#it was just meant to be a pattern that resembled ribs

[c0l0ure]

All hail Mephiles

Reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[sleepdeprivedandoverthinking]

All references to Jack I could find on this guy

First off his glasses. They're definitely meant to make his face look similar to Jack's given Jack has no eyes. I don't think giving this guy no eyes would give the same affect, so maybe glasses were the best bet.

Next are the guy's mouth and teeth. His mouth has Jack's pattern from the movie! And his teeth aren't perfect, which I love because Jack's teeth are known to not be. I also like the little difference from the rest of the cast.

Skeleton gloves to resemble skeleton hands, of course. One of Jack's biggest features is his hands and how long those things are.

Jack's little neck accessory has turned into part of his suit. That or it's just upper half of Jack's actual suit.

Rib patterns on the suit to resemble a skeleton since Skellington is Jack's last name and we all know why.

The little lines on his suit are just like Jack's! He also has stitches, which might be a reference to Sally but it may be a reach (Twst devs please give him a Sally).

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction - chapter 11

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! + Fashion? AU

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~2.8k

One espresso shot at a time turned into three shots of espresso at a time, but it was all being downed by you. Both you and Bakugou were currently in the back room of the Kindeki store next door for your daily work after your shift at the coffee shop, which Bakugou had to hire more employees for. The coffee shop was currently bustling– next door was loud and filled with chatter of something along the lines of “When will they be back?”

The cork boards on the walls were covered from top to bottom in a spread of photos of Gothic Architecture– rib vaults, flying buttresses, and elaborate tracery all framing stained glass windows. Papers with designs, patterns, and sketches were sprawled all over the mahogany desks. A couple of these papers had coffee stains on them. Bakugou leaned back in his chair with a sigh, flinching when the pencil tucked behind his ear fell behind him onto the polished marble ground with a thunk. You drank the last of your iced espresso shot before picking up the fallen pencil and placing your sketchpad onto Bakugou’s brown corduroy-clad lap. 

Bakugou in his zone was truly something to admire. He wore blue light glasses when researching online to reduce strain in his eyes, but did they suit him well. It was a blessing to see him in these moments– all focused while sketching up a storm– pencil lead all over his fingers from blending the graphite onto the paper. “Dramatic, but not overwhelming…” He’d mutter while taking a picture from the cork board and using it as a reference for a pair of pants. Each stroke of his pencil was so easy and well-practiced, making it look easy. He could transform something from his mind onto paper and then fabric like it was made for him– and it was. Red eyes narrowed in on a small imperfection on the paper, and it would disappear like it never existed. 

The entire day was filled with espresso shot after the other– and after that were your brainstorming sessions with Bakugou. Deep plums and jewel tones paired with blacks and grays offset with metallics filled the room along with intricate lace that you spent days designing yourself. The room was filled with a litany of different cloths and fabrics– some stiff and some flowy. Combining luxurious, draping fabrics with strong silhouettes that emphasize shoulders, cinched waists, and long, flowing elements reminiscent of Gothic cathedrals’ towering height with intricate embroidery mimicking Gothic rose windows and lace patterns that resemble wrought-iron gates.

You work on embroidery that mimics the stained glass windows of 12th century cathedrals, ensuring symmetry in the embroidery and a touch of asymmetry in the silhouette to imitate the cathedral as a whole. You’re planning on putting actual pieces of glass onto the dress’ corset later.

You take a step back and stand over the desk, arms crossed, eyeing the latest design Bakugou just sketched out. The jacket’s sharp, angular lines mimic the Gothic arches you’ve been obsessing over for weeks, but something feels off. “It’s too… aggressive,” you say, tilting your head. “We’re going for structured, but this feels like it’s about to stab someone.” “Tch. It’s Gothic. It’s supposed to look like it could stab someone,” Bakugou retorts, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “You said ‘sharp,’ and that’s what you’re getting.” Rolling your eyes, you grab the pencil from his hand and start redrawing the shoulder lines, softening the angles just slightly. “I meant sharp in a stylish way. Not like... this is going to start a fight in the conference room.” Bakugou snorts, watching you make adjustments. “Isn’t that the whole point of fashion? Making people talk, starting shit?”

You pause for a moment, considering his words. “Okay, maybe. But I want them to talk about how good it looks, not how dangerous it is to wear.” “Some people like danger,” he quips, raising an eyebrow at you with a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe you’re just scared to take risks.” “Risks?” You turn to him with a raised brow. “I’m the one embroidering literal stained glass into a dress. If anything, you’re the one playing it safe.” Bakugou leans in a little, his red eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, yeah? I’d say I’m taking a pretty big risk working with someone who can’t even keep up with me.” You backup a little and scoff, ignoring the way your heart clenches at his teasing tone. “Please. I’m doing the hard part here. You just scribble a couple lines and call it a day.” His toothy grin widens, and he nudges the sketchpad toward you. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do the pants, too?”

“Because I’m not trying to show off like you,” you say, pushing the pad back at him. “But if you need my help, just say the word.” Bakugou chuckles lowly. “Help? You wish. You just wanna see me sweat.” His eyes flit down to your lower face for a split second. You blink, not catching the double meaning in his words. “What? No, I just… ugh, whatever. Just finish the damn pants.” You check a nearby mirror to make sure you don’t have anything in your teeth– why was he looking there? He leans back, folding his arms behind his head, watching as you turn back to your embroidery. “You’re cute when you get all flustered.” “Flustered?” you mutter, not really paying attention. “I’m not flustered. I’m just trying to fix your mess.”

Bakugou chuckles again, the sound low and teasing. “Whatever you say, princess.” You pause but brush it off, assuming he’s just being his usual cocky self. “Just focus, Bakugou. I don’t want to be stuck here all night.” He smirks to himself, watching you concentrate on the embroidery, completely oblivious to the small ways he’s been trying to get under your skin. “Yeah, yeah. But don’t worry—you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Rolling your eyes, you get back to work at your station. Your fingers glide over luxurious fabric, testing the weight, the drape. The wool you chose for the structured blazer clings to your fingertips, sturdy yet pliant under your touch. "It's still missing something," you mumble, tracing a pattern you’ve yet to commit to paper. Beside you, Bakugou furrows his brow, lost in his sketchbook, muttering half-formed ideas. The soft scratch of his pencil across the page fills the air, almost rhythmic, like a second heartbeat in the room. “Do you think we need a stronger contrast here?” you ask, holding up a swatch of deep plum silk next to the black jacquard fabric that’s been frustrating you all day.

He glances up, blue light glasses sliding down his nose. “It’ll look washed out. Try a metallics to bring out the color,” he suggests, eyes flicking back down to his sketch without waiting for a response. It’s so casual, so assured. He doesn’t doubt himself—not for a second—and the way his hands move from sketch to reference, it’s infuriating how easily his mind works through these problems.

Meanwhile, your sketchbook is a mess of crossed-out lines and question marks, drafts discarded before they even make it to the final page. You flip through your notes, eyeing the reference photos pinned to the corkboard. Flying buttresses and towering arches loom in the background, begging to be translated into the clean lines of a suit or a dress.

“I think I’ve got it.” You grab your sketchpad, pulling it back onto your lap. Sharp, structured lines—just like pointed arches—make their way onto the page. Your pencil flies, inspired. “This! Like pointed arches! Sharp, structured, but with curves!” you exclaim, waving the sketch in Bakugou’s direction.

He stops long enough to glance over. “Not bad,” he grunts, but his fingers twitch toward your sketchpad. “Let me fix the angle here. And you need a stronger taper at the waist.” Before you can protest, he’s taken your design and made a few deft adjustments that somehow elevate the whole thing.

You watch in begrudging admiration as he perfects it effortlessly. Each stroke of his pencil adds depth, structure—it's flawless, and somehow, irritatingly so. There’s no denying it: Bakugou was born to do this. 

You bite back the jealousy that nags at you, pushing yourself to sketch with renewed vigor. The stakes are high, and you’re not about to let him outshine you. Not when this collection—the fusion of Gothic splendor and cutting-edge business fashion—is yours just as much as his. 

Your hand flies across the pages, the scratches of the pencil against paper mixed with the trills of music sung in Middle English to truly encapsulate the feeling of the medieval architecture you were emulating on paper. 

Your hand cramps as you set the pencil down, finally satisfied with the latest design. The blazer dress, now meticulously sketched out with pointed arches forming elegant, sharp lapels, lies sprawled on the desk between the two of you. Bakugou leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, surveying his sketches with a critical eye.

“Looks like we’ve nailed the structure,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, which has grown messy from hours of working in silence. You nod, rubbing at your temples, the espresso shots from earlier starting to wear off. Just as you’re about to suggest a break, Bakugou’s phone lights up on the desk, buzzing incessantly. At first, he ignores it—he's been too immersed in perfecting the collection to care about any distractions. But the buzzing doesn't stop.

He frowns, picking up the phone. You can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that something’s up.

“What is it?” you ask, stretching your arms over your head.

“Tch. It’s my mom.” Bakugou’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he scans through the string of notifications. He scrolls for a moment, and then his phone buzzes again, this time with a notification from the Masaki store’s account.

He glances up at you, his red eyes sharp. “Check your phone.”

A sense of unease curls in your stomach as you reach for your own device. The moment you unlock it, you see it—another flood of Instagram notifications, messages, and emails. All your social media apps are practically screaming for your attention. You swipe to your email, eyes widening as you scroll through the dozens—no, thousands—of pre-order confirmations. The Kindeki PR team has emailed you countless times– along with dozens of journalists asking for an interview.

“What the hell…” you whisper under your breath.

The notifications are relentless, and when you switch to Instagram, you finally understand. The Masaki Official account has posted the photo—the one from the café. The picture of you and Bakugou, mid-laugh, caught in a candid moment of camaraderie and partnership and… something else. The caption is simple but effective: “Fashion royalty at work. Coming soon: Masa x Kin x Deki collection.”

Your jaw drops as you read the comments beneath the photo.

“CUTEST COUPLE”

“fashion royalty fr… they a couple tho??”

“take all my money NOW.”

You scroll down further, but the app glitches momentarily, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of activity. Your phone buzzes again, but it’s Bakugou who breaks the silence first, reading from an email: “Sales are up by 65%. Pre-orders are through the roof.” You look up at him, wide-eyed, but he’s already dialing his mom. “Oi, what the hell did you post?” From behind you, another notification dings: Kindeki (aka your precious aunt) has just uploaded a behind-the-scenes video on the store’s Instagram. In the background, you hear a familiar cackle from Bakugou’s mom. You glance over at Bakugou, who catches your expression with an eye roll. “Looks like we’re not done yet.”

The clang of the last chair being stacked on the table echoed through the empty café, a quiet contrast to the buzzing streetlights outside. The Kindeki shop was already locked, but you followed Bakugou to his café to close. You yawned, rubbing your eyes as you pulled down the metal shutter halfway. The day had been long—filled with both customers and creativity. Bakugou was wiping down the counter, his movements deliberate, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. The quiet was almost comforting after the frenzy of the day. “I’ll lock up,” Bakugou grunted, grabbing the keys from the hook. You nodded, moving to flip off the last few lights when suddenly, the distinct murmur of voices outside the window grew louder. You froze, glancing toward the front of the café. You swore you saw a flash of light from outside the shop for a split second.

“Bakugou… what’s that?” you asked cautiously, squinting through the glass door. He moved past you, standing close enough for you to catch the heat radiating off him as he squinted out into the street. A low grunt rumbled in his throat, and you followed his gaze. Outside, you could see them—reporters, camera flashes lighting up the dusk, a couple of people holding phones up, trying to capture any glimpse of movement inside. The soft murmur had turned into a low buzz of voices and questions being thrown into the air. “Great,” you muttered, “exactly what we need.” “Tch, of course they’d show up now.” Bakugou rolled his eyes, glaring at the crowd. “Stupid vultures.” He crossed his arms, muscles tensing as he glanced over at you. “Stay behind me.” He moved toward the door, his hand clenching around the keyring in his palm, eyes narrowed like he was already considering breaking some cameras. “Are we seriously doing this?” you asked, following him but keeping a slight distance. The last thing you wanted was your face on a hundred Instagram stories and all over news articles.

Bakugou glanced over his shoulder, his lips curving into a smirk. “What, scared of a little attention? You’re the one who wanted to be in fashion, remember?” You rolled your eyes, biting back a retort as he unlocked the door just enough to speak through the crack. “Shop’s closed,” he barked at the crowd, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Bakugou! Are you and her working on a new line together?” “What’s the inspiration for the upcoming season?” “Any truth to the rumors about your relationship?” You winced at the last question. Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “Back off,” he growled. “Get a damn life.” He slammed the door shut, locking it in one swift motion before turning to you. “We’re getting out of here.” You blinked. “And how, exactly, are we going to do that? They’re right outside.” His smirk widened, mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. “There’s two back exits, genius. You think I don’t plan for this kinda crap?”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you along. The café lights dimmed behind you as he led you through the narrow hallway toward the back door. The sound of your footsteps echoed softly, mingling with the faint buzz of reporters still stationed outside. Once outside, Bakugou paused, glancing around before pulling you along again. The back alley was empty, the cool night air brushing against your skin as the two of you hurried through the narrow path. The distant hum of the city faded slightly, replaced by the more familiar sounds of your breathing and Bakugou’s muttered complaints about the reporters. You exhaled in relief as you made it a few blocks away, the noise fading. “Guess we’re a hot topic now, huh?” Bakugou’s voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of pride in it. You shot him a look, shaking your head. “I didn’t sign up for this level of attention.” He shrugged, smirking as he crossed his arms. “Too late, princess. Fame comes with a price.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he added, “You better get used to it.”

