extraction. Once that is done, the Iterator disconnects the umbilical arm from the back and allows the Mechanic to slowly push it away. Carefulness is needed during this- the arm contains cables and tubes, acting like an umbilical cord for an unborn offspring in some animals.

The baby analogy never fails to make her skin crawl. While Anemons conceive children without such things, it's still so... personal. It stirs unwanted feelings inherent to intelligent organic beings, the need to look after a child. These puppets are like stillborns. Stuck within the womb for the "mother" to use as an extension of its being.

That is not a matter easily pondered.

The next step, after the bundle of crucial cords safely rests on the ground, is to disconnect the umbilical cables from the back of the puppet's head.

One by one, Sparrows disconnects them. And with the last, Euros' puppet goes slack against her hand. Quite unnerving, that. It always makes her heart jump even though she knows better than to worry.

She secures the umbilical cables to the arm and pulls back to take a look at him, both arms supporting his shoulders. The head lolls, eyes still open a little yet unseeing. Something whispers that's not right, so she guides his eyelids closed for him.

...Iterators can't sleep. But the useless piece of Euros looks like he does and suddenly she can't help but feel like this is the most important thing in existence.

The something in her shifts, the something that is yearning, loving, that wants to take care of another and keep him safe from the sharp world outside.

Sparrows caves. Gathers the puppet into her arms, rests his head against her shoulder. The chamber lowly, but sharply whirrs. He's probably annoyed that she has decided to be all cuddly and sweet now when he can't be fully present for it. What little consciousness he can still muster in the puppet presents itself in the tiniest nuzzle of his face into her neck.

Such a small gesture, yet it steals her breath away. She hugs him... it.. closer, cheek presses against his forehead, a hand moves to caress the side of his face.

She marvels at the feeling of holding him. Questions why she is left stumped by an almost empty thing.

He's sleeping, face buried against her neck, says the something- he is awake, just a little drowsy, staring at her with seven eyes across the room, replies reason.

She cradles him in her lap… he's so thin and light, the feeling begs her to keep him safe until he wakes up again, he wouldn't be able to defend himself against a predator-! He holds her in his center, so small and insignificant compared to his mind breaking vastness.. her life span so minute compared to what he is yet to live through. Someone of his caliber wouldn't find a challenge in simply deleting her like a line of code.

'The only thing keeping me truly safe are the taboos woven in their genes,' says the cynical piece of mind, jaded by decades of unkind life and all tired, entertaining the absolute worst of scenarios for the sake of a warning. 'I couldn't be in a safer place than here, at his mercy, in this artificial world where he might as well be a true god,' says the lovesick heart backed up by years of experience, making her arms tighten in a hug.

She caresses his arm, taking a note of the bit too dry skin, created similarly enough to her own to bring comfort of familiarity, only to be snatched away again when there's no softness of flesh beneath.

'That's just a Generation 2 thing,' the knowledgeable mind shrugs it off.

And the more primal worrywart of a heart panics about it as it applies organic understanding of things to it. Remembering the few times Sparrows was allowed to touch Boreas' puppet, the many times Zephyr pulled her against her side for the night. Those are his family members! They are padded with something pliable-

Cushioning of Generation 1 to combat possible gravity generator outages. There's more certainty in the Iterator engineering now, Euros has no need for those. He's better off than either of them. He's safer and, terrifyingly, many times more loved than them.

She sighs, concerned and-

"Sparrows?"

Ah, that seems to be the limit for how long Euros is willing to take the actionless silence. The voice is relatively quiet considering it always echoes through the little room from the speakers seated in the corners of the ceiling. It's kind of sluggish. Not entirely out of the concentration of debugging. The Overseers have come closer.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"Sure you were. Your face went on quite the journey there. Why were you frowning so much?"

She considers. "...dissension of... wants and reality, I guess."

"Well then don't go doing that when I can't feasibly help out. Same with the cuddles I want in on that."

Three Sparrows only rolls her eyes in amusement at that and goes back to work, this time with the Overseers watching her a bit more intently. It's a little uncomfortable, but she can't blame him for worrying when she does so constantly.

Later that day, when the sun hides away, her gaze lingers in random places.

In the kitchen at the table with one chair, one plate and one cup of tea. She stares at the too much space on the couch in the little living room, one toothbrush waiting at the sink, the empty place beside her in the bed.

Perhaps an Iterator puppet isn't the only empty thing in her life.

#rw #oc: three sparrows #oc: caper of euros #oc tag #philosophy sessions au #my writing #inspired by the need to have sparrows cradle a sleepy caper puppet despite her opinions on puppets #the fight of mind's opinions and heart's instinctual opinions.... oh the inner discord #mind: puppets are basically appendixes. Useless. | heart: That Is My Fuckin Boy!!! my LOVERBOY. i protect partner... get awae from him...#kinda a sad ending but what can you do. rw is tragedy adjacent and iterators are actual literal tragedies. their existence Sucks

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shitty-fallout-art · 9 months

Text

It's been 87 years....

-Presiding over his achievements with an iron fist and an eye for revenge, Washington is the acting mayor over the newly established colony of Goodneighbor.

-His story is much the same as Hancock's: he was originally a citizen of Diamond city and failed to stop his brother's political campaign to ostracize the city's ghoul populace. Succumbing to depression for his failure he left to live in the slums of Goodneighbor, idly watching the little settlement tear itself apart under the harsh leadership of vic, afraid of intervention and indulging in heavy chem usage without a care for his own self-preservation.

-Only, instead of coming upon the clothing of John Hancock, it was the clothes of George Washington that he found himself in front of after his binge.

-He felt...insignificant in its presence, ashamed of his own inadequacy and embittered at the corruption he saw around him. No matter what he had or where he had gone, he saw how easily people were mislead, how afraid they were to act on their own judgement, and it sickened him to think of how Washington would feel if he saw his country now.

-This was the key difference between Washington and Hancock. Hancock never stopped believing in the better judgement of the people around him, of the power of the populace as a whole and the will of the individual to act.

-Washington, on the other hand, gave up that rule of thinking after witnessing the failed revolution of Goodneighbor, and so he came to believe that if the people would blindly follow their leader, then he would give them one that was actually worth their time.

-So, he donned himself in the clothes of Washington, quit chem entirely, and modeled himself into a character that he was sure was going to be different from all the rest. He would be strong, and wise, and unyeilding, just as Washington was, and he would fight for something better lead the people as they should be led.

-So, he organized the revolution of Goodneighbor and overthrew vic, all under his command and with the notion that he would take a position of power over the community in his stead. All of it went off without a hitch, particularly due to his ruthless ambition and unflinching assertiveness, showing those around him just how unstoppable and powerful he was.

-But Goodneighbor was not a settlement that he was proud to lead at first. It was a filthy slum of addicts and mercenaries, too deep in the ruins of boston to be self-sustaining and relying on chem export to survive. Under his leadership, he had the populace relocated to the square of Swann's pond, providing many job opportunities for the development and cleanup of the area while also cementing his position of power after publicly saying the behemoth. The citizens were quick to fall into line with his new laws and regulations, and those who left were quickly replaced by people who respected and understood the stability his rule offered.

-Newneighbor, as it was called, slowly became a precious jewel that Washington could finally call an accomplishment, and as the story is told, he is known throughout as a strict, but knowing figurehead.

-Which...sounds nice and all, when you put it that way. But the funny thing about corruption is that it often happens so gradually, that the people responsible hardly notice the changes themselves.

-Unlike Hancock, Washington took a sort of "tough love" approach to his role, taking his theory that people were far too ignorant and perceptible and turning it into a belittling belief that most citizens had no idea what was really best for them. And if they could not grasp that themselves, then he had no problems with reminding them of their social standing and mistakes.

-With the commonwealth being as unforgiving as it is, he took it upon himself to be just as unforgiving, and he what he could not get through inspiration and respect, he gained through fear and intimidation. He worked the populace hard, kept his rules strict and his guard in line, and would not tolerate any question to his method or character.

-After building up Newneighbor into a stable colony with many thriving industries bringing income into the community, he indulged in the luxuries afforded to his position, the older populace often whispering that it came as a substitution to the chem usage he used to indulge in himself.

-Overtime, he became much of what he had initially hated in Guy, but was blind to the notion that his community was suffering under a harsh and difficult environment under his command. He thoroughly believes that difficult hardships provide greater reward once overcome, and those who cannot win in the end are simply not trying hard enough.

-The easiest way to describe his personality is: formal, hypocritical, and brash. In modealing himself into a person he believed he could be proud of, he took much of that into how he held and presented himself, forgoing much of his easy-going nature in favor of a strict professionalism. He is often imposing himself unto others by way of judgment or command, though also taking many responsibilities unto himself as well.

-He is insecure about becoming a ghoul, believing it to be a sort of divine punishment for his previous actions in Diamond city and holding a self-prejudice towards himself and his condition. He refuses to be seen without his wig, and he is very strict as to how ghouls are treated and referred to within his community.

-He is sensitive about his previous vices, often still craving chems or suffering the effects of his older usage, but all behind closed doors, and all while publicly throwing most chem users under the bus in the process.

-He keeps tabs on Diamond city, but most people do not know why.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fellout au #shittys fallout aus #fallout au character profile #shittys art #hancock #john hancock #fellout washington

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roetrolls · 1 month

Text

Loose Reins

Zerkev is just about sick of dealing with clowns. Putting up with Yumeno’s useless ass was bad enough, but this? This is something else.

“I should kill them both right now,” the Marauder spits, his vision practically blurred with the heat of his rage. In front of him, the Dominion cocks his head, a finger resting against his cheek and the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Just them?” he asks, amused. “How merciful.”

In a flash, three golden prongs are leveraged at his throat. The giant allows his glowing gaze to drift, briefly, to the trident in his overseer’s hands.

“You crossed the line,” Zerkev growls through a throat full of gravel, expression dangerously cold. “A smarter man would be begging on his knees for my forgiveness.”

“A younger man, maybe. I fear I’d struggle to get up again.”

“Is this a joke to you, Mahkir?”

“A joke? Never. Amusing though, certainly.”

Zerkev’s face darkens, almost imperceptibly, but the purpleblood is keen enough to spot it. He straightens slightly in his throne, shifting away from the weapon with as much subtlety as he can manage. Imposing as Harlan’s stature may be, it is not his presence that sucks the air from the room.

“Take your weapon,” the general orders.

Harlan regards him curiously. “Is it a fight you want, Pravus? I thought you smarter than that.”

“Take. Your weapon.”

