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frozen-fountain · 2 years ago

Note

In addition.

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

Yes and no for different aspects of the craft. I'm unabashedly self-indulgent when I write, at least in terms of subject matter, theme, and the actual events of the story. I think we produce our best and most vital work when it's something close to the heart that gets us excited, so I'm building around those moments rather than cutting them. I've often found myself absolutely entranced by stories that feature one or more of my usual nopes, but in which you can tell the writer was having the time of their life and/or creating something they're deeply passionate about. That's infectious, and important.

Where I do kill my darlings without hesitation is phrasing and flow. I love me some ornate prose and Scrabble words but it needs to enhance and not obfuscate a story, so even if I'm in love with a shiny bit of wording I just came up with, if it doesn't fit with the inner world of the character in question or match the tone of the scene, it has to go.

I have a document that's more of a darling scrapheap or cryo chamber than a graveyard. If I have a choice but ill-fitting phrase, it goes there, to hopefully be repurposed into something more cohesive. The good part of doing a series is that I can also cut lengthier passages that I like but don't quite fit and save them for future stories, maybe even basing a whole fic around them.

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

I love the way these questions are phrased and framed. Anyway, my wishes are the ability to focus more consistently, a device that mutes all outside noise (save for sounds that signal incoming danger), and a stronger sense for how I'm doing in terms of keeping some things subtextual without being too vague or too scattershot. Not holding a reader's hand the whole way, but also giving them an adequate map to get there. I find it really hard to judge when I know most of the answers.

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

The most viscerally upset I've ever been during the process was when recounting incidences of a gay man who, due to his high position in the world demanding otherwise, attempted a few times to "correct" himself by sleeping with women. And I haven't even written this story yet. I was only making notes for the future and I still had to walk that one off. I'm still not entirely sure why it got to me quite as much as it did. That's not been part of my journey (when I leaned into my own queerness, it was actually something of a relief to finally be Weird in an identifiable way for once). So I think what I struggle with the most on an emotional level is repression, denial, and a character forcing themselves into a box that's all wrong. I think I write this well, but it takes it out of me in a big way.

On a more technical level, it's a common answer, but action is hard! You want to keep the pace quick but also describe movements and changing surroundings well enough that the reader isn't lost (unless you want them to be), while also communicating something about the characters through the way they move and react. It's a lot for my brain to hold all at once, and the fact that I'm such a klutz and can't imagine being so at home in my own body does not help.

As for what's easy... friendship, I suppose. I think I do a good job of creating layered, thoughtful dynamics between people and highlighting fresh aspects of everyone's characterisation through these interactions, spotting parallels that enhance the theme of the story in some way. When I really know my characters the banter between them tends to write itself, especially in big group downtime scenes, which I love doing. Crafting these little oases they, and the reader, get to stop in for a short time amidst all the trauma.

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

I hope people aren't afraid to borrow books from me. I'd rather they were being enjoyed by someone than gathering dust on a shelf, which is what's most likely to happen even if I do enjoy revisiting favourites. There's a few that are, as far as I know, still with people who are no longer part of my life, and I'm happy for them to be a little reminder of a relationship that used to be.

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

I do read in the bath sometimes. It's a terrible decision considering how clumsy I am. But I don't purposefully bend pages and I don't usually write in books, either - unless I'm rereading something and really deep diving into the framework of it, I prefer to let the story wash over me and break it up as little as possible. I do make notes on paper at the end of a chapter, though, otherwise I'm liable to forget too much and miss connections. Similarly, I keep a notes document open when I'm reading fanfic, so I give back as much to the author as possible.

As long as you're not defacing library property or borrowed books, I'm not judging and we can still be friends.

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

Flattened paracetamol box.

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

I've been mulling over this one because, if the premise interests them, I'd rather people read my fics and had the chance to work this out for themselves. And if my ideas aren't appealing then I doubt this answer will be, either. I'd especially prefer not to say what doesn't make it onto the page, because that's a reader's realm. That's where they get to be part of the process, without me dictating it to them.

In terms of my biggest ongoing WIP, which is my FFVII series... what I will say is that I hope the rose tinting on the pages doesn't obscure the fact that a lot has been left off them. It's a story of political and cultural revolution told from the viewpoint of people who are incredibly personally invested in the success of their vision, and there are many things they choose not to dwell on. It's the track Storm by Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and we're still in the first ten minutes of it. We've had the slow and hesitant awakening that builds and builds into something beautiful, and now we're in the grandeur and crescendo of a world reborn for the better - but 12:10 is going to hit eventually, and so is the emptiness that comes after it.

And for the handful of people who've been reading along, do they know? Have I made it clear that they're watching characters plant the seeds for their own downfall as well as their rooftop gardens? Does anyone believe I really think it would be that easy to change the world? This is where my last wish in question question twelve would come in handy.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

[Elena] pushed the teapot away and ran to her wardrobe. “Why in the planet's name do I still have this?” Her Turk uniform had been tailored three years prior, before she put inches on her height and muscle on her limbs. She'd never fit into it again. Grabbing her pants from the top shelf, she roared as she pulled the legs apart. No rip, no give, defeated by the finest tactical tailoring Shinra had to offer.

The jacket, too, came with her into the living room. Elena fell on her knees before the fire and hurled them both into the flames – only to dampen them. Cold and dark closed in around her and she laughed. Of course the material was fire resistant, too. Everyone and their mother had materia. She laughed, high-pitched giggles spilling from her lips as fast as the ants.

“You were a fucking idiot.”

In my initial notes for the story, this scene was more or less played straight. Elena, after five chapters of character development in a world where everything she was ever taught to value vanished practically overnight, symbolically burns a Turk uniform that doesn't fit her anymore, in any sense. Then I thought it'd be really funny if she flubbed her own symbolism spectacularly because it wouldn't light, and then I thought about the premise more seriously and realised it was a great way to demonstrate how much she's changed. She's able to laugh at her own mistake instead of finding the nearest punchable object to take her shame and frustration out on - and that's a long way for her, for the world that's shaping her, and for me writing it, to have come.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

I've been making up stories for longer than I can remember. I don't know where the urge came from, but it started early and never left; I'd put it down in large part to growing up lonely and out in the country, and having to make my own fun most of the time. I think I was around nine or ten when I started thinking about pursuing a career in creative writing - animation at first, then directing, then novels. It's not an avenue I still intend to go down, but it is what prompted me to start taking the craft seriously.

There were bumps indeed. I grew up in a way that made me think I had no worth outside of the artistic work I could produce. I was less a person and more an empty trophy cabinet, waiting to be filled with evidence of achievements others could live vicariously through. This was something I had to unlearn, in part by taking whole years out of writing, and didn't understand until well after the fact. But the urge to tell stories never left me alone and I always end up coming back, especially now I've rediscovered the joy of self-expression and have actual life experience to draw on. I can't tell you where I'm going, but I'll describe every step of the journey to you in great detail.

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

The idea of only one compared to which all others are not true is so absolutely antithetical to what I believe about love that this isn't a choice at all.

Weird Questions for Writers

…All.

Alright, everyone else go home, I guess. I'll be doing this in stages over the next couple of days because, as much as I enjoy talking about myself, I do still have to write this afternoon. Thank you!

What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

Basic Times New Roman, more out of familiarity than anything. I keep meaning to try the Comic Sans trick that supposedly makes it easier to focus, but I don't know if I can bear to look at that all day.

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

I don't relish the thought of those wrist cramps, but yes, I think I would. I can't stand the thought of just keeping it all in my own head.

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

I usually end up doing it early afternoon, after lunch and a few minutes of pacing or stretching to clear my head. I'll also play with my cat for a while beforehand, as if he's tired from being a fearsome hunter he's less likely to get up on the clackboard to help me (results may vary). Then I procure something to drink, pick out something to listen to, and freewrite some word association for a bit if I'm not in the right headspace.

While I have a vague goal in mind for where I'd like to write up to, these days, I only make myself do a single sentence per day. It's usually much more than that, but just that sentence absolutely has to happen every single day if it's really all I can manage. When I'm done, I try to leave at a point I'm actively excited to get back to and have a clear picture, so it's easier to pick up the next day. Usually I jot down a few notes to help.

It's cursed because a lot of the music I enjoy probably is, and because the aforementioned notes have sometimes been things like "toilet paper" or "[character] on her Caravaggio bullshit" and I'm left just sitting there trying to work out what any of this was in reference to, or why Past Froze thought it was going to be helpful.

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

Susurrus. I try to limit it to one use per story, and maybe one per chapter if I'm feeling extra indulgent.

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

Not a superstition I actively believe, but every time I think a fic might do well it's met with silence, whereas the ones I assume are for me and an audience of three end up performing way better than expected. I don't judge success on external factors and will write what I want to say regardless, but it's a nice reminder that whatever niche oddness you're cooking up might have more of an audience than you realise.

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

It's more a fear about myself, which is that my ability or lack thereof to execute an idea doesn't matter, because what I have to say in the first place is of no interest or value whatsoever and no amount of minutely crafted phrasing can change that. (Needless to say, I would never think this of another person, no matter what they were trying to tell me.)

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

That I do it anyway. That, regardless of how it does or doesn't impact on the world outside of me, I experienced something that made me feel strongly enough to take the time to attempt to recreate it in words. And when, after minutes that feel like hours over agonising over which words to use, I find some that hit the exact resonance and well of allusion I was hoping for? It's about the most accomplished I've ever felt.

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

I'd choose the all-dialogue option because that would be a bigger challenge for me, and also because I have a great model for how to do it in The Fall by Camus. So I'd reread that and pick apart how it was done in a way that worked; I can picture the setting of the novel so clearly even though it's only described in ways that feel naturalistic for characters who are walking through it. I'm guessing this would remain a shorter piece, and I'd have a specific reason for zooming in so completely on what's being said to the exclusion of all else, and I think this would be a great medium for an unreliable narrator. The negative space around what isn't said would have to be as intrinsic a part of the story as anything that makes it onto the page. I think it'd be a really interesting experiment, some time.

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

I believe many, many people have experienced things we currently (and most certainly always will) lack the scientific method to understand and quantify. I'm about ninety percent sure I had a premonition once. I also believe what we say and do resonates, in ways that are hard to track and trace, beyond the moment where they occur. I'm not sure whether this means I believe there's a non-corporeal part of us all that lingers after the physical body reaches its planned obsolescence, and that sometimes this remnant is able to reach out and touch the living from time to time, but it's something.

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

At least a fragment of everything I've ever read or written lives under my skin. Even if I hated it or even if I can't remember anything about it besides that splinter that stood out the most. All I've lived - and not lived, especially when I might have had the chance to - is waiting over my shoulder and following me along the corridor, whether as a warning or a tormentor or a guide.

#froze fics #the--calamity

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skyward-floored · 3 years ago

Note

for requests, maybe some wild + wolfie bonding? wolfie having too much fun giving wild heart attacks as a nice role reversal <33

My brain latched onto “Wolfie having too much fun giving Wild heart attacks” so that’s the main focus, but regardless, I hope you enjoy anon! (I’m sorry this is so late)

————————————————————

(Read it on ao3)

Wild was fuming.

He paced angrily at the bottom of a sheer cliff, only able to watch as Wolfie-Twilight currently tightrope-walked his way up a series of ropes stretching across several rickety platforms that were spread along the cliff side.

And why was Twilight risking his life by traversing a series of dangerously flimsy ropes?

For a stupid treasure chest.

Wild growled and kicked a rock, wincing when the motion jarred his arm. He’d broken it in a scuffle with some monsters a couple hours ago, and with him and Twilight separated from the others without a potion to their names, he’d just had to wait to get it healed.

Which was part of why he was so annoyed.

Twilight had seen the chest and barely spoken a word before immediately turning into a wolf and charging up the ropes before Wild could even protest. Or remind him that if he fell they couldn’t heal him because they were out of healing supplies. Just because they were in some far-flung corner of Twilight’s Hyrule he hadn’t ever really gotten to explore before didn’t mean they had to get the chest now.

Wild sighed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Now don’t get him wrong. He loved treasure as much as the next Link. In fact, if his arm wasn’t broken he’d likely be scaling the cliff himself, freehand, without having to rely on any flimsy tightropes at that.

But his arm was broken. And the pain was making him grouchy and he was annoyed that he couldn’t climb up the cliff which only made him worry more the higher Twilight got because Wild couldn’t do anything.

“Come on Twi, can’t you just leave it?” he yelled up the cliff for what was probably the tenth time.

Twilight paused, peered down at him, then shot him a barely apologetic grin before continuing upwards at a speed that was verging on breakneck.

Wild could only grumble with a considerable amount of worry as Twilight worked his way higher and higher up the ropes, leaping onto the rickety platforms between them with ease. He was already more then a third of the way up now due to the speed he was ascending, and Wild’s patience had nearly run thin.

Then Twilight’s paw slipped.

Wild heard a yelp, then all of a sudden Twilight was hanging onto the rope with only his front paws, tail and hind paws swinging wildly in the wind.

“Twilight!” he yelled, heart thudding as he watched him struggle.

Twilight yipped reassuringly in response, (or at least Wild was pretty sure it was supposed to be reassuring) and wiggled his paws up and around, trying to swing himself up and regain his balance.

Wild’s eyes never left his struggling friend, and the angle he was at provided him a perfect view of the exact moment the rope suddenly snapped.

Wild’s heart shot straight up into his throat and he was pretty sure he screamed, but somehow Twilight grabbed the swinging rope with his teeth as he fell, and managed to scrabble up onto a nearby platform with little to no issue.

Wild gasped with relief, and watched as Twilight shook himself, barely looking phased.

“Get back down here Twi! I’m going to kill you for scaring me like that!” he yelled, fear abruptly switching to anger. He could just barely make out the wolffish grin Twilight shot him before he continued to climb, taking a different rope this time as he made his way to the chest.

Wild could only watch, fuming while his heart still beat faster then it should as his friend continued to climb, already preparing his angry speech for when he came back down.

It didn’t take Twilight long after that to reach the chest, the platform where it rested being surprisingly sturdier than the others. He turned back into a human, and Wild got out his slate to more easily watch him open the thing. Twilight’s back was in the way, so Wild couldn’t see what was in it, but he could see the excited way the rancher was holding himself. It really must’ve been something good.

“Come on Twilight! You heard me! Get your stupid furry tail down here so I can give you a piece of my mind!” he yelled, and Twilight tucked whatever he got from the chest into his pouch before turning into a wolf and steadily making his way back down the ropes.

The moment his paws hit the ground Wild was already charging towards him, and Twilight didn’t even have time to turn hylian again before the champion was throwing his arms around him.

Then he drew back and glared.

“What’s the matter with you?! You could’ve been killed Twi!” Wild snapped, punching him on the shoulder. Wolfie merely huffed, licking the champion’s nose in response and making him splutter. Then Twilight changed back into a hylian again and immediately took a few steps back.

“I’m perfectly fine Wild, no need to get up in arms,” he said, waving his hands to try and calm him down. “Besides, it was worth it!”

Twilight grinned ear-to-ear as he reached into his bag and held up the item he’d received from the chest, holding it out towards Wild.

Wild squinted, staring at it in disbelief.

“Twi that’s a stamp.”

Twilight beamed. “I know! And not just a regular old stamp either, it’s a stamp of the number two! Now I can mark all sorts of stuff with it!”

Wild’s incredulous stare moved from the stamp to Twilight’s face.

“But... couldn’t you just write the number two?”

Twilight waved him off, admiring the small green stamp in his hands as he turned it around in the light. “Well yeah, but now I’ve got all the numbers from one all the way up to four! I’ve got seven too, but there’s not much use for it without the five and six.”

