#i like him to have some meat on his bones sorry. hes just a baby. they all are. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

boxofbonesfic · 7 months

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

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Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

next chapter

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abbys-wifey · 3 months

Text

GOOD PIECE OF MEAT

pairing: sevika x female reader

warnings: men.

A/N: soooo…. hey guys. i’m back-ish. i won’t be updating like regularly but i will give you guys the odd one shot. since the trailer of arcane has come out i decided to start redoing arcane oneshots so feel free to request some, i may not be able to do heaps of requests but i will do a few. sorry for abandoning you guys for so long btw i just lost my love for writing for a bit but it coming back now so yay. anyway i love sevika with my whole heart and LEMME KNOW WHAT U THINK OF THE ARCANE TRAILER IN THE COMMENTS PLEASE. i need people to talk about this with. i missed you all :))

I was freezing to say the least. The cold streets of Zaun were no place for me right now, not at this time of night, especially when I had left my jacket back at my apartment. And so I head quickly to the Last Drop making sure to stay away from the shadowy corners and avoid the lingering looks of the strangers within the musky alleys.

Finally, the dimly lit bar comes into view. Music and shouts echo outside the entrance as I walk towards it, excited to finally see the person I had been missing all day.

“Name and business?” The bouncer extends a hand out stopping me from reaching the front door, his expression lacking any sort of emotion. I hadn’t seen him before, no doubt new to this job and so blissfully unaware of who I am. “I’m here to see my girlfriend.” I frown still shivering in the outside air. “Who?” The bouncer replies crossing his arms and raising one caterpillar looking eyebrow.

“Sevika.”

Instantly his stature changes. Eyes widen in shock and his stance becomes a lot more hospitable. “Welcome to the Last Drop. You’re looking ravishing tonight.” He smiles almost too kindly and opens the door ushering me inside.

The bar smells of alcohol and sweat, nothing I hadn’t smelt before but still, not necessarily pleasant. Ignoring the scent in the air I scan the crowd till I find my girlfriend who sits with an accomplished smirk on her lips. Surrounded by four other men, she plays cards obviously winning as the others sit sullen faced or groaning in defeat.

Pushing through the sea of people I make my way over, Sevikas eyes meeting mine as I reach the table. “Hi baby.” I smile happy to finally see my girlfriend after a long day at work.

She grins throwing her cards face up onto the table eliciting groans from the other four members although her eyes stay locked on me.

“Hi princess, did you have a good day?” She reaches for my hand with her flesh one gently tugging me onto her lap and pressing a kiss to the side of my head as I face the rest of the table.

“Yeah, it was ok.” I reply looking up at her with a small smile. “I missed you though.” I whisper leaning back into her chest. Sevikas grip on my waist tightens as her thumb traces small circles around my hip bone. “Missed you too.” She grunts.

Turning my attention back to the other four at the table I can’t help but let out a small chuckle at their gobsmacked faces.

It wasn’t often I came to the Last Drop, but when I did I always gathered the same reaction. People were astonished at how I somehow had gathered the most feared women in Zauns affection. Her softness towards me especially in public made everyone turn to stare.

“So Miss Muscle Woman has herself a little pet.” One man scoffs his eyes lingering on me. I can feel Sevika tense under my body as he eyes me up again. “Well you picked good Sev, she’s a pretty one alright.” He chuckles again, looking at his mates for back up only for them to shake their heads in fear.

Both Sevikas metal hand and flesh hand softly grip my waist as she lifts me off her lap and onto the chair beside her. The bar goes silent, each and every individual looking over as Sevika stands up to her daunting six foot height in complete silence and slowly stalks round the table to stand in front of the man.

He quickly realises his mistake and holds up his hands in defence as he scurries backwards, falling from his chair. “I-I’m just saying Sev, she’s a very good looking piece of meat you know? Go-Good for you and all. I don’t want her myself but-”

It all happens rather fast. Sevika’s cape is flung off her shoulder and before I can blink the man is cut off, lifted from the ground by his throat. “Apologise to her.” She snarls menacingly as he kicks and wheezes, hands pawing at the metal that slowly carved into his neck. “Now.” Sevika barks tightening her hold causing his eyes to widen as his air way is cut off. The man manages to let out a weak sorry aimed in my direction before he’s dropped to the floor. His breath comes back all at once as he inhales deeply, clutching weakly at his throat.

“Say another word about my girl ever again and I wont make the same mistake of letting you live. Do I make myself clear?” She leans in close to the man holding the front of his shirt as she snarls at him. He nods frantically a few tears rolling down his face and onto the already purple bruise forming on his neck.

Letting his shirt go Sevika goes to stand up again before swinging her flesh fist at his face causing him to go flying backwards, blood splattering against the chair he once sat in.

“And don’t let me catch you in here again.” She shouts after him as he turns on his heel and hobbles out the bar. She smirks satisfied before turning to the rest of the onlookers. “Anyone else got something to say?” She asks, her voice low and dangerous almost daring someone to talk. Immediately everyone goes back to the previous activities trying not to bring attention to themselves.

I breathe out a sigh of relief as Sevika finally turns back to me, her flesh hand coming to land on my cheek stroking it softly as a small frown is etched on her head.

“Are you ok princess?” She asks softly. I nod. “I am now.” I smile and press a kiss to her palm. “Can we go home please ? That made me even more tired.” I ask.

Sevika nods instantly getting her cloak off the floor and reaching for my hand as we walk out the door and into the streets.

Shivering once again I move closer to my girlfriend who chuckles as I cling to her arm. “Here.” She wraps her cloak around my shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“I’m not gonna let anything hurt you princess. Not even the cold. Not while I’m around.”

#wlw #sevika #arcane #arcane trailer #sevika x reader #lesbian #sevika x female reader #i love sevika

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dmercer91 · 1 year

Note

hi!! could i request headcanons for jealous mark estapa?

jealous! mark headcanons, me94

have i ever mentioned my undying love for men who refuse to stay out of the penalty box? well i'm mentioning it now. i love a goon

sorry this is a little short!

he doesn’t try and come off as jealous because in no world is it your fault

you didn’t do anything to make him question you, but everyone’s a little insecure about something

he thinks you’re so, so beautiful and that you could have anyone you wanted, and it doesn’t help that other guys make it clear that they want a chance with you

so he always has an arm around you

he gives lots of forehead kisses out in public and shockingly enough he loves pda

when you’re out for lunch with people hes so giddy to have you tucked under his arm with your head on his chest

he gives you a kiss before warmups at every home game

you’ll go over to the bench and he leans over the boards for you

a lot of the guys think you two are grossly adorable

during the summer if he’s feeling a little down on himself he gets a little more jealous than he’d like to admit

you’re on a lounge chair, tanning in all your glory and there are tons of attractive guys around eyeing you as you read

and mark just lays down right on top of you and gives you a kiss on the shoulder

you jokingly scold him for blocking the sun, saying it’s like he wants you to stay your winter shade

he just pouts and sticks his head into your neck and you understand that he gets needy when he’s jealous

so you keep reading your book and play with his hair while he calms himself

he is never, ever gonna tell you to cover yourself for his sake but when you’re at the beach or something and someone’s eyes are boring into you, you know he doesn’t feel good about it

so you’ll ask to borrow his shirt cause you’re cold and then you’ll spend a while laying on your towel with him, tracing his abs and biceps cause he loves it

“you’re so handsome, marky,”

and you kiss him on the cheek with your hands on his hip bones and suddenly he feels like a god

he can get to be a bit of an attention whore

if he’s spent too long sharing you with your friends during the day, he wants to be home early so he can get some undivided attention

the attention being you riding him

mumbling his name over and over while you’re coming

and it inflates his ego like crazy

but sometimes that’s necessary, he deserves to feel secure in himself like that

“you could have anyone you wanted, baby, n’ you chose me,”

“mh, cause you’re the only one i want,”

if other guys get a little too pushy, their stares turn into flirting and they’re downright trying to get with you, that’s when he can’t hold himself back

on ice mark comes out for a minute to protect you and you fully support that

“stop talking to my girl like she’s a piece of meat, fucking prick,”

“she can do better, bud” “i can make you look worse,”

if it needs to go that far he proves that comment true

you’ve only had to bandage up his hands one or two times, which you secretly love

your very hot boyfriend just decked someone in your honour and you get to play nurse with his bloody knuckles? that’s a win for everyone, honestly

mark is so boyfriend coded i could cry

#e’s headcanons !#mark estapa #mark estapa x reader #hockey imagine #nhl imagine

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spite-of-the-grifter · 5 months

Text

TMA fears as ASMR concepts

Disclaimer: I wrote this months ago in my notes app. This is not proofread in the *slightest*. So. It's gonna be shit. Lol. Enjoy, ig.

Also not canon compliant whatsoever so don't complain about that because I know.

-Michael Distortion: (POV: you're in the spiral) it's just 15 minutes of Michael whispering the same "baby sharchivist dododododo" tune and then him getting killed by Helen in the last minute.