You were about to retort when you felt the heat of his gaze settle on you, a little too heavy, a little too intense. He took a step closer, just enough for you to notice the way his eyes lingered on yours, something unreadable in them. Before you could say anything, he dropped the teasing smirk and muttered, “I’ll protect you from those vultures. Grew up with it. But don’t expect me to be this nice all the time.” You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. He turned and started walking ahead before you could respond, leaving you standing there, heart fluttering slightly as you tried to make sense of the tension in the air. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ve got work to do tomorrow.” And just like that, the moment was gone, leaving you wondering how Bakugou could make your heart race with just a few words. As the two of you walked side by side, the city lights flickering above, you couldn’t help but glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong.

i had a looooot of trouble with writing this chapter bc describing clothing aint my best suit, but we're workin on it (thats why im writing this fic in the first place tbh) :> also, my taglist is open! thank you to @itztaki for being the first LOL-- just message me or comment on this if you'd like to be added!

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨ Taglist: @itztaki

[orgaslink]

For the kissing prompts

31. Neck kisses For Twark?

Thank you for the ask, Lolabearwrites! You may have kinda stumbled upon one of my most favourite ships and a prompt I’m smitten for, so hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it! I could have kept on and on writing for this and I may have to revisit this thought in the future. For now, enjoy some Twark (DarkLight) neck kisses, below the cut for hint of spice.

It was no secret to Twilight that Dark had been through a lot, emotionally, mentally and especially physically. Just the tattoos alone would be a big thing to go through with the amount of ink adorning Dark’s entire body, and that was without considering what happened before the tattoos.

Mapping out the art etched across his partners skin, Twilight soon found that tracing the patterns and lines to be one of his favourite pastimes, especially when he could also catalogue Dark’s reactions to his explorations.

Twilight soon learned that he could make Dark’s skin ripple beneath a teasing finger tracing the works along his abdomen, muscles tensing and quivering to the stimulation. Following the trail of ink over Dark’s ribs caused him to huff out a sound that would closely resemble laughter if Dark didn’t stifle it, the quirk to his lips giving him away more than the turning of his head ever could. Twilight would prefer if Dark didn’t try to hide his reactions, but he was more than happy to bide his time and keep up his explorations as long as Dark allowed.

One such reaction, Dark couldn’t hide from Twilight. Not with how enthusiastically his body betrayed what it was feeling. Idle fingers had found their way onto Dark’s chest one sweaty, post coital night, Twilight absentminded in his meandering touch that slowly trailed further up Dark’s chest, his clavicle and finally weaving their way over the coiled dragon over his throat. He hadn’t meant anything by it, merely basking in the afterglow of their session together and touching Dark for the sake of staying close to him.

Dark’s reaction had him rethinking that.

The hitch in breath would have been easily missed by someone who wasn’t becoming intimately intune with Dark to know what that hitch meant when paired with the subtle shift of Dark’s body where he lay on his back with Twilight half on his chest. It was enough to pique his curiosity and traverse his fingers in the same pattern in experimentation. He was not disappointed to feel Dark’s pulse thrum beneath his touch, the heartbeat he could hear from the cushion of Dark’s chest thumping just a little harder.

Twilight wasn’t like Hyrule, he was academic nor particularly interested in study. Unless that study involved the ways in which he could turn his lover on and the many ways in which they could indulge in one another and bring about a pleasure that Twilight had never experienced before in his life – that was a subject Twilight longed to excel in.

It spurs him into action, his body inching up Dark’s to bring Twilight’s mouth closer to his neck where he nosed at Dark’s jaw and continued trailing one finger over his neck tattoo. The tilt of Dark’s head upwards was telling, and Twilight fought to keep the grin from his face, instead opting to begin exploring his lovers neck with his mouth rather than his fingers.

Dark gasped, fingers gripping the bedsheets beneath him as Twilight’s explorations became more confident as Dark’s reactions grew more obvious. Twilight’s tongue was hot as he alternated mouthing at Dark’s neck and teasing with his tongue, but Dark’s skin was hotter, burning up beneath Twilight ministrations and causing heat to pool below his navel.

“Fuck Twi! I–”

“Shhh,” Twilight covered Dark’s lips with a finger, the very same that started this maddening tease. “Don’t talk, just let yourself feel.”

Dark felt a lot of things that night. All of them fan-fucking-tastic, mind blowing and some leaving a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest that Dark wouldn’t couldn’t name.

[meliora-thanatos]

Random Story ig

I got bored and wrote a short and quick blurb on one of my Naruto oc's. Unless you are sensitive to MENTIONS OF DEATH and SUICIDAL IDEATION, hope y'all enjoy it :)

idk if i wanna develop it more, lmk what you guys think.

Hashinaha didn’t mean the things he said, he didn’t really wish death on his twin Toshinori. “No, stop jerking me he’s not dead.” He laughed dryly, sitting up from his bed despite the searing pain in his arms and left rib cage. The all too familiar look of sadness was all Hashi saw, the Anbu shinobi failing to look at him. Hashinaha forced himself out of bed, ignoring the pain as he walked off to the morgue. No, he can’t be dead. He’s too good of a ninja to just die, he’s meant for bigger and better he was only 17.

As he arrived, his parents were already there. His mother was inconsolable, holding the tattered and torn vest that still had fresh blood. The familiar smell of burning flesh and sulfur burned his nose and throat, his father looking at him with a hardened look that resembled that of disgust. Hashi knew that he wasn’t the preferred twin, he was a failure and a late bloomer, someone who shouldn’t be able to use their familial prowess without significant injuries. He went into the room, stopping and staring at the stilled corpse on the table. Toshi looked at peace, like he was sleeping and would wake at any moment. The other eyed his injuries, noting the patterns and forms of the wounds and recognizing the weapon to be from one of the Akatsuki members wielding a cursed blade. His eyes soon landed on the crystal pendant in his hand, the one that Hashi shared that connected to form a bird. He gently took it, pocketing it as he saw tears hit the cold flesh of the dead. When did he start crying?

“Toshi… I love you, please forgive everything I ever said… I won’t let your death be in vain…” Hashi whispered, kissing the others forehead one last time. He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, pulling him away and being met with unbridled rage from his father. “You!! If you’re stupid ass hadn’t fucked the last mission and injured yourself maybe he’d be fine!! I knew letting you live was a fucking mistake!!” He yelled, Hashinaha only looking at him blankly as he took his words. “Trust me, I didn’t want to fucking live either. I’d trade places if it means he’s happy again, not like you were the best father.” He said coldly, getting gut punched before dragged out of the village.

The second he hit the dirt road, he sat up and watched as his father threw a satchel of essentials and his odachi. His mother only stood behind him, watching as a silent witness to his banishment. “Don’t you ever come back, to the clan you’re nothing but dead now. If you want our forgiveness then go and kill yourself.” He said, the large wooden gates slamming shut as Hashi stared at the ground. He dug his nails into the earth, sobs slowly tumbling their way out of his chest as he felt the cold isolation the world had to offer.

[burnt-scone]

Cinna not Cinne

(Honestly expect more typos)

The headcovering is inspired by a Wuqa/Wuqayeh and women's head dress produced in the 19th and 20th centuries in Palestine.

Traditionally, it is red cotton fabric embroidered with usually green and yellow thread, sometimes purple. With blue fabric to tie it on and brass coins sewed on.

For the headdress inspired by it (for the Cinna style surprise Free Free Palestine fit), it has black fabric with red embroidery (olive branch pattern is in the embroidery) and is tied to the hair with black ribbon.

The quite literally fishnet gloves are meant to resemble the kiffiyeh's patterns of fishnets, olive branches, and bold lines.

For the dress, it's a floor-length fishtail halter (pretty common cut) with dangling red drop gems hanging from the nape of the neck and from where the "train" meets under the ribs. And of course, it has a "a train" that is also floor length.

But SURPRISE, the train isn't a train. By pulling up two strings (victory pose style) hidden beneath the "train", it lifts up, revealing a peacock tail style Palestinian flag with red gem droplets hanging about representing those lost in the genocide. And a keffiyeh beneath descending from the lowe back in almost a Watermelon slice shape, which wasn't planned, a triangle just didn't look right.

I was seeing all these posts about the Met hiding posts about Rafah, so I designed this, and them realized I pulled a Cinna.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

Paroxysm {side story}

paroxysm:   a sudden attack or violent expression of a particular emotion or activity

Put under the cut for violence and blood

-------------

His skull felt as if were about to split in two.  The pain coming from his right side meant that he had either cracked or broken ribs.  Blood was dripping down his robes, he-they hadn’t the time to spare to completely heal the gash that had nicked the arteries in his neck, just barely missing the main one.  And at the rate he was channeling aether, he was either going to pass out from exhaustion or give himself a brain bleed.  Probably both.  Mathye gritted his teeth, arms shaking from the strain.  A Haima barrier was the only thing keeping a dragonblood frenzied Reinhardt off him.  But Mathye didn’t know how much longer he and Hrist could last.  He could burn his own dragonfire, but that was an absolute last resort.  Brucemont would have his hands full with one Light-blessed dragoon, two would completely overwhelm him.

“Reinhardt, for fuck’s sake!”  Twelve, it hurt just to simply breathe.  Another blow came from the younger dragoon’s fists against the barrier.  But following it was the sickening sound of glass beginning to crack.  A fresh spike of pain assulated Mathye, and he gasped.  Stress cracks were appearing in the stained-glass pattern of the Haima barrier.  Desperately, the sage tried to summon one last reserve of strength--but could only watch dumbly as the barrier finally gave way.  With a snarl, Reinhardt fell upon Mathye.  A powerful kick made the black-haired man double over, and Reinhardt followed up by snatching his fellow Companion by the throat.  Metallic claw-tips digging in, he flung Mathye across the room.  Unable to brace himself properly for the impact, Mathye crashed into the wall and collapsed onto the floor in a heap.  With a low moan he tried to push himself up, but failed.  Hrist was whimpering in his ears, she’d overextended herself too.  The medic tried to focus on the slowly advancing dragoon, but his vision was blurry and doubled.

“Reinhardt...”  Mathye swallowed.  His voice was a raspy wheeze.  “Reinhardt...Paien.  Snap out of it...”  If Reinhardt heard him, there was no indication.  He continued walking towards Mathye, his eyes a glowing draconic blue.  Red scales glittered on certain points of his skin, and his gauntleted fingers resembled claws.  There was no cognitive recognition in his gaze, only murder.  And overlying it all was Paien, thrumming a dragonsong of fear and rage--but primarily fear.  Mathye swallowed, bowing his head.  Everything hurt.  Everything hurt, and he had no idea when Brucemont was going to arrive--or any help for that matter.  But he had one last desperate gambit before he gave into his curse...and for that, Reinhardt needed to get within grabbing range.  Blinking blood out of his eyes, Mathye pushed himself into a sitting position...

And watched as a blur of black and gold appeared out of nowhere, crashing into Reinhardt. 

“Bishop!!”  Heustienne’s voice, she was suddenly next to him.  “Halone--you’re a mess!  Lucian!!”

“No!” Mathye barked.  He reached out-grabbing the pink-armored dragoon by the arm.  “Need to-I can get him to calm down--”

-------------

Brucemont let himself tumble end over end with Reinhardt, Bastien a thrumming hum in his ears.  Paien’s panic-filled melody threatened their sanity--and if that couldn’t be broken soon, Reinhardt was going to fully turn.  Landing on his back, Brucemont shoved out with his legs as hard as he could.  Reinhardt was sent flying backward, but he twisted mid-air to land gracefully on all fours against the wall.  A snarl escaped him as he stared at Brucemont scrambling to his feet.

“Reinhardt and Paien, wake up!  You’re safe!”  Brucemont snapped, Bastien bleeding into his voice and distorting it.  Reinhardt only snarled again at that-and lunged forward, hands outstretched, a literal blur of flesh and white metal.  But as he did so, Brucemont and Bastien heard Paien’s song start to falter.  The younger inner dragon had burned too much power, which meant his dragoon would be weakening.  And if that was the case... Brucemont dropped into a low crouch, waiting.  As Reinhardt closed the gap, he sprung up--meeting the hyur full force with a throttle, putting all his power into the impact.  His and Bastien’s will against Reinhardt and Paien’s--and for the latter, it was the equivalent of slamming into a brick wall.  Armorless. 

It also left them wide open.  A fact Brucemont was quick to capitalize on--as he immediately chokeslammed Reinahrdt as hard as he could onto the rug-covered floor. 

The bodyblow left Reinhardt momentarily stunned, and Brucemont didn’t hesitate.  His full weight--and Bastien’s--landed atop the hyur.  Reinhardt cried out, but Brucemont didn’t let up--scrambling behind Reinhardt to put him into a sleeper hold.  Reinhardt snarled, trying to buck Brucemont off, but he couldn’t get a good angle.

“You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe...”  Brucemont chanted.  Reinhardt bucked, but the elezen could feel the hyur beginning to weaken.  Bastien was singing soothingly to Paien, whose voice was starting to fade.  

“Reinhardt, I swear to Halone--really, I wasn’t in the mood for this bullshite--”  Brucemont tightened his grip as Reinhardt bucked once more, a desperate cry coming from him. “Fir-First Lance?!”  Brucemont started--but didn’t slacken his grasp.  Reinhardt wheezed, and then both Brucemont and Bastien felt the aetherical drop as the frenzy released it’s grip on the younger duo.  Reinhardt’s body tensed, and then suddenly went slack as the crash hit him, dragging both him and Paien straight into unconsciousness.