Wordlessly, the Dominion follows his command, reaching over his seat’s left side to close his bulky fingers around the club that lays propped against its base. He twirls it idly in his hand and moves to rise, empty right fist gripping the throne’s arm for leverage.

Then, before he can stand, he is forced back by the triad of spikes that Zerkev plunges through his bicep, piercing both skin and muscle in one single, practiced thrust. Pink light bounces off the golden surface once more as Harlan turns his eyes to the injury, the mild bewilderment they carry masking any hint of the pain he must be feeling.

“I see,” he sneers before turning his focus back to the seadweller.

“Where did you find him?”

“Oh? Was I meant to be involved in your little manhunt?”

He can feel the fury pooling in his gut, but Zerkev maintains an eerie calm as he turns the trident, a half inch at most, and watches the clown grit his teeth in response. A warning.

“You involved yourself,” he hisses coolly, “when you sent your dogs after my child.”

“Such a strange practice, parenthood. Hard to imagine you of all trolls denying the natural order of things so egregiously.”

“I did not ask for your commentary.”

“You’re not here for a chat?”

Zerkev growls, fins flaring in agitation, and Harlan breaks into a grin. It’s rare to see such emotional displays from the Marauder, and even with the man’s weapon lodged in his arm, he is clearly delighted. They both know how transparent--how vulnerable--he has just made himself.

“What are you here for, Pravus? Do you know?”

“I am reminding you of your place.”

“How is that going?”

It takes everything in Zerkev’s power not to twist his trident in response. As much as Harlan deserves the goring, rewarding him with such a strong reaction would serve only to grant him more power. The Marauder exhales through his nose and squares his jaw, certain that his knuckles have gone white beneath his gloves.

“You are on very thin ice, Mahkir,” he warns him instead, fighting to keep his voice level over the thrum of blood in his ears.

“So I can see.”

With a snarl, Zerkev lunges forward and grabs the behemoth by the collar, yanking hard to bring the clown’s face level with his own. Harlan’s eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily wiping the smug expression from his face.

“I understand this may be beyond what a heartless bastard like you can comprehend,” the seadweller grits, “but I want you to listen to me, Mahkir. Very. Carefully. If you ever touch my son again, I will kill you.”

His quiet intensity is enough to startle even Harlan, and the clown opens his mouth silently in search of a response.

“You hear me, you overgrown brute? No fancy threats, no dramatic vagueries; the next time you come for one of mine, it’s your head.” He jiggles the trident for good measure, his tone eerily calm for the promise it carries.

Harlan regards him carefully, still hunched awkwardly in Zerkev’s grip, then that cantankerous smile emerges once more. “You know, the past twelve sweeps make far more sense to me now.”

Confusion and wariness creep onto the seadweller’s face in tandem. Harlan continues with a hum.

“I’d assumed it was merely your usual neuroses, but… Blood of all things? That is a rather glaring weakness, isn’t it?”

The Marauder’s stony expression drops, and Harlan pulls out of his slackened grasp to sit up straight again.

“I’d have cut my losses the moment I learned of it, personally. Terrible liability.” He taps a finger against his chin, his casual, musing tone a stark contrast to the threat behind his gaze. “So easy to leverage.”

The comment, as simple as it is, is exactly enough to push the general over the edge. He can almost feel it as the final straw lands upon his back, and with fangs bared, he at last gives in to the impulse that has plagued him since he entered this wretched chapel:

Hurt him.

A growl bubbles from Zerkev’s chest as he wrenches the trident in Harlan’s arm, inviting three thick streams of viscous purple blood to ooze from the wound as he gives the staff a vicious, painful twist. The Dominion masks his grimace with a snarl, free arm shooting across his chest to grip the pole and hold it still.

“Your audacity is mind-boggling,” Zerkev hisses. “You want to play extortion, Mahkir? Fine.”

Satisfied for now with the violence he has inflicted, he tugs the trident free from his underling’s flesh, leaving the giant to clamp his dominant left hand over the gaping holes now bleeding freely in his arm.

He should have known better than to threaten the snake himself. Harlan thinks himself invincible, and any harm Zerkev could promise the man would be easily dismissed. Making a real, actionable threat is going to require a different approach.

“If Mallum ever comes to harm, by your words or by your actions,” he scowls, “I will personally see to it that no grub bearing your name will leave the caverns again.”

The Dominion’s lip twitches, pulling back into a lopsided snarl that broadcasts exactly how easily this new angle has burrowed beneath his skin. Zerkev, however, is too busy seething to appreciate the triumph.

“That glorious symbol of yours will be nothing more than a marker-- a note to the caverns to cull on sight and exterminate your pathetic spawn like the pests they are.”

Now it is Harlan’s turn to growl. It rolls from his chest in a low, menacing wave, blanketing the church with the noise. His rumbling permeates the senses, seeming almost to grow louder as the scene begins to shift.

Shift?

Sunlight trickles past the curtains in a thin, shining stream, guiding Zurven’s eye across each of the sleeping forms slowly coming into focus beside him.

There is no trident in his hand-- only Veylin’s delicate fingers laced loosely with his own. The sound that all but shakes their walls is merely Benjin’s gentle snore, oddly soothing despite its volume, and perfectly in place within the dimly lit bedroom.

The oracle sits up sluggishly, still blinking the sleep from his eyes and squinting through the dark to look at Mallum dozing on the bed’s outer edge. Zurven watches his chest rise and fall, gills fluttering in time, and takes a deep breath of his own.

He’s going to throttle that idiot.

#zerkev writing #harlan writing #guest star!#zurven #writing #harlan mahkir #the dominion #zerkev pravus #the marauder

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blowflyfag · 7 months

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Wrestling World : FEBRUARY 1995

A NIGHT OUT WITH THE BAD GUY

You’ve seen what he can do in the ring. Now, Wrestling World shows you what he’s like outside the ropes! Get ready for a night on the town with Razor Ramon.

By Jose Padua

THIS IS A story about good versus evil, money versus poverty, knowledge versus ignorance. It’s a story about the subtle power of poetry versus the blunt force of a closed fist, the seductive charm of a beautiful woman versus the explosive temper of a maniacal beast. But it’s mostly a story about a guy with a toothpick in his mouth whose perpetual five o’clock shadow bespeaks of street fights, hard times, and a distaste for proper grooming-though not necessarily in that order.

We’re referring, of course, to “The Bad Guy,” Razor Ramon, that hairy behemoth of a man who since bursting onto the scene in the WWF a few years ago has made an impression on wrestling fans all over the world. That it’s a “bad” impression is, as wrestling fans have learned, no reason to shun him. On the contrary, it is the very reason we have all embraced his aura and taken him for what he truly is-a man who has weathered “the dark night of the soul” and come out on top to server as both inspiration for us working stiffs, and as a role model for today’s youth culture.

Indeed, Razor’s influence has extended well beyond the world of wrestling to the point that he’s become something of a hero to fans of the alternative music scene. Nowadays it’s just as common for hip twentysomethings to identify themselves by purchasing a block of tickets to a Pearl Jam concert as it is for them to sport a Razor Ramon tee shirt complete with paint stains and strategically placed rips in the cloth. And one recent Friday night found “The Bad Guy” in the company of some of that very same crowd.

Celebrating his recent victory over Diesel for the Intercontinental title, Razor was having dinner at a Mexican restaurant on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 89th St. in Manhattan. Although he’s been known to frequent such posh restaurants as Alla Sera on the Upper East Side, this was a much more modest place.

“I like it here,” Razor explains. “Though sometimes I go to them fancy restaurants, I always have a better time at places like this. Places where real people go to have a good time.”

Success, it seems, has not gone to Razor’s head: He’s the people’s bad guy. But that wasn’t always the case.

“When I first started out. I was just like Shawn Michaels,” he continued, bringing up the source of his major feuds. “I was bad for the wrong reasons, Chico, stepping all over my people, people who had it rough like me…who came from the streets like me. But I learned to have respect for my roots, man.”

Among his entourage this evening are a couple of kids sporting the grunge look, some pals from the old neighborhood, and a former centerfold model named Lisa. When the waiter comes to take everyone’s order we hear requests for standard Mexican fare-dishes such as enchiladas, tacos, chimichangas- until it’s Razor’s turn to order. Pulling the toothpick from his mouth, Razor looks intently at the waiter and says, “I’d like a special order, Chico. Fried chicken.” It seemed an odd choice, but no one’s going to argue with Razor about what he wants to eat. If he were to order spaghetti and meatballs at a Chinese restaurant he’d undoubtedly be obliged.

While waiting for dinner the subject of The 1-2-3 Kid comes up. Razor’s unexpected defeat the the hands of The 1-2-3 Kid was the turning point in his career, the darkness merged-where the void and the bad kicked out the ugly to create a force Razor never imagined could exist.

“My Main Man,” Razor says, referring to The Kid. “He took me by surprise, Chico. Here was this little guy who could wrestle with the biggest dudes, man. He showed me that you could be ‘good’ too.”

“So now you’re The Good Guy?” we ask.

“No, I’m The Bad Guy. But now I understand what’s good. See why I’m sayin’?”

Whatever the case may be, Razor’s style is, to say the least, different from that of The 1-2-3 Kid. Where The Kid is all finesse and dazzling acrobatics, Razor is brute force and methodical determination. In fact, if football announcer John Madden were to open his “All-Madden” team to professional wrestlers, Razor Ramon would be first on his list. Not necessarily the most skilled or scientific, Madden’s team is made up of real “tough guys,” the ones who are most willing to get down in the dirt and do whatever it takes to win-which is as good a description as any of Razor Ramon’s “bad” style.

[Razor Ramon cuts a striking figure in, or out, of the ring!]

When dinner is served Razor immediately digs in with his hands. Picking up a drumstick, he devours it in a single sloppy bite, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand: Like his wrestling style, his table manners aren’t all that elegant. But what matters most is that they get the job done. “Anyone want to try some of this chicken?” he asks, looking around at his guests. “It’s good.”

After dinner Razor and his friends pile into a couple of cabs and head downtown to the East Village. Getting off on Avenue B, they gather in front of a grimy performance space that goes by the name of Chez Rollo where down-and-out writers congregate to spit out words of rage and wisdom. It seems that although Razor is known for a lot of things, one thing that never gets much attention is the fact that he is something of a patron of the arts-especially those arts that speak of the street, of that world from whence he came. On entering, Razor is immediately recognized by a number of people, including a couple of the poets.