-Nikola Orsinov does your skincare routine but it's just a direct parody of the Victor Van Dort does your Nails video where instead of the bts poster, the "blanket" is a black and white circus poster (see: Danny Stoker) that crumbles to ash when he puts it on. Also at the end she tries to do a "chemical peel" she found on "the internets". Michael comes in at the end and PRESIDENTIAL ALERT THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINNGGG.

"Why are you screaming? that's very rude, you know. Especially after I talked to your BOSS for you. And that was NOT an enjoyable experience. He's such a tool >:(("

"Spill the tea, archivist" "oh sorry, did you want some? Sorry ...too bad. You can't have this :33" "WHERE ARE MY MANNERS??" *sticks pinky finger out* "there! Much better"

-Jane Prentiss' GRWM but she doesn't have any other clothes so it's just "time for the fit check!!" *Camera cuts to her dress for one (1) second* then her makeup is just dirt, dirt, and "the worms love you."

-Simon Fairchild and Michael Crew giggle with each other while huddled together and whispering/gossiping and asking "should we do it, should we do it?" "Yeah yeah let's be bad" while shushing each other while occasionally interacting with the listener for 5 minutes and then the rest of the video is just them torturing them via the ocean (them holding you underwater for 2 minutes with muffled gurgling bubble noises accompanied by underwater ocean sounds and silent panicking), throwing you into the sky at extreme velocity (sounds of air blasting your eardrums for a solid 3 minutes before an airplane hits you full force and you fall back into the ocean...which is another whole minute of falling and panicking.), and then the rest of the video is just them laughing while basically using your limp, dazed body as a kite.

-Elias Bouchard beats you with a metal pipe ASMR.

-POV: Gerard Keay breaks into your house at 2:27 AM and ransacks it looking for a LEITNER "WHERE TF IS I- oh. You're awake..Hi." before leaving through the window but he can't make himself fit through so it's just a full minute of him struggling and awkwardly laughing while apologizing over and over. All this time, he's wearing so much eyeliner, he looks like Jeff the Killer. You point this out and he just goes "Oh! Thank you! :D"

-"Buried Alive ASMR: You Get Buried Alive. You are getting buried alive. Someone is burying you. Alive. It is peaceful." (Unnecessarily long, redundant title for what's just screaming that gets slowly muffled as the video goes on and more dirt is piled on top of you before you start to sound content and just. Go to sleep. At that point. Snoring.)

-The Vase eats your boyfriend in the other room. It's just sounds of porcelain and snoring and fleshy eating sounds with ear eating but it slowly progresses to sounds that make less and less sense until it's just the skeleton sound effects from Minecraft.

-POV spiders crawl all over you. They have covered your door in spiderwebs. You fall asleep crying but wake up to being choked to death via spiders crawling inside you and blocking your windpipe.

-Jared Hopworth, the Boneturner, turns your bones with sounds of squishy flesh moving around in the background. At the end, you get eaten by The Monster Pig™ and meat (lol) the body of the missing clown.

-You get sacrificed to The Desolation. Sounds of distant screaming is heard in the right ear while sounds of maniacal/pained laughter is heard in the left. Fire crackles throughout the woods.

-You are getting chased by something. You get stalked with a lot of tension at the beginning; sticks cracking, creepy giggling, devious sounds all around. Your breathing is uneasy, but then the sounds stop and you breathe a sigh of relief and go back to stoking your campfire. Something growls and finally says "evening" and starts counting down. From 5. You bolt away from your campsite downhill for 2 minutes breathing heavily and fast before you trip on a stick and tumble down the mountain getting hit by trees and sent over rocks. You're about to pass out, but then you hear sniffing and growling in your direction and you get back up with an "o shit" and hide in a tree. When the monster sniffs out your hiding spot, it can't reach you. The rest of the video is slightly muffled Gangnam Style.

-POV: Peter Lukas kidnaps you, throws you in a sack, and you are put on a ship to a deserted island. This part is just sounds of boards creaking and boat rocking sounds while you fall asleep to the sounds of Peter's VERY heavy snoring. You're both startled awake by distant "land ho!" And a very gruff Peter's voice talking to himself going "I'm up I'm up ugh". Rustling of the bag is heard while he picks you up and fumbles around with you. You're getting passed around and jostled a bunch. At one point he burns his toast. Sounds of intense crunching can be heard from this along with him saying "elgh" as if disgusted. Finally, he brings you to the deck and throws you overboard onto a deserted island (your bones break and you scream "MY LEGS") before you can hear him far away saying "alright, set sail, we're done here." You manage to get out of the bag (you are wincing, the drop heavily contorted your body) and the sun shines at you while birds squack above and the coast crashes onto the shore. You slowly lose your mind.

-POV you're in the War™ and get shot in the arm and fall into a cave with one of your comerades. You guys shakily and awkwardly attempt to make small talk as you both bleed out on top of several hundreds of other corpses. The Piper is heard in the distance getting louder. When he finally gets to you after taking your friend, you fall into a bottomless pit while he's up there yelling "OH FUCKING COME ONNNN." When you get out on the other side after a minute of silence with faint sounds of "I will remember you" plays quietly through the silence. When you get out, Mike and Simon are snickering before you cough up blood when they start bursting out in laughter being like "I'm sorry I'm SO sorry really but it's JUST. SO FUNNY."

-POV: Robert Montauk is preparing to kill you, sharpening his tools and humming and whatnot before Julia comes in and asks what her dad's doing. While he's distracted, you escape the shitily tied knots and run through pitch dark while he chases you with an axe. "COME BACK. COME BACCKKK. YOU FUCKER I NEED YOU. FUCKER." You run into a church. Manuela Dominguez tries to apprehend you. It doesn't work. "Where the hell's Fairchild when you need him?"

Robert bursts through the church and gets pissed at you for making him scream curse words that his daughter could hear. Throws the axe at you. He misses. Now you have a weapon. You charge at him but fall through another pitch black hole where none other than yours truly are on the other side of it laughing their ASSES off just DYING. "OK. OK Whooooo. We SWEAR that was the last of it hahaha" "haha yeah just some guys bonding over a good laugh, you understand."

-The End. Just. An end screen.

You're dropped into Season one Jon's office and they (annoyed) take your statement. Typing sounds are heard while you frantically go "then the old guy..a-nd then the other old guy then the 2 old men and. And. Worm lady. Skin. Chemical peel." As they mumble "uh huh, yeah. Heh, heard that one before. No go on, go on." When statement ends, you leave but stay at the door to eavesdrop while they skepticize like "this man needs some antispychotics and he needs them NOW. Ugh. My job is utter buffoonery. MAHTIN."

You turn to walk away but get ambushed by Elias Bouchard. The last sound of the video is just a metal pipe hitting you over the head.

#tma #tma podcast #the magnus archives #asmr #this is so bad lol #my two favorites were the one with Simon and Mike and the one with Peter #the vast and the lonely ARE my favorite fears so that's fitting ig #i hated doing the rp format as much as you did reading it #the magnus archives podcast #magpod

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catchyhuh · 10 months

Text

RANKED BY HOW SQUEAMISH THEY GET AROUND BLOOD

self explanatory baby let’s get into it. except it’s not totally self explanatory because this accidentally bled (haha get it) into an analysis about how they handle seeing death too. THIS ONE GOT WILD

WARNING!! we’re not going to get like, excessively detailed, but there will be discussions of. you know. death, blood, violence, what happens when human bodies are shot and stabbed and the other grotesque shit that happens to them in this series. stuff like that! we’re going to be getting into it quite a bit so heads up

goemon is easily the LEAST bothered by the sight of blood, or gore in any capacity. not to say he’s fully desensitized to it-- on an objective level, it bothers him, like it would anybody, to see some undeserving living creature torn up like that. but his method of. you know. HANDLING PROBLEMS is a little bit messier than a gunshot from afar, so he got used to grizzly sights pretty quickly, ones that he himself was responsible for or otherwise. you could show goemon some absolutely horrific, mangled shit, and his expression would hardly change. he’s not very proud of that fact but i guess in that sense it’s the one thing in his training that really, REALLY 100% never fails to pay off.

the only reason jigen is SLIGHTLY more bothered by it (just slightly) is because he usually only sees uh. gunshot wounds, like we said, whereas when goemon is done with some monster of the week or whatever THAT guy looks like he fell into a person-sized papershredder. unfortunately he. is a LITTLE desensitized to bullet wounds, not in a malicious way, but it just does not bother him like it should since he sees it so, SO much. goemon can easily place himself in the shoes of a bloody victim, but jigen just sees a dead body as. a body. THIS ONE IS REALLY GRUESOME NOW THAT I’M WRITING IT I’M GONNA GO BACK AND ADJUST THAT TW

and again, fujiko is only SLIGHTLY above jigen here, too. the only difference is that she, like goemon, sees the human behind the meat a bit too much, and certain sights are just a bit too much. jigen shuts down entirely, but fujiko stares with quiet shock. however, she’s never bothered by the result of her OWN carnage, you know? sometimes jigen or goemon take down a particular guy and they go “damn… rest in peace, sorry bastard” BUT NOT FUJIKO LMAOOO fujiko does not misfire. fujiko does not regret a single knife thrown, a single bullet shot. so the visual results of that mean like, nothing to her. idiot had it coming!

