criticalkink | CR Campaign Two: Mighty Nein era (characters)

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CR Campaign Two: Mighty Nein era (characters)

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It's pretty simple. You post a prompt and your fellow fans get inspired and write fic based on that prompt. As it is a "kink" meme, a great deal of fic will be of the smutty variety, so if you aren't into that or not of a porn-reading age, this place won't be for you. Not all fic has to be smutty, but it does have to be kinky.

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Post each prompt as a new comment to the main post. Include pairing (or threesome or more if that's your thing) and anything else you want to add. You should put, at the very least, the pairing in the subject line along with a specific kink if it applies. You can put the whole prompt in the subject if it will fit, but if it doesn't, use the comments. For example:

Subject line: Beauregard/Jester, friends to lovers

Body of comment: Jester's been letting Beau use her for sparring practice. That kind of proximity does things to a tiefling.

I see a prompt I want to write! What now?
Go for it! You don't have to claim it, and fills can be written by more than one person. Once you've finished you must post it as a response to the original comment. Responses should use a subject line that includes the pairing, rating & any necessary warnings (i.e. incest, non-con, etc.). If you have titled your fic you can also include that. Also, as LJ limits the size of comments, if your fic goes into multiple comments, please note that your comment is part 1/5, part 2/5 and so on. Using the prompt above, the subject line could read:

"Punches and Pastries, Jester/Beauregard, M, 1/3"

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Now go forth and prompt!

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Weird one pals. I want a character passed out or magically unconscious. And then someone does something to their body- not sexual assault please. More like bathing them, undressing them, putting them to bed. Maybe cutting or braiding their hair. Again not rape or sexual assault- just someone taking complete control over someone’s body and them being completely out of it. How they react to this is up to you. Thanks!

Beau knows that Yasha is hard to kill. After all, it's Yasha who is the one to crash into the fray when Beau goes down, scoop her up and get her out of reach of a killing blow. Yasha knows how to take a hit and shrug it off like no one else can. She's very hard to kill.

But it's not impossible.

Yasha is half in the mouth of the beast, her arms wedged above her head to keep its jaws from closing down around a bloody and panicking Jester. Fjord is yards back, trying to struggle out of some kind of sentient vines, Star Razor leaving bright blue aftertrails as he hacks away at the tangle. His desperate yellow eyes catch Beau's as he yells for her to get Jester out of there.

Beau takes a running leap over another set of blocking vines, the edges of their questing reach skimming just under her boots, and tumbles into somersault beneath the flailing scaled tail of the beast. There is flame boiling in the creature's throat, and Beau can see Yasha wince in pain as sweat drips down her neck and the flame licks across her shoulders.

Beau catches her eyes as she makes it to Jester, already grabbing for her cloak to pull her back, and Yasha gives her a wordless nod, and she can see the rage fading from her eyes.

Beau keeps dragging the stumbling Jester away, even as the cleric protests, yelling that they can't leave Yasha behind.

"She'll be alright!" Beau says, willing it into being.

When she turns and watches the tension leave Yasha's body, the way her arms give way and her eyes close as she stumbles to her knees, fangs sinking into flesh, Beau screams.

The rest of the battle is a blur of fire and blood, Veth vaulting off her shoulder as she gets closer to the fray than the rogue ever usually does, Caleb sinking spell after spell into the resistant hide of the creature, Caduceus' usual mellow spellcasting tripping out of his mouth, and the pain in Beau's knuckles as she hits over and over and over again.

Caduceus stabilizes Yasha, but she remains unresponsive, and the clerics are out of anything stronger. Somehow they manage to get Yasha back into town, Fjord jogging ahead to secure them a room, all of them working together to get Yasha onto the bed.

Jester rolls up her sleeves, tears brightening her eyes as she surveys the injuries. Beau kneels next to Jester on the bed, gingerly pulling away the partially burnt black shawl from Yasha's shoulders. With a shuddery breath, Jester places her hands gently on the burn across Yasha's shoulders and right arm. Gradually the painful red of the burn begins to leech away, transitioning to what could almost be a sunburn, and then blanching even further to a stiff, stark paleness even brighter than Yasha's own skin tone.

Caduceus uncorks a small bottle from his belt and pours a viscous gold liquid into his hands-- honey, Beau realizes a moment later-- and begins to work it into the skin where the burn has tightened the flesh, his furred hands pushing it towards softness and healing.

Fjord backs into the room carrying one side of a wide metal wash tub, Veth with her own end hoisted above her head. Fjord slips on a curled rug end and drops the tub with a muffled ring as he tries to catch his balance.