Paroxysm {1} here Paroxysm {2} here

[queenaeducan]

We Tame the Sky

Pairing: f!Cadash / Josephine Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No warnings apply

In the quiet before the final approach on Haven, Thora Cadash and Josephine share a moment together in Skyhold's chapel.

Written as a fill for Spronky as a part of the @sapphic-solstice event!

Read on AO3 here.

Sitting in the quiet of Skyhold’s chapel, Thora begins to see why her ancestors favoured the stone so. Being born Casteless she had always been as likely to choose a sun-soaked field over a well-lit cave, but tonight is different. Outside, the light breaks in a sickly green over the Frostbacks, scattering across the sky like a spotlight through the pieces of a shattered mirror. Thunder rumbles without storm clouds, booming with Corypheus’ ambition. Beneath the stone chapel ceiling it's not easy to forget the chaos that threatens to tear their world asunder, but peace seems a little more feasible here. The harsh light of a Breach wrenched open is blocked out by a heavy wooden door, and she sits awash in the scent of incense, beneath the watchful eyes of the Maker’s chosen.

She kneels before Andraste, her hopes and dreams clasped between her palms as they come together in prayer. She sings a prayer for those who will ride beside her into the abyss, perhaps never to return, a prayer for those she’s leaving behind, with nothing but belief to buoy their hopes for the future.

And one for herself, should Andraste have any grace to spare.

“You have walked beside me Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others Have forsaken me.”

The prayer for the despairing comes too easily to her, the hymn had played a companion to her countless times through the years, but never had its words rang more clearly in her heart than tonight, as she steeled herself to face Corypheus one last time. She can’t pretend she knows what was in Andraste’s heart as she stood before the gates of Minrathous with her army at her flank, but this is likely the closest she’ll ever come to knowing.

“I am not alone. Even As I stumble on the path With my eyes closed, yet I see The Light is here.”

Though the chant evokes the Maker’s light, it’s no longer His face she sees as she closes her eyes, lips pressed against her thumbs in reverent devotion. Before Him come the faces of her friends, the brilliance of Cassandra’s sword as it cleaves through their foes, the glow of Solas’ staff as he cuts through the Deep Roads’ dark, the soft gleam in Josephine’s eye as a smile spreads her lips. Heavensent or no, those were the lights that had gotten her this far.

“There you are.” The sound of Josephine’s voice startles Thora from her prayer, with thoughts of her so near at hand she’d almost thought she imagined it. She looks over in time to see her step lightly through the door, her slippers just a whisper against the floor. “I had thought to find you in the garden, but…” The distant roar of the Breach completes her thought in fewer words. She’d often take her evening prayers beneath the bows of the maple trees, preferring their sanctuary to the small chapel that harboured most of Skyhold’s believers, but she’ll find no peace under them tonight— nor any night until her job is done. Josephine’s lips turn in a smile, a practised expression Thora had seen persist in the darkest circumstances, but it strains now. “Well, what matters is I’ve found you now.”

Thora’s words stick in her throat, all she can do as she rises to her feet is stare dumbly. There always seems too much to say between herself and Josephine to know where to begin.

Thankfully, Josephine always seems to find a way. “I suppose it won’t be long now,” she says.

“It’s just a matter of time.” She wishes they could find anything other than the oncoming fight to talk about, but it may be asking too much of them both. Corypheus is difficult to ignore even at the best of times, now that the ruins of Haven tremble at their doorstep every thought is stained by his influence. “I thought I’d see if I could get a few words in before we set out.”

This time the smile that graces Josephine’s features sneaks up on her, chased by a short breath of laughter. “If it’s good fortune you’re after, I may have just the thing.” Before Thora can so much as ask, the ambassador produces a flag of cloth from the folds of her doublet, flourishing it with a street magician’s flair. “Do you recognise it? The pattern, that is.” She proffers it forward, supporting the fabric with the tips of her fingers so the image lays flat before her eyes. She doesn’t need long to know what she’s looking at (she’d spent far too many hours looking for the blasted thing to ever mistake it): a proud ship sails across an unruly sea, the bow cutting through choppy waves and rendering them calm.

“Your family crest…”

“Soon its likeness will fly above a fleet of ships that will rival the great houses of Antiva, but this one is yours.”

“Mine?”

She nods. “My favour may not have the same weight as Andraste, but if it can accompany you where I cannot, then I give it gladly. May I see your hand?”

Thora immediately extends her right arm, then draws it back just as quick. “No, wait,” she says, offering forward the other, fingers closed into a loose fist to contain the faint buzz of the Anchor. “This one could probably use it more.”

“Naturally.” She winds the handkerchief up so it resembles a bracelet, coiling the fabric up like a rope and measuring it against her slender wrist before she tries Thora’s. Curled ringlets coil around her ears as she leans over to tie it properly, and in all the chaos of Corypheus’ attack she’s still found the presence of mind to perfume herself. Thora discovers this herself as she breathes slowly, and tries to forget her daydreams. “I’m afraid I’ve little else to offer but my hopes, Corypheus has proven most resilient to my charms.” The fabric slides across the smooth finish of her gauntlets without purchase, and then again, each time reset by the patient hand of Lady Montilyet. At last it catches against the details, winding around dwarven runes that spell the Cadash house words in an alphabet that rarely saw sunlight. The sight of her words and the Montilyet crest winding together around her wrist moves something in her. It creeps up her ribs and into her throat and blossoms. Not for the first time since they’ve met, Thora finds herself grateful you can’t choke to death on love.

She ties the knot once, twice, and Thora thinks she sees some reluctance as they fall away to her sides. “May you tame the sky as we tamed the sea, Lady Cadash,” she says in a trembling voice, her words straining against her fears.

“Josephine, I—” Brown eyes rimmed with tears look up at Josephine. The sharp end to her sentence is a keen reminder that while she can’t choke to death on love, she sure can still choke. “I’m…” What she wants to say more than anything feels selfish to say, now more than ever, when her death is so near at hand. What good would it do her to die with no regrets, if it meant sentencing Josephine to a lifetime of them? She grinds her hopes beneath her heel, and tells herself that, should she live to see morning, there’ll be nothing stopping her anymore.

Even if it’s a lie, it’s a lie that can get her through this moment.

“Thank you,” she manages after a moment of tear-induced silence. “I’m... I don’t- I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She folds her hands around Thora’s, cupping the armour-clad knuckles between tender fingers, like her glove was wrought with silk and not steel. “Just come back to us, please.”

Her heart constricts with the burden of a promise she may not keep. The sky calls her name, spelling her doom in the air with the ruins of her first failure, but Josephine’s words have worked miracles for her before. “I’ll do my best, I always— oh.” A distant horn blows, signalling her departure, and their farewell. Eyes laced with tears, she turns to the statue of Andraste as though she were a friend forgotten in the tide of the conversation. “I didn’t get to finish.”

The threads of Josephine’s smile start to unravel, grief twisting the manners from the corners of her lips. “I will finish it for you, Inquisitor,” she says in a voice laid thick with tears she wants desperately to dab from her cheeks. “Go with Andraste’s grace.” Her hands tremble as they release Thora’s, only finding stability as they lace together in prayer. As her footsteps echo with her retreat, she hears Josephine’s voice lift in song, words burdened with her weeping but warm with the Maker’s light.

“Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, And be Forgiven.”

[flamurai]

     𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒. buried deep, where eyes could not see to remedy him. golden lashes flutter to a close against his touch, the momentary withdraw from the world surrounding them. it was soft , those formidable fingers which 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐋 so many : a past yet to unfold in refined detail, spoken of briefly and with immediate deflection. even so, despite what horrors they wrought, could they remain this way ? carved in marble, and honored for their plights. they have sacrificed enough. in time, all that would remain is decay. he wished to live in this moment for eternity !

     iridescent pupil peers into the man before him, dilated and maintaining contact with every word. his gaze would often form a pattern, focus descending upon lips, counting the syllables spoken as if it were a testament needing to be studied closely and without flaw. those burrowing digits made him hazy, overgrown tresses fussed over and caressed. such a tousled mess, yet bearing the scent of cloves and honeysuckle . why did this feeling 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 inside his chest ? as though butterflies roam free among tattered ribs, entrapped and desperate to escape. it forced a faint noise from his throat, nearly inaudible but only to the untrained ear. only distinguishable as calm elation.

     he wonders if the other can hear his 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 , its attempt to rupture underway of tender words. he wonders a great many things. nothing forms cohesive thoughts in his presence. the only notion that registers is an impulsive desire to feel their hearts as one pressed together. tears swell within his eye but remain withheld, glossy, like salty seas reflecting a morning sun across the horizon. fingers glide from their motionless stupor, hesitating just shy of the limb 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 behind long robes. sleeve giving the appearance of a hand he could not hold, nor envelope in his affection.

     ❛ with you by my side, there is no greater strength to siphon from.   ❞ he sounds quiet, unable to hear himself properly by how mild mannered his voice became. wandering hand rises, fingertips brushing up his arm along the way, and finally sliding across a pale cheek. skin kissed by moonlight. ❛ ... even now i can feel the heat rising in my chest.   ❞ in that moment, he feigned for him more than anything. to repeat those affirmations like a prayer. small utterances at the back of his mind, expelling like secrets, swearing behind the veil and finding a reason for being. for belonging to someone. it was as simple as shouting to the heavens, and smiling in the face of death if it meant you could protect your 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 ones.

     thumb brushes over a jewel embellishment, still maintaining his beauty no matter the loss of an eye. tengen would always mesmerize him. it was a worthy resemblance, indeed, his gemstone iris . arm leisurely glides around the nape of his neck, a movement with which he pursued in utmost confidence. angling with the best of his abilities to 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 , nose burrowed below his ear, muffled breath and the words to match as his other hand curved under than over so as to cling against his shoulder. that anchored them, ❛ i'll hold this promise to you i will continue on in both our stead.. this flame i carry will never diminish.   ❞ for him, and those fallen. he will muster the strength.

                        𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇     to step away from their positions for long  ––  they are the most capable out there.     it has always been that way;   gyomei, kyojuro, him.     they are the older ones, they are the ones that are the pinnacle of strength and keeping them all tied together with neat little bows.     they have never faced a moment like this before    ––   one of their own is hurting.     one of their own could have died.      that thought alone makes him swallow hard along with the heartbeat that thrums.     the news had spread quickly among the crows after the train.       uzui found himself at bedside when others left   ––   FOUND HIMSELF HATING THE MAN THAT CLAIMS FATHER.      how could he say such cruel things?      how could he look at kyojuro and not see the sacrifices that he has made?       he is strong without the training of a father that had given up, a father that had been caught in his own grief and only offers unkindness in its place.       it has proven to be a lesson in self control for him    ––    to not slit a throat in the shadows of shinobi for vengeance.

                        there is strength in the fingers that slide through his own, that hold on tight.       that are here to offer STABILITY when the world is crumbling down.      heat against skin and tengen breathes through his nose, makes sure not to pull away.     to not disrupt the fragile safe haven that kyojuro is building for himself.     there's an ACHE in his soul that beats in time with his;      how is he supposed to make this better?      there is nothing he can say to ease the pain, the disappointment    ––    FOR BEING HUMAN because they are meant to be exceptional.        ❝  your breathing with come back when you heal.  ❞

                        𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓      at the admission, frustration curling in his veins.      he is the flame hashira, he will never be snuffed out     ––     not if tengen has something to say about it.      there are moments when they falter, when they fall, but it matters how they pick one another back up.     kyojuro is light, is the staggering flames that light their way home during nights that find themselves too dark.      to even consider the fact that his light is snuffed out, that his flame is being destroyed, makes something uncomfortable form in his chest.      for so long they have been strong    ––   THEY HAVE BEEN MEANT FOR THIS.       now though, their futures hang uncertainly    ––   are they still hashira if they are broken?     

                        ❝  you aren't snuffed out or suffocating.      you are just HEALING.  ❞      it's only through years of tempering his emotions that he manages to swallow them down, to not give way to the panic that rises without his permission.      he reaches out, catches the tear that rolls free    ––    thinks that it's strange to see such a man filled with happiness weep.     his heart aches inside his chest to make it better, to take the ache away from him.      he lets out a slow breath and thumbs against his cheek, along the strap that holds an eye patch firmly in place.      it's not the first time he wishes he had his other hand as well.     the need to pull him close, to hide him away surges up like tidal waves;    he deserves more than what has been given.      ❝  if you are, i'll light the brassier again.    i will make sure you never go out.  ❞       it's a quiet offering, a sharing of pain, of promises.      he will not let kyojuro go quietly    –––    he will scream and scream until those flames ignite once more if he has to.     but for now he reaches forward, runs fingers through yellow and red hair.       ❝  for now, YOU REST.     you heal.     you find your flame again when the time is right.  ❞

[hungarianbee]

Way of the Witcher: bits of lore

Disclaimer:  Post contains spoilers to the Witcher games These things may be canon-typical, but the following trigger warnings apply if you want to check out the cards: gore, monster dismemberment, needles, body horror, insects and spiders

“In a world plagued by horrors and monstrosities humanity desperately needed a new type of weapon to turn back the tide. Created by ingenious Alzur, witchers — professional monster slayers of exceptional strength, speed, and agility were tasked to end the threat once and for all. Organized into different schools they honed their craft and passed their knowledge onto novices in training. Some of them were destined to become the legendary heroes and protectors of humanity. Others — the very thing they were supposed to fight…”

Since the gwent expansion was anounced I followed it with rapt attention; every bit of lore is a gem in my eyes. I decided to write down my thoughts of the cards and lore pieces revealed in a post. Share that knowledge around, amirite?