“Hey Razor!” says one of them. The poet walks up to Razor and introduces himself. “I’m Carl Watson; I’m a big fan of yours.”

“Oh yeah,” says Razor nodding. “I know your work. I like it…it’s good stuff, Chico.”

While waiting for the reading to begin Carl explains how he became a fan of “The Bad Guy.” “I got into wrestling when I got an assignment to do a story on Lucha Libre for the Village Voice,” he says. “After going to some the Lucha Libre matches in Brooklyn I started to watch the WWF or get some perspective on how the Luca Libre scene differs from other wrestling promotions, and of all the wrestlers there the one who really stood out the most was Razor Ramon-‘The Bad Guy.’ He’s got the good, Chico.”

Soon the reading starts. First is Ron Kolm, who reads a series of short, insightful poems on such diverse topics as getting drunk and going to war.

“He’s bad,” Razor comments.

“You mean you don’t like him?” Lisa asks.

“No, I mean he’s bad. Like me.” Later on Carl gets up and reads a story about the seedy side of the city and life spent in dingy bars and transient hotels.

“He’s been there, man,” Razor comments nodding his head appreciatively.

Last is a guy named Bob wearing a pork pie hat, a polka dot shirt, and baggy black trousers. Like Razor he also sports a good amount of stubble on his cheeks, but on seeing him Razor starts to sneer. “Something ain’t right with this dude,” he says shaking his head.

Bob commences his portion of the reading with an attempt at rap style poetry. Watching Bob perform, Razor gets agitated, shifting in his seat and clenching his fists. “He don’t know what he’s talking about,” Razor mumbles.

“He’s acting like he’s down, but it ain’t no way, Chico. He’s a poseur just like Shawn Michaels.” A few poems later Razor stands up in anger and is about to approach the stage when Lisa stops him.

“Hey, Razor, it’s okay,” she says. “He’s harmless.”

“Yeah, but someone needs to make this gringo shut up.”

Luckily for Bob it’s the last poem of the night, but before he steps down Razor yells a warning toward the stage: “It’s all right for now. But I’ll be back, Chico.”

In need of a nightcap, Razor leads his entourage, which at this point includes Ron and Carl, to The International Bar on First Avenue. Taking a nip from a bottle of Dos Equis, he begins to relax again. Later in the evening, at that point when most people take to reminiscing about the past, Razor Ramon (always one to do things his own way), looks instead toward the future.

“I’m the Intercontinental champion now,” he tells Ron, who hangs on the Razor’s every word, “and it feels good, Chico. But pretty soon I’m going to get a shot at the big title. And you know, to have me go against Bret Hart will be one of the greatest matches of all time. The two baddest guys in the WWF. But first there are some people who need to be taught a lesson. People like the Million Dollar Man. Bam Bam Bigelow, and Jeff Jarrett. They make me mad, Chico.”

“And don’t forget Bob, the bad poet,” Ron suggests.

“Bad? He ain’t bad, Chico,” Razor says raising his voice.

“Well…I mean Bob the good poet.”

“He ain’t good either.”

“Well, you know what I mean…” Ron says nervously. Then adds. “I better shut up.”

“Hey, Chico, it’s cool, man. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Razor picks the tab up from the bar, lays down a couple of hundred dollar bills, then lifts his bottle and extends it towards Ron and the rest of the group.

“To all my good friends.”

And so ends a night out with The Bad Guy. A night which despite the occasional misunderstanding, turned out to be a good one. Or should we say a bad one. Whatever the proper word is, it’s a distinction that Razor Ramon understands very well, and perhaps one day when the time is right he’ll teach us all a lesson.

[Inspired by the work of Ron Kolm and Carl Watson, Razor tries his hand at writing some poetry!]

#wwf #world wrestling federation #razor Ramon #I loved this article #it was so fun! I might try to get more of these wrestling world just for these articles #magazine scan #magazine transcript

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helix-studios117 · 2 months

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Halo Reloaded: Rogue

Under the harsh artificial lights of the Autumn 2.0’s hangar bay, an impromptu arena was set, charged with an electric anticipation. Arrayed in a loose semi-circle, Blue, Red, Cobalt, and Silver Teams stood in full battle regalia, their armor a kaleidoscope of war-torn stories. In their midst, almost deceptively calm, stood John-117. His stance was relaxed, but there was an undeniable tension in the air, the kind that precedes storms.

Fred-104, of Blue-Team, took a step forward, his voice echoing slightly off the metallic walls. "John, you’re making a mistake. We’ve bled together, faced down the impossible. You don’t have to walk this path alone."

John’s helmet tilted slightly, considering Fred’s words. "This isn’t about us," he replied, his voice betraying a hint of underlying conflict. "It’s about Cortana. I can’t, I won’t, leave her to face whatever’s out there on her own."

Jerome-092, the de facto leader of Red-Team, chimed in with a mix of frustration and understanding. "You taught us to value the chain of command, to trust in the system. Why can't you follow your own advice?"

"It's not that simple," John countered, his tone firm. "This goes beyond orders. If there's a chance Cortana needs me, I have to try."

Yaz-112, her voice as cool and measured as her tactical mind, added, "We get loyalty, John. But defying direct orders? This is bigger than any single Spartan. We have to think about the consequences."

"Maybe you’re right," John conceded, though his stance remained unyielded. "But if there’s even a sliver of hope that I can help her, then I have to act. Consequences be damned."

With those final words, the uneasy truce shattered...

As the first move was made, John launched himself into the fray with a burst of speed that blurred the lines between human capability and machine-like efficiency. He met Kelly-087's charge head-on, their collision a thunderclap of power. Kelly, renowned for her unmatched speed, darted around John in a dizzying display, striking from all sides. But John, ever the tactician, anticipated her patterns, catching her mid-lunge and using her momentum to hurl her into a nearby Warthog, the impact echoing like a struck gong.

No sooner had Kelly been dealt with than Linda-058 took her shot from afar, her sniper rounds singing through the air. John twisted and dodged with preternatural agility, closing the distance between them with a calculated rush. He vaulted over a crate, grabbed a discarded energy sword, and deflected a bullet at the last second, the round grazing his armor. In a fluid motion, he disarmed Linda, their faces inches apart, before gently pushing her back with a nudge that said, "Gotcha."

The spectacle drew the attention of Jerome-092, Douglas-042, and Alice-130 of Red Team, who advanced as a cohesive unit. Jerome, leading the charge, was a behemoth, his every step shaking the ground. John met his advance with a defiant roar, their fists clashing with the force of cannon fire. Meanwhile, Douglas and Alice attempted a pincer maneuver, but John, ever vigilant, released a smoke grenade, obscuring their vision. Amidst the confusion, he engaged them in close combat, delivering a series of precise, disabling blows that left them momentarily incapacitated.

With Red Team down, Cobalt and Silver Teams joined the fray, their movements a whirlwind of strategic precision. Yet, John, standing at the eye of the storm, was a force of nature unto himself. He intercepted Yaz-112 and Karim-002 mid-assault, their fists and feet a blur of motion. John ducked, weaved, and countered, his armor scoring with each contact yet never yielding. A swift, judicious kick sent Karim skidding across the floor, while Yaz found herself caught in a lock that required her to yield lest her arm be broken.

Riz-028 and Kai-125 of Silver Team, not to be outdone, launched a coordinated aerial assault, jet packs igniting as they descended upon John like avenging angels. But John, predicting their trajectory, rolled away at the last moment, causing them to collide with each other instead. As they untangled themselves, John saluted them mockingly before moving on.

The climax of the battle saw John facing Vannak-134, his size and strength rivaling that of Jerome. Their duel was a masterpiece of power and agility, each blow from Vannak met with a parry or dodge from John. The hangar rang with the sound of their conflict until John, seizing an opening, executed a stunning judo throw that sent Vannak crashing into a stack of supply crates.

Breathing heavily, John scanned the hangar, his opponents defeated but unharmed, their respect for him undiminished by the battle.

As John reached the Condor, ready to make his escape, Kai-125’s voice crackled over the comm. "You know this makes you a traitor, right? There’s no turning back from this."John paused, his hand on the Condor’s hatch. "I know," he admitted, the weight of his decision clear in his voice. "But if there's the slightest chance I can save her, then it's a risk I'm willing to take."

He didn’t wait for a response, sealing the hatch behind him and launching into the unknown, leaving a wake of mixed feelings among his fellow Spartans. They understood his motivations, even if they couldn’t agree with his methods. John had made his choice, driven by a loyalty that transcended orders, a dedication to a friend that could not be swayed by protocol or decree.In the aftermath, as the Spartans regrouped, there was an unspoken agreement. John had chosen his path, driven by a bond that, to him, was worth any sacrifice. And while they couldn’t follow him down that path, they couldn’t help but respect his resolve. In the end, John did what he believed was right, consequences be damned.

#halo #halo fanfic #halo fanfiction #master chief #master chief fanfic #master chief fanfiction #john 117 #halo headcanon #halo au #halo reloaded #ultimate universe #Ultimate halo

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hrodvitnon · 3 months

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A... Less Cruel Thought

…sort of follow-up inspired by the nonnie submission of a similar name.

Earth’s Guardian Titans have the twisted monstrosity that was once Ozymandias on his last leg. Shoulder crystals shattered, body bleeding purple rivers, fungal spores peeking out from broken scales, panting and heaving for the first time in centuries.

At no small cost to them, of course. The city decided for the fateful encounter had been flattened. All of Godzilla’s allies lie in various states of injury. Mothra makes a valiant effort to stand, but cannot on her broken legs; Rodan’s left wing is burnt black from a Corona Blast he took for Goji; Dagon’s had his energy cores ripped out and lies in a low-power state; Tiamat’s back is broken; Kong’s axe snapped in half; Behemoth’s right tusk had its front snapped off; Barb has a metal rod through her hide; Shimo’s had her head crystals broken in a similar way to Xenilla’s; even Abraxas, valiant as they fought, had a breaking point. There’s was getting picked by the tail and rag-dolled by the star-born Titan until Vivienne fell unconscious. Now San tends to her and watches the last bastion stand against the demon that was once his brother.

The King of the Monsters vs The King of Kings.

Godzilla’s in no state to do much of anything, scales cracked more than they’ve ever been. But that chthonic blue fire has not fizzled out yet, and roars still like an inferno behind his eyes. He’s battered, beaten, broken- but in the zone. This is where he shines, when he knows his enemy cannot go on much longer he finds that little extra something to keep pushing until the curtain call. Today, that something was the vague promise Monarch made about saving his brother. Did he have any way of knowing it was true? No, they very well could’ve lied to give him the hope he needed to win, but it’s not like he was in the state to contemplate.