Wild made a little disbelieving noise.

“You risked your life and nearly fell to your doom over a stamp for your collection?” he said, voice on the verge of a shriek.

Twilight smiled and nodded his head. “Well yeah. I’ve gotta have them all. I’d thought I collected all of them already actually, but I found the number three one a bit before I met you guys and I didn’t even know there were number stamps, so I-“

Wild moaned, and slapped his unhurt arm over his eyes. “I thought you were less crazy then some of us Twilight. But no! You’re bonkers. Nutty. Insane.”

Wild waved his hand around for emphasis, and Twilight gave him a clap on the back as he pocketed his new treasure. Wild eventually lowered his arms, and was met with Twilight giving him a horribly sweet smile.

“Pot kettle black, champ.”

Wild just groaned.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu twilight #lu Wild #lu wolfie #linked universe fanfiction #writing from the floor #I barely even proofread this the whole thing might be ooc but you know?#it was fun to write #even if it’s just kind of silly

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let-love-run-red · 4 years ago

Text

Daisies

His crown is made of daisies, his heart was made for you

Female reader

Ao3 Link

The Princess's knight was one of high pedigree. His father was a royal guard, his father’s father, his grandfather’s father, his family was the royal guard. Royal Guard ran in the man's blood. Which is why you were confused when he gave you a second glance.

You were Princess Zelda's hand maid. Really it was just a title, the Princess rarely needed or wanted help with the things you should do, such as helping her dress, doing her hair, she preferred to do it herself. That was something you admired about the princess; she took her life in her own hands. You were surprised she had heeded her father’s wishes of having an appointed knight.

When you saw the man following closely behind her you were even more surprised. That was Link, the son of Arn, the captain of the Royal Guard. You stepped out of the way of the Princess, bowing your head in the typical sign of respect.

"(y/n), how are you today?" She paused to ask. You lifted your head with a smile.

"I'm well Princess, and you?" You said kindly. She smiled.

"I'm doing very well." You heard a low huff from Link, and Zelda turned to him before rolling her eyes.

"I'm sure you know Link, (y/n)." She spoke. Link nodded his head slightly and you returned the nod with a curtsey.

"I've heard his name spoken, it's a pleasure to meet you." You said. He met your gaze evenly before turning his head away and scanning the corridor you were currently in. He surely was paranoid.

"Well, I should be heading off, have a lovely day." The princess said, turning back down the hall. You watched them go, paying close attention to Link. You wondered how things would change with him around the Princess more often.

***

As the months went on you grew closer to Link. He didn't talk very much, preferring to focus on his task of protecting the princess, but when the Princess was studying the guardians and the ancient technology you could often find him sitting a few feet away in the grass. He was more inclined for company then.

More often than not it was you talking to him, with little response. You would talk about your day, memories of the Princess, of her mother, you had managed to pull his age from him at one point. You had an inkling he was older than 18, but he confirmed he was in fact 20. The same age as you were. He was surprisingly stoic for someone so young, but you supposed that came from having Arn as his father. The man was not an easy one to impress.

"She seems to enjoy this technology." You said, plucking daisies from the grass and twisting them into a crown. You had made one for yourself already, you weren't sure why you were making another. You watched as Link pulled a daisy from the grass, pulling the tie from his hair and shaking it out. He tucked the daisy behind his ear so it nestled in his hair. You reached out tentatively, brushing your fingers through his blonde locks. He scooted back so he was sitting closer to you, pulling another daisy from the grass and handing it to you. You picked up his hint, slightly surprised.

You began to braid daisies into his hair, twisting the braids around the stems of the flowers to create a crown of daisies in his hair. He sat patiently, allowing you to put as many daisies as your heart desired. You looked up to see the Princess examining one of the guardians with Robbie at her side.

"I don't understand why, but it makes her happy." You said as you stopped braiding Lin's hair. It was now full of daisies and small braids. You toyed with the daisy crown you had set in in your lap, looking to Link to see him looking at the crown. He nodded to the crown sitting in your lap before tilting his head towards you. You set the crown atop his head, adjusting it so it was nestled into his blonde hair.

He sat up straight again, adjusting his position to hold his head high, wearing the daisies with pride. He remained silent for the rest of your "conversation," and when the time came for him to accompany the princess into the castle again, he stood carefully to keep the daisy chain on his head. As he walked away he turned back to you, giving you a small smile before following the princess into the building.

It grew from that moment. As you passed each other in the stairwell he would catch your hand, bringing it to his face to inhale the perfume on the inside of your wrist, and press a soft kiss to your knuckles before releasing it and following behind Zelda once again. A quick moment that left with heat burning in your cheeks for the rest of the day.

Sometimes, after the princess was sound asleep in her room, while he was supposed to be keeping watch outside the door, he would come find you. Often you were in the servants’ chambers, washing clothes or dishes, sometimes you would simply be relaxing. You weren't sure how he found the entrances; they were meant to be secret, but you supposed having grown up in the castle he had found nearly every secret there was in the old building.

Often times he would stand behind you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed while you did you chores. His presence was comforting to you. He was someone to talk to when the other maids and cooks had gone to sleep. You started waiting up later and later for him, hoping he would make it a regular thing to come see you.

And he had. Every night he would come see you. He started coming sooner, staying later each night, walking you to your room to leave a kiss on the back of your hand before disappearing down the hall like a ghost.

"Link has seemed more distracted lately, I'm not sure what's gotten into him." Princess Zelda had said to you one day while you helped her re-organize her closet. She had been given gifts from the champions and wanted to keep them nicely organized. You hummed as you thought of Link, his lips on your skin, how warm his hands were when he held your own, how strong they were yet how soft his touch was.

"I wonder if it's Mipha." The princess mused aloud. You froze for a moment, running your hand over the opal circlet that was a gift from the Zoran champion. You wondered what she could mean.

"(y/n) I'm going to tell you something and you must promise to tell no one." The Princess said, laying across her bed with her chin in her hands as she looked at you. You poked your head out of her closet, giving her a solemn nod.

"I swear on my life Princess, I won't tell a soul." You said as you crossed your heart before disappearing back into the closet to move the Rito dress to a more desirable location.

"Mipha recently told me she made a set of armor for Link." Zelda said, sounding distressed. You tilted your head, wracking your brain. Why did that feel so significant?

"Oh, forgive me, I forget you probably don't know as much about Zora. They are quite secretive." Zelda said. You heard the bed shift before she appeared in the doorway of the closet.

"Zoran Princess's make a set of Zoran armor for their future husbands! To propose!" She exclaimed. At those words you nearly dropped the topaz bracelet Urbosa had gifted the Princess. Propose? To Link? You had met Mipha, you didn't think she was his type, but you knew you couldn't compete with the Zoran champion.

"I don't know what to do (y/n), I love Link I just don't know how to tell him." She said softly. At those words you did drop the bracelet. It landed on the floor with a clatter and you scrabbled to pick it up.

"I'm sorry Princess, I, it slipped." You said, standing and facing her. She took your hands gently in her own.

"It's alright, nothing was damaged." She said. You looked up at her and saw concern painting her features. She placed her hand against your cheek, still holding your hands in one of her own.

"Are you feeling alright? You look pale." She said. She guided you out of the closet, gently taking the bracelet and setting it on her bedside table before leading you to the door.

"You should go rest, you look sick. I can handle the rest of this." She said softly before dismissing you. You bowed your head before stepping out of the door. Link was standing against the door, head turned to look at you as you left the room. He was standing with his feet spaced apart, back straight, arms folded in front of him. He looked strong, you could see why Mipha and the Princess pined for him. You shook your head with tears in your eyes before walking towards the servants’ quarters. You could hear Link's boots on the stone floor. You could imagine him struggling to choose between following you and guarding the princess.

He stayed, in the end. He remained with the princess to fulfill his duty to protect her. But you could have predicted that yourself.

***

That night he came down to the servants’ quarters at the same time as always. You had tried to finish your chores early, so you could avoid him, but he caught you while you were washing up the dishes. You refused to speak to him, to even acknowledge he was standing behind you.

You angrily scrubbed at the plates and bowls, stacking them on the drying rack next to you to dry before they could be replaced. One of the plates slipped out of your hands, breaking into pieces. You reached down to pick up the pieces only to have the palm of your hand sliced open. You let out a hiss and pulled your hand from the water. Great, now you would have to rewash all the plates left in the basin. You examined the cut on your hand that was oozing blood, looking for a towel to press to it.

Link stepped forward, gently taking your hand in his own. You resisted the urge to pull away as he turned your hand palm up, taking the white kerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around your hand and tying a neat little knot on the back of your hand to cover your wound. He lifted your hand to his own, kissing your knuckles again before looking up into your eyes. You swore you could drown in his deep blue eyes. You could drown in him, his presence even.

"Mipha made you a set of armor." You whispered softly as you looked into his eyes. He seemed confused, before it clicked for him. He remained silent.

"And the princess, she has feelings for you as well." You said, pulling your hand away from his and turning back to where the plate had broken, carefully removing the pieces and setting them off to the side.

"You would be a fool to reject either one of them." You said as you continued your work. He was silent behind you, but you could tell he was there by the warmth that radiated from him. You could even tell he had stepped closer, could hear his breaths beside you.

"And I know I can't compete with royalty, so please, just tell me what to expect." You said. You doubted he would speak on the matter. You had sprung this on him so suddenly, he would of course need time to think.

"Should I be prepared for the princess’s wedding, or one of the Zoran princess's?" You asked him. He was silent. You let your shoulders sag. You knew he wouldn't respond, but, you had hoped.

Link reached towards you, gently resting his fingertips on your jaw to turn your head towards him. He moved his hand to rest on your cheek, meeting your gaze. He took your hand, the uninjured one, in his free hand and placed your palm against his chest. You felt his heart beating strong and slow under your fingertips.

"It beats for you." He said. His voice was smooth and comforting, you wished you could listen to him speak all day.

"Don't say that." You said, trying to pull your hand away. Although you didn't resist when Link placed his hand over yours to hold it against his chest.

"Don't say things you don't mean." You whispered. He stroked your cheek with his thumb.

"I'm not a liar, (y/n)." He said. He turned you so he was standing between you and the basin, placing both hands on your cheeks and looking into your eyes. He leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you. You could feel his heartbeat quicken as he leaned in, and you closed your eyes as your lips met. It was electrifying. His lips were soft and gentle, they moved in perfect sync with yours. You found yourself never wanting to pull away from him. He was warm and welcoming, strong, handsome, you could feel yourself being pulled in and you didn't mind.

Finally, when he pulled away you saw him holding a necklace with a diamond set in the center of a silver pendant. You cocked your head as you looked between his face and the necklace. What was it for?

"My mother," he paused, clearing his throat, "my mother told me to give this to the one who made me happy." He said, taking one end of the chain in each hand, offering to place it around your neck.

"She told me to give it to the one who made me laugh, who made me smile, who made me feel safe." He said. You turned around, and he expertly clasped the necklace behind your neck, letting the pendant rest against your chest.

"That's you." He said. You turned back around and placed your hand back against his chest. His heart was beating rapidly, you could almost hear it in the quiet room.

"What about the Princess? Or Mipha?" You asked in confusion as you touched the silver pendant.

"They're my friends," He said, "but you, I will love you until I die." He placed his hands on either side of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb as he met your gaze evenly.

"And I will keep loving you until I'm forgotten." You rested your head against him, hearing his heart beating in his chest. You stood there with him for a moment, absorbing everything that had just been said.

When you finally pulled away, his face was concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, taking a deep breath.

"Tomorrow, the Princess is going to the Spring of Wisdom at Mount Lanayru." He said, running his hands up and down your arms, squeezing your biceps like he was making sure you were real.

"I'm aware, she told me last week." You said, confusion evident in your voice.

"Listen to me." He held your shoulders, looking earnestly into your eyes.

"When she leaves, sneak down to the stables, take a horse. A fast horse." He said. Now you were thoroughly confused, what was he talking about?

"Look at me (y/n), please. Run to Hateno village. There's a house over a bridge, it's mine, please stay there." He said. Was he asking you to run away with him?

"Link what are you talking about?" You asked. He pursed his lips, letting out a breath as his eyebrows furrowed.

"I have a bad feeling about tomorrow. Please, stay as far away from the castle as you can." He begged before pulling you into his chest for another hug. You felt him press his lips against your temple. You nodded against his chest, and finally felt him relax.

"I promise I'll come for you." He said. "When it's safe."

***

There was a picture on the sheikah slate. One that didn't make sense to him. He stood near the remains of the guardian he had just destroyed, avoiding the eye of the sky watchers as he looked to the clump of weeds and brambles near the building, where he had been sitting.

In the picture it was sunny. The sun shone on his back; he could feel the warmth emanating from the photo. He knew the location, remembered Zelda's routine of studying the guardians in the same area he was standing now. But, the girl. He didn't remember her.

In the photo he was sitting in the grass with his back to a girl of about his age. She had (h/c) hair and nimble hands. He had his eyes closed with a soft smile on his face while she braided daisies into his hair, with a crown of daisies sitting in her lap and a matching one on her head.

Something about the picture was familiar, calming, it made his heart beat faster and his palms sweat, but why? Why did it make his knees weak and make him wish he could go back, more than any of the other photos on the slate?

He took a step forward, digging through the bramble and finding a single white daisy growing hidden, tucked away from this evil in a safe thicket. He pulled it from the ground, inhaling the sweet scent of the flower. With that smell, everything came flooding back to him as it hit him like a guardian laser.

You.

He remembered you. He remembered the smell of your perfume, your soft skin against his own when he held your hands, coming to see you every night, stolen kisses in the stairwells and hidden corners. He remembered the night he gave you his mother’s necklace, telling you he would love you until he was forgotten. He remembered taking you to his bed that night and loving you until the sun peeked over the horizon.

He remembered the day he felt himself falling for you. The day in this picture, the day you braided daisies into his hair and placed a crown on his head, talking to him as if he wasn't the Princess's knight. As if he was nothing more than your friend, another Hylian who couldn't be plucked from a crowd of 100 instead of the Hylian champion.

He remembered your patience with him when he refused to speak. How you would watch his face closely for reactions rather than words as you spoke. He felt longing wash over him as his chest ached. It ached like he was dying again, it ached the way it did when he realized each of the champions was dead, but it hurt worse than that. He turned, leaping onto his horses back and turning it down the path away from the castle, riding straight to Hateno village.

***

You were working on chores around Link's small house when you looked down the hill and saw the white horse run wildly through the village. You shook your head. Sometimes the traveling merchants were in too much of a hurry to be cautious of the children around the village. You let out a sigh, dusting the photos on the night stand off while you toyed with the necklace sitting against your chest.

Purah had used you as a guinea pig for her anti-aging technology. It had worked on you, turning you back exactly 100 years. But on Purah, she had used more because she was older than you, but it had turned her into a six-year-old physically. You had laughed that day, for the first time in a while you laughed.

You opened the door with a basket full of clothes with the intention of washing them in the pond behind the stable. You closed the door behind you, turning to walk around the house. You froze in your tracks when you saw a man in a red tunic and brown pants standing in the field, stroking the nose of the black horse you had in the pasture with his back to you. You noticed the same white horse that had torn through town and huffed. Now the merchants had gone too far. You set the basket on the corner of the fence and wiped your hands on your pants before approaching him.

"Excuse me? You do realize you're on private property?" You called. He didn't turn to you, instead continuing to pet the horse. You huffed and stormed towards him. Your horse lifted his head, snorting with his ears pricked forward towards the man. What had gotten into him? You opened your mouth to speak again, only to be rendered speechless when the man turned to face you.