The post references Gwent cards which were leaked (2020 november-december). The theme is mutation and everything that comes with it; namely sweet-sweet lore of the lesser known witcher schools: the Bears, Cats, Vipers and Griffins.

Tucker in, under the cut there is 4.5k analysis of each card that came out.

We’re starting with a theme, then work our way throught the 4 schools (each contain the following:  a leader, a mentor, an adept, a general witcher, a specific job, an item, a school relevant monster, 2  known witchers and a location), then go through a Witcher 1 throwback, Salamandra, and round it with a few new monsters and neutral cards. 

While I describe most of the cards concisely and all the known witchers and locations are on my blog, you might want to look the cards in their (small) glory: [DO IT HERE]

Sounds good? Here we go!

Edit: [this source is better]

The theme is mutation - be it monsters created by transmutation, witchers or salamadra

If that is true, there are monster cards that seemingly stand out: the Succubus and the Phooca

If we are to believe that they do connect to the mutation theme, then

(1) we can conclude that Phoocas (a rare, and more dangerous form of Nekkers; they can pull your head off by sheer force, watch out) are a natural mutation of the original species,

(2) but we’re still left with the Succubi (an inherently demonic creature). They might have chosen it because of its appearance: succubi have horns and goat-like legs. (Note: in the graphic novel “House of Glass” the succubus character has wings, but lacks hooves. In that sense, she could be mutated.)

Breaking it down into factions/schools (some of the cards can be paired up; these cards are interpreted together):

School of the Viper: starting with the vipers, because they are my favourite

Viper Witcher Mentor & Viper Witcher Adept: the flavour text says that the Viper mentors are exceptionally cold and ruthless, and that’s underlined by the story the art tells: the mentor busies himself with sharpening a blade, and in the background we can see the adept attempting to kill his best friend goat, as was ordered. The mentor watches this from the corner of his eye. Young Vipers are to kill their pets (which they nurtured for years) before becoming a fully-fledged witcher. The latter could mean that the boy depicted on the card hasn’t even gone through the Trial of Grasses.

Viper Witcher: On the card we see an unknown Viper crouching over a royalty he killed. I feel like this type of card is meant to represent what we think a general Witcher of said school would be like. Apparently Vipers just like to slay the nobility *shrug*. The flavour text informs us, that Vipers call their two swords “fangs”, and that their style consists of fast and furious attack aimed to overwhelm the enemy.

Viper Witcher Alchemist: Every school has a specialty; Vipers are proficient in potion or poison making. The right side of the alchemist’s face seems to have healed burn marks; a blown up concoction might have caused it.

Ivar Evil-Eye: So far there’s little to know about Ivar. He was either the Master of the Viper Keep, or the founder himself (gwent suggests the latter). He’s described as heavily scarred (facial scars suggests burns and slash marks too), and each of them has a terrible story to tell.

Warritt the All-Seeing: Warritt is a (newly introduced) Viper with heavy disfiguration to the upper part of his face: his eyes are sealed shut (possibly by burn marks, though his hair remains intact). The art shows Warritt drawing a modified version of the Supirre sign in the air to help with his loss of sight. As the wiki says: “Supirre is a Sign used for eavesdropping. Drawn on a solid surface, it allows the people near this surface to listen nearby conversations which would be normally inaudible due to the distance or background noise.” It was only used in Sapkowsky’s second volume of the Hussite trilogy (not yet translated to English), which is entirely separate from the Witcher novels.

Kolgrim: Fate laughed at this Viper. As a kid he was swapped by a weeper, saved by a witcher, than rejected by his own mother who believed that the fake child was the real one. Later, as a grown witcher Ivar instructed him to find a lost weapon diagram. On his journey he was accused - ironically - in White Orchard of kidnapping a child. Invoking a Temerian law, Kolgrim was told to cleanse their crypt (as seen on the card) then he can go. The truth is revealed in Witcher 3 - Kolgrim was beheaded by the villagers before he could even step into the crypt. To add insult to injury: the child was eaten by a drowner. The gwent card therefore shows the optimistic outcome: that Kolgrim reached the crypt and passed in battle. And what’s up with a crypt full of wraiths anyway? White Orchard is shady, guys. (Lil’ trivia: Kolgrim’s eyes are yellow-green.)

Vypper: Basically an overgrown snake that likes damp marshes (they even fight the local kikimores for territory). They only relate to the mutation theme by their nature - they resemble the “school’s animal”.

Gorthur Gvaed: The Bloodgate Keep is located in the chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. It’s built so high were you to look down from the bridge leading into the keep, you would only see fog (one could wonder how the vipers trained in these conditions). The bridge is made so that you’d have to cross the lookout tower - it might have served as a check in spot. The post itself is circled by the stone coils of a snake; the top is open and has a huge lit bonfire in the middle for warmth-keeping and possibly signaling. Unluckily, it didn’t stop the Usurper’s army from destroying the keep.

Coated Weapons: They leaned heavily into the alchemy and assassin side of the school. Vipers coat their blades with an acidic liquid, so they can kill a man with a nick of it.

School of the Cat:

Cat Witcher Mentor & Cat Witcher Adept: On the adept card we can see a young Cat walking the tightrope blindfolded (they start with close to the ground and slowly increase the distance with time); the mentor is looking up at him. Like the Vipers, Cat mentors are nonchalant about risking the kids as seen from the flavour text: “If you fall, it’s over. Your nine lives are up, kid.” Furthermore, the background of the Cat Witcher Adept card shows the not yet destroyed Stygga Citadel. The Cat Witcher Mentor is in the same scene and we can see lots of potatoes and cabbages; cats definitely eat their veggies.

Cat Witcher: The card shows a Cat in the heat of battle mid-jump; his hood is up, blood is flying everywhere. The flavour text emphasizes that cats are known for their mad bloodlust, not stopping killing even after the enemy capitulated.

Cat Witcher Saboteur: A Cat perches next to the window, a smoking bomb in hand, eavesdropping on nobles. A rope is hung from somewhere out of the pic, possibly for a quick exit. Vesemir comments that these are many-a deeds the cats did that taint the reputation of witchers.

Gezras of Leyda: Gezras is a not yet known redheaded Cat witcher. Following the pattern he seems to be the founder of the Cat School. His flavour text shows that even back then (when the mutagens made Cats emotionless) they were inclined to dislike humans: “Take a contract from Aen Seidhe over a dh’oine any day, as you’re far less likely to receive a knife between the ribs in place of coin.”

Brehen: Now this cat embodies the Cat madness. He’s known as the Cat of Iello because he massacred everyone there. He was consequently shunned by all the schools, and he was even convinced that Vesemir put a kill order on his head. He met Geralt later in the 1240s on his way to claim the bounty for the princess. Thinking that Geralt was there to rob him of his chance of the bounty, Brehen took a priestess as hostage (this is what we see on the gwent card). Geralt managed to convince him to put away the blade, and they parted without crossing blades. When meeting with the striga he scoffed into her face that “she won’t be his first royal”. But his luck ran out. The Temerians buried him and fabricated the story of a cowardly witcher stealing their coin. I’m halfway convinced we see Brehen in the netflix series.

Gaetan: This boy broke into the fandom like a bulldozer. After the folks in Honorton cheated him of his pay and tried to kill him, Gaetan flew into rage and killed everyone there except Millie, a girl who reminded him of his sister. That’s the scene we see on the card. And then Geralt robs/kills him.

Saber-Tooth Tiger (Stealth): Another huge animal/monster related to the school. It’s story is this: “The prized possession of royal menagerie, until a commando of Scoia’tael assaulted the exhibition, released the beast, and set it upon its cruel masters. Since that day, it has acquired a selective taste for human flesh.” Another cat turning against humans.

Stygga Castle: An outside view of what we already saw on the Cat Witcher Adept card. It’s located on a cliff, and the sun shines into it just right (so that the Cats can bask in the light). The walls form a circle where they shelter the inner grounds, and a bigger tower emerges in the middle. The Castle could be reached by the thin bridge connecting it to the mainland, or by the cliffs (if one is brave enough).

Making a Bomb: Cats seem to have a specialty in bombs. Guess where Lambert got his interest from *winkwink*

School of the Griffin: lots of pairs in this one

Griffin Witcher Mentor & Griffin Witcher Adept: Compared to the other schools, this pairing is tame - the adept is climbing a tree to retrieve a crossbow bolt. We can see the mentor in the background. On the mentor card the adept waves down with the retrieved crossbow bolt in hand. It shows a kind of comradeship that’s not present in the other 3 schools. The flavour text emphasizes the importance of knowledge. Students are afforded to choose their final Trial: recite the entire Liber Tenebrum (Book of Shadows; one of Keldar’s favourite books) or steal a griffin’s egg. Noone’s chosen the former.

Griffin Witcher: The witcher is shown shooting down a griffin. According to the flavour text they prefer hunting with silver-tipped arrowheads instead of swords.

Archgriffin & Griffin Witcher Ranger: On the Griffin Ranger card we see the witcher crouching over track marks. On the archgriffin card he found the albino (or very old) monster, who’s already killed someone (probably a lumberjack, judging by the axe). According to the flavour text, Griffin Witchers are trained to be professional trackers; nothing can stop them to reach their prey. Even though archgriffins are considered the embodiment of courage, loyalty and fighting spirit, the gwent card corrects the notion that the Griffin Witcher were named after the monster. In truth, they got the name in honour of their founder’s mentor, a knight named Gryphon.

Erland of Larvik: Continuing the trend, Erland is the founder of the Griffin School (one of the two that are confirmed 100%). He’s from the first generation of witcher, mutated by Alzur himself. After the Order began fracturing he had a confrontation with Arnaghan (who’ll be the founder of the bear school). Arnaghad almost killed one of his brothers, slashed Erland across the face then parted ways with the Order and left Morgraig Castle with his own group. Seeing that the the remaining witchers couldn’t go on like that, he grabbed his 13 best friend and left to Kaer Seren, where (after purging it from spectres) he founded the Griffin School which focused on magic, preparedness and flexibility. His teaching emphasized knightly values (mimicking his long-dead mentor, a knight named Gryphon) in hopes that it would make future witchers’ life easier. It didn’t.

Coen & Keldar: The cards are mainly connected by background. Coen is finished killing what appears to be an albino arachas (but it’s definitely an insectoid), while Keldar’s taking notes. We can rightly assume that he’s updating their bestiary, since he’s one of the teachers/mentors who focus on gathering and sharing knowledge. Coen’s flexibility shows in the flavour text: “There is no such thing as a fair fight. Every advantage and every opportunity that arises is used in combat.” Not very knightly, is it?

Kaer Seren: The “Star Keep” Erland and his friends fled to. It was used by the Order’s mages to mutate witchers (that’s why it was haunted by spectres). It’s located at the edge of the Dragon mountains by the sea between Poviss and Kovir. It’s said to possess the great library, which later mages tried to get for themselves. They messed up: by bringing down an avalanche on the Keep, that knowledge was destroyed. The keep was badly damaged and many witchers died.

Target Practice: The Griffin School’s specialty is their precise aim - they “can split an apple in two from a hundred paces”.

School of the Bear:

Bear Witcher Mentor & Bear Witcher Adept: The adept card shows that young witcher are taught to catch fish by hand (just like their school relevant animal). On the mentor card the elder witcher leads a group of younglings in the mountains; possibly out to teach tracking. The cards are connected by flavour text. The young Bear witcher-would-be’s need to complete the Trial of the Mountain, which consists of them climbing Mount Gorgon (also known as the Devil Mountain; it is the highest peak of the Amell range) to retrieve a runestone. The Trial often ends with the kids frozen to death. The Bear Mentor card’s flavour confirms it: “If you’re unsure of the way, just keep a lookout for markers - the frozen corpses of would-be witchers.” This sounds ominous - don’t they collect their fallen?

Bear Witcher: Bears are solitary hunters as seen in the flavour text: “life alone can be tough”. The witcher in the pic just dismembered what looks like a ghoul (with a tail?).

Bear Witcher Quartermaster: This one I like. The Quartermaster is an amputee (missing one of his arms, which was taken by a bear; must have won that fight one-handed), yet they still found a job for him where he can be useful. His flavour text suggest he likes Mahakam mead.

Arnaghad: The founder of the Bear School, he never felt kinship with his fellow witchers. After attacking a witcher named Rhys over a contract, wounding him deeply from shoulder to waist, he returned to Morgraig, attacked Erland then left with his possé to found the Bear School - Haern Caduch - in the Amell Mountains. Later he almost died in a betrayal, which resulted in another schism and the foundation of the Viper School.

Gerd: Gerd’s a legendary witcher who fled to Skellige after allying with a Usurper instead of his daughter, who later issued a warrant for his arrest. He has a busy time in Skellige: first slaying a dragon, befriending the Jarl Torgeir, killing a bunch of sirens, losing so many weapon diagrams you wouldn’t believe, losing half his pay and silver sword on gwent, escaping Nilfgaard and managing to slay a striga, killing some of his pursuers, only to be caught up in the siege of Torgeir’s castle, where he died in the ruins. On the card he’s showing Bear-typical strength: he’s tearing apart a siren with his bear hands.