Jester and Veth shush him dramatically and Fjord mouths an exaggerated apology as he drags the tub next to the bed.

Fjord places his hand against the bottom of the wash basin and closes his eyes. Beau watches as water begins to bubble up from beneath his palm, spreading across the bottom of the metal and rising until it goes past Fjord's elbow. A thin twirl of steam comes off the surface of the water and it smells oddly like flowers and mulch, a scent she associates far more with Caduceus than Fjord. When she cocks her head and catches Fjord's eye, there is a faint blush of darker green at his cheeks as he looks away.

Jester digs out a rag from her haversack and dips it into the warm water, beginning the process of cleaning off the grime on Yasha's exposed skin with a tenderness that makes Beau's heart ache.

The deep slash across Yasha's scalp has closed with Jester's magic, but blood still soaks her thick hair. Several braids have burned and the hair has fused together, grit and sweat compounding the snarl.

Veth looks up to Beau, "Should we cut it?"

"Nein," Caleb says in his soft way, "let me."

Beau had been expecting some arcane magic, but he merely collects a wooden bowl from Caduceus' pack, dips it into the warm summoned water, and sits himself cross-legged on the bed next to Yasha. With hands dexterous from finicky casting and a focus Beau has seen him dedicated as diligently to studying as to drawing chalk circles, Caleb begins the slow and tedious process of rinsing out braids and teasing apart the locks of unburnt hair to salvage.

Veth darts in and out of the room with ever increasing offerings-- food and drinks, a blue ribbon for Caleb to braid into Yasha's hair, a handful of flowering weeds in a cracked cup, a jar of bugs with a handful of salt tossed over them. Beau does her best to arrange everything on the night table, but they're swiftly running out of room.

There's such a swirl of activity that Beau feels stuck-- everything she might offer is either already being done, or is in much more capable hands than hers. She picks at her cuticles and tries not to let her foot bounce, not wanting to disturb the bed.

She isn't sure when Jester notices her discomfort, but suddenly she's taking Beau's hand and speaking to her.

"You know, when I was sick, my mom would just sit next to me and hold my hand," she says, already placing Beau's hand over Yasha's, "and that made me feel a lot better."

Beau feels a brief shiver across her shoulders as she realizes that she's never held Yasha's hand before this, but she curls her fingers underneath Yasha's anyway, her thumb already running across the skin between Yasha's thumb and forefinger almost before she notices it.

Despite her stillness, Yasha is warm to the touch, and Beau can feel how many matching callouses they have, though there are new ones at her fingertips that Beau realizes must come from her harp. Yasha's hand is larger than her own, and Beau's clasps her other hand over top, tracing out the battle scars that criss-cross the skin there.

There is so much to them that is alike, but Beau feels like Yasha's inner world runs like a deep pool, while her own often feels like a shallow puddle at best. The effort that it took to know someone who was so guarded had made Beau shy away at first-- why expend the effort when everything, even their little family, was so ephemeral, when Yasha kept walking away from all of them, away from her, so often.

But almost despite herself there was something that kept tugging Beau towards her-- a soft word, a look, the heat of Yasha's hands when she healed, the sound of lightning and rustling feathers. And Yasha was finally staying this time.

Beau doesn't notice how the activity in the room stops for a moment, as all the Nein's eyes go to her and Yasha, a stillness at the center of everything.

Caleb suddenly stretches his hands above his head, cracks his knuckles, and yawns.

"Well I am tired," he says, his voice a little more stilted than usual.

"Yes! We're going now," Veth says, "Caleb needs his rest."

Caleb diligently begins putting away the bowl of water he was working with, putting aside the knife he'd been using to trim Yasha's hair, a simple task that looked like it was going to take him ten minutes, until Veth grabs the arm of his coat and pulls him out of the bed.

"Come on, Lebby."

Fjord pulls Jester away shortly after, already speaking soft, comforting words to her that Beau can't hear, but by the way Jester is nodding she can tell that she'll be in good hands for the evening.

Soon it's just her and Caduceus, who has somehow already made them both a cup of tea.

"I think I'll head to bed now too," he says, unfurling his tall, gangly body from where he was seated. He shuffles to the door and speaks, almost as if to himself, "They say a friendly voice helps keep dreams sweet."

And then he's gone, and it's just Beau and Yasha.

Beau doesn't know when she'd begun to breath in tandem with Yasha, when her rhythm had started to match the steady rise and fall of of the sleeping woman's chest.