Standing in front of you, with his soft blue eyes and warm smile, was Link. Link, the same age as the day the calamity fell, with a single white daisy tucked behind his ear.

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merakiui · 4 years ago

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Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat.

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances.

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?”

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?”

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus.

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?”

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist.

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells.

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary.

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting.

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions.

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color.

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.”

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast.

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

#genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact albedo #albedo x reader #yandere albedo x reader #genshin impact albedo x reader #yandere genshin impact albedo #yandere albedo #albedo #genshin impact fanfic #he's so handsome :0 #in writing this i hope it will bless me with luck

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delimeful · 3 years ago

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nothing in this world (i wouldn’t do) (3)

warnings: misunderstandings, OCs, mild drowning/hypothermia, violence, one instance of self-inflicted injury, attempted self sacrifice, cliffhanger

Virgil laid low for a while after his encounter with Roman, avoiding towns and taking winding paths far from the main roads. Every passing moment, he half-expected a maniac with a sword to descend upon him out of nowhere.

Isolating himself probably made him seem more suspicious, an easier target, but he didn’t want to risk getting caught in a crowd. Demon slayers were an odd bunch, rumored to have supernatural senses to counter a demon’s, and the last thing he needed was to be outed in front of everyone.

The rumors about the ‘Hooded Demon Slayer’ had shown him that gossip spread in unpredictable ways, and he didn’t want to have that unpredictability turned against him.

So, yeah, no towns.

Unfortunately, that plan hadn’t accounted for the people living out in more rural spaces, the way his own family had once.

And now he was here, in a silent standoff at the shore of a frozen lake with a stranger who was staring at him with far too much alarm for his liking.

He held up a hand in an awkward wave. The stranger threw a handful of salt at him, made a sign to ward off evil, and then twisted on their heel and bolted.

Virgil blew some salt out of his fringe, nonplussed, but didn’t move after them.

Either they’d noticed his eyes reflecting eerily the way they sometimes did when light caught on them, or they really hated social interactions. Regardless, who was Virgil to stop their frantic flee to safety?

There was an ominous cracking sound from the direction they’d just run off in.

That could be anything, Virgil told himself stalwartly.

As if in retribution for the thought, there was a splash, as though perhaps something approximately human-sized had been abruptly plunged into the waters of an icy lake.

Virgil was sighing even as he hurried onto the ice after them.

Sure enough, the stranger was scrabbling at the edge of the brand-new hole they’d made, eyes wide and breath coming in tiny little gasps as they clawed at the ice.

He stepped closer testingly, and the ice pinged in warning, hairline fractures spreading under his feet. The stranger let out a half-sob, probably thinking that an evil demon was taunting them or something.

Virgil pulled off his cloak, brushing his fingers over the clumsy stitching of the patch closest to the neckline for good luck. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to patch it up further after this.

His ears catching every minute noise the ice made, he leaned forward as far as he could and tossed one end of the cloak in front of the stranger’s grasping hands.

They latched on with surprising speed, maybe due to cold shock, and Virgil tugged them up.

The ice in front of them broke the moment their weight was leaning on it, and he hissed through gritted teeth. Didn’t this person know anything about escaping thin ice?

He struggled to speak, and only growled, the noise low and half-choked. Somewhere between his mind and his mouth, the words became tangled and refused to form. He would guess that horrific man-eating monsters didn’t deserve to talk, but he’d witnessed other demons chattering away, so maybe it was just something in his brain that had been scrambled. Figured.

Giving up on words, he instead slowly lowered himself until he was flat on his stomach, now eye level with the stranger. He forced his hand into a flat shape and laid it on the ice several times, hoping that they would catch on.

Gradually, they did, though they looked as though they could hardly believe they were listening. They stretched their arms out and kicked their back legs in the water until they were as level as possible, though their movements were growing more sluggish.

Virgil reeled the cloak towards him, providing the leverage needed to help them propel themselves onto flat, unbroken ice. He relaxed slightly in relief.

They immediately tried to get to their knees, prompting a creak from the ice beneath them, and Virgil snarled so viciously that they went right back down like their limbs had given out, terrified eyes locked on him.

That was one way to tell them not to stand, he supposed.

As quickly as he could, he shuffled back to solid ice, towing the stranger along with him over the smooth icy expanse. Once the ice beneath them was solid against even a few elbow jabs, he rose to his feet and gestured for them to do the same.

Apparently being dunked in life-threatening waters had taken the fight out of them, because they followed without protest, trembling from the cold or fear or both. They were still clutching tightly to the cloak, so Virgil used it to lead them along the ice until they reached solid ground again, mindful of their slow, stumbling pace.

All told, they hadn’t been in the water very long, perhaps under a minute or two. Still, Virgil knew better than to leave them to their own devices. One didn’t grow up on an icy mountain range without knowing what the cold could do to people.

He sniffed the air, the dip in water thankfully muting the scent beside him, and easily caught the trail that the human must have taken. Hopefully, it would lead to an actual building as opposed to some campsite in the woods.

The stranger seemed to be about Thomas’s age, though they currently looked more like a drowned mouse than anything else, and Virgil had been able to lift Thomas up into a fireman’s carry even before he’d gotten the supernatural strength of a demon, so he had no problem scooping them up and beginning to run.

They kicked and flailed for a short moment before seeming to just… give up, letting their limbs go limp and heavy, their only movement the full-body shivering that was still tearing through them.

Shivering was good, Virgil reminded himself, shivering meant they weren’t at lethally dangerous levels of cold or shock yet. He should feel reassured about that, but he couldn’t ignore the terror that was practically coming off the stranger in waves.

He couldn't shake away the memories of carrying a younger Thomas around in the same hold, either. The gleeful shrieks of his kid brother being toted around overlapped with the taut, tremulous silence of this stranger, painful nostalgia twisting in his chest.

Once again, the world proved that he was right to have left Thomas. Even the idea of his little brother like this-- drenched and resigned and terrified of him-- was enough to make his stomach roll. He didn’t want to imagine how bad it would feel to face it in reality.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek and kept moving, hoping that shelter was nearby.

The upside was that Virgil had found a small house, saturated thickly enough with the stranger’s scent that it had to be their home.

The downside was that there was someone in there.

The other downside was that as soon as he got within sight of the little home, the drowned-kitten stranger found a reserve of energy apparently dedicated to trying to smack the shit out of him.

He grunted in annoyance as another swing thwapped against the back of his head, their other hand frantically attempting to grab at his ears and throat with surprising vehemence. It was about as effective in actually harming him as a kitten’s pounce, but he tilted his head away anyways before they could get too close to one of his eyes. Sure, his eye would probably heal from any damage human hands could inflict, but superhuman regeneration didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it.

Calm down, he tried to project, but the few throaty chirrups that curled out of him weren’t exactly reassuring to a human.

They continued to struggle, not subsiding even when Virgil’s annoyance turned to literal growling, and he eventually just gave in and crouched to shift them off his shoulders.

Rather than try to struggle to their feet and bolt for the door, they plunged a hand into a pocket and came out with-- Virgil’s irritated rumble spiked up into an alarmed snarl, but he was too late to keep them from putting the carved whistle to their lips and blowing hard.

The piercing noise was enough to make him shift back, and two heartbeats later, the door of the cabin slammed open, revealing the silhouette of a new stranger.

Next to him, Drowned-Kitten was making a motion with their hands over and over, but the new person barely even glanced at them before running directly at Virgil, pulling a knife from a sheath with vicious intent.

The dagger’s blade practically glowed, even in the dark of the night, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose up the moment it got in range. He jumped backwards, but Stab-Happy just kept coming, matching his ‘back-off’ growl with a shattered human snarl of her own.

Slayer-knife or not, this human didn’t have nearly half the trained grace he’d witnessed from Roman, and so he was able to trip her up and grab her wrist mid-strike, ignoring the way being so close to the blade made his skin crawl.

He twisted, forcing her to drop the knife, and the moment it hit the ground, he dragged her back toward the open doorway, ignoring her vicious swearing as she struggled to break away.

Drowned-Kitten made a choked-off sound but was barely able to move, let alone stand and stop him.

The interior of the cabin provided what he needed, and he yanked a blanket from the mat on the floor and shoved Stabby into a chair, swiftly wrapping the blanket around her until she could only snap her teeth and kick her legs, the rest of her swaddled against the chair back.

“Get back here!” she screamed when he turned back to the door, the anger in her voice cracking into something close to fear.

Drowned-Kitten had crawled a few paces from where he’d left them, and they’d grabbed the fallen blade. Virgil grimaced as they pointed it at him with trembling hands, looking frantic enough that they seemed more likely to injure themself with the jittering knife than him.

He couldn’t tell exactly in the dark, but it seemed like their hands were turning the shiny red that heralded frostbite. They needed treatment. Why did people have to make everything so damned difficult?

A moment passed in this silent standoff, Stabby’s angry shouts still going strong, and Drowned-Kitten’s gaze strayed past Virgil to the doorway before their gaze went firm and hard.

They tightened their hand on the knife hilt-- and ran it clumsily over their other palm, opening a thin red line.

Virgil was there in the next instant, wrenching the knife away before they could try again for a less shallow injury. They shuddered but didn’t recoil, tucking their face away like they didn’t want to see what happened next.

The smell of blood turned thick and cloying in the air, and Virgil swallowed the sudden welling of saliva in his mouth with no little irritation.

Snarling, he grabbed the back of their shirt with his other hand and yanked, using the shirt as a makeshift scruff and stomping back inside. He dropped them on the mat, pulling the satchel he’d restocked at the last town from his back.

“Don’t you dare touch them, you monster!” Stabby yelled indignantly, and Virgil ignored her entirely to press a pad of gauze against the cut and breathe very carefully through his mouth.

Drowned-Kitten watched him wind thin cloth bandages around the gauze with wide eyes, like they weren’t quite sure this was real. More of those hand motions-- signs?-- and even Stabby grew quiet, thankfully for the headache beginning to pulse behind Virgil’s eyes.

The two of them were eerily silent as they watched him poke around their cozy little home with bated breath, dragging any extra cloth he could find to drape over the one who’d fallen into freezing waters and stoking the fire stove until warmth suffused the room.

Drowned-Kitten’s breathing turned strained almost immediately, the increasing temperature likely feeling much too hot on their skin, but they grit their teeth through it and didn’t try to shed any of the blankets after Virgil just insistently pressed them back on.

He crouched in front of them and held his hands up, moving his fingers through the slow stretches that would help ease the near-frostnip that had blistered Drowned-Kitten’s fingertips red. This, at least, was something he was familiar with, having done it frequently for passing travelers back when he apprenticed under the town’s doctor.

Back then, he’d mostly helped neighbors with colds or bruises and ran delivery errands, rarely seeing the doctor perform actual large-scale treatments. How was it that he was only getting more experience with medicine out in the field after becoming a demon?

Seriously. He was pretty sure that having a monster tending to them was freaking people out.

Case in point, the silent, secretive conversation that the two teens behind him were trying to have, made slightly less discreet by Stabby’s occasional hissed answer. He added a bit more charcoal to the stove, and rose from his squatted position to stare at the two of them, feeling fairly satisfied at the way Drowned-Kitten no longer looked as though they’d been dunked in freezing waters.

It had been an annoying detour, but at least he could say that he hadn’t yet managed to drive someone to death-by-lake just by walking past them.

Dawn would come soon. He unraveled the knotting keeping Stabby in the chair and ducked through the door back into the cold night air before she could fully untangle herself.

He took the knife with him.

Naturally, because the fates weren’t fond of him, the pair found him curled up in a cave the next day.

Drowned-Kitten-- or Harley, as Virgil would learn-- could smell demons, and had followed his trail, DW-- also known as Stabby-- right behind them. He hadn’t bothered to hide his scent trail because he hadn’t caught wind of another demon for miles, and foolishly assumed that he was safe. Which had led to him being cornered and interrogated by two teenagers.

Yeah, he’d been less than pleased.

Still, he could snarl and snap until they stepped out of his cave, but he couldn’t exactly get away with the sunlight bright overhead. So, he grumpily conceded to the questioning.

Surprisingly enough, they seemed to believe him when he shook his head ‘no’ to ‘are you going to eat people’. They hadn’t outright expressed doubts, at least. It was kind of concerning that they took his word for it.

DW had demanded the knife back, at least. Smart kid.

He’d attempted to shoo them off afterwards, but Harley had been very insistent on ‘repaying their debt’, wary in the way that meant someone had given them kindness before, but with strings attached. DW had eyed him with more blatant suspicion.

They didn’t owe him anything. Debts, deals, returned favors... Those were for people, not monsters. Virgil had dragged a hand over his face and wished he could say as much.

And then he’d paused.

He’d jabbed a clawed finger at the little hand signs that Harley made, the ones DW had been translating the entire time, and tried to mimic them sloppily until the two cottoned on to what he was asking.

Lessons in hand-speech.

Maybe there was still a way for him to speak after all.

From there, they settled into routine.

Virgil spent his days in the shadiest corner of their little house at the urging of Harley’s puppy-dog eyes, and at night, after their daily work was done, he would slink out under DW’s wary gaze and learn how to angle his hands into the proper shapes and flick small motions full of meaning in the right directions.

He picked up on the structure of the language surprisingly fast. Harley was a patient teacher, and DW was always willing to provide extra details on where Virgil had gone wrong.

He’d half expected them to usher him out the door once he’d had the basics down, but the season began to turn and still, they allowed his presence. The blatant trust was enough to make him worry, though any attempts to convince them to be more careful around demons earned him a confused look from Harley and a derisive snort from DW.

Hopefully, Thomas wasn’t being so reckless.

Since he was staying, he insisted on carrying their heavier goods down to the market in the nearby town, heading out with them in the early-morning dark and making sure they didn’t fall into any more lakes on the way there. He spent those market days waiting in a dark spot, his nerves frayed, until evening fell and he could meet them at their agreed rendezvous point.

As he adjusted to the sudden presences around him after so long traveling alone, the two adjusted to him as well. He hadn’t realized just how many noises he made aloud in substitute for his thoughts until Harley showed him all the signs for different emotions, and matched each of them with a soft imitation of Virgil’s growl, or huff, or even, embarrassingly, that cat-like purr that got started when he was particularly pleased. DW had laughed hard enough to make her side cramp up.

He could admit it. It was… nice. To not be feared. To have people to look after again.

Naturally, though, his occasional presence at their side couldn’t go unnoticed forever, and once one person knew, practically the whole town was guaranteed to hear about it. If Virgil had been paying better attention to anything but the two teens under his protection, he could have had advance warning.

But he hadn’t, and so he wasn’t ready when a polite knock came at the door, unusual considering how remote their little home was. He wasn’t ready for the sudden foreboding that washed over him as the three of them exchanged glances.

He wasn’t ready when DW opened the door to the sight of a smiling stranger with a sun-bright sword at his hip.

#sanders sides fic #sanders sides #crossover #ts virgil #ts heart #ts dragonwitch #demon slayer au #kny fusion #nitwiwd #nothing in this world i wouldnt do #my writing #writing #BUSY day today sorry for posting delay #hope you guys like my version of these guys #bthb #bad things happen bingo

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kenmascatears · 4 years ago

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kuroo’s birthday

description: your morning and night for kuroo’s birthday

genre: soft and smut (the soft is the first part and the smut is the second)

warnings: slight choking, daddy kink, creampie

a/n: happy birthday kuroo😩

treasured mornings

your boyfriend’s usually carefully arranged hairdo was in disarray, with pieces sticking up in all different directions. you reached up to play with it, toying with some silken strands, all while marveling at how smooth it was, gliding between your fingertips.

kuroo’s eyes cracked open, and sleepy eyes peered up at you, hazy with the recent return from dreamland.