Xenilla knows this. He knows all of this. He sees the revolting emotion in his eyes, hope.

He needed to take it from him. Show him just how broken his clutch-sibling was. Show him that there was no getting back Ozymandias. Xenilla knows how utterly destroyed the once mighty King of Kings was, he experiences it all the time. Torture after torture his resisting mind has been brought to one that can only plead and beg, seemingly for a new thing every day. ‘Please, stop the pain.’, 'Please, let me dream of home.’, 'Please, let me rut’. On and on and on. But honestly? Xenilla prefers it to empty threats and shouting. He only needs to make him plea now. Plea for his brother to kill him. To relieve him of this inescapable torment. And Xenilla knows he will, as long as he gets a little push…

Godzilla charges. Roaring to the sky as the earth shudders with his approach. Right then, right there, Xenilla gives Ozymandias full control. For the first time in 2 million years. His eyes return to their glittering purple that Godzilla remembers lovingly looking down at him all those times. Xenilla then lashes him. Every pain nerve in his body lights up like a Christmas tree and Xenilla floods his mind with imagery of what he suspects Godzilla would look like chained up by Gigan, consigned to his chainsaws and endless steel agony, shows him what Tiamat would look like strung up by the sinews in Gigan’s trophy room. He expects begging, he expects him to crumple to the ground and writhe and scream and cry for his brother to rip his head from his shoulders.

But he stumbles forward, plants a foot in the earth, grits his teeth so hard they crack, white-knuckles harder than he ever has, and opens his mouth.

“NOW BROTHER. HE IS VULNERABLE. BRING THIS PRETENDER GOD TO HIS KNEES!”

Xenilla rips back control from him, not ceasing his tormenting assault- not until a glowing blue fist soars up and into his chin, smashing every bone in his face to smithereens. He has to relent, and when he does the voice of Ozymandias lets out a torrent of cackling, mocking laughter. Through his white dead eyes, he sees Godzilla wind up for one last strike.

And for the first time in 2 million years, Xenilla is afraid of death.

(Lurker’s first submission, hope ya like it lol. Got inspired by that one post and I like the idea behind Ozzy.)

---

That’s a hell of a first submission, Lurkanon, nice! And it is at this moment Xenilla realizes that infecting Ozymandias, while it seemed like a good idea at the time, has turned out to be a fuck-up of not insignificant proportions and he is on the verge of finding out so hard it takes him off the census...

#submission #godzilla #spacegodzilla #space crystal cordyceps #abraxasverse

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arlertdarling · 1 year

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❥ INSOMNIA — levi x hange, death mention, s3 spoilers, hurt/comfort, established (ambiguous) relationship, first work posted on tumblr. enjoy!

insomnia is the norm for levi ackerman. always has been for as long as he can remember. back when he first joined the military, he fit right in with all the ptsd-nightmare and survivor-guilt-ridden soldiers in the survey corps; not one person slept well in those barracks, but they all, like levi, learned to live with it.

sometimes, though, it got bad — like the day he lost erwin. he went days, then a week, then more, with nothing but three hours of sleep and the caffeine from his tea to keep him standing on his two feet; still would be, if it wasn’t for these weird herbal remedies that hange made, full of plants and flowers and god knows what else they put in there. he had been cautious at first — as one must be with anything that hange concocts and deems ‘safe to consume’ by their questionable standards — but eventually levi figured he’s better off getting poisoned than risking being too sleep deprived to avoid death by man-eating zombie behemoth.

erwin’s death was hard on hange too; not only losing someone they knew since their cadet days, but being passed down the responsibility of being commander after a man who was quite possibly one of the greatest of his time, if not in history. the weight of wielding the same standing and authoritative power he had, the sheer number of duties and people that were now under hange’s direct care. with each passing day, they felt it sink deeper, bury itself into their shoulders like a poison, a parasite; thick and tightly bound and heavy. it’s not the first time they toss and turn more than they actually get some sleep for an entire night, but it is the first time that their herbs and plants do nothing to help.

maybe it’s the fact they were both erwin’s closest friends, the fact they’re now each other’s closest friends, or maybe it’s just the kind of bizarre experimental solution that only a scientist can come up with and lack enough dignity to try, but one sleepless night, a few weeks after erwin’s death, hange ends up at levi’s door. their fist is poised, ready to knock. they’ve been stood here hesitating for long enough that their wrist has grown tired, dipping and letting their knuckles graze the wood silently.

“what do you want, four-eyes? you’ve been standing there for six whole minutes.”

it’s muffled and exhausted, but hange immediately perks up at levi’s voice through the door. they should have seen it coming, at least half as well as levi had been able to hear them coming, it seems; they never have been good at being discreet.

“can i come in?”

they know levi wouldn’t answer anyway, so they say it less like the question it’s phrased as and more like a statement; a forewarning for their inevitable entry.

they shut the door behind them and lean against it, an awkward grin on their face that’s there more out of habit than politeness; just hange being hange, and like hange, they can’t help making a comment. “rough night?” they say with a chuckle. levi glares, or maybe just looks at them; the shadows under his eyes are so dark, it’s hard to tell if he means for his stare to appear so threatening.

hange rubs the back of their neck sheepishly. “well, that makes two of us then.”

“yeah, i know. you look like shit,” levi says with his usual charm. he’s sitting up now, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose before moving his hand back to lean on both palms. for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, waiting for hange to speak, say a joke or laugh or toss him a cheap nonsensical quip or something — but to levi’s surprise, for once, hange doesn’t say anything, only stares with tired eyes and the remnants of their grin from before.

levi sighs. “come here,” he says, tilting his head in a lazy encouraging motion.

hange’s shoulders relax, doing as they’re told with as little delay as if it had been an order. levi shifts, making some room on the bed; a silent invitation.

“oh! really? can i really just–”

“don’t make me change my mind.”

levi rolls over onto his side, his back facing hange. anyone else might be offended by his indifferent behaviour and blunt responses, but hange sees the vulnerability and compassion in the details he fails to hide, or perhaps leaves behind on purpose: the tender look in his eyes, the caring curve of his eyebrows. either way, hange is climbing into the bed beside him, gingerly nudging themselves closer until their warmth is melting into levi’s own like the sun into the sky.

this is new. this touch, this moment. it’s new to them both, but the comfort it gives makes it feel familiar, and it’s that feeling, that warmth — that promise of someone being there when you wake up in the morning, dreading the day — that lulls them into the sleep that they’ve been missing so much.

insomnia is the norm for levi ackerman, but at least tonight it doesn’t have to be.

#divider by benkeibear #cw death mention #tw death mention #aot drabbles #aot fic #aot fanfiction #levihan #platonic levihan #hurt/comfort #ficlet #i am so soft for these two:((#{♡} juno writes !!

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agnerd-bot · 1 year

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Fate Fanservant: Victor Frankenstein, the King of Mad Science(Avenger)

(Thanks to Kat on Twitter for doing this amazing commission for me!)

Ascension Stages:

First Stage: A black vest is buttoned up over a plain white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal stitches across Victor’s lower arms. A dirt and blood-encrusted shovel is planted firmly in the ground as Victor stands a graveyard. A pair of glasses hangs over Victor’s nose as they look forward.

Second Stage: A bloodied lab coat is covering Victor’s clothes, and a white doctor’s mask is covering their mouth. The background has changed to an old laboratory, where a body is covered by a white sheet behind Victor. The shovel has been replaced with a large wrench.

Final Stage: Victor’s body has been changed entirely, with the doctor growing to an eight foot tall behemoth. Metal studs have been inserted into Victor’s neck, and their body has become incredibly muscular. Four studs visibly jut out of each fist, crackling with electricity, and a grim smile can be seen in Victor’s face.

Traits

Class: Avenger Alternate Class: Caster, Berserker True Name: Victor Frankenstein Source: Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus Region: Switzerland Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Attribute: Star Known as: The King of Mad Science, Doctor Frankenstein, The One Who Sought Godhood, The Modern Prometheus

Voice Actress: Mamiko Noto

Deck: QQABB

Parameters: Strength: B Endurance: A- Agility: E Mana: A+ Luck: E NP: A

Passive Skills:

Item Construction B-: In life, Victor Frankenstein was a brilliant scientist who was a prodigy in all fields of science. However, because of their manifestation as an Avenger, this talent has been stunted somewhat due to their obsession with ending their creation's life. If they were summoned as a different class, it's likely this skill would be more powerful, at the cost of Frankenstein's strength as a whole suffering.

(FGO Effect:)-Increases own debuff success rate by 7.5%.

Avenger B: Rage and hatred has become the entirety of Frankenstein's being. Hated by the world for defying God by making life, despised by mankind for the cruelty and hatred to the Creature they made, and loathed by their own creature for refusing to give what she is owed. This rage has become fuel for Frankenstein, pushing them forward as an engine of vengeance, a monster who seeks retribution for those killed by their own creation, uncaring of how the world sees them.

(FGO Effect:) -Increases own NP generation rate when taking attack by 18%. -500% Chance to reduce party's debuff resistance by 8% except self. (Including sub members) [Demerit]

Self-Replenishment (Magic) EX: With divine lightning coursing through their body and the drive to pursue their enemy to any corner of the earth to satisfy their vengeance, Frankenstein is driven to advance further, no matter how much damage their body sustains or how hopeless the situation is. This recklessness coupled with their newfound power makes them a nigh-unstoppable force to be feared.

(FGO Effect:) -Charges own NP gauge by 4.2% every turn. -Decreases own Stun resistance by 7% [Demerit]

Oblivion Correction B: William. Justine. Henry. Elizabeth. Father.

These are the people that the beast had killed.

These are the people she ripped away from this world.

These are the people she slaughtered just to hurt me.

These are the people I must avenge.

William. Justine. Henry. Elizabeth. Father.

(FGO Effect:)-Increases own critical damage by 8%.

Active Skills:

Victorious Galvanism A: While the secret of Frankenstein's work is said to have been lost to time, the one shared fact about the process is that it made use of lightning to initiate life. Victor has now become an embodiment of this lightning, sharing the Creature's nigh-infinite stamina by means of converting magical energy into electricity, and applying it in various powerful ways.