you’re probably picking up that these are very faint increments here, AND WE’RE NOT STOPPING BECAUSE LUPIN ALSO IS ONLY SLIGHTLY MORE SENSITIVE THAN FUJIKO HERE like fujiko he does not hesitate killing a motherfucker if he has to, but (you may have noticed this in canon too) he always feels a bit… weird about it. even if the opposition 100% had it coming, and then some, it’s not the act of their rightful death that bothers him, but the fact HE had to be the one to do it, that there is (literally sometimes) blood on his hands. out of the gang he’s always been the most staunchly anti-murder, to the point anyone can tell lupin’s alleged involvement in a crime is a lie if there are any murder victims, where the others… have never tried to say they’d never take a human life IT’S NOT FUNNY BUT. IT’S A BIT FUNNY. THE GUY LEADING THESE VIOLENT CRIMINALS DRAWS THE LINE AT MURDER sorry we’re getting off topic a smidge. the point is, lupin is the type of guy who kills only through necessity but also faints when he gets his blood drawn just because the sight of his OWN blood is so gross ew!

and then the most abnormal normal guy! everybody say hi zenigata! it’s no question that he’s got the lowest murder count, (i feel like, not counting manga stuff, he’s maybe indirectly killed two people max?) and also tends to be the most (reasonably) sensitive about horrible shit like this. it’s not that he’s some weak link who faints when somebody’s arm is broken so badly the bone is sticking out, like no question he could stare down some shit you and i would easily be (AGAIN, REASONABLY) horrified and left in shock by. it’s just that in comparison to the others and the others alone, he would be the only one to be visibly alarmed and pale upon seeing a body left mutilated and twisted to the point it doesn’t look human anymore. but yeah based on rule of funny he’d ALSO faint when you draw his blood. or he would if the needle could get through his impossibly thick skin. what’s this motherfucker made of honestly

#i dont know what possessed me here this just. appeared on my screen before me. i mean it's really not THAT bad #but just coming out of the blue. hm. probably needs a warning!#lupin iii #lupin the third #lupin #jigen #fujiko #goemon #zenigata

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dirtytransmasc · 2 years

Note

If mama neytiri au Spider meet canon Spider and Jake he would go off on them about their hair. He would probably yell at them for a good few hours then make them sit down so he can fix there hair.

I think before she could even start yelling, she'd start crying.

her baby is flinching away from her, deathly afraid, hiding behind Jake but refusing to touch him. he fears them both, but her more then him. that's enough to break her heart right then and there; what could she have done to make this child fear her as if she was death herself.

then she gets a good look at him, he's thin and lanky despite the muscle he'd managed to build, he's dirty; between his hair, his caking of dirt just about everywhere, and the blue stains from paint make him seem as if he's never had a bath (and that is a horrifically possibile statement). his eyes are blown wide with fear and carry deep, dark bags underneath them, his lips are bitten raw.

Jake looks nothing like that, sure his hair is dreaded the same as spider, but it's clean, he has some meat on his bones, he doesn't look shell shocked like her son does. sure she's pissed about the hair, but what about his, their son, even if he was raised by another version of herself, that is still her baby.

she wants to touch him, hold him, make that pain and fear that weighs on him go away. but every time she takes a step forward he scurries back even as he tries to brace himself.

so she attempts a different strategy, she sits, offering him a chance to come to her. as much as she wants to speak, her words would be foreign to him, words of love and comfort from a mother, something be clearly does not have. so instead she gently pats the ground in front of her, giving him the permission to join her.

and to his credit he does, sitting more then an arms length away so she can't touch him, but that was more then enough for her.

"my child, I understand that... that I didn't raise you, and that you have suffered great pain from the version of me that did. I know you are scared and you are being so very brave, I just want to talk, can we do that?" she can't remember the last time she had to speak to her son so softly.

he nods, scootching a bit closer, and despite doing it seemingly on his own accord, he looks petrified, his whole body shaking slightly, his eyes averting her gaze.

"oh my child, I'm so sorry, you do not deserve the pain that had been afflicted upon you" she can't stop herself, the apology coming off her lips before she could even think about stopping it.

"it's... it's ok, it wasn't you," he tries to say, but it does not ease her.

"no, no it is not ok, no child deserves to suffer, no matter who or what they are, who they are born from, it should not matter. you did not deserve the challenges you have faced, and you deserve an apology, even if it's only from me." she shoots a glare at Jake, who has been standing still and quiet, as if his life was flashing before his eyes. he had something to do with this, that she knows, she feels it in the way a mother can sense danger without even seeing it.

the boy looks conflicted, wanting so desperately to rush to her, but still feeling fear ring around him, constricting him in place, feeling like he's choking. he wrings his hands, staring her down as if to decide the best course of action.

"it's ok sweet one, you don't have to do a thing. is it alright if I get a bit closer?" she wanted him to calm down, if only for her own hearts sake.

he nodded, scootching closer himself, the two meeting with their knees almost touching. she was so small compared to go her, smaller then her own son, the fear and lack of body mass (she doesn't want to even think of why, not yet) making him seem so much smaller then he was.

"who did this, to your hair?"

"I did," Jake interrupts, earning her teeth bared in his direction, she did not like this Jake, while her own had flaws, this man made her feel like her young were threatened. "he wanted his hair to be like ours."

"so I see... matting his hair and letting it gather filth is so much like the omatikaya," she muttered under her breath, almost earning a little laugh from the boy, though he did look a little bashful at the mention of his hair. Jake just but his lip and turned back to his staring at nothing

"did anyone show you how to wash hair like this little one?"

"...no" there was the shame, she anticipated it, doesn't mean she liked seeing it.

"that's ok, it wasn't your fault, someone should have been there to do it," she gently put out a hand, the boy leaning into it so she could look at his hair. "I can fix this for you, if you'd like?"

he looked at her with awe, barely containing his joy before nodding. "if... if it isn't too much to ask,"

"not at all my boy, I will fix this and then I will speak to your... I will speak to Jake," she smiled at him motioning for him to stand and come to her hut, showing him a pallet to sit on.

it took time, a lot of time, to detangle what she could and cut out what she couldn't, but she was dedicated to her task, cleaning it till it shone like her own son's hair. by the time she was down eclipse was starting, and he was exhausted.

"sleep my son, I will finish this in the morning."

"thank you... so much,"

"it is the very least you deserve, I wish I could fix it all, but I can't... this is what I can do for you, so I am going to do it to the best of my ability, because I love you, I love you and every potential version of my son that could ever exist. eywa had bonded my soul to you, and I will do my very best to appease the Great Mother and to be a good mother to you."

the boy looked at her with teary eyes, nudging into her, letting her wrap an arm around his little body.

"I will be back soon, I just have words for Jake, tomorrow I will do your hair try and think of how you would like it, I can do anything traditional or not."

"ok... ok mama," he said it cautiously, but smiled when she squeezed him tighter.

"I love you my son, now, sleep before I swaddle you like a baby," teased gently, ticking at his sides.

he obeyed, curling up where he laid, pulling a blanket over his shoulders, instantly giving into sleep (though the big heavy hand on his back did wonders to ease his mind).

once she was sure he was under for the night she went off to find Jake. she needed to understand why and how he treated spider to make a child so meek in body and mind, when in heart and soul he was stronger then most warriors.

she found him down by the stream, watching the water.

"what made him unlovable," she asked with no restraint.

"what?"

"the boy, spider you call him, my son, why could you and whatever other version if myself he was raised by, not love him?"

"she just never took to him, I guess I didn't either..." he spoke like a man who faced imminent death, one wrong move and she would skit his throat.

"and you neglected him why? not every person has room in their heart to love a child, but to doom him to never feeling clean, to being so small, so weak, why that?"

"he had a family of his own, we just... we let them take care of him, he just stuck around to play with our kids."

"that's not what he tells me Jake, he tells me he had no family, no one outside of the children, and you didn't know this? you just let him grow thinner and thinner, dirtier and dirtier, but do nothing?" she was so beyond angry, she was so close to screaming at him, but didn't only for the boys sake. "children, your own or not, are gifts if eywa, they are to be cherish and protected. why could you not do that, why did you violate one of the most sacred ways if eywa?"

"he was of the sky people, Neytiri, they hurt us, it was hard but we did our best to raise him"

"do not pretend that you did the best you could. the sky people robbed me if almost everything but when I saw his little smile, and his prefect little cheeks, and I heard his laugh I knew that the boy needed to be protected. I protect the kin of my greatest enemy because he was nothing but an infant. why did you allow yourself to blame him of people for simply existing?"

there was a long, thick, pause.