“how did you sleep?” you whispered, pressing a sweet kiss on his forehead.

humming in reply, kuroo wrapped his arm tighter around your torso, hands stroking your sizes while his face nuzzled into your neck.

you laughed at the sensation of his hands tickling you, chime-like giggles filling the air. kuroo’s heart soared at the sound, he always loved hearing you laugh and loved being the cause of your laughter.

stilling the movements of his hands, he looked up at you. “princess, what time is it?”

you craned your neck to look at the clock on your nightstand, “mmm it’s 8:27. do you have to get up soon?”

kuroo sighed, burrowing his face into your neck again. “sadly.”

he was supposed to get today off, to spend the day with you, but had gotten a call last night from his boss begging him to come in.

the two of you fell back into the stillness of before, with you falling back into a light slumber while kuroo relished in the rare peaceful moment. between kuroo’s busy work life and you finishing up your last year at college, the two of you rarely got to spend a peaceful moment together.

just lying together, watching the sunbeams filter through the flimsy curtains and fall on you, the sunlight painting your face with a golden haze, was a moment kuroo would relish forever.

but sadly time couldn’t stay still forever. once it became 8:45, kuroo felt the urgency of work creeping upon him.

grumbling, he got up, extracting himself from your grip.

as you whined at the loss of contact kuroo frowned, gently placing his pillow in your arms. you snuggled into it, burying your face into the familiar scent of your boyfriend.

kuroo wanted nothing more than to lie in bed with you all day, stealing kisses and watching the sunbeams dance across your face. but alas, he had to go to work.

as he walked towards the bathroom he heard a soft voice call out.

“tetsu?”

kuroo paused at the doorway, turning to face you, a drowsy smile covering your face.

“happy birthday”

this morning was a birthday treat he would relish forever.

birthday cake

you were currently bent over the counter, fingers scrabbling to grip the slippery surface as kuroo pounded into you from behind.

he had come home early today, having had a rough day at work, and wanted nothing more than to just cuddle with you and try to patch up the rest of his birthday.

what he didn’t expect to come home to was the sight of you preparing his birthday cake in his t-shirts and your little panties.

“ah tetsu so deep!” you cried out, hips desperately trying to move away from the overwhelming sensation.

kuroo tutted, pulling you back towards him, his dick filling you up, pressing against the little spot inside of you that made you gasp in pleasure.

“i thought you could take my cock princess,” he spoke, voice filling the sound of the kitchen, “you were so eager for it last night after all, but now i’m not even all the way in.”

eyes widening, you reached between your legs to feel. kuroo was right, his cock wasn’t fully in. he still had a couple of inches to go.

whimpering, you rocked your hips, desperate to feel all of him in you. even if you were already stuffed full, you wanted more. your brain was full with the thought of kuroo. kuroo pounding into you, kuroo praising you, kuroo cumming.

sensing your neediness, kuroo reached his hand around to your neck, pulling you up so your chest was flush against his back.

“can you be good princess and take my cock in that tight little pussy of yours? after all, you can take it. i know you can.”

the tone of his voice, so deep and commanding, went straight to your cunt. you clenched around him, slick dripping down his cock.

the added lubricant helped kuroo bottom out, groaning at the feeling of being fully sheathed inside you.

“good girl. see? i told you you could take it. daddy’s always right after all”

resuming his previous tempo, kuroo began to fuck you, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other played with your little bud.

you thrashed and moaned against him, babbling praise to him.

you were so tight, kuroo thought, gummy walls greedily sucking him in with each thrust, almost as if you were trying to keep him there forever.

slick was dripping everywhere, leaking down his cock and balls and onto your thighs.

you turned your head to face kuroo, eyes glazed over.

“daddy ��m close” you moaned out, hand reaching up to tug at his hair.

“is that so princess? you wanna cum all over my cock?”

you nodded frantically at the words, cunt tightening with each second you got closer to your high.

it only took a few more thrusts for the coil building up inside of you to break.

you looked almost picture-esque, mouth parted as a silent cry left your lips, eyes rolled back and tongue poking out of your mouth as you twitched and gushed juices onto his cock.

kuroo didn’t stop, continuing to thrust into you until he came, hot ropes of cum coating your insides.

kuroo moaned, forcing your head towards him for a kiss. he could taste the chocolate frosting from the cake on your lips. craving more, he bit your lower lip and your mouth opened with a silent gasp.

as your tongues battled for dominance and the two of you came down from your highs, kuroo slowly pulled out.

once kuroo had cleaned the two of you up, he turned to you smiling cheekily.

“so whats this about cake?”

#kuroo x reader #kuroo x reader smut #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsuro smut #hq smut #kuroo tetsuro fluff #tetsuro kuroo x reader #tetsuro kuroo x reader smut #kuroo x y/n #kuroo x y/n smut #haikyuu smut #nekoma smut

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underfell-crystal · 3 years ago

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~~Cetaphobia~~

Written for @kiokodoodles mermaid pirate AU! This one-shot will cover Harp's life from right before she got attacked by the orca mermaid to when she met Alkai.

TW: Blood, gore, injury, assault, being chased

'Don't stray too far from the island'

It was a simple rule, and one that had good reason behind it. There always seemed to be danger lurking around Seal Island, as Harp's home was creatively named. Harp was careful to follow that rule whenever she wanted to break off from her family while they were out searching for food.

But that was before Otaria and Mother had fallen ill. Father had to tend to Mother and Otaria, so that only left her and Hali. Hali was on the other side of the island where there were the most fish. Harp didn't mind. She knew she was quite absent-minded at times, and her sister was faster than her. Harp looked around, sighing. There were hardly any fish due to the currents this time of year.

Harp continued making slow patrols on the southern side of the island, her disappointment and frustration growing as several passes yielded hardly any fish. She only had two fish in her satchel, and it was making her anxious. What if Mother and Otaria didn't eat enough? She didn't want to think about that.

There.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. She turned her head and her excitement skyrocketed as she saw several fish disappear into the distance. Harp gave chase.

Gosh, why were fish so fast?! She'd only caught two more out of.... at least a hundred. It was frustrating, but at least she HAD a food source for tonight's dinner. She lunged again, snagging a third fish from the group, making it five in total. She bit the fish just below its head, making it stop struggling. She added it to her bag and turned- then paused. Something big was moving in the distance. Perhaps a larger school of fish? She swam closer, curious. Twenty feet later, she stopped swimming forward. There it was, fifty feet away.

It wasn't a school of fish. It was a half human, half..... half....

'Black and white, Harp. Remember that. If you see those colors, you swim away as fast as you can.'

Half orca. Harp gulped. Both of her parents had told her about how dangerous orcas were on their own, but this one was even smarter. It had a human brain.

It was just... floating there. Staring at her. Watching. Was it hungry? Stars she hoped it wasn't hungry. But just in case..... With slow, trembling fingers, she opened her bag and pulled a fish out, tossing it to the side. The orca mermaid didn't react, just kept staring at her with a creepy, too-wide grin. Maybe if she went slow....?

She slowly started to swim backward, but a moment later, the orca mermaid moved. It was FAST. Harp gasped and turned, swimming as fast as she could back to the island, but she knew she wasn't fast enough.

She knew he was getting close. All the fish had vanished. The island was still so far away-

Her back suddenly exploded in pain, and she let out a strangled scream as the water turned red around her.

Stars, it hurt. Her vision was spinning and white at the edges, and every movement sent waves of pain down her spine. She did her best to keep moving, but it hurt so much. She saw something big and dark coming at her from below, and she wasn't fast enough to move out of the way.

Teeth clamped down on her back and tail, piercing the skin easily. She didn't think it could hurt any worse. She was wrong. Her vision went completely white, and she let out a scream she didn't even know she could make. Her hands scrabbled at the orca's head, and she dimly remembered that eyes were generally weak spots for animals. She raised her hand, and with a scream of pain, she slammed her hand into the orca's eye, her nails tearing skin and cartilage. The orca was stunned and in pain, loosening his grip on Harp's tail just a bit.

Harp seized the chance to plant her hands against his snout and shove, his sharp teeth tearing through the skin on her back down to her tail- but she was freed. She didn't waste a moment. She took off toward the island and could sense the orca coming after her, making her panic spike. She had to hide! She had to get away! She remembered the strange hole in the side of the southern part of the island- mostly covered by rocks- that she'd never explored. She could only pray to the stars that the orca wouldn't be able to fit.

Her dark eyes scanned the shore frantically until they locked on a dark hole- indeed, mostly covered by large rocks. She took a deep breath and dove down, squeezing past the rocks and going deeper into the cave. The cave narrowed as she went, which relieved her immensely. He wouldn't be able to fit down here even in his human form.

Harp spared a glance backward and saw a single black, beady, hunger-filled eye staring back at her. A moment later, the opening cleared. Did he think she was stupid? She wasn't falling for that!

The water slowly grew red around her. She whimpered and hugged herself.

'It was a very close call', her Father murmured as he applied a green paste to the cuts on her back. 'You're not allowed out there alone ever again.'

Harp was fine with that. More than fine with that. But she wasn't fine with how achy and sore her body was. The green paste helped a lot, but the cuts still stung and it was still difficult to move. She still saw that spotted pattern and beady black eye whenever she closed her eyes. Mother, Otaria, and Hali were resting- Hali had exhausted herself chasing down food. Harp flinched as a spike of pain shot up her spine, and her father murmured an apology, rubbing the skin next to the cuts. 'Be strong, little one. You are a survivor. Remember that.'

Harp sniffed and nodded, finally allowing tears to gather in her eyes, turning and burying her face in her father's plain white tunic. She didn't want to go hunting ever again.

The journey to their new home was long. It took over a week to get there. Father smiled and told them 'It'll be worth it. I promise.'

She still had nightmares that she'd wake up screaming to, certain that orca had come back to finish her off. She couldn't go back to sleep after that.

Their home was quiet. Too quiet. There weren't as many souls there as there should've been. But... That was okay. She still had Hali and Father.

Hali was screaming, something metal embedded in her tail. Father was trying to pull her back, but whatever the metal thing was attached to was way stronger. Well, actually, she knew what the metal thing was attached to. A boat.

Hali and Father disappeared above the surface.

There was nothing left for her here. Her family was gone. The nightmares remained. She knew her mother and father had left a chest of keepsakes back at their old island. She had to find it. It was all she had of their once happy family.

Hunting was still hard. The constant paranoia about orcas lurking around made her so hungry. Hungry enough that she became desperate and snuck onto a passing human ship. She was certain she'd be found and killed. She hugged her coat close, reaching for the crate of vegetables.

There was somebody odd on the ship. They weren't human, Harp knew that much. They looked human, sure- but they smelled like.... something else. She didn't know what it was. They had pretty brown hair and an affinity for shiny things. They looked surprised to see her- like she'd caught them doing something wrong. Were they... not supposed to be holding all that gold?

A shout of anger made her startle, and she ran to the deck and leapt off, changing back into her seal form and swimming away with her precious cargo.

She kept running into that person. Always on different ships. Always looking for gold and jewels.

"I'm not sharing any of my gold with you."

The brown haired person looked irritated. Harp nodded. "I know. I don't.... want... the treasure. I.... wanna be friends."

They stared at her. "Uh....... no."

Harp frowned slightly. "Why?"

"Nunya."

"What's.... What's Nunya?"

"Nunya business."

Harp blinked at them. "What's business?"

They stared at her. "...... Oh you're serious??"

"Um.... why wouldn't I be?"

They pinched the bridge of their nose. "Look, lady-"

"Harp."

"Huh?"

"My name. It's.... It's Harp. What's your name?"

They turned away from her. "Pat."

Harp frowned again. "Pat..... Anyway, um.... Why are you pretending to be a human?"

They froze. Slowly turned and looked at her. "What."

"I-I mean, you're obviously not a human... So.... why-"

They were suddenly directly in front of her. Harp yelped and stumbled back as they loomed over her. "How."

"H.... How what....?"

"How. Did. You. Know."

Harp gulped. "Um....."

"Don't lie to me."

Harp watched their hand drift to the scabbard at their side. She looked up at them with wide eyes. "I-"

Their hand was on her shoulder, touching her coat-

She jerked away. "Don't touch me!"

They stared at her for a moment before scoffing and turning away. "Get lost. I don't have time for this."

Harp obliged, scampering out of the room, heart pounding in her chest.

Another ship. Someone was tied to the mast- Pat. Their head was bowed, which made her approach easier. She climbed up the side of the ship, changing into her human form and throwing on her damp dress. She saw a dagger laying on a barrel and grabbed it, wasting no time in hacking at the ropes.

Their head shot upright, and they twisted to get a good look at what was happening. They made eye contact with Harp, gaze widening in recognition. "It's.... you... What are you doing here?"

"Saving you."

The ropes fell away, and they turned to stare at her in disbelief. Harp fidgeted in place. "Um...."

There was a shout from the other side of the ship. "OI!! GET BACK HERE!!"

They both turned and saw one of the crew members standing there, looking furious. Harp and Pat looked at each other and bolted for the railing, leaping over and plunging into the water together.

"Alkai."

Harp sat up and looked at her friend. "Huh?"

They gave her a small smile. "Alkai. That's my real name. Nice to meet you."

(Alkai belongs to @mochamashi )

#oc short story #oc oneshots #sea theives #sea theives my beloved #harp #alkai #harp my beloved #mermaid pirate au

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aster-aspera · 3 years ago

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Watch you breathe in

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: gunshot wound

Relationship: analogince

TW: guns, injuries, blood, PTSD flashbacks, mentions of death (not any of the main characters)

Masterlist

Roman adjusted his grip on his beaten up sword, shoulder pressed into the wall, the rough concrete scraping against his skin. He could hear Virgil’s steady breathing beside him, just a slight bit faster than it usually was, all their muscles tensed where their side was pressed into Roman’s.

Roman craned his neck, trying to see down past the darkness encroaching from that side, the only light coming from the camp up ahead.

“Where is he?” Virgil hissed through clenched teeth. Roman saw them adjust their grip on the bo staff in their hands.

“Give him a little longer,” Roman whispered back, slipping one hand behind him to rest on Virgil’s thigh, squeezing it in gentle comfort. “He can handle himself.”

Virgil pressed their head back against the wall as they waited, breath misting in the cold air, the night silent except for the occasional shouts from the nearby camp.

Just as Roman was about to suggest they go look for their missing boyfriend, a deafening noise split the air. A sound he hadn’t heard in years, one that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.

Two more gunshots rang through the small alleyway and Roman felt like his lungs were filling up with liquid fire, smoke coursing through his veins and sparks crawling up his windpipe. And all he could see was red, red spread out on the floor like a picture perfect painting, like a poem, like the horrifying reality that he was dying.

A hand closed around his, rough, callused skin smoothing over his carefully. “Ro, deep breaths,” That familiar voice, deep voice said, gentle as it always was with him.

Roman looked up at Virgil, their brow furrowed in worry, eyes darting back to the camp, where the gunshots had come from.

He forced in a breath, dragging it through the thick smoke choking him, doing his best to mirror Virgil’s slow, steady breathing. They tapped out a familiar pattern on Roman’s palm, one they had both used so many times before, when Virgil woke up gasping from nightmares or Roman froze when a branch snapped too loudly or Logan had to admit that he didn’t know. His breathing slowed, red tinged vision replaced with the dark purple of Virgil’s hoodie.