(FGO Effect:) -Applies 'charge NP Gauge when attacking with Quick Cards' for all allies-Recover health for all allies

The Beauty of the Dream Vanished A+: After pursuing the secret to life itself for years, Victor Frankenstein was left horrified by what they had created. As time went on, this horror slowly evolved into hatred as creator and creation worked to make the other's life miserable, despising the other for their increasingly cruel actions. This hatred has manifested itself as a skill for Frankenstein, granting them immense power when faced against an opponent born not of natural means. In their obsessive madness, Frankenstein sees all artificial life as potential monsters that risk causing untold misery and strife.

(FGO Effect:) -Increase damage against ‘Undead’, 'Artificial', and 'Mechanical' enemies for all allies-Increase NP Gauge by 10% for all allies-Increase Buster, Arts, and Quick card effectiveness for all allies-Apply 'Terror' status to self(Demerit)-Apply NP seal to self for one turn(Demerit)

All Men Hate the Wretched B: A grudge that spans a lifetime. A hatred that sinks down to the bone. Bitterness and spite is all that keeps the monster going, and vengeance alone will make everything right. Such is the way of Frankenstein. This hatred has transformed Victor into the beast known as 'Frankenstein's Monster', becoming a hulking brute obsessed with retribution at any cost. Nothing will stop them from reaching their goal, and no one is safe if they dare stand in their way.

(FGO Effect:) -Apply Guts to self(two times, five turns)-Increases attack for three turns-Gains critical stars every turn for three turns

Noble Phantasms

Noble Phantasm: To Be Thine Adam - Frankenstein, Monster and Man Rank: B Maximum Targets: 1 Range: 1m Classification: Anti-Unit(Self)

A manifestation of mankind’s hatred for the one known as ‘Victor Frankenstein’. As time has gone on, the idea of ‘Frankenstein’ has been diluted, with Victor slowly going from arrogant and foolish genius who had attempted to conquer death, to an abusive mad scientist who sought to create a monster for his own terrible purposes. Frankenstein has taken these preconceptions and used them to form a new Mystic Code, greatly improving Frankenstein’s combat capabilities.

Drawing from the common perception of ‘Frankenstein’s Monster’, this Mystic Code takes the form of an eight-foot tall behemoth made of human flesh and thunder. This form was designed explicitly to combat creatures like Frankenstein’s own creation, having the ability to absorb nearly any kind of energy and turn it into a power source for it. Despite the flesh golem’s monstrous size, Frankenstein is incredibly fast in this form and retains all of their intellect, making for a devastating opponent in both mind and body.

Noble Phantasm: Roar of the Living Dead - And Lo, The Creature Lives Rank: B Maximum Targets: 1 Range: 1m Classification: Anti-Unit

It is said that the method by which Frankenstein resurrected the Creature was lost to time, intentionally wiped from the history books by Frankenstein themselves to ensure that no man could ever repeat their mistakes by attempting to play at God. Despite this, many have offered their own theories in their attempt to bring the dead to life, but none have truly succeeded in replicating Frankenstein's legendary feat of creating life.

Frankenstein themself uses a modified and perfected form of reanimation in order to bolster an ally with their mysterious lightning. With this power, they can 'jump-start' an ally, giving a human potential to fight a Servant, and giving a Servant the power to potentially win an entire war singlehandedly. However, the true might of this Noble Phantasm shines when used on the dead. If Frankenstein uses this power to raise recently fallen enemies or allies, they will be reborn by the lightning, becoming a revenant that no mere mortal can ever hope of defeating, at the cost of them losing all sense of former self. Frankenstein dislikes using the full extent of this Noble Phantasm’s power, however, considering it 'unholy' and a symbol of the folly they had committed with their work. As a result, Frankenstein will use it either when they have no option or if they feel that they have ‘perfected’ it.

(FGO Effect:) -Increase one ally's attack for three turns -Charge one ally's NP Gauge by 50% -Apply Debuff Immune to one ally(three times, three turns) -Apply Guts to one ally(one time, three turns) -Greatly increase one ally's Quick Card effectiveness for three turns -If Frankenstein is the only Servant left in combat, resurrect the last defeated ally and apply the aforementioned buffs. -500% Chance for Frankenstein to be Stunned afterwards for one turn.

Voice Lines:

Summoned: I am the genius who has chosen to climb where no man has gone before and make themselves as God, and who in their hubris, was cursed with a plague that tore down each and every person I have loved. I am Victor Frankenstein, Avenger! And I will not cease until my Monster is dead and buried once and for all!

Level Up: Oho? These crystals... What a unique energy source. Perhaps I should study them further... ...pretend you didn't hear that, Assistant.

Level Up(Third Ascension): Each second I live is another turn of the bolt. Each turn of the bolt is a step forward. Each step forward is a chance to achieve the impossible.

1st Ascension: Each patch of skin upon my flesh is a life I had failed to save when I was alive. Each stitch upon my body is a crime I can never repent for. But I must press onward. No matter what, I will press onward in pursuit of my goals.

2nd Ascension: I can hear them... All of them. They ask me to end this tragedy of mine... So I cannot stop until it is done. Then... perhaps then, they may rest in peace.

3rd Ascension: Look at me. A hulking brute built of stitched-together flesh and lightning. I am the monster as human history has deigned me to be, the beast forged by the dead and brought to life by thunder. I am Victor Frankenstein. I am Frankenstein's Monster. And I am... Alive.

4th Ascension: Hmph... To think that you would still remain with me, even with my horrifying appearance and actions. I haven't been treated so well since... ...I thank you, my dear Assistant. Truly, I am in debt to you and your kindness. On my life, I swear to you... The monsters will never win.

Fight Start 1: Okay, Victor, just calm down... This is just like your usual cadaver work. ...except that they're not dead. Great.

Fight Start 2: You know, my old professors would have a heart attack if they saw me using my medical tools like this… Good thing they’re all dead now.

Fight Start 3(Third Ascension): I am an eight foot tall immortal giant who carries the thunder of gods in my hands. I don't believe this is a fight you can win.

Fight Start 4(Third Ascension): Hehehehe... If only Clerval and Elizabeth could see me now!

Skill 1: Naturally!

Skill 2: Let’s hope this works…

Skill 3(Third Ascension): Come thunder, come lightning…

Skill 4(Third Ascension): Galvanization ready!

Command Card Select 1: Is that all?

Command Card Select 2: Huhuhuhuhuhu… Ahehehehehehehe…

Command Card Select 3(Third Ascension): Behold the ascension of a new god!

Noble Phantasm Select 1: Well, well… It seems a storm’s coming in.

Noble Phantasm Select 2: They called me mad when I said I’d do this… I suppose they had a point.

Attack 1: Stay down, damnit!

Attack 2: Crumble before my awesome genius!

Attack 3: HRRAAAAAAAAAGH!

Attack 4(Third Ascension): Let’s test the limits of my new body… and YOURS!

Attack 5(Third Ascension): Crash against my immortal body… and SHATTER!

Extra Attack 1: Behold the achievements of Victor Frankenstein!

Extra Attack 2(Third Ascension): I’ll bury you!

Noble Phantasm 1:

Crash down, lightning! Roar, thunder! Let the dead rise again to fight in my name!

Behold, the genius of Victor Frankenstein!

Behold the power that rivals God Himself!

Heaven and Earth shall shriek and wail as one chorus as they utter these words!

“And Lo, The Creature LIVES!”

Noble Phantasm 2:

With each turn of the bolt, with each lumbering foot we place forward, mankind takes the next step to greatness.

No longer will mankind fear the reaper, no more will humanity shy from death!

Behold, as we throw the very gauntlet of science into God’s face, and take the step towards the ascension of man!

Sing out your war cry, and shout to the very heavens themselves!

ROAR OF THE LIVING DEAD!

Noble Phantasm 3(Reanimation):

To think I would once again have to commit this terrible crime once more…

Fine. I have no other choice here… If I must become a god once more, then so be it!

Let the world call me a madman! Let humanity call me a monster! I no longer care what mankind sees me as!

All I ask in return is that you and the rest of the world will see that I was RIGHT!

IT’S! A! LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!

Noble Phantasm 4(Reanimation):

Yes… YES! IT’S READY! THE EXPERIMENT IS SET!

LET THE WORLD SEE THAT I WAS RIGHT!

DO YOU HEAR ME, ‘GOD’?!

GIVE ME LIFE, GODDAMN YOU!

GIVE MY CREATION! LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE!!!

Damage from Noble Phantasm: NGHAAAAAAAUUUUUUGHHHH!!!

Regular Damage: Shit, I think that tore one of my sutures!

Defeated 1: Not now… Not when I’m so close!

Defeated 2: No… No, I refuse to die here, do you hear me?!

Defeated 3(Third Ascension): I’ll kill you! YOU HEAR ME, I’LL KILL YOU!

Defeated 4(Third Ascension): But how… This body was supposed to…

Victory 1: No… No… Damnit, these parts are useless to me!

Victory 2: *wheeze* Y… you know, I’m supposed to be a scientist, not a soldier…!

Victory 3(Third Ascension): So this is the power my new body has to offer! Kuhuhuhuhu… I LOVE IT!

Victory 4(Third Ascension): Amazing… I don’t feel any exhaustion, no sickness or pain! This is wonderful! Hah! I should’ve done this earlier!

Bond Level 1: Hmm? You seek to assist me in my work? Or perhaps you wish to monitor me in case I attempt to recreate my past? Either way, it will be nice to have an assistant, I suppose. Shall we begin?

Bond Level 2: Hey, Assistant. Hold this for me. What, have you not held a dead body before? Lift with your knees, not your back, it's much easier, believe me. ...what do you mean, that's not the issue here?

Bond Level 3: What was my reason in trying to create life...? ...don't ask foolish questions, Assistant. I attempted to enter the realm of the gods, and I failed miserably. That's all that needs to be said.

Bond Level 4: ...tell me, Assistant. If you had the chance to bring someone back from the dead. If you had the chance to fix what was made broken. Would you take that chance? I was young. I was proud. I was a fool. I will forever regret the pain and suffering my ambitions caused... But I will never regret the fact that I tried. I will never apologize for wanting to bring her back.

Bond Level 5: Mankind looks upon the works of Victor Frankenstein and deems me a sinner. They call me a monster who abused my creation and deserved the pain and misery I brought upon myself. They call me a fool who attempted to enter the domain of the gods. I say let them say what they will. If they call me mad, then let me be mad. If they call me evil, then let me be evil. None of that matters to me. After all... You and you alone know the true story of Victor Frankenstein.

Dialogue 1: Listen, Assistant. You will refer to me as 'Doctor' Frankenstein. Not 'Mister'. Not 'Miss'. Doctor Frankenstein. And if you mention me not having my degree even as a joke, I will ensure that you are the next body I have on my operating table!