Junod of Belhaven: Junod had a dubious background, but was thought to be the child of a brave dwarf and a giantess. He’s a huge man, with a big bushy beard and bald head. His sobriquet is false; he took it after Ivo, because he liked the ring of it. He was known as a strict haggler and a bit of a gambler. In 1243 he took a contract in hopes of cash (he wanted to forge the Grandmaster Ursine Armour). The subterranean monster was said to live in the caverns. Junod drew bear signs and wrote a warning on the wall (this is the scene we see on the card). He was however ill-prepared; the beast turned out to be a shaelmaar (a type of relic Gaetan slew once) that killed him in that very cavern.

Dire Bear: Once again related to the school in question, the Dire Bear is stuck with so much weaponry that it looks like a walking armory. Lots of witchers must have tried to slay it, yet it still kicks - just like Bear Witchers, it’s resilient till the very end.

Haern Caduch: Built into the side of the Amell Mountains, it’s the coldest environment of all the schools. As with the other schools, the Bears were forced out of it due to folk riots. It was left in disrepair to be buried under snow and ice (as seen on the card). It’s name could be translated as “Piercing Whiskers”.

Armor Up: As Bear’s are more likely to stand in the way of attack than dodge, they need to wear a heavy armour at all times.

Salamandra:

Roland Bleinheim & Gellert Bleinheim: Witcher 1 characters. They are thought to be brothers, leading the Salamandra organization. As drug lords one heads the fisstech operation in Vizima’s sewers (Roland), the other in the swamps (Gellert). The flavour text pretty much matches: both of them wondering what the other one is doing.

Salamandra Mage: The art itself was already leaked in China around 2 years back, and there were a few theories. One of them was that the man depicted is Zerrikanian, and I think that’s correct. Both the facial tattoo, darker skin, thinly braided hair and fire magic points in that direction. Azar Javed (a known Salamandra fire mage) happens to be a Zerrikanian escapee too.

Salamandra Lackey: A girl with the Salamandra-stapled mask runs from a city guard. The flavour text says the following: “Lackeys are expected to perform their first five jobs for no pay, demonstrating their passion for the gig.” The organization monitors from the beginning that only those remain who are extremely loyal to their cause.

Fallen Rayla: A little background for those who are unfamiliar with her: Rayla of Lyria was a veteran of the Nilgaardian Wars. She harbours anti-nonhuman sentiments after she was captured by Scoia’taels and severely maimed. The Rayla we see on the card is a mutant - in Witcher 1 she was supposedly shot down by Scoia’tael, and Salamandra found her close to death, subjected her to mutation. She was killed by Geralt.

Salamander: The card shows a bright blue spotted salamander. It has two tails and heads (possibly grown together?). The Salamander is a symbol of the organization. Metaphorically speaking it could mean, that Salamandra thought of itself as something untouchable: “best to avoid petting them, as the salamander, when threatened, secretes a deadly toxin”.

Failed Experiment: The card - ironically - thrives when it’s poisoned. The “experiment” only resembles a human in shape. It’s clutching the table ends, as if trying to escape still.  It’s fair to assume that they later dissected it: “even failed experiments can serve a purpose”.

Salamandra Abomination: A step further from the failed experiment - we see the results of pushing science’s boundaries. Only the skull is left intact, everything else of the body is covered with insectoid-like growths.

Stolen Mutagens: Gruesome organ harvesting. The witcher heart (?) glows, which is either an artistic decision (probable) or the mages sent magic into the body, and the mutagens light up (like angiographia). Three types of mutagens can be harvested: red (strength), blue (magic) or green (resilience). I headcanon that the amount they inject of the three types can vary - that’s how you get strength inclined witchers like the wolves (red), or big ass mothers like the bears (green).

Salamandra Hideout: There are multiple hideouts in Witcher 1 (outskirt of Visima, crypt in sewers and one in the trade quarters). The one depicted here is the fisstech lab in the sewers. It shows a dimly lit, cobwebbed room. There’s an elevation where a body lays on the table. The elevation’s floor is gridded, so the blood and other fluids can freely flow down into the sewer water, where many bodies are already discarded recklessly.

Neutral:

Alzur & Viy & Koshchey: Alzur was a charismatic mage and spell inventor, who created many horrible monsters, like the koshchey (with the spell: Alzur’s Double Cross) and the Viy (a huge centipede-like insectoid). He was also the one who did the lion’s share of work with the witcher’s mutation.

Cosimo Malaspina: Cosimo was the teacher of Alzur. He was known for his knowledge in hybridization and genetic modification. Him and Alzur were the true creators of the witchers sect. On the gwent card, three man are shown prodding at a mutated body. Cosimo (the old dude) is in the middle, Alzur might be the one on the left and that leaves Idarran on the right. His flavour text paints him as cold and clinical, someone without empathy: “Children keep asking him for gifts. He doesn’t know why, but it really helps with finding subjects for his experiments.”

Idarran of Ulivo & Idr & Wererat: Idarran was one of the contributers of the witcher experiments. He’s an expert in hybridization and genetic modification, whose teacher was Alzur. He was a pale kid who lived in the canals of Vizima and experimented on rats at the age of 5. He found beauty in gruesome creations, like the Wererat (a human-sized rat on roids) and the Idr (a big centipede-like insectoid). He’s disdained by Geralt for his many monsters.

Triangle within a Triangle: It’s a magic spell used to introduce a series of mutations and to greatly increase the mass of a given body. That way they can create huge monstrosities, like the koshchey. Adepts often confuse it with a pentagram which can lead to infernal disasters.

Selective mutation: The card shows a close up of a young man’s eyes - one mutated (catlike) one human. His skin shows his high toxicity level, ashen with prominent veins. He’s held down as alchemists prepare to inject a yellow concoction into the human eye. It’s possible that after the success of witchers the mages tried to recreate the changes in smaller scale, then unmake it in turn, unsuccessfully.

Witcher Student: This is not really a card, but I included it anyway. The card’s ability is - ironically - doomed, and to add insult to injury, its flavour text is the following well-known fact: “Four out of ten boys survive… at most.” It’s also a point for black humour that the gwent commentators added: the Trial of Grasses card boosts this unit significantly.

Berengar: He’s a Wolf School Witcher who blamed his school for denying him a normal life and consequently abandoned them. In Witcher 1 Geralt can decide to kill or spare him. In a letter he admits that he was a coward because he betrayed Kaer Morhen and worked with Salamadra in hope that they can undo his mutation. His card references a questline in Witcher 1, where he tried to reason with the vodyanoi (~lovecraftian fish people) to spare the village’s prize-winning cow, named Strawberry. This is non-canon; in the game Geralt takes over the quest to do this instead.

Leo: Another Witcher 1 character. He was an orphan taken in by Vesemir. He was a kind-hearted but hot-headed man, who had all the training but not the mutations and the experience - he never killed a man. The flavour text of his gwent card kind of mocks his death: “He would have caught the arrow if he only had some heads-up.” He’s burned on a pyre and his cenotaph can be found south of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt: Quen: The last classical sign that wasn’t yet a card. In the art, Geralt is wearing the Manticore armour

Snowdrop: She’s a not yet seen character; impish looking female bard with light blond hair (flowers braided on the side) who plays a medieval version of the fiddle to a rooster. There’s a horseshoe hanging from the hem of his pants. She’s also seen in the gwent: journey #3 launch trailer. She’s narrating that she was saved by Alzur. Alzur told her about his plans of creating witchers to fight the beasts of the Continent, and she admired him so much she spread his story (”let me tell you about the greatest sorceress to ever lived”). Their story will unveil in the next week, I’ll probably update accordingly. It’s also interesting that Alzur says in the gwent intro (regarding witchers): “Bards will toil to do justice to their feats.” As if his own successes and experiences will be mirrored in his creations. Projecting much?

Monsters:

Viy & Idr: both of them are centipede-like insectoids conjured by infamous mages (see: Alzur and Idarran)

Wererat: same can be said about this one. Idarran experimented on Vizima’s sewer rats since the age of 5. This human sized abomination was the end result.

Succubus: We already discussed how the “Succubus” doesn’t fit the theme. Other interesting thing is the surrounding of her - in the background we can see a skull full of some kinda of dark liquid; she’s also holding a goblet. I’m not saying she’s drinking blood, but if she does, it would shed some questions as succubi don’t need to drink blood at all.

Phooca: As nekkers’ rare big brother, phoocas are ogroids that have the strength to rip a man’s head off with their bear hands. According to the wiki, in Celtic folklore they are regarded as shapeshifting fairies.

Koshchey: A witcher 1 boss, koshcheys are spider-like abominations summoned by mages. The woman standing her ground in the picture is Visenna (Geralt’s druid mom). In the story she’s the one to kill the first koshchey ever created.

Spontaneous Evolution: Under the Red Moon the wolf mutated into an amalgamation of eyes and teeth. Malaspina possibly added something to the mix that proved unstable. The card’s name is kind of ironic - this change is not spontaneous (it was induced) but could be related to evolution (it would imply that this form is somehow advantageous to the current environment and helps adaptation). (Note: in my opinion spontaneous generation would be a better term: it’s the thought that living creatures could arise from nonliving matter.)

Hybrid: the card shows a two-headed wolf or dog. Pretty straight-forward.

Chimera: A creature created my Cosimo Malaspina. He combines the genes of a fiend and griffin, then added a trace of insectoid and wyvern. It kind of looks like a furred wyvern with antlers. Interestingly the frightener (an insectoid; a rare result of magical experiment) is also called a chimera.

Dol Dhu Lokke: a new monster lair location. The depending on how you translate “lokke” the Elder can be read as “black valley place” or “alluring black valley”. It’s so dangerous - housing many-a horrors - that even a witcher thinks twice before going near it.

Interesting tidbits

Coen has hair, which is weird because so far he was described in all sources as bald.

There used to be a card  that was also called Viper Witcher, which is now referred to as “Kingslayer”

The Bear Witcher’s face was drawn after one of CDPR’s employee.

The Koshchey’s card title has a typo: “Koschchey”.

Easter eggs (mainly in flavour text)

The Spontaneous Evolution card references The Powerpuff Girls intro: “Professor Malaspina accidentally added an extra ingredient to the concoction - compound X.”

The Bear Witcher card might reference a song of Baloo from the Jungle Book (The Bare Necessities): “Life alone on the road can be tough - be sure to bring all the bare necessities.”

[meet-me-in-the-kitchen]

SIX CANDLES, ONE WISH (2)

part one

Harry misses his daughter’s sixth birthday, and some things can’t be undone.

— Recap of Last Part —

“You didn’t even call, daddy.”

“You have to understand that some things just are the way they are and in order to provide for our family—“

“Nevermind,” she muttered under her breath. “Forget I even asked you.”

— Recap Fin.—

Y/N knew what it meant to have a father who was willfully absent when it came to their child’s life.

Her father had been a man of great physical prowess coupled by a both thrilling and frightening lack of restraint resembling that of a wild animal in a kingdom that had never learned the rules. He was once a boxer renowned in a small town which multiplied in tourists whenever the ring flooded with the divinity of his strength. Somehow, somewhere, he had met her mother. After she had died while giving birth to Y/N, she had always felt the cruel truth of her father’s hate simmering somewhere in the back of her mind.

Harry wasn’t like that. She’d married him knowing he wasn’t like that, partly because he would never intentionally miss recitals, avert his eyes from his daughter- eyes that held anything but the palpable disgust y/n had been used to as a kid. He wouldn’t resort to alcoholism. she’d sworn her children would never be stuck in the cycle of worshipping their father most days, and wishing their bodies were drained of his vile, cursed blood on others.

“Forget I even asked.”

Yet, as her daughter, barely ninety centimetres tall, pushes the phone back into her hand while the receiver rings with excuses, she’s not so sure of who Harry is anymore.

“Y/N,” he starts, voice still flat. He doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong, she realizes with horror. “It was just a party. I’ll come home soon, and we can celebrate properly. It’s just her sixth birthday, any—“

“Six.” She repeats, voice choking with disbelief. “She’s six now, Harry.”

“What are you saying?”

Sighing, Y/N moves further back as groups of kids rush past in a game of tag, all with bright smiles on their faces, besides the birthday girl. A bit of anger stirred in her chest. Of course, he’d had to make her sad on this day.

“It lasts so much longer, you don’t even know,” y/n shakes her head. “Darcy’s six now, but she won’t be forever. She still waits up for your phone call, regardless of the fact that you’ve missed calling her for weeks. Do you know what it does to her, when I have to tell her own father chose a stack of documents and negotiations over her own birthday?”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important—“

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m afraid you’re forgetting that she is too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he rebukes harshly. “Stop putting words in my mouth, Y/N. I never said that.”

“I don’t need to put words in your mouth,” she laughs bitterly, “your actions are enough. I don’t have to tell you what went through her mind when she blew out her candles, with everyone there but you. She’s a baby, Harry. Our baby. Her self-confidence is going to be in shreds if you keep this up.”

“I still call,” he cries, his voice lined vaguely with desperation. “She knows I love her more than anything.”

“The least you could give her is some consistency. On the rare occasion you call, it’s when it’s most convenient to you—she stays up till two in the morning some days, just to hear your voice. You know what she wished for? For you to either come back, or stay away.”

“I didn’t—“

“I’m not done,” she exhales sharply, swiping her hand over her tearstained cheeks. Her voice broke. “She asked me if you wanted to give her a divorce, Harry. What am I supposed to tell her?”