"I don't know."

"do better by that boy, even if that means you bathe and feed him like a proper parent, or so help me I will find a way to end you. change my mind, your Neytiri, change her mind, let her see the gift she has been given." that was all she said before walking back towards her hut, not knowing what may come next, she just knew she had a boy to go home to.

#if this is a permanent swap or not I dont know #i just started writing and went with it #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #spider socorro #miles spider socorro #miles socorro #Neytiri #jake sully #(I have a bias against the guy. he's probably not that bad. hes just a photo copy of my dad and he pisses me off. so. yeah)#spider te suli tsyeyk'itan #this ended up so much longer than intended #oops

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ntls-24722 · 11 months

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PINING!!!!

OH YEAH BABY!!!! BARELY MUSIC MAN/FNAF RELATED WEIRD SOS LORE😭 SORRY GUYS THIS IS WHAT I POST

That is a corpse! They aren't actually. speaking. It was a weird dream sequence in my brain

There is a weird reverence for the existance and evolution of starfalls in the planetnid society because they see it as them being taken into better hands by nature that isn't the Oort Cloud's and even though it's very disturbing, nature is something that they're not used to and are fascinated by and being claimed by it, even though it's natural, is very special for them :]

Also!!! There are the bone bees and the bony piculet (not actually a piculet)!! Replacement for the bone ants and are a MASSIVE KEYSTONE SPECIES

The inside of planetnids are mostly huge expanses of empty space once the muscle and organs are gone but the bone bees(wasps?) actually make these massive bone-wax mounds/structures within the exoskeletons and are solely responsible for the terrain and environment within the exoskeletons that everything in there depends on once the muscle mass disappears.

One thing that does depend on it is the bony piculet, a bunch of woodpeckers (another resident of starfalls that make their nests in the solid teeth of the exoskeleons) that evolved to feed on and navigate the mounds. Their wings are beginning to degenerate in favor of claws but they are still able to glide a little bit.

weird sidenote. I actually began to wonder how planetnids would taste because the prospect of them being eaten by humans would be another little sprinkle of Fucked Up Salt on the mound of Fucked Up Salt but i realized that the umami flavor of meat is largely based on fat and therefore planetnids would taste like SHIT

planetnids, particularly the "comet" ones are not only emaciated but their fat is largely concentrated in two areas (their abdomen and most recently the palm of their hands, and this fat is extremely concentrated in these spots. there's like barely any marbling) and therefore it would be terribly sad meat at worst and below average at best. so no planetnid meat. good

Bonus younger Cameron! (him at 46 lol)

He used to be... scary as shit. lurking around abandoned areas with a gas mask and saw in hand. Don't worry guys he's just there to take pictures.

The gas mask, he wears mainly due to his fear of black mold but it also serves the purpose of hiding his identity if he gets caught trespassing. He carries the saw just to help get into places but it generally is a good idea to have some self defense on you just in case since you're in a place where no-one will find you

His exploration of various abandoned places actually leads to a mindfuck within Miguel because he continually recognizes the levels Miguel shows him. Though, it is a little funny that Miguel was always his type

#ntls-24722 #djmm #dj music man #cameron #starfall #(almost) daily music man #at what point does the SOS lore get so weird i have to stop tagging it as djmm

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moonshinemusings · 2 years

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This blog *-* Can I have a headcanon for Price ? The ones for Soap and Alejandro are ghgffhh <3

Hello there! I'm really glad you like my blog, thank you! Here are some headcanons about our favourite Captain :)

---

General John Price headcanons (Pt.1)

Warnings: slight mentions of PTSD, depression (?), smoking, canon typical violence

A/N: This turns pretty grim by the end, but I hope you still like it!

• This man watches football whenever he can and he's been at matches quite a lot in his life. He took Gaz with him a few times, even Laswell once

• Sometimes he snores like a dad and Gaz needed several days to get used to the sound in order to sleep when they started working together

• Tells horrible dad jokes all the time and he knows most of the guys hate them, but won't stop

• Coughs like his lungs will collapse but somehow he's healthy

• His knee always crunches like it's about to break

• He's mostly unperturbed by all the carnage and violence by now, but he saw a baby being born once and almost fainted and threw up

• In full honesty he doesn't mind cheaper cigars, but he likes to fuck with everyone by acting like he hates them

• The smell of the smoke on his breath/clothes is really noteable but he doesn't care

• Has a high alcohol tolerance. The only way you will know if he's getting tipsy is by noticing the subtle change in his accent to deeper and more slurred words. If somehow he's really gone, then you will know by the little red tints on his cheeks (which are mostly hidden by his facial hair, but you can see it up close)

• Not an early bird. He tends to be grumpy in the mornings, but if you give him coffee it's gonna be fine

• Which reminds me: his preferred drink will always be a good whiskey, but he usually downs anything he has to (coffee, tea, those horrible protein shakes, vitamin mixes and so on)

• Occasionally reads, mostly classics or novels

• Prefers salty food over sweet

• The secret of the facial hair? Patience and genuine care about his appearance. He shaves for like an hour every time because he doesn't want to ruin his mustache/beard (Alex is the same damn way I swear)

• He likes jazz music and 80's rock. Sometimes he blasts those horrendous English raps too because he knows the others hate it (sorry if I insulted anyone lol)

• Thinks pineapple on pizza is hideous (Soap loves it lol)

• He's had so many broken bones in his life, he has no idea if there is any in his body that he didn't destroy at least once yet

• He doesn't really like action/military based movies because of the unnecessary violence in them. They remind him of things he doesn't want to remember too much. He'd rather watch shitty romantic movies or even comedies, but he won't be caught dead while laughing at them. He also tends to laugh while watching horror movies, but the heavy gore can remind him of bad memories

• He doesn't care about social media or any of that stuff really. Sometimes Gaz shows him stuff like cat videos because he loves them. Everything he knows he got it from Kyle tbh

• He has no fashion sense whatsoever. Outside of work he either looks like a dad on vacation, or still wears too much stuff similar to his gear that he seems to be going back to work in 10 minutes

• He likes fuzzy socks btw

• Adores big dogs, he can just wrestle with them and when they lay on him it makes him feel centered and comfortable thanks to their weight

• Unreasonably good at poker and he has the highest record with like 2 wins behind Laswell (who he just can't beat)

• He can handcraft a bunch of stuff if you give him a piece of wood and a knife. He made little figures for Gaz and the guy kept them as lucky charms over the years

• He doesn't fuss around too much about food and he's not picky. Whatever he gets, he gets, and that's fine by him (he used to live off worst stuff anyways). He loves meat though, a nice steak always puts him in a good mood. Also probably makes mean bbq

• Drinks beverages like orange juice or even milk straight out of the carton

• He's a man who always keeps his promises. Not one to lie or feed half truths, he always straight up says everything he has to

• Has a collection of weird/dumb looking beanies he has received over the years from his team

• He met Kate's wife once and she made him feel like family in the best way possible. He was glad his best friend had such a great person in their life that they could go home to

• Very protective of his men. He has lost too many friends and doesn't want to lose anyone else

• His biggest fear is ending up alone, watching everyone he loves die

• Every man he has lost weights heavy on his shoulders. He remembers their faces, but not all their names which makes him feel even more guilty

• Tends to bottle up his emotions and act like everything is fine. Sometimes he breaks down seemingly out of nowhere, but only when he's alone

• Kate is his closest friend and when it gets really bad, she's the one he seeks out

• He has occasional nightmares just like everyone else, but feels like he's dealing well with them (mostly he does)

• He has a watch he got from Soap as a birthday gift once. He only wears it outside of work because it's too important for him to get it damaged in any way

• He rarely has free time or time away from work, but he gets the most out of it. He has a few safe houses, but prefers to spend his time in one in particular because it has all his personal belongings he has left

• At first he thought the "you're everyone's father" was a joke, but then he realized how genuinely they meant that and he kind of broke down. He didn't think he deserved that amount of deep affection and what came with a title such as that, but it made him feel unexplainably happy at the same time

• He's not sure if he ever wants a family. He knows the military is his life and would never leave it behind, unless he has to retire because he can't keep up anymore (even then, only if they force him). The idea of having someone who loves him waiting at home brings warmth to his chest, but he's not sure if he deserves it. He doesn't want to taint anyone with his hands that hold so much blood on them

#cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #modern warfare2 #john price #captain price #captain john price #price headcanons #headcanons

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lilyliveredlittlerichboy · 1 year

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6 (continued)

In which we get a closer look at Mercymorn.

And Harrow finds out how to undo the nerve root twist keeping her paralysed; she would do well to heed Mercymorn's warning, tbh. That could have ended badly.

“Lie, Harrow. Now.” “Fifteen,” you said immediately, hoping your own meat would not betray you.