Beau scoots a little closer to her on the bed, her knee brushing against Yasha's thigh as she studies the way her face looks as she sleeps. There's a certain tension to her features which doesn't surprise Beau-- like Fjord, she knows that Yasha is a particularly active dreamer, every dozing moment a chance for some ominous portent. The thought annoys Beau-- if anyone deserved uninterrupted rest, it was Yasha.

Her minds casts back to her own childhood, to before all the disappointment and rage, and a memory catches at the edges of her attention. A lullaby, something her mother sang to her when she was young and afraid.

Beau half mumbled the words as she sang, embarrassed even with Yasha asleep, stumbling over the melody.

"When we first met,
I heard you say you had a tendency to float away,
I'd have to hold on tight when you took wing,
I only have two hands to hold you with,
and you're hard to hold when you start to drift,
But I wouldn't let you go for anything."

There were other verses, and Beau sang those too, late into the night until she saw Yasha smile, her eyes still closed, and heard her soft voice ask for another.

Caleb’s eyes open and the smell is wrong. That’s the first thing he notices. He should be smelling himself, as disgusting as it sounds. Smoke, bat guano, stale sweat and sour leather from his coat. The particular metallic earthiness from Nott curled up against his chest. These are normal to him by now, living as they do in the road. Expected. Right now he smells nothing.

The second thing he notices is enough to bury him beneath a heavy load of panic. He find he can’t move his body. Caleb tries to roll from his stomach but his limbs don’t respond. His shoulder doesn’t turn, his toes when he tries to wiggle them lie still as a corpse.

His eyes- he can move those a little. He can blink, scan the room frantically, squeeze them shut in horror. He can’t cry out, though he tries, over and over

Caleb can hear his breathing so he knows he isn’t dead. His heartbeat pounds in his ears like a drum so he knows his heart hasn’t stopped. Caleb tries to take comfort in his own breathing and heartbeat, the rhythmic pattern of it and fails. Instead he makes a conscious effort collect his thoughts. A neat checklist.

He isn’t dead. He can feel his pendant, poking hard into his collarbone. No one will be able to scry on him in his vulnerable state. That at least is a relief. He can see his spell books removed from their holster and stacked neatly on the floor. His clothing is nowhere to be seen.

Caleb still has no idea where he is.
He had fallen asleep in the woods with Nott, sitting with his back against a tree and her on his lap. He was inside now, flat on his belly on a strange bed. There is a linen bedsheet under his cheek and mid morning sun coming from the window.

Nott? His eyes roam wildly around the room again. He sees a mound of blankets next to him, close enough to touch if he could only move his hand. The light shifts a little through the curtains and he sees that the mound is Nott-shaped. It’s face is haloed in Notts hair, so dark green it looks black. She is lying on her back, arms at her side. She’s nude.

Caleb’s never seen her naked body before, though they have been traveling together for weeks . They rarely bathe. They have no clothing except what’s on their backs. When she squats in the woods, he turns away.
Her body looks fragile laid out like this, birdlike. There’s a blanket draped across her waist, preserving some modesty, but he still feels compelled to look away from her.

His eyes adjust to the light and he takes in the details of the room. Wooden walls, a covered window. The only furniture is the bed they’re laying on. Linen sheets and a soft blanket like some of a more upscale inns he remembers staying in with Master Ikithon. The door is latched and locked from the inside. They have been placed here like dolls in a dollhouse but for what purpose?

The fact that Nott is nude fills him with dread. His eyes flick back to her, guiltily. Her hair is softer looking than he’s ever seen it, spread over the pillow. It’s been...braided? Tiny intricate braids follow the crown of her head. Someone has placed delicate yellow flowers in the joins of the braids and tucked a larger white flower behind her ear. She’s nearly glowing, scrubbed cleaner than he’s ever seen her. Her scaly green skin is almost iridescent like a beetle‘s shell. She’s been oiled. She smells like jasmine and honey. It makes his stomach roll to think of someone washing her, removing her crusty traveling clothes and dipping her in water. She must have been unconscious- a living thinking Nott would have fought tooth and nail. She’s too peaceful like this, too clean. It makes him sick.

“Caleb?”
Her voice is gravelly and small. He opens his mouth to reply but all that comes out is a breathy gasp. Still an improvement from no sound at all.
Ah ah ahh. He gasps and groans, frantic to let her know that he can hear her.
“You can’t talk, can you?”
He squeaks in assent.
“I couldn’t either at first. You’ve been out for so long. I tried so hard to wake you but you didn't respond. We’ve been here for hours.”
Thirteen hours, seventeen minutes since his eyes had closed under that rotten tree. How many of those hours was Nott awake, calling out for him?