“Logan?” Roman choked out, because he had to be here, he couldn’t do this again. Blood red and screaming and you were too late, you can’t save him.

Virgil turned around sharply, and a second later Roman saw what had alerted them. Logan walked into the alleyway, looking for all the world like nothing was wrong, none of the supplies he was supposed to get in his hands.

“We need to leave,” He said curtly once he had made it to where they stood, Roman still tightly clenching Virgil’s hand as he tried to regain his breathing.

The relief he felt at Logan’s arrival quickly made place for sharp irritation. Did the smug bastard really think he could scare Roman half to death and then show up without the supplies and act like everything was just fine and dandy?

“Excuse me sir,” Roman burst out, still sounding out of breath and shaky, as Logan strode resolutely away from the camp, where everything they needed to survive currently resided. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” Logan bit out.

Roman looked to Virgil, hoping for some support. The other just shrugged, picking their bo staff off the ground and following after Logan. Roman huffed in frustration.

“We can’t go home yet,” He said, jogging slightly to catch up, “You didn’t get the supplies.” And Roman sure as hell hadn’t had a near panic attack for nothing. If he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the next week, he at least wanted some pay off for it.

“The mission went wrong,” Logan said, voice still cool and detached.

“And you said it couldn’t!” Logan has spent hours repeating just how foolproof the plan was. “We need this! We need it to survive, Logan.”

“He’s right,” Virgil said, head ducked in their hoodie and anxiously chewing their lip, “We’ve only got rations for a few more days, and that’s if we stretch it.”

“See, even the emo agrees, we have to go back,” Roman said decidedly, pulling on Logan’s sleeve to get him to stop. Logan only kept walking.

“We’re not going back.”

“So what, you’d rather die of starvation or radiation poisoning? You were supposed to fix it, pocket protector, and now we’re even worse off than before. We used the last of our materials for this.”

“We are not going back,” Logan hissed out decidedly, a fire burning in his eyes. Something in Roman’s gut told him to drop it, told him that Logan was this close to snapping, and that if he kept pressing this, he would be the one to push him over the edge.

“Fine, have it your way, but when I painfully die of radiation poisoning, I know who I’ll be blaming,” he hissed out before stalking to the front of the group, leading them back into the untamed wilderness where they had made camp.

Virgil averted their eyes from Logan’s wounded expression, following Roman into the brush.

They followed the familiar track to their camp, the weighted silence pressing on them, stifling every thought of making friendly conversation. Roman occasionally turned to shoot a glare at Logan, who didn’t return it, only staring down at the ground in order not to trip over the roots lacing the soil.

Roman stomped ahead of the group, Virgil right behind him, leaving Logan to bring up the rear, neither of them noticing the pained furrow of his brow, or the way his arm came around to clench tightly around his middle.

After a while, Virgil registered that the footsteps that were supposed to be following them had fallen still, the only sound in the forest the soft crunching of Roman marching on ahead. They turned around quickly, scared they had lost Logan to the forest, terrified that once again, they had failed to protect their family.

The terror abated quickly when they found Logan, leaning heavily against a tree but otherwise safe and unharmed.

“You okay there Lo?” They asked, strolling over. They could feel Roman’s disapproving glare pricking on the back of their neck, clearly still not over Logan abandoning the plan. He was always good at holding a grudge.

“I’m fine,” Logan assured them, and something tight and strangled in his voice did not seem to match up with that statement at all. Virgil looked at him in concern. “You sure about that one buddy?”

Logan set his face and pushed off the tree, taking a few steady, but hesitant steps forward. His breathing was oddly ragged.

He froze for a beat, before his gaze drifted to Virgil, carefully blank and detached.

“Virgil? I think you better catch me now.”

And his eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped to the ground, boneless. Virgil darted forward as quickly as they could, only managing to slow his fall so he didn’t hit his head against the many tree roots and rocks.

“Shit,” Roman cursed loudly and in less than a second he was at Virgil’s side, carefully prying Logan’s limp form out of their arms and draping him carefully over his lap, his anger from barely a minute ago erased.

“Logan, my darling, my love, what happened?” He whispered desperately, scanning Logan for any injury that could be causing this, something he could treat and fix. His hand was clenched tightly around his middle, his face pale and drawn, his breathing shallow, and Virgil reached out to gently pry his arm away.

“No, please,” Logan whined, barely conscious, and his voice sounded so small and scared and unsteady. Roman’s heart shattered at the sound. He gently cradled Logan’s jaw, pressing a feather light kiss to the hands he held carefully in his palms. One was stained dark with blood and Roman felt the pit in his stomach deepen. He looked up at Virgil, almost scared of what he was going to find. The gunshots still rang in his ears, the phantom scent of blood filling his nostrils, or maybe it was real.

Virgil looked at him, eyes dark with worry and fear, Logan’s shirt pulled up to reveal the neat, red circle gouged into his side.

Roman felt bile rise up in his throat and turned away, electing instead to bury his nose in Logan’s hair, focusing on the familiar scent of green leaves and wood smoke that always accompanied him, as opposed to the scent of smoke and metal that was so ingrained in his brain. That he woke up to every morning, muscles tensed and heart racing.

Virgil’s breath hitched as they remembered the words from a conversation not so long ago.

We used the last of our materials for this

The last bandages, used when Virgil had tripped and scraped themself on some large thorns, the last dredges of disinfectant used to clean the bite Roman had sustained from some demented squirrel. They scrabbled through their pack, hands ghosting over the familiar supplies, finding dried fruits and nuts and water bottles and nothing that could help.

They quickly poured some water over the wound, because they had run out of antibiotics months ago and then bunched up their hoodie to press it tightly to the wound.

Logan couldn’t stifle the gasp that ripped from his mouth, a strangled, pained thing and Roman shushed him gently. His eyes flickered open, hazy and unfocused by pain. He tried to lift his head, tried to move away from Roman.

“No no, none of that,” Roman said gently, cradling his face softly in his hands and forcing logan to look at him and only him, away from where Virgil was desperately trying to figure out a way to save their boyfriend with only a pack of nuts and a now empty water bottle.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Roman asked softly as Virgil reached out to pry the battered and torn sash away from Roman shoulder. He tried not to cry as the last reminder of the man he had loved before was taken from him.

“You were angry,” Logan mumbled, head lolling forward in Roman’s grip.

“Darling, do you really think that would have made a difference?” Roman asked as he tucked Logan’s head into the crook of his neck.

“Didn’t want you to worry.”

“You know I’ll always worry about you,” Roman said softly.

“That’s my line,” Virgil chuckled darkly, tying off the sash around Logan’s waist, the best they could do for a bandage right now. They patted Logan’s ankle before standing, brushing the leaves off their skirt. “Let's go home.”

Roman pressed a kiss to Logan’s forehead before standing up, chest tightening when Logan gasped at the movement, burying his face in Roman’s shoulder. They trudged through the forest, pace significantly slower, Logan’s breath heavy and hot against Roman’s collarbone.

They laid him out in their tent, piling on the few blankets they had left and wrapping up his wound as best they could. His face was still deathly pale, and he didn’t react this time, not even when Virgil pressed a rare kiss to his brow and gently smoothed away his hair from his forehead.

They curled up in Roman’s lap on the far side of the tent, watching the steady rise and fall of Logan’s chest as Roman smoothed a hand through their hair. “He’s going to be okay, right?” He asked to the silent tent.

Virgil looked up, grey eyes like the desolate clouds overhead. Their mouth twisted and they looked down at the pebbles scattered on the floor of their tent. “I don’t…” They looked at Roman, his eyes filled with something fearful and desperate. “Yeah, he’ll be alright,” They said, and Roman didn’t call them out on the lie, just held them tighter to his chest and looked at Logan while he tried not to think about blood staining his hands and the screams of a person he had loved long ago.

“We’re going to be okay.”

#sander sides #ts roman #ts logan #ts virgil #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #analogince #analogical #prinxiety #logince #post apocalyptic #bad things happen bingo #my writing

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darkeninganon · 3 years ago

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Mmmm, yikes on this one. I was watching Quackity lore and my brain beat me over the head with the angst bat. Trigger warning: Gore, violence, torture, implied trauma, vore, death. Read at your own risk.

Dream jolted, the lava falling once more. He cowered. Fuck, why did he have to cower each time? Why couldn't he just fucking control himself like he used to? He shook his head, trying to clear the negativity from his mind and shake off his fear. He could do this. He had been doing this. He was strong. He was the monster everyone feared. He was God. Quackity stepped into the cell, smug smile spread a cross his face as he stared at Dream. "hey there Dream! You ready to give me what I want?" Dream shook his head again. "Just... Stay over there! I'm not..." "Okay, you're doing this again?" Quackity took out an axe, slowly pacing towards Dream. "No! No, no, no, no! I...I just- I'll die if you keep this up! You don't have to visit! Please!" Dream pressed himself against the wall, feet kicking out in an effort to put nonexistence space between him and his tormentor. Quackity paused for a moment, his smile falling. He seemed to think before putting the axe away, and taking out a potion. "Alright, let's make a deal: I won't visit you anymore, but only if you drink this potion without complaint." Quackity stated, producing a potion from his shirt pocket. Dream stared at the strange vial. It didn't look like any potion he had seen before. "That's... That's all? Nothing else?" Dream asked, slowly moving towards Quackity and the vial. "That's it! Just drink it without fighting me and-" Dream snatched the vial from Quackity, pulling away from his tormentor before popping the cork off and chugging down the liquid. It tasted sickeningly sweet, like sugar and honey mixed with flowers and grass. God it was weird. He threw the vial away, aiming for the lava. Dream glared at Quackity. He had done it. "why are you still here?" Quackity sauntered closer. "Waiting to see it work." Dream was about to ask what he meant when a wave of dizziness hit him. The room seemed to spin, making Dream groan and shut his eyes, turning away from Quackity to cling to the wall, waiting for it to pass. Dream slowly opened his eyes, focusing on his hands. "Wow! That worked great!" Something massive suddenly closed around Dream, causing the prisoner to yell. Whatever it was kept him held tightly, cramping him into an uncomfortable position and moved fast. In and instant the light of the lava returned, allowing Dream to look around and see what had happened. Oh how he wished he didn't. Dream was confronted face-to-face with a giant Quackity, and what had grabbed him was his tormentor's hand. "what... What the fuck did you do to me?!" Dream's voice cracked as he stood, stumbling around is disbelief. "You... Why... What... No... No, no, no,no!" Dream was near crying, the hand he was standing on shaking as the now giant man laughed. "Sam! Sam help! SA-" The wind was knocked out of Dream as wind rushed past him and he slammed into a wall, his body falling to the ground with a sickening crunch. He slowly lifted his upper body off the floor, shaking with the effort; Quackity stepping closer once again. A shoe suddenly slammed down right next to Dream, landing with enough force to knock the now tiny prisoner over. "Quackity stop! Please!" Dream yelled, trying to crawl away. He heard Quackity laugh, then his leg exploded in pain with a sickening grinding-crunching noise. Dream screamed, trying to pull away from his trapped limb, and only succeeding in seeing what had actually happened. Quackity had stepped forward, carefully, and was currently standing where one of Dream's legs was supposed to be. Quackity pulled his leg back, dragging his shoe across the floor. Dream grit his teeth at the small trail of blood left behind, leaving a bloody void where his leg had been. "Fuck... Fuck you Quackity..." Dream hissed, claws scrabbling against the obsidian in vain. "Ew. God, you're as gross as a bug now." Quackity hissed, kneeling down to look at the shrunken prisoner, who was hyperventilating and glaring. "Sam... won't let you-" Dream yelped as he was grabbed again, hoisted into the air by his tormentor. "Sam! Sam please! Quackity's going to kill me! SAM!" Quackity tilted Dream around, much like a child would when inspecting a new toy. Quackity grabbed Dream's undamaged leg, holding it just below the knee. "Quackity? What are you-" Dream screamed as his leg was bent backwards, knee snapping in a small shower of blood as the bones broke the skin. "Holy shit! You're so fragile like this!" Quackity laughed as Dream grit his teeth in an effort to not scream anymore than he already had. Tears fell from Dream's eyes, black dots floating across his vision as his face burned. "Let's see here..." Dream felt a slight breeze dart across his face before it began to burn again. He was still hyperventilating, eyes now darting in and effort to see what had changed. His vision cleared enough to see Quackity holding his mask, inspecting it. Dream muttered, wanting it back. "What?" "Give... give it back... please... Please Quackity... Give it back..." Dream watched helplessly as Quackity threw the mask away, staring sadly at the little flame that signaled it burning in the lava. Dream lamely reached out for it, whimpering as his last line of defense now burned away. Dream looked to Qauckity; "Why... isn't the torture enough? You said... all I had to do was drink the potion... all I had to do was drink the potion." Quackity laughed. "Oh Dream, I said I wouldn't visit anymore... Well, I can't visit if I never leave!" Dream's eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned on him. Quackity- emotional, unstable, cruel, follower Quackity had tricked him. "You... You're a monster..." Quackity barked out a laugh again. "Look who's talking! A monster calling me a monster!" Quackity grinned, all teeth and malice. "Oh you have no idea." Quackity grabbed one of Dream's arms and twisted it, grin widening as the joint cracked loudly and Dream screamed again. "Please! Please stop!" Dream watched as his arm hung limply, completely useless now. Quackity paced around the cell, tossing Dream up and catching him. Dream felt like he was going to be sick, and questioned if it was the blood loss, injuries, or being thrown around. Dream used his good hand to grab onto Quackity, clinging to his tormentor. "Please... Just leave me alone... Please." Quackity stared at Dream for a moment, seeming to think about something. He pried Dream off of his hand, nearly breaking his other arm in the process, before throwing the shrunken prisoner in the air again, only to land on something wet and slimy. Dream heard what sounds like bones clacking together and realizes where he is. "Quackity no! Let me out! Please!" Dream sees light shine through as Quackity opened his mouth, reaching forward to crawl out. Dream was thrown to the side by Quackity's tongue, slamming into his molars. Dream rolled out just in time as Quackity's teeth slammed down on Dream's arm. Dream screamed as blood and saliva covered him. "Quackity! Stop! Please!" Dream was thrown around by the giant muscle once again, disorienting him for just long enough that he didn't move in time. Dream could feel his spine breaking as Quackity chomped down again, blood flying from his mouth and new wounds. Dream lay there, gasping loudly. Everything hurt... and he wasn't getting out of this. Even if Quackity spit him out now, his wounds were too severe. Dream stared blankly as Quackity finally swallowed him, unable to fight or even try to fight. Quackity left the prison with a grin, returning to Las Nevadas just in time for the message to show. Dream was killed by Quackity.

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savethelastdan · 4 years ago

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Sesskagu

"Last night a little dancer came dancin' to my door

Last night a little angel came pumping on my floor

She said come on baby, I got a license for love

And if it expires, pray help from above, because

In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more

With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more

In the midnight hour babe more, more, more

With a rebel yell more, more, more

More, more, more!

She don't like slavery, she won't sit and beg

But when I'm tired and lonely she sleeps in bed

What sets you free and brought you to me, babe

What sets you free, I need you here by me, because

In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more

With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more

In the midnight hour babe more, more, more

With a rebel yell more, more, more

He lives in his own heaven

Collects it to go from the seven eleven

Well, he's out all night to collect a fare

Just as long, just as long it don't mess up his hair

I walked the world for you, babe

A thousand miles for you

I dried your tears, of pain, babe

A million times, for you

I'd sell my soul, for you, babe

For money to burn, for you

I'd give you all, and have none, babe

Just to, just to, just to, just to, to have you here by me, because

In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more

With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more

In the midnight hour babe, more, more, more

With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more

More, more, more!"