Why does the Body bid Harrow to lie?

I said, Put an age requirement in the letter! I said, Everyone will be pubescent if you don’t! And now we reap what he sowed. Hiss.

Hiss 🤣 Lady Mercymorn, you're funny.

She was right in calling Harrow and Ianthe babies. Idk how old Ianthe is, but she's still young as well. They're young for regular humans, nevermind Lyctors.

“You’ve met our respected elder sister, I see,” Ianthe said. “She accused me of being twelve, called me one of those animaphiliacs, then told me I wasn’t as good looking as someone called Cyrus. It was like being back with Mummy,” she added, with a touch of fond nostalgia.

Good to know Ianthe got the same treatment. Sounds like some Mummy issues are abound as well.

And what is up with this shuttle? We will see.

"Well, Nonagesimus, they do see action when the Cohort suddenly loses three warships to as many orbital radiation missiles, which is three more warships than we’ve lost in the past thousand years,” said Ianthe.

Eighteen thousand dead??? I have a bad feeling about this. Flashbacks to the prologue, when they were under attack from... those insecty things, who seem to be related to that thing the Emperor was talking about before. The Resurrection Beast.

As he drew closer, you could see that he looked as though he had prepared in a hurry; he carried a small bag, hastily packed, slung over his shoulder—the ever-present tablet peeked out of his pocket, along with what seemed to be at least five styluses—and he was dressed simply, as per usual, in a black shirt and trousers.

You know, for the God-Emperor, so venerated by everyone around him, he really just seems like some normal guy. Some totally normal, extremely powerful, practically immortal guy. Kinda like the Lyctors. I wonder what his story is.

Each leaf was intertwined with a match-sized infant fingerbone.

Sorry, anatomy nitpicking again. Infants don't have much in the way of fingerbones, it's mostly still cartilage at that point. What bones they do have in their fingers are going to be much, much smaller than matches.

Unless cartilage counts as bone, for these purposes? We may never know.

He turned to find the beautiful ward completed on the wall, and the Seventh adept quietly dying on the floor. There was a whorl of blood down her front; at some point she had levered her syringe deep into her subclavian artery. [...] Her expression changed from glassy-eyed expectation to resignation; she rolled over to kiss the dusty floor of the shuttle. You and Ianthe were left blinking, eyes and noses streaming, as though you had just eaten something slightly too spicy.

Ah, well, it's not Quite resurrection, as she wasn't Quite dead yet, but close enough. Interesting, the externalised power here, affecting Ianthe and Harrow. I want to study the Emperor and his powers under a microscope.

The non-sequitur conversation between the Emperor and Mercymorn is unnerving. When they start talking again, I have no idea what they're on about. I'm going to keep reading, assuming it will all be explained to me in due course.

She was deeply excited. That starry, far-off gaze refocused on you, and she whispered coyly: “Should we hold hands, in girlish solidarity?” At your expression, she puffed away a strand of colourless hair and remarked, “You’re the one who investigated my tonsils.”

Lmao, good point. I'm guessing that means she doesn't know the reason for the kiss - which I can only take as good news.

The shuttle might as well have been empty for all that you could sense within, except for that single foetal bundle of thanergy lying still inside the coffin.

Cytherea's, if I remember correctly. Ominous that Thalergy remains this long after she died.

Ohhh, we're getting more insight into The River and how it works. Absolutely Fascinating. It's like subspace, but also the underworld/afterlife, and apparently, full of man-eating monsters.

Interesting!! Sounds like a great place to take your two babyfaced new Lyctors to/through.

Mercy said lowly: “It turned out that being sensible and brilliant and careful doesn’t keep you from getting ripped to shreds by ten thousand feral ghosts.” Ianthe said, “But the Beast—?” “Emerged unscathed twenty minutes later,” the Emperor said. And: “Life’s a bitch.”

I wholeheartedly agree. It seems everyone here is grieving in some way.

You recalled the enormous construction of regrowing bone, your hands encased in it so that you could not wrench yourself free, your mind voyaging nauseously into the chamber of another person’s brain. God said, “You’ll need that skillset now."

How conveniently the narration/Harrow's memories twist themselves to avoid ever even mentioning Gideon.

And they're in the River, and this concludes the liveblog for the night. See you probably tomorrow for Chapter 7.

#i need a tag for my own rambles #harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth liveblog #htn liveblog #tlt liveblog #htn spoilers #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb

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idiotwithanipad · 5 months

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Some angst/ fluff because I'm in terrible pain and I don't wanna go through it alone😂

(TW: Mentions of child being slapped, Incestuous relationship mentioned (I'm so sorry but that's just the canon, I'm sorry🫥 confirmed in s2Xe4 and s3Xe5)

The journey had been long, taxing. Shul and Rogh had found what they'd been sent to look for, from four days out of the scrublands looking for a new home. Since the tribe needed to make a hasty retreat when their former cave was overrun by lions, many were lost in the freezing weather. They traveled for days, carrying anything they could until they'd come across peaceful land. Yet, it was a land with no protection against the cold, no cave. Some succumbed to hypothermia, others broke bones in the deep snow and others simply refused to eat or drink over the loss of their friends and family. It was an ugly time.

They had located more of a bunker than a cave; a hollowed out chalk pit beneath a cliff wall. Over the four days away from the rest of the tribe, Rogh and Shul had scouted the area and could see and smell no signs of threat, be it animal or rival tribe. Seeing that their situation was becoming desperate by the day, they decided to dig the bunker deeper, burrowing underneath the chalk cliff, a makeshift underground cave.

Their days of toil and anxiety were long and tedious, but, like all creatures, they couldn't beat the need to rest for a while. Shul built a fire from whatever dry wood they had left and pulled out scraps of meat from his leather satchel draped over his back. They rationed out each crudely cut chunk of meat between each other and held them over the flames to cook them. Shul's sunken in eyes scanned about their new 'cave', a clear sense of pride beaming from his crooked grin. With a wheezy chuckle, he thrusted the back of his wrist joyfully into Rogh's shoulder, expecting him to share the enthusiasm. Only to find an exhausted, concerned and sullen face above the flames, staring down into them like all of this meant nothing at all.

The grin on Shul's face melted away like an icicle in the summer sun, and he shuffled slightly to face his forlorn brother. He spoke in their ancient tongue, aided by hand gestures and body language.

"What wrong? Your face like stone. You okay?"

Rogh's eyes left the fire momentarily and flicked over to Shul. His lower eyelids twitched for a moment before he looked as though he were about to respond, but he cut himself off with a silence sigh and stoked the fire with the end of his spear. Rogh was never this quiet after a good days work; he'd usually be the life of the party, cheering to everyone and looking for the nearest puddle to start the 'party' off with a bang. Shul huffed and gripped Rogh's wrist, pulling it back away from the fire and staring right at him; eye contact always broke Rogh, it was how many members of the tribe got him to confess things, good or bad.

Rogh pulled his wrist out of his brother's hand gently and leaned back against the chalk wall. Without looking at Shul, he gestured.

"Riva big sick. She have baby soon. She get big" Rogh gestured to Shul, an invisible mound at the bottom of his gut, pantomiming a pregnant woman.

"Can't walk good. Out of breath big fast. Me worried..." Rogh gave a dry blink and let his arms slump down to his sides.

Shul's eyes flicked back towards the fire briefly before his hand came up to pat against Rogh's pelted shoulder reasuringly.

"Our sister big willed. She have big spirit. Moonah see to that she and baby safe" Shul said as he forced a reassuring grin.

"She not as big willed when we leave tribe to find new home... Could tell...."

The tribe handed out pelts and scraps of food to each other to share. Children and babies huddled beneath the biggest furs and mammoth wool rugs, women and elders trying to create a fire to protect themselves from animals while the men stood guard around them like soldiers pointing their spears at every twig that snapped in the distance and every time a bird flapped from a high tree branch above.

Rogh handed his club to his nephew, huddled between other children he knew well enough to call his own. The boys speckled blue eyes lit up as though he'd been given a rare and sacred gift.

"You keep for uncle Rogh, you make whack big hard, kill even a deer with that" Rogh gave a wink and a soft huff as he rose back to his feet from where he crouched in front of the boy, who's friends and cousins were now gazing at the club like it was a holy grail.

There was one more person he needed to see before he and his older brother, Shul, went on their search for a new home for the tribe. Rogh made his way over to a nearby pine tree and crouched in front a very pregnant, barely conscious woman, slumped against the winding roots. Her face was strained and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Whistling and wheezing echoed in each breath she took.

Rogh's knuckles prodded softly against her burning hot cheek, and her eyes cracked open slightly.

"We leave for search now. How you feel?" Rogh almost didn't want to know the answer, he felt as though he could feel it within himself just by looking at her.

The woman drew in a sharp breath and righted herself against the tree.