He’s sobbing at this point. Guttural cries harshly racking through his chest, and he’s never cried so hard that his rib cage felt it would burst from the image of his little girl blowing out the candles dejectedly, searching for her daddy’s face in an otherwise crowded room, only to come back empty. For fuck’s sake, she thought he wanted to abandon her. He had never hated himself more.

“How do I tell her you choose paperwork over her life? How do I keep her from thinking she comes second all her life or developing an inferiority complex. She’s six now, Harry, but I’m afraid of what happens when she’s not anymore. If she carries all of this with her. I still carry it with me,” she sniffles, “and it is not pretty.”

“You really hurt her.”

“I love her so much,” his hoarse voice insists unconvincingly, an ugly feeling spreading within him at who he has become. His fingers shake as they hold onto the phone. He glares at the fineprint in front of him as it blurs to meaningless, double-spaced diatribes. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” y/n says, looking down at the streamers that lay on the ground. The shattered tiara. Her voice lowers as people pass by. “I’m just afraid, one day, you’ll forget.”

Darcy watches her mother’s wet face crumple and then twist into an unconvincing smile as guests walk by her. She hears her father’s cries, rendered meaningless to her young mind by the simple fact that it measures meaning through who shows up. And he hasn’t shown up for quite some time.

Her wish echoes in her mind: for daddy to come back or stay away. Lifting herself off of the ground, where she sat quietly listening to her unbeknownst mother’s words, she decides the latter would hurt less.

—

“Hey,” Harry breathes, shrugging off his black coat and gently pushing the door shut in conjunction. His eyes immediately find Y/N, who shuffles a bit closer. She blinks blearily, confused and uncertain if he’s actually there, or if this is some sleep-induced dream.

Her worries are smoothened by a low “come ‘ere,” and his strong arms pulling her to his chest, twisting around her in an impossibly warm cocoon. She mumbles something incomprehensible even to herself, and feels his chest rumble as he chuckles, lips pressed furtively to her hairline.

“Miss me?” He questions, light humour in his voice, but sincerity in his green eyes. She rolls her eyes, are you kidding me? This brings a smile to his face; he leans in slightly, cupping her cheek with one palm, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, his mouth closed over hers, like she had been waiting for.

It was easy to get lost in the kiss. Her head was swimming from impact, the dizziness sending her knees buckling, his arms holding her up. She blames it on being exhausted, but internally knows it’s because it’s him.

“Sleepy girl,” he brushes a lock of hair back with his fingers, eyes lighting up with affection at the sight of her: with a bare face and blinking eyes, a yawn tugging at her lips.

“As much as I am not opposed to this sort of intervention,” she begins, rubbing her eyes with closed fists, “mind explaining why you’re here at—“ turns to look at the digital clock atop the kitchen’s oven, “—two in the morning?”

“Guilt?” He offers, sheepishly. She’s confused at first, but her eyes soon widen with realization.

“Right,” she sounds, pushing him back lightly. “You’re,” tap “a,” tap, “jerk.” (jab)

“I know,” he grouses, “but ‘m an apologetic jerk. I need to talk to m’baby.”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Y/N sighs, eyes flickering towards Darcy’s bedroom tentatively. “She’s really upset.”

His eyes are morosely swimming with guilt. “I want to make it better.”

“You will,” she promises, “you’re you, and she adores you. But, it’s not going to be a cake-walk, either.”

—

Darcy wakes up to the scent of buttermilk pancakes and the sound of bacon sizzling on the griddle. Lifting herself out of her twin-sized bed with a yawn, she squinted her pale green eyes as sunshine flooded into the room, signifying it was morning. Her stomach rumbles with hunger.

“Mumma,” she called hoarsely, waiting a few seconds before calling again, with a slightly higher voice.

When Y/N walks in the room, she quickly shuffles over, pressing her face against her leg, so her cheek is mushed.

“Good morning, darling. you hungry?” y/n asks, lifting Darcy up so she’s latched onto her hip, free fingers caught in her thick, chocolate brown curls, detangling them gently.

“Mhm,” she responded, clinging to Y/N like a koala while her mother took her into the washroom to brush her teeth.

“I have a surprise for you, Darc,” she hums, turning the faucet and testing the water for lukewarm temperature with her wrist. This causes Darcy to brighten a bit. “A belated birthday present.”

“Present?” Darcy asks delightedly while Y/N finally carried her freshly washed self to the kitchen, where the scent of stacked thick, syrupy buttermilk pancakes, bacon, and berries once again evade her senses. What causes her to shift slightly in her mother’s hold is the familiar man in the kitchen, his back towards them. He has chocolate curls just as she, and once he turns, those are her eyes on his face, the same dimples poking out as he grins.

“Hi, Darc,” he coos, setting the spatula down and walking towards them with arms wide open.

Darcy twists in Y/N’s hold, and Harry clearly doesn’t notice—he’s still smiling expectantly.

“Look! Daddy’s home, baby,” she urges, but Darcy just tightens her grip on Y/N uncomfortably.

“Momma,” she mumbles lowly, hiding her face in her mother’s neck when Harry comes closer. She lets out a low whine.

Beginning to notice a pattern, he frowns, stepping back a bit before forcing a smile onto his face. Harry gestures to the breakfast foods on the counter.

“‘ve made your favourite,” he tries half-heartedly. Y/N’s own heart breaks at the look on his face and the way Darcy’s hiding from him.

“You two should eat,” he finally says to Y/N, smiling at her reassuringly, although she can see the dejection in his eyes. “She’s hungry, and I don’t think she’ll eat if I...”

“H...”

“It’s fine,” he says, kissing Y/N soundly and then retreating to the bedroom. Her eyes follow him worriedly as he leaves, but her train of thought is disrupted with tiny fists tugging at the hem of her top.

“Pancakes,” Darcy instructs, and Y/N rolls her eyes, before following the command.

—

Harry likes to think he’s making progress when he sits by Darcy as she plays with her toys, and she doesn’t exit to the nearest room. Of course, he’s sitting quite still, just watching her and not really making much conversation as she conducts a tea party, but he can wait until she wants to talk.

Things are going fine, until he rises to step out for a moment and get something from his car. Darcy’s eyes curiously follow him, before being filled with dread.

“Daddy, wait,” she whimpers, carrying herself as fast as her legs could take her, before her arms finally latch around his left leg, catching him by surprise and nearly sending his clumsy self tumbling. He struggles to balance himself with the six year old at his leg. He’s quite alarmed to look down and find her wide, green eyes shining with tears, her bottom lip trembling just like Y/N’s does before she’s about to cry.

“Hey,” he croons softly, lifting his daughter up, smoothing his hand through her unruly curls as she hiccups a small cry. “What’s wrong, hm? Are you hurt?”

“Are you leaving again, daddy?”

His heart stops.

“Are you leaving for good, because I didn’t play with you? I promise I didn’t mean it when I wished for you to stay away, I take it back,” she cried, breathing unevenly and sniffling.

He lifts her up until she’s at eye level with him, and shakes his head.

“No,” he stresses, making sure he’s firm. “I am not leaving. Never leavin’ you, bug. Never think that.”

“But you didn’t come to my birthday,” she sniffles. “Y-you don’t even love me anymore.”

“That’s not true!”

“You don’t hafta lie,” she says softly, looking at the floor and shifting uncomfortably, sadness coating all of her cute features. Her eyes darken to a hazy jade, just as Harry’s do when he’s upset.

“I’m not lying,” he promises, expression softening as he sets her on the ground and then sinks to her level, on his knees. Her posture suggests she’s just gotten told off, back hunched and face crumpled.

“Love you this much,” he gestures, spreading his arms as wide as he could, “and more.”

Darcy peers at him skeptically, still not quite convinced.

“And I’m sorry,” he enunciates slowly, regret written all over his face. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there last night, or any of the nights before. I lost sight of who I was for a moment, but I don’t want anything if I haven’t got you. You’re the most precious thing in my life. I’m sorry I was being a shi— er, a bad daddy. I swear I won’t be anymore.”

“Pinky swear?” Darcy asks in a hushed tone, bringing a smile to Harry’s face. His hand reaches for hers.

“Pinky swear.”

MASTERLIST

[imsofthelp]

Katsuki Bakugou x reader

Category: angst, fluff

Warnings: cursing

A.N This was originally supposed to be done much sooner, but i'm just lazy like that, so here u go. Huge thanks to @velvet-kissesss for editing this so fast!! 🥰🥰

*~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*

You tried to look away from the mirror, from your reflection that reminded you of everything that was going to happen just a moment later.

You focused on the wallpaper - blue hues were painted into the shape of waves that looked as if they crashed here, forever trapped in one moment. You couldn't help but feel the same, trapped in a moment that you couldn't escape.

You took in the view of the creaky old floor with an expensive yet tattered pattern of golden flowers. Your eyes drank in the view of small rays of sunshine that seem to bounce from one place to another.

As much as you wanted to avoid it, your body seemed to betray you as you turned to fully face your reflection. You looked flawless. Although it was a true irony as it was the most miserable day of your life. A most miserable day yet, probably.

The strapless white dress was made from the softest of materials, it reached the floor and resembled dove wings while hugging your figure perfectly. A corset was adjusted to make your waist look impossibly thin but it only made your burning lungs even harder to fill with air.

Lifting your head up, you put two fingers on your tear ducts to try contain tears from spilling and ruining your too flawlessly done makeup.

You didn't want this. Any of this. You didn't ask to be born with a powerful quirk. You didn't ask to marry a man with quirk that was deemed 'compactable' with yours to make perfect, hero worthy babies when combined.

All you ever wanted was to finish U.A with the best grades and then become a hero. To save people, to help those in trouble and to always be an inspiration for heroes yet to be.

You blinked. Then blinked a few more times. Sorrow clouded your mind, making you relive your happiest memories on replay again and again, as if your mind wanted to torment you - to put 'that's what you're losing' right in your fucking face.

You reminisced about your first meeting with a certain blonde-haired boy. You recalled your first date, looked back on the first kiss and awkward first sex. Your searches for an affordable apartment for starting heroes like you two and your late night talks. Everything. Everything was bright and clear in your mind.

You hated them. You hated them for forcing you into this. You were powerful, hell, they wouldn't of been able to make you comply. That's what you thought at first but... when they threatened to hurt Katsuki, everything was done.

All the stubborness, all the mean things you had to say and an offer to shove that proposal up his ass was erased as if it never even crossed your mind.

You could marry a man you didn't love. You could learn to live with the constant dolor of letting go your dreams and your career that had just started. You were fine with leaving your old life behind as long as... as long as he was safe. You loved him so much it hurt sometimes. You loved him so much that you could give up everything for him.

It didn't matter. Not anymore at least. You couldn't change your mind right now. Not when there were only five minutes left until the ceremony started. Five minutes until you stepped out there all dolled up with a fake smile as his companion, waving and smiling to all these people that thought you truly loved the man you were marrying.

Your dress was like dove wings... Ironic how doves are meant to be free, free to go wherever they want. Yet here you were about to be trapped by a fancy ring on your finger and your own words 'I do'.

You counted the minutes. Your heart thumping harder with every tick of the clock, almost as if it was threatening to burst through your ribcage.

When there were only two minutes left and you were struggling to calm yourself, you heard a silent knock on the door.

At first, you thought the knock came from the front door of the room. It could’ve been someone already inviting you to go, but no. It was at the emergency escape door.

You couldn’t even get to the door, almost tripping on your shitty fancy dress on the way when the door burst open and hit the wall.

There he was as real as in your memories - blond hair messy refusing to stay in any other style, his signature skull shirt and black sweats on, stance intimidating, his whole body tense and ruby red eyes radiating nothing else but pure fury. Bakugou fucking Katsuki.

Seeing him made you question your eye sight or even more, sanity.

"Katsuki-" you managed to blurt out, feeling light-headed.

"We're leaving, get out of the stupid dress." he commanded, not explaining anything further, just tossing you a pair of sweats and a hoodie. Your sweats and hoodie.

"What-? Katsu, we can't just do that, I-"

He snickered, looking at the clock then looking back at you.

"You think I'm just going to let you give your life to some shitty extra with a powerful quirk, just because he and your parents want to?" he asked, arms that were in his pockets beginning to shake, his muscular arms tensed. "Over my dead fucking body, and I'm really hard to kill, princess." he managed to make something similar to a smile. "Now hurry, we don't want to cause a scene." With every word of his, you were more and more stunned.

"But... but they're going to hurt you if I don't do this! I would kill myself if anything happened to you because of me!" you said, clenching your clothes to your chest as you tried to keep your tears at bay.

"Deku will become the number 1 hero before they hurt me, babe."

You wanted to believe him. Oh god how you wanted to believe him.

Damn, what made you think he could be defeated at the first place? Who made you so sure that you could just give your life to someone you hated? Not for who they were, but for simply taking the right to make your own decision away from you.

Katsuki's look was quite unreadable. A mix of anger, re-assurance and confidence.

He raised his much bigger hand, taking your own into his to brush your hand lovingly with his thumb.

At that moment, you got all the confidence you wanted. He was your future. He was the one you loved the most and Bakugou was the one that made you braver. The one who made you say,

"Fuck it... Let's go."

His eyes lit up, a cocky smile finding its way to his face as if he knew that this would be your final choice from the start.

You turned, asking him to unzip the shitty, fancy dress but the feeling of his hand on your back almost made you break into sweat. This was wrong.

This was dangerous. You stripped out of the dress, the smooth, expensive material falling to the ground as if was a useless piece of fabric made for cleaning the floor. It felt satisfying as if you had nothing to worry about anymore. As if it was the only burden that kept you from running away from your own wedding.