“Fujin.” The wind sprite bows low, bangs brushing the marble floor. “She’s returned.”

The wind god exhales sharply. It sends the air in the room skittering every which way, and he draws it back to his side with every step towards The Gate.

His realm and that of other gods is separated by the structure; today, as it has been with many other days, a wind demoness has two of the tall golden spires in her grip.

Wrenching the metal back and forth with her weight, she glares at him with a sparkling rage. As Fujin looks down his nose at her, her lips draw back to gift him a flash of bared teeth.

“Send. Me. Back.” With each snarled word, she pulls harder at the gate. The protective winds of his realm batter her from all sides, tearing at her sleeves and earrings.

It’s curious. He has never bestowed the gift of incorporeality on a creature so ungrateful before. Indeed, from the blink-of-an-eye life that the demoness had (if you could even call it that) one would think she'd be glad to be rid of such a thing as a body.

Especially with how violent that one pathetic creature was with it - Naraku, who if he’d been able to take the Shikon jewel in hand and maybe had a few more brain cells rattling around, could have unseated Fujin himself. This little wind spirit should be thankful that she doesn’t have to worry about such things, anymore.

With a twitch in his mustache, Fujin turns. As he walks back to the cold halls of his kingdom, the woman's continued snarls bite at his heels.

Sesshomaru lies beneath many layers of rubble. Poisonous blood seeps from a hundred wounds, making the rock on all sides of him to heat and bubble. His self-directed anger - at being so easily caught by surprise, at being arrogant enough to think himself above any threat now that Naraku has departed the Earth - disintegrated hours ago. He can faintly hear Jaken and Ah-Un’s panicked scrabbling, many feet above him at the top of the wreckage. It will take them some time to drag him out, and then even longer to find his lost swords - he can hear them too, a furious shrieking that rings through the rubble almost melodically.

What little air he has is stale, bitter. For the first time a long time, he cannot catch her scent in it.

Fujin bends to glimpse her face through the bars. It shimmers and fades, as all his wind spirits’ visages do; only the anger in her scarlet eyes is constant.

“Send me back to the land of the living already, you insufferable, pompous -”

Fujin speaks, stroking his mustache with one finger. “What more could possibly be waiting for you there?”

She rears back. The hands twisting against the metal turn white at the knuckles; A flurry of air sends her bangs puffing up off of her head, and for the briefest of moments she looks tired.

Which is impossible; only those with physical forms can tire. One of the many reasons that such beings under his power have no need of it.

“I...”

With a resigned hmph, the Wind God stiffens. “Creatures like you will never stop wanting.”

Before she can form a comeback, he waves a hand. The Gate shudders; with a roar, the winds around it all rush forward.

Metal scrapes against metal. The wind spirit screams.

Fujin walks away.

The bleeding has stopped, his bones and muscle starting to thread back together. But before he is fully healed, the rocks on all sides of Sesshomaru’s broken body shudder.

He stiffens against the rumbling, trying to pick up the sounds from the surface far above and wherever Bakusaiga and Tensaiga are trapped, all at the same time. Then, with a painful-sounding roar, the rock rips away.

Sunlight blinds him as the layers unfurl. Ah-Un’s noses brush a shoulder each, and he faintly registers Jaken shrieking his title. Fresh air fills his lungs in a sudden burst that makes his hands curl into fists.

Sesshomaru opens his eyes to see Kagura’s panicked face, and assumes he is hallucinating.

When Kagura turns a series of nasty barbs on his retainer, blaming the kappa for Sesshomaru’s current state, the assumption that he has gone crazy becomes less certain. When Jaken returns the bitter words in kind, it is entirely disproven.

Still, Sesshomaru focuses his strength on attempting to stand, rather than asking how it is possible that she could be kneeling beside him as flesh and blood instead of air and spirit. After a few minutes of rest, his focus turns to locating his weapons. It saps any energy he might have had to interrogate her.

Insult burns bitterly in the back of her throat, but even so, she can’t help but be relieved that he’s not quite as bad as she thought (as the Western winds reported to her, as their mistress spirit). Launching another threat in Jaken’s direction for good measure, she pays Sesshomaru’s cold shoulder back in kind.

Indeed, the two of them do not speak to one another directly for quite a while, other than a few mutterings under her breath on Kagura’s part as they march away from the site of his near demise. Only when they reach Sesshomaru’s fortress (nearly unrecognizable in how much time it has been since he’s set foot in it), and she collapses on his bed in exhaustion, does either of them realize the power it must have taken for her to be reborn - and how much more after that, to dig him out of the collapsed mountain. She lifts her arms to inspect the twitching musculature beneath them and senses his eyes watching her.

Even then, it is not until midnight’s moon shines through the windows that he speaks.

“Is this temporary?”

“I don’t think so.” She rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling. Her body carries a faintly shimmering demonic aura; it’s a relief, since Fujin could have easily sent her back as a human. Just the thought of being so helpless makes her want to retch. “Even if it’s supposed to be, I’ll do what I want regardless.”

The entirety of Sesshomaru’s chest aches - what does she want, what could she, when her heart and revenge and justice are no longer within the confines of this world? When he looms over her, asks the question - “what did it cost, to lose your freedom?” - Sesshomaru cannot keep it from sounding like an accusation.

Kagura rears up, hair falling down her shoulders like pieces of the night itself. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, you ungrateful prick. Don’t even bother to thank me for - “

When their lips meet, it feels like returning to a place he’s walked a thousand miles to reach. Kagura's sigh sends gusts of air rippling through the room; Sesshomaru sets a hand on the back of her neck to ease her. The chill of her flesh is a hazy memory sharply recovered.

When Kagura flinches as the hilts of his swords dig into her skin, he moves to pull away. But her arms lock around his neck in a strangling grip.

“More,” she hisses. Words fill the space in her mind, but it’s the only one her lips will form. Life, living, loving, feeling, freeing - “More.”

#kagura #sesskagu #inuyasha #song lyric game #shespitsfire #savethelastdan

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kny-secret-santa2019 · 5 years ago

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From: @3rdgymbros

For: @knybits

message: hi, lovely, merry christmas! i was watching mulan and this was the result - i really hope you like this oneshot! i’ve been a big fan of your blog, and i love the creativity and effort that you put into writing scenarios! thank you for all your hard work!

— pairing; tanjirou kamado x reader ( modern au )

— prompt; want to help me get my parents off my ass about not having a date?

The matter of you finding a date for the annual family Christmas party begins to obsess your Grandmother. She won’t let the matter rest until your Grandfather and Father both take up the refrain; and once the men of the household are of her own mind, Grandmother immediately goes through the list of prestigious family connections. One such date includes the eldest son of an abalone cannery millionaire. A prospective date is suggested and your protests dismissed entirely.

“Only one date. If you like him, you can have another,” Your Grandmother says, with an impatient wave of her blood-coloured nails, the scent of Schiaparelli and mothballs wafting about her.

It’s unbearable. You lock yourself in your room and refuse to come out, anger and fear drumming through your body. You throw yourself onto the bed and listen as your Grandmother beats her small fists against the door.

“Do you want to be an old maid?” She screams.

“Yes!” You howl in return. Outside you hear whispering, and you know that your mother is there.

It’s unbearable. You’re only in High School and already your life is being squeezed into a box, all those rules and expectations laid out for you, and you’re expected to play along like the good daughter that you are. No one cares that you’ve been acing all your classes, that you’ve been nursing a secret hope that you might win a scholarship and go to England and study law when you graduate.

At last you’re left alone, and you hear the tiny shuffling steps of your Grandmother, supported by your Mother, fading away down the corridor. After a while, you get up, and, opening the window shutters wide, observe the slender branches of the Mexican lilac pushing up beneath the sill, wondering if it will hold your weight.

It’s not easy to reach the tree without falling from the window, but at last you grasp a strong branch and you swing yourself forwards, your sneaker-clad feet scrabbling for a hold against the trunk. Almost at once, you hear a loud crack, and falls with the branch the short distance to the ground. Your knee is scraped and you feel your shoulder throb with the beginnings of a bruise, but nothing more, and scrambling up, you run off through the main gate of the family estate.

An hour later, with nowhere else to go, you find yourself in the Kamado family bakery, pouring out your sorrows to a sympathetic Tanjirou, who nods in response at your story, as your tone rises to a high, fevered crescendo, and how your face wrinkles in distress at the impossible situation that your family has forced you into.

You pause for breath, and look around the Kamado family bakery. Nezuko, a baguette in her mouth, mans the cashier and counts out change for a waiting customer. Bells of all sizes, from tiny jingle to massive cow, chimes out entrances from hooks on the back of the door. The combination of scents envelops you: vanilla and cinnamon and warm chocolates with hints of lemon and cherry. As you sip on your frothy latte, you inhale the pockets of aromas, each one a comforting embrace of all that is good in this upside-down world.

Tanjirou slides a cream éclair over to you; you moan at the sight of the chocolate-covered confection, a specialty of the bakery, and your favorite dessert. “It’s on the house,” He says, smiling warmly, and a twinge sadly. “I wish I could do more to help.”

You seep deeper into your chair, letting his words roll over you. Tanjirou’s always been a good friend of yours, helpful and eager to please, and when he smiles, oh, when he smiles, it’s almost as if the sun itself is unfurling its rays and bringing light to your dreary existence. You have to battle back a blush, along with the realization that this little crush on your classmate isn’t going away anytime soon.

A plan slowly begins to form in your mind. You almost feel guilty for what you’re about to propose, and you promise yourself that you’ll buy all your bread from The Kamado Family Bakery for as long as you live.

“You can.” Propping your chin up with the flat of your palm, you motion Tanjirou closer. “So. Want to help me get my parents off my ass about not having a date?”

Tanjirou smiles, his face wrinkling into the lines of one used to joy and gentleness. In your chest, your traitorous heart thumps all the harder, a shoe knocking about noisily in the dryer. You swallow. Hard.

“Sure! What do you have in mind?”

This is the first thing that you think: that this whole situation seems like something right out one of Zenitsu’s trashy romance novels. This is the second thing that you think, somewhat in a daze, with cheeks painted red: Tanjirou cleans up well.

You make a beeline for Tanjirou as he hovers by the door, a paper bag clutched uncertainly in his hands, even as an uncharacteristically timid smile graces his lips; but as your attention is currently being occupied by your Grand-Aunt, who has forgotten your name for the third time in a row, and it’s your Mother and Father who, as one, both move intercept him, cutting through the crowd to greet him. Though, you suppose, it’s better your parents than your Grandmother, who is bound to be watching the boy you’ve brought home with an eagle-eye from her place of honor at the head of the table.

“You must be Tanjirou,” Father says, his face impassive as always, giving nothing away. “( Your Name ) has told us about you.”

“I-It’s very nice to meet you!” Tanjirou says in response, a little too loudly, and his cheeks color pink as everyone in the room turns to look, sizing him up from the top of his hair, plastered to his brows with very strong hair gel, all the way down to his neatly polished shoes. He bows, stiffly and formally. “This is for you!”

“You brought bread?” Your mother asks, taking a peek into the proffered bag. She inhales the yeasty goodness and her eyes light up. “Everyone here loves the bread your family bakes! Come, let me introduce you to the family.”

The tension drains out of Tanjirou’s frame, his expression morphing into one of pride. Mother takes him by the hand and circles the room, making introductions. Every set of eyes smile at him. Father nods discreetly at you before stepping into the kitchen, and you heave a silent sigh of relief. You catch Tanjirou’s eye as he moves about the room, and you smile and nod encouragingly, trying to push calm energy at him.

Step one, passed.

Step two is getting through dinner.

Although you already know how extensive your family is, every year you still find yourself marveling at the sheer amount of people currently occupying the family dining room. The glow of fairy lights adoring the walls gives the large dining room unworldly appeal. The sound of laughter, chatter and greetings competes with the Christmas music playing from the speakers.

Everyone sits down to eat almost immediately. The table is an impressive expanse of solid burl wood, topped with glass. Each place setting bears a napkin starched white, silverware, and a stiff card embossed with individual names. Blessedly, your seat is next to Tanjirou, and directly beside your Grandmother, whose beady eyes always seem to linger on the boy at your side. Her wrinkled lips are pursed into a thin line, and she only nods as Tanjirou introduces himself once again.

You’ll never be able to please her, you think bitterly, staring down at your silverware and your rainbow-hued cup, filled to the brim with sparkling juice. Still, you do feel a tad guilty that it’s because of your hare-brained scheme that Tanjirou is currently in this mess, and so, under the table, you brush your hand against his own. You hope that Tanjirou feels you in that moment, a mix of gratitude and apology wrapped in that one touch.

The moment is fleeting, but the warmth of his smile grounds you and wrings the air out of your lungs all at once. You close your eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, how the butterflies in your stomach seem to flutter to life at this one simple touch.

Juicy, garlicky meatloaf, creamy scalloped potatoes, blanched greens with slivered almonds, French bread, and salads full of bright colours and textures are placed on the table and passed around family style. The conversation is pleasant but not heady. The star would definitely be Tanjirou, who gracefully answers every question thrown at him; though you do end up stepping in as soon as you catch his face twitching as he forces out a lie – good, honest Tanjirou, you think, would make a terrible poker player.

How did you and ( Your Name ) meet?

We’re classmates. She invited me for dinner.

How old are you?

I’m 16.

Doesn’t your family own a bakery downtown?

Yes, the Kamado Bakery!

The bread there is so good, my daughter stops there every day after school.

Thank you for your support, my dad would be really happy to know that you like his bread so much!

As the conversation tapers into a lull, your mother stands, slips into the kitchen and brings out dessert on a silver tray. There are slices of fruit cake, mince pies, and a chestnut log cake donated by the Kamado Bakery.

You spear a fork into your second slice of log cake, tasting thick, velvety chocolate coating your tongue. You let out a long hum of satisfaction. Various faces around the table are also glazed over with satisfaction, as they refill their plates.

Your Mother turns to Tanjirou then, with a smile and friendly eyes. There’s no doubt in your mind that she fully approves of Tanjirou. “Why don’t you come back again tomorrow with your family? Stay for dinner?”

Until, finally, your Grandmother speaks up, for the first time in the evening. Her voice is completely serious. “Would you like to stay forever?”

You choke on your next spoonful of cake.

#tanjirou kamado #tanjirou kamado x reader #tanjirou x reader #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kamado tanjirou #submission

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pixelzprince · 4 years ago

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Circuit - Lore Fic

FINALLY!! This lore fic has been about two weeks in the making now, and finally we can post it!

It’s a bit of backstory regarding Incandescent and Chill (and Wolvesbane, a bit) and the misadventures the thrill-seeking young dragons in the Hewn City get up to - basically an excuse to write a bunch of headcanons for the Shade. And let’s just say, when the most cursed city in an entire Flight territory is way more saturated with magic than usual.. something’s bound to go horribly wrong.

Warnings: Some mild horror themes, unreality/slight derealization/existential crisis stuff, you know. We’re dealing with the 10% More Eldritch Shade here after all. Also, mentions/implications of bullying, eugh.

Probably the darkest thing we’ll actually write out in our character lore, to be honest though things get better after this, it’s just a Not So Pleasant inciting incident-

With that out of the way, onto the show!

"So it's like, a ghost-themed biking group?" Chill had asked on the way to the venue. "Sounds.. kinda forced to me, to be honest."

His neon friend let out a poorly stifled guffaw, briefly lifting a claw from the handles of her bike to hide her grin. "I don't think you're in any position to say that, Mister 80s band tees."