Dialogue 2: Ugh... I hate to be a bother, but could you turn up the thermostat? The weather does terrible things to my health. My family called me a hypochondriac, but I say that I'm just being prudent. Can't be too careful with all the illnesses about...

Dialogue 3: My, my... The weather outside is frightful, isn't it? Perfect weather for some... 'fun', wouldn't you say? Eh? Board games? Well that wasn't what I had in mind, but...

Dialogue 4 (If you have Frankenstein at Stage 3 Ascension): ...hehe. Hehahahahaha! Wonderful! This feels wonderful! This form may look terrifying, but I don't think I've felt quite so fantastic in my whole life! My lungs are expansive! My heart beats strongly! I have actual muscle definition! Look, I can even lift my Assistant with one hand! ...eh? Oh, sorry, I guess I got too caught up in the excitement.

Dialogue 5 (If you have Frankenstein’s Monster): Frankenstein's Monster... My monster. An embodiment of all my sins and failures. One day, I swear... You will be dead and buried for good.

Dialogue 6 (If you have Frankenstein’s Monster post-event): Mother... No. That thing is not her. She is long gone. What remains in her body is something new entirely. Despite my efforts, Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein passed away from Scarlet Fever when I was young. Now all that remains... Is this Creature wearing her face.

Dialogue 7 (If you have Xu Fu, Asclepius, Florence Nightingale, or Charles-Henri Sanson): To think that Chaldea had so many brilliant doctors and nurses walking its halls. ... Er, Assistant? Does my hair look alright? Do you think I should change to a cleaner lab coat? Actually, given my history, perhaps I shouldn't talk to them at all...

Dialogue 8 (If you have the Golem of Prague): I can't believe it... All the effort, all the death, all the time I spent trying to achieve the secrets of life itself... AND SOMEONE ELSE ALREADY BEAT ME TO IT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! AAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

Dialogue 9 (If you have James Moriarty): Haaaaah?! Is that 'Professor' James Moriarty calling me a dropout?! Well, you old bastard, I may not have my doctorate, but at least my work was intentionally obscured, rather than being so convoluted no one else could understand what I was saying! And at least I didn’t get fired from my cushy university job because of some stinking rumors! Take your stupid PhD and your goddamned asteroid and shove them up your-*censored for ServantTube*

Dialogue 10 (If you have Mordred, Sieg, or Van Gogh): Tch. Figures that the Creature would hang around creations similar to it. I am disappointed that Chaldea lets such things walk around unsupervised. ... O-oi wait, why are you drawing your weapon? Stop looking at me like that! Assistant! Don't just stand there, do something! HELLLLLLLLP!

Dialogue 11 (If you have Nikola Tesla): The man they also call the Modern Prometheus... A man who has gone through many trials and died unappreciated by humanity. And I, who has lost countless and is remembered as a monster by mankind. I wonder what we could talk about…

Dialogue 12 (If you have Henry Jekyll): Henry Jekyll... I suppose he and I could be considered 'brothers in arms', no? Geniuses who strayed too far off of the path, making monsters that defied the natural order. Jekyll, through psychology, and I through lightning. And yet... I'm surprised he seems so happy.

Dialogue 13 (If you have Paracelsus von Hohenheim): P-p-paracelsus von Hohenheim?! My life’s work was based on his lost teachings! He could tell me so much on how to advance my work! Assistant, get me my good lab coat! Fetch me my work notes! I have so much to ask! So much to say! Oh… Oh dear, I feel faint-*THUD!*

Dialogue 14 (If you have any ‘lightning-based’ Servants): My Assistant, I noticed that we have several Servants who weaponize lightning in some form. I wonder... have you been taught by any of them? If you're interested, I'd love to show you some of my experiments. ...no, none of them have to do with reanimation. I get it's what I'm known for, but I can diversify my pool of abilities, can't I?

Dialogue 15 (If you have any ‘death-related’ Servants): They say there will come a time when all things die… I say that there will come a time when death itself shall die. That time shall come from my own hand.

Likes: Many would call the pursuit of science after what had happened to me to be absolute foolishness. I say that it is only further reason to press onward. The purpose of failure is to encourage change and drive us forward. I seek to overcome my limits and further understand the mysteries of this world. With that, we can and will conquer anything, even death.

Dislikes: ...cowardice. Letting one's own fear and insecurities overwhelm the ability to do the right thing is the greatest sin one can commit. If one makes a mistake, one has to own up to it. If people die because of that mistake, one has to atone by any means necessary. No exceptions.

About the Holy Grail: The Holy Grail? ...hmph, I don't think so. It may promise many things, nothing good can come out of something that calls itself divine, believe me.

During an Event: The thunder rumbles, and the clouds roll overhead... My dear Assistant, fetch my bag. I believe the time has come for us to have some fun.

Birthday: Life and death are two sides of the same coin. A birth and a funeral. The young and the old. A marriage- ...forgive me, my Assistant, I believe I've gone and talked enough about these grim affairs. Today is about you. So come, let us celebrate another year of your life.

Profile:

Default: One dark and stormy night, a genius toiled in their lab, desperate to unlock the secrets of life and death in order to overcome the grief caused by their mother's passing. They ultimately succeeded in creating life, but the being they made was completely and utterly wrong. Terrified by what they had done, they fled at the sight of the monster they had made. The Creature in turn vowed to destroy their creator's life, killing every single member of their family as condemnation for their creator's sins. With their fear turning into hatred, the young creator dedicated the rest of their life to destroying the monster they had built, and their feud would continue until they had frozen to death in the Arctic.

This is the young genius that entered into God's domain, Victor Frankenstein. As a Servant, each person slain by the Creature takes the form of a part on Frankenstein's body. The curious eyes of William Frankenstein that looked upon the Creature. The innocent hands of Justine Moritz that were forcibly stained with William’s blood. The gentle heart of Henry Clerval who showed Frankenstein unending kindness. Elizabeth Lavenza. The broken heart of Alphonse Frankenstein, who died grieving each and every one of his children. Each gifted part is a reminder of what must be done. A reminder to bury the monster once and for all.

Bond Level 1: Height/Weight: 185.42cm • 63kg/243.84cm • 147kg Source: Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus Region: Switzerland Alignment: Chaotic•Neutral Gender: Genderfluid

While many Servants express annoyance at how humanity has twisted and altered their stories over time, Frankenstein instead finds the various works based off of them amusing. In between their research on the deceased or their attempts to enhance their own body through science, the Modern Prometheus can be seen watching their adaptations on film for 'research purposes'.

"It's nice to know, isn't it? That at least one version of you gets their happy ending?"

Bond Level 2: Normally, Frankenstein would be summoned in their youth as a fairly weak Caster thanks to their feat of unlocking the secret of life and awakening the Creature being the only real accomplishment they have to their name. However, after experimenting on their own Spirit Origin for years, Victor's hatred and bitterness has warped their Spirit Origin into a much stronger Avenger.

Now, Victor Frankenstein is Creator and Creation in one, an undead monster seeking retribution from the one who wronged them. A burning hatred crackles in their soul, giving them life and pushing them to accomplish their grim task of vengeance against the one who took everything from them. Lightning crackles with each breath, and thunder roars with each footstep as the chase continues to the very ends of the earth itself.

In the end, parent and child are more similar than either would like to admit.

Bond Level 3: While the common image of Victor Frankenstein is a heartless, cold doctor who cared not for the suffering of others, the truth of the matter is that Frankenstein was merely a young student at Ingolstadt's most prestigious university. After the passing of their mother, the young Frankenstein became obsessed with the idea of life and death, hoping to reach a point where the line between both would be torn asunder. After two long years studying and experimenting, they succeeded, at the cost of everything Victor loved, and a solemn death within the Arctic Circle.

Despite the traumatic experience their experiments led for Victor, they still continue their work in attempting to bring the dead back to life as a Servant. Long into the morning and late into the night, Frankenstein will continue to unlock the true secrets to life and how to bring back the dead, no matter how long it takes or what cost it comes at. Many wonder their motives for doing so. Is it to create a race of immortal supermen? Is it to prove the world wrong? The one who knows the truth will not say.

Bond Level 4: “Yes... Yes!

It's working! She's going to awaken!

Finally, these years of effort, all this time working to unravel the secrets of life and death! They have all finally bore fruit!

Her body is moving... Her breathing is steady... Her vocal chords seem to have trouble adjusting, but that's fine, we can work on that later.

Oh, it seems that her hair has covered her eyes. I suppose I should...

...

...no.

No, this isn't right. This isn't what I wanted! What... What are you?!

G-get away from me, you monster! Where is she?! What have you done with her?!

I just wanted to bring her back! I just wanted to bring her back!”

-V. Frankenstein, 17--

Bond Level 5: Humanity fears death, that much is true. They fear the stories that have to end, they fear the lives that are cut short, they fear the connections that are severed. Victor Frankenstein is no different. But Victor Frankenstein takes that fear and channels it into a mad fervor. Death may be feared, but death will eventually be conquered. Death will have no hold over mankind. Death will be no more.

Death... will be no more.

No more will Victor Frankenstein have to imagine young William's life cruelly ripped away at the age of six for being their brother.

No more will Victor Frankenstein have the guilt of consigning Justine Moritz to death wrapped around their neck like a hangman's noose.

No more will Victor Frankenstein have to look on the gravestone of Henry Clerval, burning with impotent rage at their best friend's death.

No more will Victor Frankenstein have to cradle the body of Elizabeth Frankenstein, screaming vengeance as tears stream down with the rain.

No more will Victor Frankenstein have to sit helplessly as their own father wastes away in shame and despair.

No more will Victor Frankenstein be haunted by the ghosts of their past.

“I will endeavor to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”

-C. Frankenstein, 17--

Extra (Clear Interlude “The Patchwork God”): Some people have claimed to see spirits floating around Frankenstein when they walk, a different one each time.

The first is an older woman, yet one who seems as if she had passed on far too soon. They give Victor a wide berth, looking at them with a deep sadness, gently caressing them in their times of doubt and strife.

Her partner is an older gentleman, giving their companion odd, disappointed looks whenever they go on another one of their mad tirades. Despite himself, the phantom cannot help but smile proudly at his child's earnestness.

One is a young child, following the prodigy around, asking them questions at a rapid-fire rate. On occasion, Frankenstein replies to the ghost absentmindedly, before realizing that they are talking to thin air.