You sighed, your mind running so wildly in your head almost making it hurt. You knew that this was gonna end up badly but here you were, letting him untie the ribbons of the corset and finally being able to take full breaths while watching him throw it to the other side of the small dressing room.

"These fucking assholes really just made you wear that fucking shit? It looks like it could crush your fucking ribs." he commented, frowning.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, a slight sigh of relief escaping your lips knowing that the corset didn’t make you any more attractive to Bakugou.

You slipped on your sweats before Bakugou made you turn to him, looking you up and down, making your face flush red since you were standing just in your sweats and lacy white bra.

"So you put this fancy shit bra on just for that asshole?" he asked, hues of hurt and jealousy painting his voice a different color than what you were used to. “Were you planning to have sex with him?” he asked, tone as casual as if he was asking what was for dinner tonight. Still, the way his teeth were subtlety clenched made what he was feeling clear.

"Ah, I-"

Warm arms circled around your body, pulling you close against his heaving chest as you could feel the slight tremble of his embrace but didn’t say anything about it, not wanting to make him feel worse than he already felt.

You closed your eyes, wanting to stay like that. Not bothering about the time.

Katsuki littered your jawline with unusually soft kisses, tracing shapes onto the small of your back in calming motions.

His lips trailed down your neck, soft and loving pecks turned into a passion that would definitely leave a mark. You tilted your head back, giving Katsuki better access as you softly caress his hair, tugging it caused him to groan.

When he was so close you could smell the lingering smell of caramel filling all your senses, making him feel so real.

Your breaths were sharp and short and suddenly he bit down, making you gasp but he swallowed all your protests by putting his lips on yours with teeth softly biting your bottom lip, demanding entrance.

You immediately parted your lips, letting his tongue explore your mouth to fill it with the lingering taste of sweet rum he must’ve drank earlier, making your head dizzy.

His hands explored your waist, one going up to caress your clothed breast.

You buried your fingers deeper in his surprisingly soft hair, tugging it, making the kiss even deeper as your tongues were fighting for dominance. Neither of the two wanted to give each other the satisfaction of winning.

The need to breathe was pushed to the back of your mind, afraid that if you let go, everything you had at this moment will shatter. A lingering feeling of irrational fear made you afraid to open your eyes.

Finally, you two parted with string of saliva that connected your lips still it broke. You could almost hear him murmur a quiet ‘i love you’ in his usual gruff voice.

The dream you so desperately held on, the one that felt so real it made your heart throb, was broken by a loud ‘you may now kiss the bride’ from the priest. You could only catch the heartbroken gaze and bittersweet smile of Katsuki as you were kissed by a man you hated and the crowd broke into cheers.

You had the first dance, thanked all the people for congratulating you and cut the cake as you tried to look at your new husband as lovingly as possible. It was partly because of the look you had to keep up, but partly because you thought that if you imagined hard enough, you could almost pretend it was your Katsuki.

Soon you got tired of all the people and told your husband that you needed to get some fresh air.

It was already dark as you closed the door to the hall where the ceremony was held, escaping from everyone with only quieted down music that was the wouldn’t let you forget you about what was still happening inside.

The fact that there were no people out here made you feel lonely as you crept through the garden that was buried in the silent tones of some shitty pop song.

In distance you saw the small light of a lighter flicker and then the most handsome face, recognizable to the point it hurt, lit by a light of a cigarette.

With a few short strides you reached Bakugou. His expression was unreadable, top of his top unbuttoned and tie already untied.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” you finally said, breaking the unbearable silence that lingered between you.

Katsuki let a line of smoke leave his mouth, looking you straight in the eyes,

“Yeah, I was surprised myself.”

Your gaze was turned downwards, almost in shame. You couldn’t look back into his ruby red eyes without a scorching red pain burning through every nerve of your body.

You didn’t say anything as you wrapped your hands around him, feeling him stiffen in your embrace. It almost made you jump back, your thoughts racing. Maybe he didn’t want to hug you. Maybe he didn’t want to even see you. Maybe-

That’s when he wrapped his arms around you in a protective manner, the smell of caramel with a hint of cigarette smoke taking you away. The feeling made yourself tear up.

Bakugou took a step back as soon as he felt your tears wet his shirt. You quickly tried to wipe every trace of them away, but he took the cigarette out of his mouth, stomping the butt and softly wiping your tears away with his thumb, his expression softening.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” his voice was so unusually soft it made you tear up all over again. You couldn’t answer his question. You were afraid that as soon as you spoke he would disappear all over again.

He softly took your face into his hands, his thumbs stroking the tear stained skin carefully.

“Y/N, please answer me.”

“Before he kissed me... before he kissed me I imagined you... we were kissing and you- you were so real and then-” you managed to whimper out before sobs rocked your whole body. Bakugou took you into his embrace, his arms wrapping around your body, one stroking the small of your back comfortingly. “You dissappeared. You said you’d run away with me and then- then you disappeared.”

Katsuki littered your skin with small kisses, making you wonder if the experience was real this time. It couldn’t be fake this time too, right? Everything felt far too real now, you could even hear the rhythmic sound of his heart thumping as he held you close.

“I’m real and I’m not going anywhere.” he assured, kissing the tip of your icy cold nose as you wrapped your trembling hands around his neck. “You said we wanted to run away in the dream you had, right?”

You managed to nod with the hot breaths of your lover tickling the skin of your neck.

“Well what if I told you that we can make that come true?”

[cupidthewriter]

im not sure theyre SUPPOSED to be pretty, i think i just personally find them pretty. our bodies are meant to work and every part is just supposed to do its own job and thats what makes them so pretty to me does that make sense??

im not sure i think its partially my fascination of how everything works and how its so weird that i have limbs with SMALLER LIMBS that are controlled by muscles like puppet strings in my arms (THERE ARE NO MUSCLES IN YOUR FINGERS) and yet capable of so much despite being so easy to damage (without our brains telling our body not to, we could easily bite right through.) or how the veins and bones in your hands move as you type and you can SEE your body working or how sometimes even when youre not anxious you can see someones heartbeat all the way out here, past their sternum and skin the fact your jaw is the strongest force in your body and its not even what we use for strenth is fantastic and the way ribs protect everything inside is fascinating like a.... idk i ran out of poetry all i could think of was "super safe jail that slightly resembles wings"

anyways im biased bc my love for the human body is more based on "this is f***ing cool" although!! skin!! skin and all the patterns freckles can make and how different everyone looks is so AAAAAA

Hey can I ask a question?

like...Do people actually like how humans look naked? Or is it just cuz sex?

Like just aesthetically. Are naked humans supposed to look nice?

[artificialqueens]

Ten Days (Crygi) - Cashmere

Hi guys, So I posted this story literally about … 6 years ago on tumblr with another ship, but decided 1) I want to get into writing again and 2) It was time to go through my old stories and do revamp on some, and it just so happens Crygi is my current drag race obsession, and I’ve had far too much wine and I’m far too emotional and after being here from the start of AQ? I’m finally posting my first fic here. So here we go!

—

 It’s freezing in the apartment, just the way they liked it. You’d never really questioned it out loud but secretly you just wondered if they kept it that cold so you’d have an excuse to cuddle even if it was scorching outside, not that you ever complained about being curled up with them for hours on end. 

You’ve been on the sofa for what feels like an eternity, the blend of mismatched fibers under you rubbing your skin raw , and all you can see is a kaleidoscope of blooming colors from the many paintings and sketches that litter the walls, sporadically spread across it with no rhyme or reason, as well as the red wine stains that still splatter across the wall from when they and Daegan had gotten into a wrestling match when the pink haired girl had blue shelled them in a winner takes all game of mario kart, and they’d forgotten they still had a full cup of merlot, and you’d groaned about how you weren’t going to get that bond back. 

 All you can hear is the rain steadily beating down against the large windows offering a view to the city you’d adopted as your own, it’s been raining constantly. You on the other hand haven’t cried. You want to, but your eyes remain dry, so maybe the sky is trying to compensate for you? You don’t usually ponder the deep mysteries of the universe,  that was their job. Especially when they was high and asked questions like ‘Are lobsters just fishy mermaids?’, and ‘’If you erase a word.. Where does it go? Does it just vanish?”

You sigh deeply, the breath rattling your lungs and roll over to stare blankly at the back of the sofa so you don’t have to see the paintings, the vibrant colors teeming with life, mocking you.  ‘You’re so brave’, it’s all you ever hear these days. Anyone that knows you will tell you how brave you are, how you’ve been cool, composed, keeping it together. How you’ve you’ve been ‘A beacon of strength’. But you’re not brave. You’re not. they were brave. You’re just terrified and floundering, blustering your way through. Faking it till you making it, with a display of false confidence; when inside you’ve never felt more alone.

Your entire body aches. You’re numb. Empty; and it’s the worst feeling in the world. You understand the pain, the agony. They came. They came and they took over you, and then they just .. Left. It’s as if your heart has left your body. Like it left to save you from yourself because if it was still there in shattered pieces? You’d fall apart with no hope of being put back together. You want to feel something. Anything. You want to cry, scream, reach out, react, anything but your body refuses to move so much as a single finger.

Is this how it feels? Is this oblivion? Hell? It’s been 10 days since you’ve lowered them into the ground. You’ve seen the sunrise, you’ve seen the sunset. You’ve counted the stars until they start blurring together. You’ve watch the sunlight dance on the walls and filter between the gauzy curtains made of what was supposed to be a sari that they’d picked up from a thrift store downtown. It’s been 10 days since you got that call. Your phone is next to you. Full of unread messages, and unanswered phone calls. But you don’t want them. The pity, the voices of everyone but who you want to hear.  Your hands reach out, pale and slender and shake as you struggle to dial the numbers, having to delete that extra ‘8’ that keeps popping up. But when you manage it and lift it to your ear. It rings. It rings and rings. And then you hear it

’Hiiiiiiiii. This is TicTac and CrystalMethydfromdragraceseason12 and host of Get Dusted Party. Leave a message! Do it!” Their voice is still your favorite sound in the world, even though the message is truly awful and you drop your phone onto the rug, not even bothering to hang up,and a single tear rolls down your cheek, cutting through the layers of sweat that have dried against your skin, reddened and indented from the corduroy cushions that scatter the sofa.

  Never again will they pick up the phone, never again will they call you back. Never again will you pick up your phone to hear their voice on the other end of the line asking you what to get for dinner, what time does your flight get in, is there anything you want them to look for at the thrift store, a picture of street art, a green lawn, a meme, and never again will you get a text message from them reminding you that they loved you.

You shakily reach down, dialing the number again, and again, and again. If only to hear their voice. You manage to get off the couch, only to fall to your knees, your muscles weak from days of barely being used. Your phone battery finally fails you, half way through the recorded message and a broken sob leaves your lips and you’re left in silence, the sound echoing from the darkened walls. You haven’t been able to cry, but now. On the floor of your home. The home you both build together and made your own; with nothing but a flat phone in your hand you start to sob uncontrollably, ten days of repressed emotion hitting you all at once.

 It’s a tidal wave, like nothing you’ve ever felt before, assaulting and ravaging your insides. It’s raw, burning, all consuming, and you scream, choke, and wail helplessly, each cry more pained than the last, the sounds almost animal in nature as they tear through your vocal cords. You weren’t meant to be alone. They’d promised to never leave you, and they’d tried. They’d tried to fight to stay, for themselves. For you, for everything else in this world. Sunsets, ginger cats, paints, Missouri summers, colorful jewelry, loud laughter, thick blunts, and brightly patterned shirts in soft fabrics; but even their fighting spirit was no match for fate.

 You need to get up eventually. To shower and wash your hair that hangs in oily clumps, to eat something, to leave the room that smells like them with the tiny personal touches that still litter the room like ornaments, the ugly keychain collection that hangs from the hook. You need to start taking steps to move on. But today isn’t that day. And so you remain on the rug, your cheek pressed to the tight weaving, squeezing your eyes shut and opening them again as if you’ll blink and wake-up and find everything is just a nightmare, a long drawn-out nightmare, though there’s only so long you can keep kidding yourself, and you’re reaching the end of that point rapidly; and it scares the hell out of you.

Because you need them, and you don’t want to wake up and acknowledge they’re gone, or to try to remember their face only for it to be a blur, to forget the languid way their fingers trailed along your ribs as though you were made of the finest porcelain, the way their hair fell in cocoa colored curls and the proud look in their eyes when their mullet ‘finally reached all the way to their crack’. You don’t want to forget how they tasted, or the way they laughed with their entire body, or the way that when you kissed how it felt like everything stopped and the world shrank down to the two of you no matter where you were. You can’t forget them, the memories seared into your brain, but in your head? That’s what moving on resembles. So you remain on the floor, your heart in pieces surrounded by the life you made together, and your tears keep coming in between pleas to the air around you, “Please come home?” though the resounding silence is your only answer. 

[aliypop]

A Knight’s Lust

Wordcount: 1,970

Warning: Smut, language 

A/N: Chapter 6 to The Element Of Destiny 

"Expecting someone else... Adina asked, discarding what was Geralt's old shirt behind the dressing divider. Geralt only laughed, his fondest memories following along with that shirt. "I was expecting you to explain what you meant.." he said, standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "You're smart: figure it out.." she peered her head out from behind the fabric.

 "Would it kill you to be direct.."