Chill frowned, clinging a bit tighter to Ink's shoulders as they zoomed through the night aboard the latter's tricked out three wheeler bike; Incandescent's parents hadn't allowed her to get a proper motorcycle, and all Chill had was his old mountain bike, though the Mirror couldn't truthfully say he felt all that safe clinging to the spiny shoulders of a Banescale for dear life on a vehicle meant for one.

Thus, he'd urged her to drive as slowly and carefully (the damage to his "coolness" didn't go unnoticed) as she could manage given her high octane lifestyle - giving them much time to talk on the trip. Plenty of time to sling banter and waste breath meant for more valuable discussions.

"Right, so... you really capitalize on that Halloween aesthetic?" Chill tried again, wording his question carefully to dodge Ink's edgy defenses; for how nice his friend could be, she was like a spring-loaded trap full of retorts ready to snap given the right ammunition. "Everyone thinks you're some sorta cult, but it's just for the rep, right..?"

Ink quirked a wry grin, teeth glinting in the low lights of the city. "Something like that." Her spines rattled with something akin to excitement, making Chill quietly yelp and adjust in the seat to avoid getting skewered. "Reputation's power, right?"

Chill fought the conditioned urge to shoot some witty sarcasm back, though his contemplation was interrupted as the bike came to an abrupt halt, worsened by the sudden prickling of scales against his arms.

"We're here," Ink supplied.

She slid off the bike, radiant scales glistening in the neon lights of the shopping center. Chill barely caught the discarded helmet slung at him, the weight smacking against his chest and knocking the air out of him. He called after her as he fumbled, "Heavy helmet for a hard head!"

Ink gave no indication that she'd heard him, merely striding off towards the parking lot of a nearby pizza place. Chill frowned, disappointed in the lack of acknowledgement. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the childish irritation, before hesitantly beginning to follow Ink.

He kept his head held low, eyes shifting around to observe the creeping murk of the city's almost unnatural darkness; even at only dusk, even with the piercing glow of dozens of light sources (the motorbikes' custom lights, the LED of the storefronts, the subtle hues of his own luminous capsule trait, his overwhelmed mind rattled off) the Hewn City's oppressive night seemed to leech as much warmth and luminescence as it could.

And this was Light territory; a shudder went through Chill as he dared to imagine what Shadow or Ice's expanses looked like at night, away from most sources of radiance.

Slinking past an unrelated crowd congregated by the road (they smelled of pizza, sweat, and ozone, probably some sports team, ugh), the Mirror soon reached his destination, a small group of dragons around his age, some younger, all gathered in the darkest corner of the parking lot.

How convenient.

Some were lazily leaned against their bikes as makeshift lounges, while others stood almost like guards, alert and scanning the area. Chill caught the eye of one of the latter category, a Nocturne with strikingly patterned scales. Their eyes widened as their gazes met, before they scowled and turned away slightly. They muttered something to their companion, a rather anxious looking Fae who was half coiled by the tail around a metal-studded bike just a tad too big for them. The Fae looked almost as out of place as Chill, wearing a brightly patterned hoodie and trying to look tough, though the amusing juxtaposition did little to reassure him.

Just what kind of crowd was this-?

Ink tugged him over, draping an arm over his shoulder in a gesture that, outwardly, may have seemed protective. Chill frowned and glanced up to see the mischievous, "I'm dragging you into shenanigans" grin that betrayed otherwise. He wilted under her conniving gaze, silently resigning himself to whatever hazing or crimes this so-called "biking club" had in mind.

Vandalism? Petty crime? He couldn't say he was up for it, himself, but he hoped whatever the group of off-kilter rebels had planned would at least be fun in the moment. Anything but bike racing, at least...

The wind began to pick up a bit, drowning out some of the quieter chatter around him. He allowed himself to relax, if only a tad bit; perhaps they were just.. hanging out. Loitering was a crime in some places, right? Passive crime, "safe" crime. Chill, figuring that the others had no interest in hanging out with him, distracted himself by counting the treasure in his pockets, wondering if he had enough to get himself a slice of pie. He may have been half Fae, but anyone, enhanced Mirror senses or not, could smell the thick, syrupy scent of apple cobbler wafting through the air from the pizza place.

It was all... so passive. Boring, but pleasant.

Of course, something had to give.

After what seemed like ages of tense stillness, Ink spoke up suddenly, her voice rumbling like a foreboding storm cloud, which Chill felt from where he was currently hugged to her side. Of course, the calm before the storm was over.

Despite everything, her voice was a tad comforting, a familiar sort of "danger" instead of the alarm bells that had initially screamed from every other corner of this place. Chill clung to her subconsciously, glaring out at the others and trying to tune out whatever was said, to just focus on the pure tone... dissociate into the void, or however the halfhearted joke went.

Despite his efforts, a few words slipped by, "Summoning" and "power" and whatnot. Part of the ghost gimmick, he assumed. He shuddered from the sudden, brisk breeze that whipped by, though instead of being hugged closer, he was abruptly shoved towards the center of the crowd.

A yelp escaped him as he stumbled to regain his bearings, his claws painfully catching on some uneven pieces of concrete. He hissed, swaying, before he glanced around to see what he'd missed in his half-attentive musings.

When had they formed an actually cohesive circle..? And around him specifically..? He looked back at Ink for explanation, though she averted her gaze. The wind rushed by, now deafening. It'd picked up unnaturally quickly, and Chill soon located its source, a growl ripping from his throat as he once again met the eyes of the Nocturne.

Airborne Parchment?! Where would they get something like that? Instead of using the windbound material for its intended purpose of bringing life to drawn objects, the supposed leader of the group was merely willing forth elemental gales of wind into existence. They didn't seem to have much hold over it, but control wasn't the intention, merely... power.

"What are you doing?!" Chill hollered. He snapped out of his stupor, storming towards the amateur spellslinger. Their eyes seemed to widen a fraction, perhaps in shock, though before more words could be exchanged, their previously awkward Fae companion leapt into action, shooting forth and headbutting Chill right in the stomach.

It wasn't a very hard hit, rather a precise one. Capsule dragons were known for their vulnerable stomach area, and sure enough, Chill reeled back, hardly able to prevent himself from crumpling to his knees back in the center of the circle. He was freezing and burning all at the same time, battered by brisk winds and the uneasy sort of thrum that rippled through the earth itself.

And yet, finally, through the gale, voices rang true. "We've never done this before, true.." It was a tinny, raspy voice that grated on Chill's ears. "But but but!! Someone naïve was needed to call forth the Shade. Call forth, not use as a vessel. He won't be hurt."

"So he's the flippin bait you mean?! Can it with the sugarcoat." A painful shockwave rattled Chill's senses as Ink screamed from somewhere above him. "And you've never done this before? He's a test dummy if anything-"

Her hands are blazing with light, undoubtedly, as she growled, "You said you knew what you were doing."

"Silence," a third, cool voice intercepted. It reverberated much stronger than the rest. "It has already begun. The artifact will draw the Shade near."

The Shade?

Chill's eyes stung as he forced them open, and he instantly regretted it. His surroundings were awash with too-bright colors, the dragons around him more like blobs of light against the pitch of his surroundings. Alarms blared in the back of his disoriented brain, and he bared his teeth, trying to stand. His claws uselessly scrabbled against the suddenly slick concrete for some purchase, and by the time he managed to stand, he could faintly see something somehow darker than the existing murk rising from the cracks.

Liquid dripping upward, unburdened by the constraints of reality.

And all fell silent, as if the world itself paused to gaze into the void.

He watched it for a moment, himself, mesmerized by its headache-inducing, impossible blackness. It swayed in an inviting, inquisitive manner, hardly blotting out the dull panic slowly igniting in the Mirror's bones. Only the very edges of its fluid form seemed to reflect light, almost like a cartoonish outline that barely detracted from how otherworldly the substance was.

The Shade..

A quiet, almost breathless whisper shook the stillness, "It worked..."

And Chill's world exploded into white hot pain, impossible fireworks set aflame behind his eyes.

~~~~~

A pulse. A pain. A thrum of negative power.

A shockwave cuts through the souls of all in the crowd, invasive and calculating and yet erratic all the same. Wild to their perception and coiling and thriving with an intelligence beyond this world. It.. analyzes them, down to the core, samples their magic and minds, and then it's gone.

The all-encompassing murk seems to draw in all light like an amorphous black hole. It's fluid and yet like plasma, burning and freezing, hollow and yet dense. It moves with a weight that's not quite physical, though fearsome and ancient all the same. Though as soon as the display of eldritch un-energy begins, it stills, settles, coalesces in the center of the circle in a more manageable form.

The summoning worked... or so they'd thought.

The Nocturne stares, captivated. The now useless parchment drops limply from their claws as they breathe, "Oh... Lightweaver.."

Ink breaks the stillness with a snarl, "Orbit!" and in an instant, the Banescale's upon the summoner, a tangle of claws and spikes and conflict. The summoner has no chance to react, the air knocked out of them as Incandescent crushes them prone to the ground and screams in their face, "What did you DO-"

They manage to whisper, "The summoning worked," though their heart's not in it. They cast a forlorn gaze towards the semi-solid insubstantiality. Their poor artifact, perfectly crafted to contain traces of the Shade... lost to this blunder. "At a cost..."

The sentiment sends Ink hysterical. "At a cost?" She devolves into wordless screams, all fight leaving her as she weakly shakes Orbit, who stares into the tearful gaze hollowly. Others break from their frozen state to attempt to break up the fight, life and energy, albeit a tense sort, flooding back.

Life cannot be paused for long, after all. The elements, however dimmed they may be, quickly resume their presence.

Ignoring the halfhearted tussle, the Fae from before hops down from his perch, silently striding past the "fight". His palms flare with magic, bright and cold and merciless, matching the shine of his eyes. Gone is the awkwardness, even in the face of the Shade itself.

The insubstantiality, which has collected into the form of the Mirror that it claimed, raises its "head" slowly, shakily in a false show of weakness. Its eyes, the only spots of light on it, blaze like searchlights, betraying its true strength.

The Fae speaks, that raspy tone adding a hint of menace to his words, "A failure.. another failure." He bares his teeth and snarls, "An expensive failure."

Another? The impossibly lightless plasma inches back, fan-like crests pinning back as it gazes into the wild eyes of disappointment and scorn. The Shade does not know fear... but all this creature knows is the impulse of fight or flight humming in its hollow core.

Something akin to a heartbeat pulses in its "chest". Quick, fearful, hardly present. Move, flee.

The fighting's died down, Ink dragged away from Orbit's huddled and silent form, and all the Banescale does is scream into the sky, into the speckled night. Yet the darkness she screams at is nowhere near the impossibility of the Shade which has claimed her friend.

Fear. The heartbeat stutters. Run.

Elemental ice, wicked and glowing, freezes the spot where the being had been mere moments before. The Fae spits a venomous string of blights, at the summoning, at the lost artifact, at the waste of time. But the residual darkness staining the ground isn't the Shade he'd aimed to erase.

It's already long gone, fleeing through the gaps of reality itself, through the tear from which it arrived.

~~~~~

Find safety.

Get out of there. Away. Far away.