“I can’t move, Caleb. Not a muscle.” She whispers. Me either. He wants to tell her. He wants to scoop her in his arms, cover her nakedness with the blanket and get them both out of here. He settles for what he hopes is a reassuring grunt.
“They cut your hair…” she says desperately and he realizes that she’s right. His head feels cold and naked, cropped very close. They’ve shaved his face too. He’s as hairless as a child, he realizes. There’s not a tuft of hair anywhere on his body. He thinks of his body being propped up, the smoothness of his neck offered to a razors edge. How vulnerable he must have been.
What else had they done to him? He’s not used to not remembering, losing time, not now.

It’s panicking him and he has to start again mentally listing all the things he knows to be true. He’s alive and Nott is alive. They’re being kept for some unknown purpose.
They, whoever they are, have...handled them. Touched them. Groomed and cleaned them. The implications are not good- he tries to slide past those worries and focus on facts. His little friend is here and whole and breathing. Their clothing is gone, his books are stacked.

Where is Frumpkin?
“Ah Cah.” He hears himself say. “Cah. Cat.”
“Cat? Yes, your cat! Good job Caleb! You’re talking!” He hasn’t been praised for stammering out a simple word since he was a toddler. He rolls the world around his mouth, delighting in the movements of his tongue, growing more nimble with use.
“My cat.” He says.
“I haven’t seen him. Can you sense him near?”
To his great disappointment he can’t sense anything. “Nnnno.”
“I’m scared.”
“Yes.”
There is a moment of silence between them before Nott speaks again.
“...Did they hurt you?”
“Not...shure.” The second word is effortful and slurred. He’s almost embrassed until he remembers that he couldn’t speak at all a moment ago.
“I’ll slit their throats.” promises Nott.
“You? Hurt?” He manages.
She doesn’t answer him, deflecting his worry and continuing onto the next thought.
“When they come in again, pretend to be asleep, ok?”
He wonders again how long she must have laid there panicking while he was unconscious. How she must have despaired when he couldn’t answer her. Again? That means they’ve been here before. Why won’t she answer him? What have they done to her?
“Hurt you?” He manages. “Who they?”
“Some magical fucker in a cloak. A couple of human guards. They don’t show their faces.” She spits this info in disgust.
He furrows his brow at this. Such avoidance of his question. The simple action of moving his face ,however, thrills them both. He longs to touch her hand. He manages to lift one finger to tap on the bed and she squeals like someone witnessnig a miracle. If he can speak and he can move his hands, he can cast. But what will save them? With Caleb barely moving and Nott not moving at all, most of his spells would only trap them more. His mind flits from idea to idea. He needs to get them out, to free them before they are hurt. Maybe Nott has already been hurt and won’t tell him out of shame or fear or some misplaced sense of protection.

He hears the door open and he doesn’t have to fake freezing in fear. He hears Nott’s quick intake of breath, a little gasp. She stays silent after that, as still and stiff as a doll. He tries to look asleep, peers through the bottom of his eyelids at the men that entered. It was as Nott said, an armored guard and a thin lithe man in a deep cloak. When he leans over Nott, Caleb can feel the burning of the man’s strong perfume in his nose. The man trails one finger down Nott’s cheek and, getting no response, moves his hand to cup her chin. He turns her face back and forth, admiring his handiwork, and mutters something to the guard. The guard turns and leaves them alone with the cloaked man. When his hand begins to slide down Nott’s neck to her chest- Caleb lunges. His play acting must have been convincing because the man is completely caught off guard when Caleb throws himself across the bed. His limbs are still limp and useless, but he manages to headbutt the man in the jaw. He hears the sickening crack of the man’s teeth hitting each other. He lands face first on the softness of the bed just as the man hits the floor. It’s an amazingly lucky shot but he knows he only has a moment to regroup. His left arm moves easily to push him up. His right is harder, much harder to move. It takes all his will to force it too to bear his weight. He aligns his hands just so and flings them toward the man, now lying crumpled at their feet. Fire springs from his palms and engulfs the man, who promptly starts screaming. It’s a stupid reckless thing to do and he finds he can’t make himself regret it. His left knee finds purchase on the bed and helps to push his body up. Miraculously he is able to stand, unsteady and swaying in place. He looks at the man on fire at his feet, looks at Nott frozen with terror on the bed. His body begins to move without him. Cerebral Caleb, a creature of intelligence, is being moved by his own body like a puppet. He is a construct, a machine, moving in fits and starts. His movements are jerky and flailing, but he is at last able to move.