Another is a servant girl, dutifully keeping pace with Victor, often giving him a small huff of bemusement as they inevitably forget their tasks. A short whisper from this spectre and the mad genius will inevitably find their way back to where they belong.

The final two are the ones who follow Victor around the most, talking with each other as much as they do to Victor. They appear by their side in times of crisis for the weary hunter, always hoping that they will understand their hopes for them.

Perhaps these beings are a mere trick of the light, or perhaps they are the embodiment of Victor's own guilt-induced madness. Whatever they are, whoever they are, it seems that they manage to assuage some of Victor's pain, even if for the briefest of moments.

#fate #fate grand order #fgo #fate oc #fate fanservant #fanservant #victor frankenstein #frankenstein #if you're curious #this is the fanservant I was referring to when I mentioned I was inspired by a rap battle #Hulk VS Frankenstein to be exact #I regret nothing #it was pretty fun to try and make my own take on Frankenstein for this #(yes i made sure to read the original and it wasn't just the seat of my pants)

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enchanted-blade · 2 months

Text

However Many Sentences Whatever Day it Currently is

Another day, another tag game! Who is she????

Many thanks upon the wonderful @tragediegh for the tag 🌟

Here are 28 sentences from my behemoth of a WIP (which has just cracked 200,000 words?? Help?) It's a Merlin AU that keeps me up at night. It features all that fun lighthearted stuff: dystopian government, ominous ancient prophecies, generational injustice, you know. (And, yeah, love and redemption and acceptance....... they might be there too.) This scene's from nearer the start.

Full disclosure: this story is one unwieldy first draft and not in its final form. I will get to the end before I edit anything or PERISH.

(Meet me back here in fifty or so years for the grand reveal?)

ANYWAY. 28 sentences:

Some animal part of Merlin took over: he writhed and thrashed even though his side was agony, biting back the pain until the man lost his grip. When he could, he hit out at random with his elbow. It collided with something solid and the man grunted, a distraction long enough for Merlin to somehow get to his feet again, hardly breathing for the pain, and make it down the short garden path. The gate was unlatched and he tumbled through it, only to be knocked down again, another cry escaping his lips as he hit the rough, rainswept tarmac.

Who the hell is this guy? he thought wildly. Agency officer or stray bigot – whoever he was, he had it in for Merlin, fighting like Merlin was stealing his firstborn.

Well, Merlin could fight dirty too. He hadn’t wanted to use magic – not so visibly, not when there was a chance of getting away without putting such a target on his back – but he’d already given the game away with the torch, so when the brute raised his fist to knock him out, Merlin spoke a command. It was barely even a spell. He didn’t have the capacity or the time to shape one, too ruled in this moment by pain and fear. It was just the magic on the tip of his tongue, the words that flocked to him and the power that waited, full and patient, ready to make them real.

He spoke two quick, harsh words; two elements that together meant steam.

It appeared instantly. It rose from his hands like a shroud of fog, fed by the torrents of rain all around, and though he felt only the slightest warmth – a drowsy heat, a rosebud in the sun – he knew that to others it would be searing hot.

The man had frozen where he was, his fist poised above. Merlin could see better now, the flow of magic lending him clarity. In the streetlight his attacker struck an imposing figure, his face fine and regal, his mouth open and his breath coming fast. His nose was bleeding, the blood black as it ran over his lip.

And there in his eyes: the gold glitter of Merlin’s own reflecting back, already fading. Merlin watched as the look there turned from determination to something raw. Something that looked a lot like terror.

‘What did you do?’ the man said hoarsely. ‘What is that?’

The steam from Merlin’s hands kept coming, rising in thick clouds. It expanded around them, and the man gasped at the heat of it, retreating backwards. Merlin wasn’t sure what it was that scared him more: the risk of burning, or the sight of magic - any magic. He didn’t much care so long as it gave him these few precious seconds.

He sat up slowly, unable to keep himself from trembling.

I tag @thefollow-spot and any writer out there who really wants to talk abt their writing! do it! i tag u! <3

#my writing #i dont want to talk about how long i have been writing this fic for #i am So Slow it's literally not funny #i'm in the last third now. the end is in sight

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another-corpo-rat · 1 year

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Sometimes you just gotta indulge and write a stupid little scene between your OC and the fuckwit bastard cyborg you paired her with so yup yup, enjoy.

Adam Smasher/{Non-Canon} Corpo V General warnings for an unhealthy relationship but tbh its kinda par for the course with him, aint it

*~*

There are certain things Smasher tolerates. The Maelstrom that linger around the Ebunike, admiring their metallic idol from a distance that could hardly be considered safe. Yorinobu, for the family name that follows and the wealth of potential it entailed; despite the man in question considering it a lingering odour he couldn’t quite shake off. And his countless technicians, scared shitless of the cyborg and completing the necessary procedures with the slightest shake to their hands.

Victoria Crane considers herself lucky to be counted among that scarce list, even if she pricks at his already threadbare patience to quell her own boredom.

Even if they both know that really, tolerance is too mild a word for what he lets her get away with.

“The fuck’re you doing?”

Case in point: now.

She pauses in her ministrations, pursing her lips as she pulls back enough to meet his unblinking stare. He wasn’t quite glaring – or what could constitute a glare with his pinprick optics, but he manages when he wants – so she stays where she is: ass planted comfortably on his lap, arms curled around his neck.

“Ah.” Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she draws her clawed fingers tentatively across his jaw. “See, there’s this thing called affection,” she says matter-of-factly, tone carefully devoid of her usual bite. The ‘corpo-accent’ Grayson would call it, if he wasn’t suddenly busy with something to do elsewhere when she was pulled onto Smasher’s legs. “And I think you might be terribly starved of it.”

It might be a risk to kiss him again. She does anyway, on the tip of his nose.

His fingers curl at the action, loose fists set against his knees. But she’s not dead so that’s something.

“Affection.” He grounds out, distorting the word into an insult with his characteristic growl. The weight of it settles on her shoulders, pressing them down. “How disgustingly human of you.” Something like disappointment joins that heaviness, sinking lower to curdle in her chest. The sigh that escapes her is more sincere than she intended.

“Fine, I’ll stop.” The words are sharper too, a needling precision perfected to dig under other’s skin yet ineffective against Smasher. As most of her arsenal is. Her arms slip from their loose hold around his neck, a hand bracing against his shoulder as she stands. Her pettiness too is tolerated, when it isn’t poked at and provoked for his entertainment.

“I didn’t say you could leave, Crane.” She’s barely managed a step when he speaks, the scant space between them removed entirely as he pulls her back. His frame is warm, pleasantly so against the nipping cold of the night air. Stubbornness keeps her from sinking into him, keeps her gaze pointedly on the mundane view of the inky water rather than the behemoth of chrome she’s perched on.

His fingers are always colder than the rest of him. As good an excuse as any if he points out how she shivers when his fingers crook under her chin, the touch deceptively gentle.

“Oh, so I’m Crane now?”

He pauses, fingers pressing a bit firmer as she draws in too deep of a breath. She doesn’t know what goes through his mind then – ever, if she was being truthful – but she imagines he’s recalling their past exchanges, these odd little things that a fool would call a power play. It’s more a dance; one where he’ll always lead, where the onus of their precarious balance is at his whim. His choice if he’ll drop her to the ground or pull her back to her feet after a dip.

“Victoria.” He doesn’t purr but the low rumble to his voice is dangerously close to it, rolling through her and leaving a warmth lingering in its wake. The breath leaves her, a slow exhale that eases the set of her shoulders and jaw as she finally looks at him. He’d be grinning if he could, entirely too smug at how easily he pulls her threads.

“Adam.” And finally she sinks against him again, turning to sling her legs over one thick plated thigh. He’s certain to hold her in place; a large hand cupping her rear, his grip easing after a squeeze.

“I didn’t tell you to stop either. Get back to it.”

“Get back to what?” Unlike him she can smile easily. Smugly too. He huffs, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

“Don’t push your luck now.” She knows a warning when she hears it, even one laced with amusement.

Her arms return to their slack hold around his neck, pulling herself up to continue her assault of fluttering kisses against the mottled skin of his face. If his shoulders relax and he sinks deeper into the shitty settee, she doesn’t mention it. Just as he doesn’t mention her occasional firmer kiss here and there, often against the metal mandible where his lips should be.

They don’t mention a lot of things. Keeps the peace that way.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk oc #corpo v #Adam Smasher #Victoria Crane #can't wait to write the follow up where Smasher goes into the Arasaka offices #and people are gawking at him cos Vic's lipstick is still all over his fucking face #fic tag #my writing #Ship: Gilded Chrome

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jadegretz · 24 days

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Karin Kanzuki: Unyielding Spirit by Jade Gretz

Neon signs bled garish hues onto the rain-slicked streets of Metro City. Karin Kanzuki, heir to the Kanzuki financial empire, stood on the precipice of her destiny. Tonight wasn't about boardrooms and billion-dollar deals; it was about proving herself in the crucible of the Underground Fight Club – a clandestine world where martial artists clashed in a brutal ballet of sweat, bone, and broken dreams.

Karin, clad in her signature crimson gi, her raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, felt a surge of anticipation course through her. This wasn't a mere fight; it was a duel against fate, a chance to carve her name into the legend of the Street Fighters apart from the shadow of her family's legacy.

The air thrummed with a primal energy as Karin descended into the club's dank underbelly. The stench of sweat and stale beer hung heavy, punctuated by the guttural roar of a man being pummeled into unconsciousness in a makeshift ring across the room. Her lips curved into a predatory smile – the perfect ambiance for unleashing her fury.

Her opponent tonight was a hulking behemoth known as "Ironclad" – a former sumo wrestler with skin like polished granite and fists the size of hams. Karin's heart hammered a steady rhythm as she surveyed him, calculating his vulnerabilities. Ironclad radiated brute force, but lacked the strategic finesse she prided herself on. This was a fight she could win with skill, not just raw power.

The bell clanged, a harsh signal for the commencement of controlled chaos. Ironclad charged, a battering ram aimed at her midsection. Karin sidestepped with practiced ease, the blow whistling past her ear, the wind ruffling her hair. This was child's play.

She unleashed a flurry of Kanzuki-ryu techniques – a precise jab to the solar plexus, a sweeping kick that sent Ironclad stumbling back. But he was a mountain, unyielding despite the pain. He roared and lunged again, his massive fist connecting with Karin's shoulder with the force of a wrecking ball.