"Would it kill you to knock.." Adina suggested stepping out in her gown. The moon was highlighting her skin ever so softly. And Geralt for once had felt as if he'd be bewitched. "Were you waiting for me to ask.." Geralt mumbled: a bit embarrassed that the sight and smell of her were nearly bringing him to his knees. "It would have been the right thing to do.." she laughed, her curls still wild on her head, just as they did when they were longer. "Why's that.." 

"I assumed everyone else asked for their turn with the witcher.." she got closer to him, "Why not the witcher ask me.." Adina whispered in his ear, her body pressed against Geralt's. She could feel his heart nearly pounding in his chest and his eyes aglow with lust. 

"Ask you.. after what you said.." 

"And what did I say, Bellegarde.." pinning him down to the wall, 

"Something about how a princess and a dumb mutant.." he grabbed her by the waist, 

placing her where he once stood, he had begun to smell the sensation of her pooling need for him that was arising. 

"I've changed since then, Geralt.." her eyes focused on lips.  

"How.."

"Like this.." Pulling him by the folds of his shirt. Adina latched her lips to his, bodies pressed against each other like the waves to the sand. The kiss between them had spoken far more words than they did collectively together. Hiking up her nightgown, Geralt couldn't help but feel the need to take her right there against the wall. Pressing his fingers to her wanting folds, Everyone who had ever been with Geralt would tell you he was a tease, but Adina didn't think that meant teasingly slow. Whimper at the rough touch he had, she wanted more: she wanted him. "Geralt Plea-" her plea for more was cut off. To the feeling of Geralt's tongue mapping, it's way across the wet wanting bud. Hands tangling into snow-white strands, Adina was already getting closer, her head against the cold stone walls. And the face that Geralt always knew too well. 

"And to think you were with a succubus .."  

"Shut up.." Adina growled, pushing Geralt to the bed, straddling him just like she did before when he accepted sweet defeat. Loving the view she had under her, Adina knew that she had to pay him back for the simple teasing he caused her. Rubbing against Geralt's bulge, she could feel the Witcher twitch under him. 

"Coming undone already.." she nibbled on his ear, hearing his grunts and mews. To think that she had a wolf cowering like a puppy. 

"Fuck you.." 

"I've been waiting on you to!" she bit her lip, adjusting to his length. Her eye's nearly seeing double while Geralt only had his usual shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Meanwhile, down in the keeps, Lambert and Eskel were getting enjoyably drunk and playing Gwent. 

 "So you and Adien.." 

"So you and any brothel you can get your hands on.." 

"Touche.." Eskel smirked, putting down his card that had Vesemir on it. Spring was approaching fast, which usually meant they went back on their paths hunted monsters. And would return yet again another winter which always made them feel like birds but backwards on the migration pattern. 

"Did you hear something.."

"Probably Geralt.." 

The feeling of Geralt's hand embrace her neck made Adina go wild. As his hips nearly pounded into the knight, he knew there wasn't anyone else he would want to do so roughly but the princess in front of him.  " Harder!" she mused and moaned, feeling the witcher pulling on her curls. Adina was in a state of euphoria. Hearing the sound of their skin slapping together and their sweat colliding, she didn't want it to end. 

"Oh Fuck.. Oh, Gods, Geralt!" her voice cracked as her walls tightened around his length, nearly milking him dry as he filled her up, making her full and whole of just him. "Was that more than you imagined it to be.." Geralt asked, a genuine look of joy on his face.

"Beats those nights alone when I wished you were there.." she turned to look at him, placing a sloppy kiss by the corner of his swollen lips that still lingered with her sweet taste. Their breathing was in-synced, eyes focused on each other. When the morning came, Geralt was right next to her. Bodies entangled in each other while their clothes laid askew across the floor. 

"Oi Dina... Have you seen pretty boy mcshitface!" Lambert nearly shouted from outside her door. Adina grumbled, noticing from the shadow of the sun that they had slept past the morning. Something they barely got to do.  

"Well, I.." she began to answer, feeling the weight of the bed shift. 

"Fuck off, Lambert.." Geralt growled, poking his head out the door. Lambert only looked at Adina then back at Geralt as he smirked. "You lucky bastard.." 

As the final winter snow had melted, both Adina and Geralt packed up their horses and were on their way. "Strip Gwent next winter?!" Adina shouted back. As Geralt turned a bit red: Eskel and Lambert only nodded while Vesemir shook his head, still wondering how the two witchers were still so childish. As Buttercup and Roach began to trot in the spring dew, the two couldn't keep their eyes off each other. 

 "Geralt... " 

"Hmm.."

"Did you make sure you made enough potions.." she asked, trying to strike up a conversation. Traveling through the woods of Posada, she remembered all too well about the time she saved Geralt from the Striga. "Yeah.. why .."

"I might have to save your ass from a Striga again.. or Drowners." she pointed to the lake, hearing Geralt laugh. "That was.." 

"Right here.." she finished his sentence. However, things weren't what they seemed. 

 Back in Abbinshire, the king had a mighty plan to rid of every witch that he could. Sitting in her cottage was Tithuba, who was awaiting the return of Adina. As the witch paced back and forth, she could hear the distant footsteps of "Clarion.. " her heartbeat racing in fear, mustering as many spells that she knew in her mind. "Guards!" his voice rang out from behind the wooden door. "Shit.. think of something quick.." raising her hands: she mumbled under her breath, " Portauro Padli." a black orb coming from her hand. When the door swung open, she was faced to face with her deepest fear. Sword in hand, he was ready to kill anyone who had housed the beast and that wretched knight. 

 "Where are they.." 

"No, hello .." she smirked, her eyes turning into those of a dragon. Clarion snarled at what was once his wife as he took a step further towards her. "You should be dead.." he growled, his sword of sliver pressed against her neck. Tithuba knew that one day she would meet fate's end, but it wouldn't be today. 

"Now where are they, Tithuba.." 

"Right here.." the voice of the knight reaching the ears of her father. Clarion only turned to see the disgrace of what everyone once called a princess. "You are nothing but a child of surprise.. nobody wants you.." Clarion laughed, throwing Tithuba across the floor of the cottage. Geralt ran to the aid of the witch, watching the hurt and fury that was behind Adina's eyes. Her blade sharp and her teeth sharper were the looks of the true warrior.

 She was the granddaughter of the golden dragon she had once worn as her crest. And it was time she started acting like it. Clarion couldn't help but smile while unsheathing his sword: in front of him was his very own flesh and blood, while behind him was the monster that he used to strike fear in her heart. Casting a spell that made Tithuba wallow out in pain and hives, he had one more thing to say. 

"How does it feel losing the best thing that ever happened to you.." he asked, referring to himself.

Adina lunged forth towards him, blocking the hit with a cut between their blades. "Depends on what you mean.." she laughed, thinking back to her training over the winter.  

" If you kill me, you lose everything you've ever known.." 

"The fear you installed in me.." Adina asked. She felt the tip of her blade slice into her shoulder. Still keeping up with his footwork, she continued never wavering once: until her sword flew from her hand and near the door. "Sorry princess, but I'm going to have to ki-"

 Adina felt in control, kicking him off her, just as she did Geralt and Lambert when they ambushed her. Clarion backed away, his nose bloody as he doubled over. 

"You learned from those dirty vagabond mutants.." he then slashed her in the side. Watching the pain subdue her, he balled up his fist as she curled into a ball. The seal on her back still having power over her. Boils popping and the smell of burning flesh lingering as hot golden tears streamed from her dragon eyes, the same one now peering at her.  

"STOP IT AT ONCE!"    bright red and orange flames engulfed Adina in an embrace like a hug. Golden wings off fire appearing from behind her. Stretching her hand out, Clarion levitated off the ground and eye to eye to Adina. Throwing him aside like a child and a useless toy, she could only feel the blood of her ancestors drive deep into her veins. " Araiatis Vesperinius." she watched as the blood from his body separated from him. Geralt was amazed at the beautiful harshness that was Adina. From the fire around her to the orange spark in her eyes. He could see that destiny brought them together. Clarion's body fell limp to the ground as she discarded his blood into a vile.   

"Long live the queen.." Geralt smirked, glancing over at Adina. 

"How long were you standing there.." She asked, wearing a bloodied gown that resembled the scales of a dragon. Holding onto her ribs, Geralt walked her over to Tithuba's table. Adina removed the dress as she began to wrap up her wounds. A pair of rough hands halting hers. 

 "Geralt.." 

"Let me stitch you back together for once.." he laughed,

"I can do it myself.." 

"Don't be so stubborn.." he began taking the needle to her ribs, ghosting a few fingers on her flesh. Adina bit down on her lip, seeing that Geralt wasn't going to give her anything to numb the pain. 

"You're doing it wrong.." she mumbled,

"How would you do it..."

Wrapping up her shoulder, she started the bandage from her torso. Wenching from the added pressure, Geralt took the rest finishing the job for her. His warm hands felt great for the little bit of blood she was losing. Leaning onto Geralt's chest, she felt at ease. 

"Hey, watch it!" she joked. 

"You act as if we didn't just fuck during the winter," Geralt mentioned, tilting her chin to steal a kiss from her. Adina smirked, one hand in his hair the other on the table. "You act as if we didn't before we even got here," she whispered breathlessly. 

"What's taking you two so long!" Tithuba shouted, a bit in pain. 

"Oh, shit.." Geralt looked at Adina.

"What did you do.." 

"The herbs.." 

"Fuck.."

[pulchralilium]

@azure-steel

Here. Idk what this is or where it came from but...*throws at you*

It’s nearly impossible to get him to ever agree to wearing anything else other than his normal clothes to bed. Habits die hard, she knows and he’s stubborn over it. Cloud budged with his boots, agreeing that he’d take them off. It was a long process of getting him to relax, of letting him adjust to their home in a way that made him comfortable. Aerith would whine when she’d curl up to him only to yelp when she felt his work clothes.

Somedays he’d be so tired from work that he’d have no choice to strip out of them, casting the dirty clothes to the floor. Those mornings were always a joy, curling up to find a soft cotton t-shirt rather than leather.

Today however, it seemed the gods were going to spoil her. Aerith turned, fingertips reaching out to surprisingly find skin. Emerald eyes shoot open, shock written on her face at the display before her. The sun is bathing his side of the bed, soaking into his body and radiating off of it. 

Cloud was sprawled out, arms crossed lazily above his head as if he had used them as a pillow and had sunken off them. One singular arm lays over his eyes, in an attempt to keep some of the peeking sunlight out. One leg was cast over the sheet, bare and sculped skin laid before her. The sheet tucked over his other leg, just shielding her view from his entire naked form.

If she had to guess, yesterday’s deliveries must have been rough. She could still faintly smell his soap on his skin, which meant he had forced himself to shower and then dragged himself into bed. The soft snoring, which Aerith is certain only ever happens when a day had been absolutely exhausting; is the only sound that radiates from him.

Curiosity draws her nearer, sitting herself up onto her knees to grace her gaze at him. Seldom does she gaze at him like this, not that she’s never seen him naked, but more so never taken the time to look at him. He’d laugh if she ever said it, but she swears that Cloud  physique is something that sculptures would resemble. Her fingertips drag along the defined muscle on his arms, following the lines of hard work that show on his body. Cloud is muscular, a lean sort of body type that isn’t bulky. When he flexes, she can see the outlines of muscle from years of hard work and labor of carrying a sword twice her weight. Not to mention how many times he’s saved her, them, the world.

Petal-like fingers continue their exploratory journey, following the toned V-shape onto his lower stomach before her hands trace back up to the scare in his chest. They had similar scars now, even if they don’t talk about it. It always makes her pause whenever she catches sight of it within the throws of their lovemaking. It’s worn against his skin, faded but still present. His skin is not perfect, it’s marked and marred in spots of battle; but there is still a softness to it she finds surprising. Her free hand moves to trace the outline of her own, dipping beneath silk to feel the raised bump on her skin verses the flat one on his. She wonders if it’ll heal the same, or if the differences will remain. If he’ll ever be able to look at it without looking away. 

Her hands trace the outline of his ribs, erasing the twisting in her stomach thinking about their matching scars. It’s a topic she tends to avoid, finding it never the right time or place. Instead, she takes note on how she can feel the bones, the flesh on his torso tight and chiseled; much like the rest of him. Finally, at a healthier weight, something more suitable for someone who works as hard as he does. Aerith is careful, ensure her touch isn’t heavy enough to produce something that feels like her tickling his sides. 

Cloud’s slumbering face is checked upon, wondering if he was finally catching up on the lost hours over the last week and a half. He’s usually acutely aware of touch, or perhaps he’s letting her get away with her curiously exploring his body. It’s a hard temptation to pass up, the moment to appreciate how Adonis-like he looks in her eyes.

Hands stroke the broadness of his arm, the way his bicep curls into shapes and then his shoulders. She traces the pattern of his collar bone, resisting the urge to leave a mark upon it with her lips. Instead Aerith finds her gaze on his face, the softness that is so unlike the rest of him. Fingertips ghost over the outline of his jaw, barely touching the curve of his lips and nose before doubles back over those features and down his neck to his chest.

Cloud has always been handsome, yet there is something in this moment that captivates her. If she had any talent at all, she could imagine someone wanting to sculp his form in marble, like they had done centuries ago when beauty laid before them. Aerith tugs herself closer, mindful to keep herself from leaning over. The last thing she needed was to startle him away by thinking he was under attack. He’d never undress again if that was the case.

Instead, she breaths softly, letting her gaze rest on his face with a smile that warms her entire soul. It was comforting to finally seeing her Atlas rest.