It’s as if he is seeing himself from the view of a bird, moving without thought. Caleb watches himself grabs his books and slip his coat on his shoulders. He scoops Nott up, bringing the sheet with her and tucks her up against his chest like a baby. He crosses the room and locks the door. He steps over the burning, dying man. He won’t let himself look down. The man is screaming but it barely registers to him. He looks down to where Nott is hyperventilating in his arms. He picks a bit of pillow down from her hair and casts another spell. He flings himself from the window, curling his body protectively around Nott as they drift down slowly. They are higher up than he thought and for a moment, it almost feels like they are flying. He lands, miraculously again, on his feet. The stone pavilion jars his shins, sends him reeling and twisting but he stays upright.
“Run.” Nott hisses urgently. “I need you to get us away from here now.” She’s still not moving in his arms but he clutches her tighter anyway.
“Keep going.” She says desperately. “Don’t stop for anything.”
His feet listen to Nott though his mind wants to give up, to crumple to his knees and weep. He runs like a newborn colt, out of the unfamiliar town and into the wood. He stumbles and weaves and falls. Thorns gouge his ankles and soon he is leaving bloody footprints behind. Nott directs him from against his chest. “Left” she says and steers him from running straight into a pond. He can feel her commands echo through his chest and it’s all he can focus on. “Keep going.” Caleb runs and runs. His chest and muscles burn as he runs faster than he ever has. He stops to vomit up an unfamiliar meal and Nott finally makes him stop.
“We need to hide.” She says.
He shucks his coat and places her in it, wraps it around her and tucks her into the hollow of a tree. With Nott safe, at least physically, Caleb breaks. He crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Some dim part of his mind registers that he is not hidden. He’s slumped in the clearing on his back, nude and vulnerable and obvious. Caleb can’t move. His mind goes back to the room, to the bloody face of the man on fire. He’d looked so suprised. He’d screamed so shrilly. He thinks of the man, writhing and crying and dying. He can’t stop thinking of it. Caleb is as paralyzed now as he was in the room. Paralyzed but conscious this time- he can hear and feel everything from the burn in his lungs to the scrape of the dirt on his skin.
“Caleb?” he hears Nott’s voice from the hollow. It echoes, sounding bigger than it is and he instinctively shrinks away.
“Don’t go away again please.” She says. “I need you here with me. You saved me. You’re so brave. Please stay with me. Please.”
He knows he should respond but he can’t.
“You’re amazing Caleb. You freed us. Try and stay with me.”
He lets his eyes close and all he can see is the man’s skin melting off his skull.

It’s been 37 minutes since Caleb went away inside his own head. His eyes snap open. His hips are covered by a scrap of bedsheet, his books are under his head like a pillow. When he turns, he sees Nott naked in the dappled sunlight, dabbing at a line of blood running down her thigh with a scrap of cloth. She ducks behind a stump when he moves, freezes like a scared animal. His joy at seeing her up and moving overshadows what he has seen for a moment. When he realizes the implications, he closes his eyes to avoid looking at her. How cowardly, how disgusting he is, to leave her alone with her pain. A few moment more, and he fakes an awakening, yawning theatrically and sitting up.
“You’re awake!” Nott says with palpable relief. She clutches a larger scrap of sheet to herself like a towel and moves towards him. A streak of gold comes with her and he’s amazed to see his cat- whole and solid. Frumpkin climbs into his lap and begins to frantically purr. He rubs his golden head on Caleb’s hands and face as if checking him for wounds.
“He followed us. Chased us through the woods and watched over you while you were...out. I thought they killed him” Caleb’s muscle memory takes over and he begins to pet the cat on his lap. “They threatened to skin him and-“
“Are you alright?” He interrupts.
She pulls the fabric scrap tighter around herself and shivers, though the day is not cold.
“Are you?”
He considers a moment.
“No.”
“Me either.”
They watch each other warily for a moment.
“We should keep running.” He says finally. “We’ll need to find clothes, supplies...money.”
She puts her tiny hand in his and pulls him to his feet. Somehow even now, she’s taking care of him. A wave of guilt at his uselessness floods his mind.
“I don’t want to ever talk about this again.” She says with an air of finality. He can give her that much, at least.

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CR Campaign Two: Mighty Nein era (characters)

Anyone. Caleb? Unconscious body

Fill: Yasha & Everybody, "While You Rest"

Re: Anyone. Caleb? Unconscious body