Searing pain ripped through her, but Karin didn't flinch. Gritting her teeth, she channeled the fire of h …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

#ai #aiart #digitalart #jadegretz #fantasyart #fanart #beautifulgirl #aiartwork #aiartcommunity #karin #karinkazuki #streetfighter #videogameart

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voraciousvore · 6 months

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Big Corp Inc. (10/43)

Chapter 10: Quid Pro Quo

Candy didn’t see the boss for the remainder of the day. He apparently didn’t bother to come back to the office at all, much to her relief. Without him breathing down her neck, she was able to power through her work. Gradually, she was becoming more effective at interfacing with the oversized computer, and subsequently increased her efficiency in processing the invoices and spreadsheets. The labor helped her block the nightmarish event from that morning out of her mind. The rest of the day was blessedly uneventful.

When she returned home for the evening, she made sure to wash her work clothes so she wouldn’t get in trouble again. The coffee stain didn’t come out of her blouse, dyeing the entire garment brown, but at least it didn’t smell like coffee or spit. The skirt was already black so it didn’t really matter. The shoes were going to be a problem. The wounds on her feet prevented her from wearing the heels. She would never make it to the office in shoes unfit for walking. Candy would have to discuss the matter with her boss, an undertaking she dreaded. She would have to be brave.

The next morning, she suited up in her brown blouse, her skirt, and her sneakers. She took a backpack with her and packed her lunch as well as her high heels inside the bag. She had the idea that perhaps she could walk to work in her comfortable shoes, and then wear the heels despite the pain they caused on the third floor. That way, she wouldn’t have to confront her boss, and she’d still be in compliance with his rules. She wasn’t sure if she could manage wearing the heels for the entire duration of the workday, but she would have to try. After some consideration, she decided she might still attempt to reason with him to allow her to wear her sneakers, but she wouldn’t dare wear them without his permission. She did not want to be eaten, or even face an empty threat of being eaten. The thought terrified her.

Her commute, and her ascension to the third floor in the elevator, went smoothly. She kept a sharp eye out for the boss as she snuck over to her desk, still wearing her sneakers. Once she made it into her cubicle without being seen, she changed into her heels and stashed her bag. Her next step would be to confront her Giant boss. She attempted to will herself to move, but her legs were rooted to the floor with fear. Her limbs quivered uncontrollably. She balled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She had to do this.

She felt the familiar tremors of Giant footsteps approaching and prepared herself. The Giant who rounded the corner was not the boss, however, but rather Ronny, carrying his signature coffee mug. Candy ducked behind the wall of her cubicle, hoping the behemoth didn’t spot her. The last thing she needed today was Ronny tormenting her when she was struggling to be courageous.

More quakes shook the ground and before she knew it Mr. Hardon was at his office door. He glanced over at Candy’s desk, searching for her, but failed to see her poking her head out all the way on the floor far below. As he searched for his key in his pocket to unlock his office door, Candy felt her throat close up in terror. Despite her becoming accustomed to sharing space with Giants, she hadn’t considered how much bigger and scarier he appeared from the ground, when she didn’t even reach the top of his gargantuan shoe. She was about to confront a living skyscraper of a man. She swallowed hard and stepped forward.

“Mr. Hardon!” she yelled up at him to get his attention. “Excuse me, sir!” He turned around and stared down at her coldly, his normal jocular demeanor gone. Candy forgot her words, forgot how to speak, as she stared up at the colossus stretching up an impossible distance above her. All she could remember was his threat to devour her yesterday, and she felt like she was going to pass out.

“What is it?” he rumbled with his resonant, deep voice. Candy opened her mouth but failed to form anything coherent. Seeing her fear, he smirked and dropped to his knees above her. “Candy, I think you and I need to have a chat.” He gripped her waist between his finger and thumb and lifted her high into the air. Candy managed to restrain herself from yelping out loud for once at his rough handling.

He carried her into his office, closing the door behind him, and sat down in his chair. However, instead of lowering Candy to the desk, he kept her pinched between his fingers and held her close to his face so he could see her better. Candy placed her hands on his thumbnail for support.

“Now, Candy,” he began, “I gave it some thought, and with my great magnanimity as your boss, I’ve decided to forgive you for yesterday. I won’t punish you any more than I already have, and we’ll start with a clean slate, so to speak, as long as you continue to wear your proper work uniform. How does that sound?”

“About that…” Candy replied. His brows knitted together, and she nearly lost her nerve, but since she had come this far she wasn’t going to back down now. “Can I at least wear more comfortable shoes? Since I’m so small, I have to walk a lot more to get around the office, and those heels are giving me bloody sores on my feet. They are simply not practical. I… don’t think I’ll be able to continue doing my job if I’m forced to wear them.” She tried to rationalize her case calmly, but she couldn’t keep an edge of fear out of her voice.

Mr. Hardon scrutinized her with an intense look that made her insides crawl. “Hmmmm…” he hummed, ruminating over her appeal. He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a reasonable man, Candy. I can grant your request.” She exhaled in relief. “However…” She tensed up again. “I won’t do it for free. This is a special favor, after all. All the other ladies in the office will still have to wear heels. So, you must offer me something in return. Whatever you’re willing to do.” His face contorted into an ugly grin.

The color drained out of Candy’s face. “Uh…” Put on the spot, her mind raced for a way out of this predicament. “I… could… work an extra hour of overtime today? Would that be sufficient?” She smiled obsequiously.

Mr. Hardon grinned in return, his eyes gleaming. “Sure. I’ll take that.” Candy didn’t like the way he was ogling her, but she didn’t see anything wrong with doing extra work. She hadn’t promised anything she wasn’t willing to give. Mr. Hardon stood up, still holding Candy between his fingers, and strode to her cubicle. He set her down on the desk and patted her head with his enormous finger. “I’ll expect to see you here after work today, Candy.” He flashed his teeth at her and retreated into his office, leaving the door open behind him.

Candy felt sick to her stomach as she watched him go. Her instincts were on high alert. Something wasn’t right here; he was being too nice. She was aware how furious he had been with her yesterday. He hadn’t gone through with punishing her, and had readily accepted her offer without trying to persuade her into something more nefarious. She wasn’t sure what sort of game he was playing, but she knew she couldn’t trust him.

Either way, they had come to an agreement on the shoes at least, so Candy gratefully changed into her tennis shoes and got to work. By now, the tasks assigned to her were becoming routine, so her only real trouble was using the Giant equipment. She needed a day to rest her body, since her muscles were so sore, but if she just managed to get through today she’d have the weekend to relax. She could hardly believe it, but despite the insanity she had almost made it through her first week at Big Corp Inc., working with Giants, without getting crushed or eaten.

The day passed quickly, and before she knew it the clock showed it was lunchtime. Candy had brought a lunch with her, but she wanted to heat it up in the microwave. Plus, she needed to refill her water bottle. She would have to make the long journey to the break room to accomplish these tasks. She considered whether she wanted to climb the ladder and cross the path on top of the partitions, but swiftly discarded that idea. She didn’t want to end up in Ronny’s coffee cup again. She would take the ground route, even though it was much longer. She entered the capsule launcher attached to her desk, which was similar to an elevator, and the machine deposited her on the floor.

She peered out to make sure nobody was around before scurrying out into the open hall. She didn’t feel like taking any risks, so she did her best to hide from any Giants that approached her. She hated being such a coward, but after all the scares of the past few days she was burdened with a dreadful awareness of the hazards involved. Candy was by nature a social creature, and it pained her inside to isolate herself as she was doing. She knew she would need friends and allies in the office, but she couldn’t bring herself to come forward and introduce herself to the unknown Giants she saw. More observation was necessary, in order to discern whom she could trust not to harm her.

Since it was the lunch hour, the office wasn’t very crowded as some of the employees had left to buy food from nearby restaurants. Candy poked her head around the corner of Ronny’s cubicle to see the Giant sitting there, his feet up on the desk, chowing down on his lunch with great big bites. She tiptoed across the opening, praying he wouldn’t notice her. She successfully slipped past unseen. The fact that his desk was only a few cubicles down from her own terrified her. With Ronny on one side and the boss on the other, she felt like she was sitting in a nest of cobras.

She kept moving, despite her aching feet. A Giant came clomping toward her and she ducked into an empty cubicle so she wouldn’t be seen. Eventually, she made it to the cubicle across from the human elevator, where her Giant friend whose name still eluded her sat at his desk. Instead of eating lunch, he was in the zone, clacking away rapidly at his computer keyboard with intense focus. She wanted to talk to him, but didn’t want to interrupt his work, so she continued on her quest to the break room. If he wasn’t so focused on work on her return journey, maybe she’d say hi and finally ask him for his name.

At long last, she completed her arduous quest and made it to the break room. Skirting the edge of the room to the counter, she rode the capsule launcher up to the countertop and went over to the human-sized mini kitchen. She heated up her food and filled up her water bottle while she waited. By now, she had worked up quite an appetite. Surveying the room, she noticed it was deserted and realized most of her lunch hour had already been squandered just walking the long distance. Most of the Giants had claimed their food and returned to their desks by now. This circumstance worked in Candy’s favor anyway, because she wanted to be alone for the moment so she could enjoy her lunch in peace without being afraid.

She finished eating and was just about to return to her desk, when to her horror Ronny strolled into the break room. Her brief hope that maybe he wouldn’t see her was dashed when he made a beeline to the counter to get a refill for his mug from the giant coffeepot. He spied Candy and bared his teeth in a mocking grin. Candy dashed toward the capsule launcher but she had no chance of outrunning a Giant. He easily snagged her with his spare hand and dangled her in front of his dark eyes, scrutinizing her with satisfaction.

“Well, well, well. We meet again,” he jeered.

“Ah! Let me go!” Candy pleaded, wriggling powerlessly in his fingers. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Why, I wouldn’t dream of it! Me, Ronny Ragoon, harming a pathetic little human like you? Never!” Ronny drawled, dripping with bitter sarcasm. He stared at her and his dark eyes glinted with hateful energy as an idea entered his brain. “Candy, do you have a fever? You’re looking very warm.” Candy stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant. She might have heated up a bit with all the exercise she was doing, but she failed to understand why he was mentioning it. She wasn’t ill.

“Don’t worry, Candy, I have just the thing to help cool you down,” Ronny continued. He opened the giant refrigerator and tossed her inside with a maniacal laugh.

“No! Don’t leave me in here!” Candy pleaded as he slammed the refrigerator door, trapping her in frigid misery.

Chapter 11

First Chapter

#g/t #g/t writing #giant/tiny #giant #tiny #size difference #giant tiny #big corp inc

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