"Will be okay. Me the girl who survived father giving me big slap with stick after me drink a palm full of puddle water as child. Me survive this too" She seemed to have intended that statement to be humorous, but instead of his sister's usual stoic attitude, what came out was a broken and shrill whimper.

Rogh couldn't smile, even though he wanted to; the condition his sister was in made his hope burn away like a dry leaf in the fire. She recoiled again, letting out a strained groan of discomfort and clasping her hand on her bulbous stomach. Rogh's gaze shifted to where his sister's hand was clamped, and, almost out of instinct, he reached out his own hand, placing it beside her's. For a brief second, Rogh felt something. Something small, but strong. It prodded against his palm for a few seconds and then did it again.

His eyes widened in a mixture of confusion and horror as he reeled his hand away and stuttered out some incomprehensible nonsense. Riva picked up a fistful of snow and hurled it at him to shut him up.

"Big idiot! Mother tell me that normal, only baby. Mean baby be born soon. Hurry and find new cave so baby will be warm when born" His sister's tone was serious, the glare under her heavy brow was all Rogh needed to know that she meant business.

Rogh calmed his rapid breathing and dusted off the slightly melted snow against his furs, crouching down in front of Riva again. He gave a single nod and pressed his knuckles to her forehead. Her rock solid face cracked and gave way to a gentle smile. Her own knuckles came up and bumped against Rogh's brow, just as Shul approached and huffed down at her. She gave him a nod of approval and lowered her hand.

Rogh looked over at his older brother, who tossed a spear to him. Catching it in his hand, he rose to his feet and gave his sister a determined nod. The two men strode away from the tribe with promises of a new home being found before the next full Moonah.

#bbc ghosts #robin the caveman #larry rickard #he just wants to sleep fr

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erigold13261 · 3 months

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I fucking love the curses' hands so much. Gonna rambling about them because I can and no one can stop me.

-Hanami:

Her hands is definitely one of my favorites! I have a picture of her on my desktop and I always stare at her hands (fucking love them!)

To me, her fingers are long and thin but still has a sturdiness to them. Like roots to a tree or even skeletal but in a big boned kind of way. Yet she still could be seen as having pianist fingers.

Very flexible, sometime even angular, though still has a boxy feel to them while also not taking up much room. Like if she held an average human's hand, her hand would absolutely be bigger but still could easily intertwine fingers together because of how thin her fingers are in comparison to other's.

Also, just the hole in her left hand is amazing. Not even talking about the coloring and how the fingers and arms are inverted of each other color-wise. They are so pretty to look at!

Honestly I wouldn't mind running my own fingers up and down her hand just to trace her hand because it just seems so interesting to me. Even just playing around with tracing where the color meets on her knuckles or around her hand hole is just so ARGH! I LOVE!

(headcanon that her left arm twists like a tree branch. There is a manga panel, I think when she is absorbing the plants life, that makes her arm look like a twisted tree root/stump and I love it and need to draw it like that more often)

Also, I'm sorry but look! The hole in her hand for the afterlife meeting kinda looks like a flower! I know that it's just a shorthand to show the whole while also giving it texture and to possibly imply the fingers being seen through it, but come on! It looks like a flower! :D

-Jogo:

These are the angular fingers I love! Angular yet blocky.

Like the joints themselves are very angular and thin, but then the overall fingers are blocky especially at the fingertips.

His hands very much feel like old man hands and I love that. Like you can see the tendons in his hands that move his fingers a lot of the time, plus wrinkles around and emphasized joints.

I wish the anime kept the black nails like how he has in the manga. It really helps gives his hand some extra contrast and definition. Also they just look amazing on him as well lol.

Probably really warm bordering on hot to the touch.

It really sucks that Jogo lost his hands so much. That man can't keep his hands attached if his life depended on it (and it usually did).

-Mahito:

Mahito's hands feel really muscular and secure. Like they have a good amount of meat on them and take up a lot of space. Can probably be very comforting to hold/touch if you know you aren't going to be transfigured if you do get a grab.

Even his little mouth hands feel like they follow these traits of being on the bigger size with more cushion to them.

Lots of muscles in those hands. Very strong. Probably really warm too (well he's a curse so maybe not warm, but if he was a human than absolutely. Those are the hands you want giving you a back rub).

And now, of course this is talking about his "usual" hands and not any of his transfigured hands he does. Like when he makes his hands big or into other things entirely. Though these can all be said for his Self-Embodiment of Perfection hands as well!

-Dagon:

The biggest mitts of them all! Dagon my baby!

I HATE that we don't see baby Dagon's hands more! They looked amazing! Makes me think of frog feet honestly. Like the fingertips are slightly bigger than the rest of the fingers. Also the fact they only have 4 fingers as a baby is something I really like.

Their whole hand is just so big to. Like not even proportional to the body, is just a big hamd! That's not even counting for the overall fact that Dagon is a bigger curse, so if they held your hand or head in their hands just as a baby, let alone evolved, you would be fully enveloped by the octo hands!

Now for evolved Dagon, dems big hands too! So big that half the time they are barely drawn with a wrist, it just goes from arm to hand with no like definition. You know what I mean? Like usually the base of the hand is bigger than the wrist itself, but for Dagon the wrist and base of the hand are the same size coming from the arm itself. Just so damn big!

And like, even compared to Mahito, who I see has having meatier hands, Dagon's hands have even more meat to them. If relaxed, those things are super soft and squishy, but when stressed/flexed you got yourself some nice muscles in there! (very much Shrek hands)

The fingers themselves are pretty short and stubby honestly. Nothing like the other curses who have fairly longer fingers or fingers that appear to be long because of how thin they are.

Also probably the coldest hands of the bunch? Damp, cold, big. Perfect for this heatwave I'm in at the moment lol.

They're just so big. I love them.

-Ko-Guy:

Muscular but thin hands. Or maybe just really bony? Like they have definition of angles to them, and are sharp, but also really thin, so definitely does not have a lot of meat on them.

Really love the claws he has on his hands! Very nice!

Did you notice the different between the way his arms are drawn in the manga vs the anime? The manga look like normal arms in all honesty, but in the anime the like end of the arm/close to the wrist area looks weird. I wonder why that is?

Maybe it is a bug wrist thing they added, but it looks like extra meat or a bone between the Ulna and Radius to be honest with you. I honestly think that kind of design would fit really well on Hanami because it kinda looks like how a tree forms! lol

-Smallpox Deity:

Big! Long fingers! Muscular? Definitely some meat on them fingers!

I also think she would have some bumps on her hands. In the manga and anime there is only a few bumps on her hands, mainly only going a little bit past the wrist, so the bumps on her hands probably aren't as prominent as on her arms.

I can also see them being a bit hairy. Hairy and bumpy!

-Kurourushi:

Only got the manga (and very little of it) to work off of here (can't wait for him to be animated!)

But I feel like his hands are blocky. Sharp, angular, and blocky. Kinda like Jogo's where the joints themselves are angular and sharp, but still have a boxy feel to them.

Though for me, my headcanons for his hands are very sharp and angular, but also segmented. Like how a bug's limbs are segments, his finger joints would be (and technically the rest of his arm).

So very sharp joints, kinda pointed out as the middle of the finger comes in, almost like bones kinda? Very hard, probably not comfortable to hold at all. However if he lightly runs his fingertips along your skin then it would probably feel amazing!

-Mannequin Curse:

Absolutely segmented. These are puppet hands right here. At least when they are awake. Otherwise their hands are technically those non moving hands that most mannequins have.

However, I do like the idea that they can change their hand to be that non opposable hand when awake if they want, but usually has their hand segmented and able to move.

Very much no meat, they feel like plastic. Hard and cold. Press those hands up against your head when you are sick and they are the best thing ever!

I guess they would actually be pretty hard as well. Not the best for hand holding but would be great for drawing!

-Roppongi Curse:

Okay, now THESE are frog hands lol! Old man frog hands! With sharp claws and hair!

Honestly? Now that I am looking at them a bit more, they seem more like chicken feet rather than frog feet. Probably very scratchy and dry skin on those hands, perhaps even some scale-like texture to them.

If that is so, then I think them still having hair is possible! Hairy and scaly hands for the Roppongi curse!

Also 4 fingers! :D

______________

Alright, I talked enough about hands. There's probably more curses' hands I could talk about but I'm all set. Got my main gang in here at the very least lol!

#jjktalk #eritalks #noart #rambling

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imsparky2002 · 1 year

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Ghouls and Monsters - The Werewolf

(WereKim is sitting by himself, gnawing on his favorite chew toy, unaware of the girl approaching him from the shadows. Winlix snarls, her yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, saliva dripping from her mouth.)

Winlix: Fresh meat...

(WereKim looks up, his sharp senses having caught something, but sees nothing, going back to chewing on the squeaky bone. Winlix pounces on him from the shadows... and finds herself not making much impact, due to his massive size. He yelps happily and begins roughhousing with her. )

WereKim: You like pouncing and wrestling too?! It’s may favorite game to play with my brothers and sisters!

Winlix: Aw man! I almost always win. You're a real big werewolf, buddy. Sound familiar, too.

WereKim: (Grins) Thanks! (Flexes his muscles) Yeah, you look a lot like my friend, Alix! Only without the shades and you don’t have snake hair!

Winlix: That's cause I am, dummy. So she's a gorgon?

WereKim: Yep! Which means I finally get to have a staring contest with you!

Winlix: *Groans* You must be Kim. I always said he was like a golden retriever, but this is ridiculous.

WereKim: Yeah, my friends say that a lot too! (He suddenly gains a look like a lovesick puppy) ‘Dine says I’m the goodest boy in the world!

Winlix: Heh! You guys are still as sappily sweet in this place as well, that's cute. She human or a monster?

WereKim: (Yips happily) The prettiest water monster ever! (He pulls out his phone and shows her a picture)

Winlix: Aww. I've met a few goonies (slang term for creatures from lagoons and oceans). They're usually chill. We play reefball together.

WereKim: Yeah, Dine is actually a freshie and a goonie! Her mom is from Loch Ness, but her dads from the Mexican coast!

Winlix: Ooohh... where I'm from, they've got pretty rocky relationships. Do her and her folks have to deal with family drama?

(WereKim nods unfortunately)

WereKim: Yeah…her folks are great, but…the rest of her family causes a lot of trouble, criticizing her and just being really mean. Her dads parents don’t even like that she’s dating me, because I’m not one of them. They call me ‘the mutt’ and stuff like that.

Winlix: *Growling* Bastards... sorry you gotta deal with that, man.

WereKim: It’s what it is, I guess. Stuff like that sucks, but it happens.

(WereKim can hear her voice break a little as she asks the next question.)

Winlix: Do you have your real parents around in your universe?

WereKim: Yeah, I’ve got my dads, my mom, and all my siblings! (He tilts his head, gaining a sad look) Did something happen to yours?

Winlix: (Looks sad) Hunters shot 'em down with silver bullets. My brother, too. A good thing that there were some humans trying to protect us, otherwise I'd hate them all.

WereKim: Ah geez, I’m real sorry. I can’t imagine losing my folks. And yeah…some humans can take things too far... (Rubs the side of his ribs, where the scar on his back ends)

Winlix: That's for sure. It's ok, though. I was only like 8 or whatever. It hurts, but I always had my sisters by my side. Ok, we're not related, but they're still like my siblings to me. We've been together since we were babies. We were all raised by a group of witches, along with everyone's parents.

WereKim: Wow, that’s cool! Must be cool to have moms who know magic! My friends are kinda like my family too, we all look out for each other.

Winlix: Sweet! Here’s a picture of my group. Obviously you can’t see Jules. (She shows a photo of the 6 Ghoul Squad girls with the Witches of Wisdom.)

Winlix: Marinette’s a witch, but she lives with her parents.

WereKim: Yeah, our Juleka doesn’t show up in pics either, neither does Luka. (Shows a picture of all his friends together) These are all my buds!

Winlix: Aw sweet! Woah! So that’s what Alya would look like without bandages… or without decaying skin. And Rose’s a skeleton! Mylene isn’t glowing, and I don’t got fur! And Marinette! She’s a doll. This is freaky, but I like it!

WereKim: Yeah, you guys should all come around and meet the rest of our friends! It could be fun!

Winlix: Sounds like a howling good time! (They both howl in unison.)

Here’s the second crossover, and Weeby and I had so much fun writing our favorite werewolves! Make sure to reblog, reply, post and ask. @artzychic27 @msweebyness

#alix kubdel #alix #le chien kim #kim #werewolf #ghoul squad au #ghoul squad #monstrous au #monstrous #school for monster #monster #monster au #miraculous ladybug #miraculous

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sophiethewitch1 · 1 year

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Chpt. 7 - Witch With A B

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: None in particular.

A/n: Sorry I forgot tumblr exists. In other words you get four new chapters so nice? Also, comment or msg me if you want to be added to the future taglist!

Your trudging through the snow is, as it always fucking is, miserable. Asa is in your arms again, because he can't walk with the rotting affecting him. He's chewing on a cooked piece of rabbit, silent as he watches you suffer.

And, shit, you are suffering.

As if God himself has come down from the heavens just to make you a little more miserable, the snow falls harder. White powder catches on your eyelashes, and you rapidly blink away the distraction. Your hands burn with the freezing air, the pressure you put on them after being literally impaled is not helping much. You were surprised they hadn't fallen off, from frostbite, infection or some other malignant disease.

Still, you trudged on. You were close to the hag's new hideout now, you'd started to see signs of her work in the woods around you. Hanging talismans, runes carved into tree trunks, an uncomfortable amount of skeletal carcases. You didn't know what half the things she did meant, but you knew they made everyone uncomfortable. Human and vampire alike.

The first part was probably intentional, the second part not so much. She'd welcome any vampire into her abode, and probably thought the bodies were welcoming. You wouldn't tell her they weren't, because you wouldn't like to bump into a blood-sucker on one of your visits. They fucking sucked well enough already.

The rustling of wood and feathers behind your ear draws your attention, and you huff. Looking over your shoulder you find Asa playing with your arrows, chewing on both feathered edges and rabbit bone.

"Asa, I told you to stop playing with those. They're dangerous," you chide, and he barely gives you a glance before going back to his incredibly fatal playtime. You sigh, shifting his head to your other side. He goes to cry, but the start of his wail is stopped by your stumbling.

He pauses, sniffing the air, and says-

"You're bleeding, Baba."

You take a deep breath of biting air at his words. That's probably why your hands hurt so much. Your wounds had reopened, and you were running out of bandages and disinfectant. Fuck, you don't know what to do.

You take another breath, like that'll make this all easier. Pausing in the wintery woods, you slowly let Asa down. The snow creaks under his boots, and you watch fang dig deep into bone. He leaves little bite marks along the side of it, another casual show of his supernatural power.

"Thanks for pointing that out, baby," you say, unwrapping your hands slowly from his little form. He pouts, but doesn't complain. You sometimes wish he would more, but not today. Today you were thankful for his careful silence, watching you like a hawk.

Looking down at your hands, you can see your bandages have cleanly bled through. You sigh at all the blood, wondering how much longer Asa could last before he had... an episode. If that's what you could call it, but you knew the true term the vampires used.

'Bloodlust.'

It was something you staved off with lots of raw meat and filling human food, but you were all too aware of the red eyes that followed your movements. Asa didn't want to hurt you, and you had faith in that above all else.

You didn't have faith in a child's self control, however.

After all, your blood was delicious, that's what he always said, anyway.

A crunch in the snow has your head whipping upwards, but when Asa doesn't pay the newcomer any attention, your shoulder's relax. Through the snow you see a familiar figure, a hunched crone with a staff in one wrinkled, many ringed hand. The woman you'd been looking for had come to greet the two of you herself. You feel a tired smile tug at your lips when you hear Asa's low growl.

Asa isn't scared of her, but he certainly doesn't like her, moving to shuffle behind you.

"My, my, is that you again, podzhigatel'?" the familiar Russian nickname falls from her lips, and you can't help the small flare of pride with the title. You had many nicknames, but this was your favourite. 'Hunter' didn't speak to your accomplishments, but the word the witch spoke did.

Arsonist. That's what it meant. Even if she spits it with disgust, you choose to take it as a compliment.

The crone's eyes flicker down past your legs to where Asa hides, and she gives him a grin with missing teeth. He hisses at her, reminding you faintly of the street cats you used to feed. Ah, damn this old bitch. She brought far too many memories with her sweeping robes and wicked grins.

"And malen'koye sokrovishche too, of course!" she reaches the hand not holding the staff out to Asa, but you slap it away.

She looks up, the smile she wore dropping into a scowl. You return her glare, knowing not to let this crazy woman a single step closer to you son. She leans back at this, giving an eye roll as she stretches to her full height. Or well, what she can, at least.

"Do you have anything for me today, or are you just here to eat my food and take up space?" she asks you, and you hide your wince. Your deal with the Witch of the North was a simple one. She helped you with Asa and all of his quirks, and you gave her... supplies.

Fresh ones, usually.

"...Rogues are skittish, an Abomination has been roaming," you reply, and she scoffs at that.

"They always are at this time of year. Your excuses are getting worse. Any blood?"

You bite into your lip, shaking your head.

She places her hands on the staff, nodding her head in a mocking way. This hag had never once cared for your life, and simply saw Asa as a way of furthering her goals. You didn't think she knew what empathy was.

"And you still won't give me the boy?"

In seconds you have a knife to her throat, rage burning in your chest. She laughs, waving her hand like you're old friends, not someone about to be slain and the slayer. She gives you a wink and says-

"I'd put that down if I were you. You well know I'm the only one who can help you - for whatever idiotic reason you've come here again," she croons, and you clench your jaw so tight that your ears ring. Still, you drop the blade to your side, not holstering it away just yet.

"I'll do it one day," you promise, and she claps her hands together, giggling.

"I hope you do! The great Hunter chasing me down and slaughtering me? My, it'd be a memory I'd cherish even in death!" she said with all the cheer of someone who had actually completely lost their mind. She was almost as irritating as Creel, and the only reason he was ahead of her was because of his simple obliviousness to how annoying he was.

You huff, shaking your head.

"I don't have anything to pay you," you say, and you suppress the shudder that rolls through you at the cunning grin she offers in return. She reaches her hand out again, palm splayed upwards to the falling snow.

"A debt then?"

Now, you weren't stupid. Debts were in the realm of the other, and the witch wasn't just called that for show. She had powers you didn't understand, and they terrified you. Her magic was closely intertwined with the same magic the blood-suckers used. Debts, truths and lies, names... All of it she wielded tight in her grasp.

An open ended debt was truly open ended. You would have to pay it back, you would be physically forced to by something you, human you, could never truly understand.

You were no fool. But you were desperate, and sometimes that was the same thing.

You take her hand, and with the other pull down your collar, showing the faded mark on your neck. In between the scars from the teeth digging into your skin shines a faint mark, almost glowing in the afternoon light.

The witch gasps, a delighted smile stretching over her cracked lips.

The inside of the Witch's house was as miserable as always. Rotted wood and foetid air, not to mention the miserable cold. The hag pushes at your back, shoving you further into the darkness. She takes a box of matches from her pocket and moves around the room, lighting a litany of candles. The warm glow doesn't make the space any more comfortable, revealing the interior of her hut.

Considering she moved so often it was a wonder why she always chose the most miserable places to shack up. You think it's a matter of aesthetics in this case. After all, a nice abandoned mansion wouldn't fit her jars of organs and fanged skulls.

She ushers you towards the table in the middle of the room, where you take a seat, pulling Asa into your lap. The crone takes to the back of the room, pulling dried herbs and strange salves from her shelves.

"So, who's the man of the hour? Or a woman perhaps? I don't know much about vampire proclivities when it comes to their fated-partners," she asks over her shoulder, and you wince. You weren't interested in telling her the details, merely in finding a way to get this mark off you.

You'd have carved a chunk out of your neck if you thought it would do anything, but the other humans you'd seen forced into this who'd tried that had just seen the mark pop up somewhere else on their skin. It was similar to a curse in that respect. And other ways too.

Because now that vampire would inevitably track you down, no matter where you ran. You didn't quite understand how the mark worked, but from what you did get, it seemed to almost have a compass-like system in it. He'd know whichever direction you were in at all times, as if you were his true north.

"That's none of your business," you cooly answer, and she grunts an answer.

"So be it. Blood sample, dearie?" she shrugs off your standoffish ways without a care, and you eye the needle in her hand. Your shoulders tense, your teeth dig into the skin inside your mouth, and you hear Asa growl. You take a deep breath, grounding yourself with the scent of mould and earth. The witch watches you with a predator-like curiosity, and that doesn't help your anxiety.

Calm down. Relax, relax, relax, relax, relax, relax-relaxrelaxrelaxrelaxrelax-

You weren't there. You weren't inside the Walls. Gradually, your shoulders drift from where they were bunched up beside your ears, and you summon the balls to continue this unpleasant conversation.

"Is that one new?" you ask.

She grins, reaching her other hand out for you to offer your arm. You don't, simply staring at her in waiting. After a moment her grins falls into a wicked scowl.

"You know I treat you with the utmost care. Frankly, I'm hurt by your actions, podzhigatel."

You give her a disapproving look, tucking Asa tighter in your grasp.

"You have a seventy percent mortality rate, witch," you reply, and she laughs, shaking her head.

"But I do not care about those patients! You, however, are as precious as our little treasure here!" she coos at Asa, wiggling her old fingers at him, and you wonder if he's going to try and bite her finger off. When he lunges forward, teeth sharp, you don't protest. You do sag a little when the crone manages to make sure she doesn't lose a digit, darting backwards.

Well, her words do seem true. Still, you don't offer your arm, and Asa doesn't offer any extra of your space.

She sighs, looking at you like you're a petulant child. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, knowing you've been doing it far too much lately. Maybe they'll roll into the back of your skull and get stuck one day.

You think Creel will be the one to doom you to such a fate.

"Yes, yes, yes. You stupid thing, of course it's a new needle. I can't have you dying of a blood disease off somewhere in the middle of the woods, can I? Especially not now with..." her words trail off, eyes naturally flowing to the hidden juncture of your neck. You hate how giddy she is about it, but there's literally no one else to go to, so here you were.

Extending your arm, averting your eyes from the syringe.

The tiny pin-prick in your arm is infinitesimally small compared to the rest of the pain you've experienced in the past few days, yet it feels like the worst you've experienced in your life. It doesn't make any sense, but it doesn't need to. Creel often talked to you about the affects of trauma in his gang, and he'd once even whispered to you about the nightmares that plagued his sleep. You knew why it was.

That didn't mean you didn't fucking hate this weakness, that you didn't hate the fact you couldn't lash out and kill this evil fucking bitch. That you didn't hate the memories that flick past you like one of the DVDs you and Asa sometimes find.

That you didn't hate the sight of white sterile walls and blood drips, the lines of weathered, weak humans ready to be harvested like livestock.

"All done!" the crone chirps, and you feel the words like a slap. You blink away visions of things that aren't there, head lightly craning as you get a feel for where you are. You're breathing heavily, and Asa is whining into your arms. You strangle down a rope around your fear, hand curling through his golden locks to reassure both him and you.

That you aren't there. Not any more.

She gives the blood a delicate look, hums approvingly, and turns to the rest of her workshop. She starts to assemble the gathering of herbs and your blood, pulling them over to the table which you sit at so the two of you can watch. She's that type of person after all.

Plucking apart leaves and grinding floral herbs in her mortar, she, unfortunately, opens her mouth again.

"So? Are you going to tell me about the bonding, podzhigatel?" she asks without looking up at you, going about her task in a surprisingly methodical manner. If she didn't you would never come to her, but it still shocks you every time she starts one of her spells.

She doesn't seem like a competent person, but everyone has their things, you suppose.

"Will that be necessary?" you ask with a grimace, and she tilts her head to the side, making a grand show of thinking. We all do it, woman.

"Yes, actually. I do think it will be. A bond is something even I don't quite understand, much less those fools locked inside their towers. It's a very personal thing, a welding of two souls-"

"Okay, that's enough," you cut her off, and she cackles.

"Was it not very romantic, dearie? I can't imagine someone like the great Hunter would be very willing to let a vampire bite them," she says, snickering at the very thought. No, you wouldn't call that regrettable meeting 'romantic'. Not that you knew what that was, of course, but you still didn't get butterflies in your stomach thinking about the way your home had been ransacked and you'd nearly been killed or enslaved.

No, that wasn't your idea of romantic.

"There were two of them," is the first thing you say, and even that makes the witch pause.

"Truly?"

You tilt your head to the side, analysing her suddenly shifty expression. You didn't like the look of curiosity on her face on a good day, and especially on a day like this one.

"Yes. One of them was the one who..." you gesture vaguely at your neck, and the hag seems even more interested.

"The other didn't bite you?" she asks, dropping a handful of garlic flowers into the mixture.

You think back, but can't remember if he did. You don't think he did, at least. But your memories were hazy, as was common with extreme blood loss.

"I can't recall if he did," you answer, and she hums under her breath. She makes a waving hand gesture, telling you to get on with what you did remember of the story.

"They were both elder vampires. I don't know how I managed to fool them, but for a while they thought I was a vampire too."

"Probably the scent of their soulmate messing with their heads," she says, her words muttered like she's thinking outloud. You frown, knowing that can't be it because only one - a flash of silver hair in your mind - marked you. And you knew enough about soulmates that you only got one of those, not two.

"But only one of them marked me."

She hums again, tilting your blood into the mixture now. Only a few drops fall in, but a wifty, dark smoke seems to travel upwards from the mortar. It looks like a black smoke, but you know it's something unnatural, and you have to suppress a shiver at the sight.

"My mistake, then. You must've gotten very lucky. Keep going, podzhigatel, I'm interested now."

Her response makes you unnerved, but you can't quite spot why. So instead, you continue on with your tale.

"I lured them towards where my best traps were, and then it's sort of... blank. I can't remember much else, but I know Creel saved us and one of them... bit my neck," you finish, and a glazed look falls over the hag's eyes. You wait for her to say something, but as you do, her eyes slowly grow white, and you realise something strange is happening here. Her eyelids flutter closed, and your shoulder's tense, something niggling at the bottom of your spine. Her eyes snap open.

"Duck."

And then, the roof caves in.

NEXT CHAPTER

#the bow and the arrow yandere x reader yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere story #oc x reader #yandere oc x reader gender neutral reader

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