But where..?

~~~~~

The fragment of Shade rematerializes in the subway. From the darkness itself, it's ejected, the ambient Shadow element of this world rejecting its unnatural presence and leaving it to sizzle in the fluorescent, buzzing lights of the few operational signs in this district.

And yet, it relaxes, collapsing shockingly solidly upon the cold, smooth pavement.

It's silent for once, the normal hustle and bustle of the city having been driven out by recent damages done to this railway. Even the usual stragglers, kids like Ink's club, who normally loiter around the "spooky abandoned subway" for kicks have long since either gone home or to the park to camp out.

Not even the most daring of delinquents would test their luck napping in the hollow depths of the earth. Not in Light territory, especially.

They say Light, for all its pristine brightness, hides something eldritch. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows after all.

Perhaps, this is that something.

With that thought, the insubstantiality lets out a cry.

Get to safety. Hide.

It manages to stand, first shakily onto all fours, then to its hind legs. It limps towards the darkest corner, baking in the light, before it stumbles and trips to its knees again, gasping. The air passes through it, not that it needs to breathe; nonetheless, it curls up and forces itself to inhale and exhale, if only to replicate the life that it'd sensed all around it just minutes before.

Breathe.

It scrabbles at its chest its claws finding little purchase in the slick, incorporeal material making up its form. Frictionless, there's no way to scratch through to tear out the artifact inside, now bound to its metaphorical core.

It’s alive. ALIVE.

Yet the mere contact sends it reeling, light shimmering from within and just barely reflecting off its body, enough to outline its limbs among the tangled darkness, to give some definition to its form.

It’s… I’m real. I'm alive. I'm real.

The tentative balance of energy and nothingness snaps, allows life to win over, if only slightly. He remembers, his eyes glowing not with a pure, absent white like before, but with a blend of violet and fiery hues, a rapidly shifting twilight twinkling in his gaze.

Time releases a breath it'd been holding since the threads of reality first snapped.

They'd summoned The Shade, of all things. They'd tethered it to an artifact, which had tethered itself to him. He could still, if only faintly, feel his own magic humming beneath the oppressive gloom which coated (comprised?) his form, but it was.. contaminated, thoroughly so.

His poor excuse for a heart thumped once more, only seeming to beat prominently when he was struck with powerful emotion. He held his paws to his chest, focusing on that sound, willing it to continue, to prove he was still of the living realm.

Yet the heartbeat stilled soon enough, merely the erratic pulsing of a cursed artifact attempting to keep the Shade in check. To keep things in balance, in control.

The altruistic part of him was glad that such an artifact was now useless to that group. With such potential, to control even a piece of an otherworldly horror... he didn't even want to imagine what it could be used to bring about.

Petty crimes, he at least hoped. Petty crimes deluxe edition, don't get caught.

A bitter laugh escaped him, distorted and crumbling in the umbra. No need to worry about crimes now, at least. Their power... it was his now... it was him now.

Or perhaps he was its.

He waved a claw, watched it seem to flicker as if already cutting through atoms in the air with a single gesture, leaving smoky afterimages behind.

As the memories of the past thirty or so minutes flooded back, he realized, he can do just that, he has done just that, slipped out of the physical plane and just moved, perhaps faster than light for a moment, even.

So that's what teleportation really was.

The childish part of him would've relished in the idea of obtaining cosmic power, like some sort of superhero, though he knows better. His own magic fights constantly within, a storm of elemental energy caught in an endless cycle of extinguishing and reignition, with the artifact in the center, regulating it all.

He's no superhero, and this is no origin story.

He stared at the high, arching ceilings, at the darkness that would've once strained even his Shadow element eyes.

He's no superhero... he's just a circuit.

#flight rising #fluffyfics #body horror tw #unreality tw #horror warning #FluffyCharas #Chill Fallenleaf #Orbit #Ink Shimmer #Wolvesbane #angst cw #//just in case//#//it's not that bad we're just tagging everything for caution//#Shadow Officiants #Clanless #Hewn City

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fandomsnerd · 4 years ago

Text

Lips Stained Red

(Cross posted with AO3)

When Jaskier stumbles out of a halfway run-down inn into the grey of early morning light, sleep still crusting his eyes, he has no intention of finding a fight. His focus is breakfast, for himself and Roach, then find a worthy distraction for the day. Something to stop him worrying about the fact Geralt wasn’t back yet.

Something to stop him thinking about the fact Geralt was supposed to be back yesterday evening. Stop replaying the Witcher’s calm and altogether unremarkable parting words over and over in his head-

The scream is sharp, piercing through the early morning fog, concerningly loud and concerningly close. Fuck.

He should turn around, stumble back inside, back up the stairs, give himself a few hours more sleep before returning to deal with the mess of the day.

But then he’s never been very good at doing what he should

A second cry leads him round the side of the inn, into a dim lit alleyway, the tall buildings lining the edges cutting out most of the weak sunlight, only just starting to stream into the sky.

He trails down it wearily, not nearly as awake as he would like to be.

Round another corner, to the back of the building, it’s there he finds them.

Four men, well, three and the innkeeper. A bloody and beaten innkeeper.

There was blood dripping from a split in the side of the man’s head, eyes cloudy and unfocused, arm up in defence-

He should probably leave.

He watches one of the men hoist up a thick wooden bat, swing it round and bring it down against the Innkeeper’s head. Watches the man’s body crumple to the ground from the weight of the blow.

He should definitely leave

But…

The man had been kind, letting them in for less than adequate coin, accepting Geralt’s word that the rest would come after Geralt received payment for a finished job.

It shouldn’t matter. He should just leave.

The innkeeper groans, curls an arm over his head as his attacker lifts the bat once more.

Fuck.

“Um, hello- hello there.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to achieve with the words, provide a distraction? Draw their attention for a moment if nothing else. Part of him clings to a slim and desperate hope he might be able to choose the right words to defuse the situation

It works in part.

In that one of the men, thankfully unarmed, turns their attention away from the curled body.

Towards Jaskier.

Shit.

As the concerningly large man steps towards him he has just enough time to realise this may have been a… mistake.

“Right, now, um hello, if we could just slow down for a moment-”

The man swings, and he thanks the gods for instincts, driving him forward. He ducks around the fist, throwing himself to the side as best he can, somehow avoiding the first blow.

“Now I’m sure if we just-”

The man swings again, making contact this time, a fist slammed into his head, ears stinging. He gasps at the blow, tries to shake off the ringing.

He stumbles back, trying to give himself a second to let his jostled brain settle. Shit.

Another blow, he manages to half block this one, arm knocking away the worst of the blow, gods his head hurts. Clearly attempts at conversation would get him nowhere.

He takes a breath, steps forward and swings back. Smashes a fist into the fucker’s neck, feels a hand smash into flesh, bones protesting at the move.

A worthy injury, the man stumbles back, choking, momentarily dazed if nothing else.

Fingers flex, ready for a second hit. Wondering what damage he could do if he manages to hit the same spot twice.

Not that he gets the chance to find out.

An arm wraps around his neck, yanking him back, cutting off the cry half formed in his throat.

He struggles, feet skidding against the ground, arms reaching up to tug uselessly on the tight and crushing weight around his neck, nails digging in, in a desperate attempt to force release. A soft chuckle rings in his ear, the man clearly certain of his inability to get away.

So, he throws a hand backwards, fingers scrabbling against the man’s face, aiming high to miss sharp and pointed teeth. A thumb finds an eye socket, pressing in hard. He feels something shift, something move under his thumb, giving way under the pressing weight.

The man screams.

Good.

The arm loosens around his neck, not a full release, but certainly weakened. He can work with that.

He curls his thumb, feeling the eyeball shift in response, revelling in the resulting scream. This proves enough, the arm around his throat dropping away.

He tips forward, deciding to go with the movement and sends himself sailing into the first asshole. It results in a heavy collision, a move he quickly regrets, realising that unlike him his attackers are built like a brick wall.

He feels his nose burst, caught between the rest of him and the bastard’s chest, blood pouring out and splattering across the man’s shirt.

He gags, yanking back, pressing a hand against the flow. Feels hot blood drip out between his fingers, splattering down his chin, warm and wet.

Fuck.

He splutters as it drips against his lips, a mist of blood droplets scattering into the air. The man laughs at the sound, fucker.

So, he does the only thing he can think of, he smashes his forehead into the man’s face. Feels the man’s nose crumple in turn. Good.

The man cries out, a wonderous sound. He presses on, drives a knee up, directly into the man’s groin. Feels the man crumple against him, half bent over and gasping for breath.

He drives the knee up again, earning a weak sob from the man.

He steps back, lets the man crumble to his knees.

Just in time to notice the heavy hat swinging at his head. He finches, head shifted to the side, arm reaching up to block the blow.

He feels the whack vibrate through his arm, shaking it to the bone. Fuck does that hurt.

Still, he curls an arm around the wood, and yanks.

And then the man yanks back.

Rough wood tears through the flesh of his hand, ripping a cracked scream from his lips.

But he does not let go.

He yanks back again. Lets himself become so focused on the piece of wood, on tugging it free, that he doesn’t notice the fist until it smashes into his face.

His already aching nose explodes once more in pain, his grip drops, bat slid easily out of his hand as he buckles over, clutching his aching and agonising face.

He hears the fucker in front of him step forward, boot scuffing against the rough cobblestones.

He tries not to panic, feeling his heart pick up, blood pumping through his body.

He does his best to straighten up. Square up. Stare down his opponent, prepare himself for the next hit.

The man laughs at that, lazily twirling the bat, clearly certain he has gained the higher ground. The man moves forward slowly, taking his time with the approach.

He swallows. Feels the burn of hot blood trickle down his throat, soft and silky. Does his best not to share his fear. Tires not to flinch when the fucker takes another step towards him.

The last thing he expects is for the bastard to freeze, muscles seemingly locking in place. The man blanches, face draining of blood. His eyes focus on a spot just behind behind Jaskier, a tremble sliding into his fingers.

In the stillness he finally notices it, the sound of soft foot fall from behind him, someone, something, moving towards him.

He can’t stop a shiver when a wave of fear momentarily floods over him at the sound, trying not to panic further, debating whether he should risk looking behind him.

He feels the presence behind him. The heat of another body, the quiet huff of a breath- a… possibly familiar breath of a sound.

His attacker drops the bat, stumbling over his feet to back up, scrambling down the alleyway.

He hears a decidedly familiar huff from behind him, feeling the hot breath on the back of his head.

He tilts his head back, half turning, not surprised to see the familiar face of the Witcher.

“Hello,” the word comes out half gurgled, mouth slick with blood, “I didn’t know you were in the area.”

Geralt startles at that, a frown painting his face.

He snorts at the response, it’s not his fault, he may be concussed, he really shouldn’t be blamed for whatever words choose to stumble free from his lips right now. Sticky, syrupy words, slowly spilling free.

Geralt’s frown deepens, taking a step back to give himself room to spin Jaskier the rest of the way round by the shoulders. Geralt presses a hand to Jaskier’s forehead, peels up one of the bard’s eyelids as wide as it will go, studying his pupils.

He tugs back from the touch, he is fine. He will be fine. He just needs a few minutes for his head to stop spinning.

Geralt hesitates, hand left hovering in the air, uncertainty showing plain on his face, “are you okay?”

He snorts, freezing in horror at the jet of blood which pours free, some of it splatters onto Geralt. He groans, shoves a sleeve against his nose in a desperate hope to at least somewhat stem the flow of blood still trickling free from it.

Spits out an, “I’m fine,” words muffled and mushy.

Geralt rises an eyebrow, staring at him closely, “Jaskier,” the word had the hint of a warning in it, a threat of what would happen if he lies about how he is, “how are you?”

He groans, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he tries to take note of his current state. Work out the honest answer to the question. Cracks his neck, rolls sore shoulders, feeling them click back into place.

“ ‘m okay… think my nose is broken though.”

Geralt chuckles at that, “judging from the blood I’d be more surprised if it wasn’t.”

He groans again, daring a look down at himself, doublet and undershirt both stained in a splattering of red. Bright droplets already soaked in deep to expensive fabric, not the ideal outcome he wanted.

“…bollocks.”

Geralt huffs at that, the edge of amusement playing at his lips, well hidden under layers of irritation, unimpressed to see Jaskier more concerned with the state of his shirt than himself. “It’s had worse.”

He splutters, “this was new Geralt! I hadn’t even got the chance to perform in it yet.”

Geralt offers an almost smile at that, “you’re a menace,” he says softly, lacking any true bite.

“I’m a menace-”

“I leave you alone for half a day and look what you get into.”

“Hey, now- this wasn’t my fault, what was I supposed to do, leave an innocent man to die-”

He freezes at that, spins at the sudden thought of the innkeeper, realising that throughout the mess of a fight he had managed to completely forget about the man. Breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the man propped up against the side of the building, seemingly still breathing. Less relieving is the notably glossy stare in his eye, blood still sluggishly trickling down his face.

“Hmm, he is not okay.” Geralt offers helpfully over his shoulder.

“Yes, I can see that, thank you.”

“Someone should get him to a healer.”

At that he turns and levels Geralt with a meaningful stare, “someone should.”

“… it’s not my job.”

The Witcher grumbles, as he fusses over the innkeeper, checking the man is conscious, trying to coax… or possibly scare, coherent words out of him. Geralt pretends not to care, pretends this entire thing is beneath him, not something he does, as he always does when helping someone. But Jaskier has seen it all more than enough times to know it’s all an act.

The innkeeper proves more alive than expected, waving off most of the help, not letting them do much more than lift the man to his feet, help carry him back into the inn, half dumped behind the bar, left to be someone else’s problem.

Likely his wife’s, the poor woman having just woken up, clearly terrified by her poor husband’s current appearance.

She bustles them out, swings the inn door shut with a determinative slam, leaving the two of them blinking in the bright morning light.

He stretches, rolls tired shoulders, and offers a tired sigh to the day, “well now that was not the best start to the day,”

Geralt snorts, turning to look at him properly once again. The Witcher seems to still for a second, hesitating for a moment, an unsure hand suddenly moving to wipe clean a spot on Jaskier’s cheek. A wasted effort, given the thick layer of blood trailing down from his nose, lips stained a vibrant red.

Geralt hums, examining the smear of red on his fingers, “not the worst start either.”

He hums back, an uncomfortable shiver flickering down his spine, “yea… it could have been much worse, if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

Geralt frowns slightly at that, “that’s not… you would have delt with it.”

He raises an eyebrow in response, “careful Geralt, that’s almost a compliment.”

Geralt smiles at the words, offering him a comfortable, if a touch painful, pat on the shoulder, “as close as you’ll get to one.”

He laughs back, wincing at the ache of his face, the crack of half dried blood painting his face, some still sluggishly trickling down his chin, uncomfortable and sticky.

Geralt snorts at the sight, uselessly wiping a smear of blood from the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, “Gods, You’re a mess.”

He hums at the touch, head tilted back, soaking in the sunlight, warm and comfortable despite the aching pain in his face, nose decidedly broken, “mmm, I’ll tidy up once we can get back into the room.” He sighs, scrunches his nose as best he can, trying to assess the damage, “you might need to take over earning our coin for a few weeks, I don’t know how much I’ll be bringing in with my pretty face looking like this.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “what makes you think I’ll spend my coin covering for your mistakes bard?”

He doesn’t bother responding to the question, knowing it’s not a real threat. That Geralt may complain and moan as much as he wants, but at the end of the day he will do his best to cover everything they need until Jaskier’s face heals.

Instead he tilts, knocking their shoulders together comfortably, an acknowledgement that he understands the jest. Geralt nudges back, solid and secure.

He sighs at the contact, it truly had been an unusual start to a day, and the gods only know he had had better.

But perhaps it wasn’t the worst it could have been.

#The Witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivera

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d0ntw0rrybehappy · 3 years ago

Text

i’m going insane lol

so i feel like the next step in working hard is to not even perceive the work i’m doing as tiring. (rereading this it’s making me lol.) it seems weird that i find a part time job at a restaurant this exhausting? and like i can’t pretend that i’m not tired, but i have to somehow take better care of myself and set the conditions to not be tired from it.

i’ve been thinking about baudrillard/barthes a lot still -- pleasantly surprised that their theories are interesting to apply to any- and everything. for example, they both go into how every statement can also be read as its opposite or negation. so, to quote baudrillard, saying “i am not afraid of communism” also implies that communism is something you should be afraid of.

i’ve been using this as a kind of paranoid way to gain insight into why people tell me that i am “strong” because i don’t really know what that means. (other things i am told i am often: sweet, intense). it’s like what they’re saying is, there’s some kind of context, a milieu of weak people i’m being compared to. or like they want to reassure me that i am strong, because i actually come across as how i feel: like a particularly lost, unstable, emotional, sensitive, and lonely person.

i can’t with restaurant work anymore. it. SUCKS. i want to fucking get out, i am like a rat scrabbling at the walls of a glass aquarium. all novelty has worn off, all misguided overtures of honest work or “people skills.” and i’m still stuck here, still holding my breath in the deep end until i can find the eject button. i am tired, my body aches. my body aches!!

i want to just grind my way out (here we are with barthes again -- well if you truly wanted to do that you’d just shut the fuck up and do it instead of writing about it), but here i am, eating another round of chocolate (i don’t smoke, i don’t have sex, i truly just eat), constantly fucking hungry. then like a bull mowing into a red flag i realize i have been grinding...in a completely useless direction. it is like my passion for learning about things gets scattered every which way and i just can’t start, every path is equally exciting and awful and the injunction to “choose” is not “clicking” in my “head.” it’s like my mind cracked open at some point in my teenage years (when i started smoking weed, when my child universe was decisively fractured by a friend) and now the crack is snowing fireworks and glitter and i shift in and out of unreality.

reality is almost too painful to bear. nobody’s happy: you can find contentment by accepting your current lot, but “happiness" is really just contrast or relief from pain. it comes in and out. most people are too lazy or small-minded or too busy complaining to feel content, or their lives are just too twiggy, got too long in the wrong direction or are just too fucking hard. i guess i still am happy, and still love life, in a sort of ferocious and bloody and hungry way.

love is bleak, though. i barely even know how to define it anymore. (culture defines a love which we yearn for; we experience “love” insofar as our real love fleetingly resembles this model, only to come up short -- baudrillard). re: love, to use my mom’s favorite school-of-hard-knocks memory device for the laws of thermodynamics -- a subject she took? -- you can’t win, you can’t break even, you can’t get outta the game (and death and taxes). you are going to get royally FUCKED by love just like everybody else, and you are STILL gonna play, you beautiful mortal fool. like the tarot cards lauren dealt me, putting away the three cards she’d used to describe my near future and then flipping through the entire deck, picture side up, without realizing that i was quietly watching it describe my whole entire life -- clinging at the edge of my seat to see some eventual combination that spelled good, strong, lasting love and seeing only struggle, happiness, struggle, pain, struggle, and finally ending, at my death, in a small statue made of gold.

see also, other realities i hate to swallow: nearly all interpersonal problems are insurmountable and better left undealt with, and work basically sucks unless you are very lucky and very smart.

work. let’s go back to that. i used to think my work would be respected off its merit; now i see the merit in literally fucking my way up. i wonder if i should even be an artist at all. artists are kinda like showponies or whores; they’re not actually important. the more honest and wonderful they are, the less important they probably are, like schoolteachers. they have an impact on an individual level. but on a societal level, you have no control as an artist. you just get played by bigger fish. better to find a way to have your hands on the gears; that way you have a shot at making a higher-order change to society. but alas, the (capitalist) system is totally out of everyone’s hands and will keep running as usual no matter what you do, still savage in equal amounts, i think. doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. but at this point i’d give a toe or finger to work for someplace like youtube. at least it’s reached critical mass where i could do something cool and make a difference with emerging media.

that or i pander to whatever blathering brain-melting slop, drivel, they’re putting on tv for kids and adults. or manage to convince a smaller nonprofit that i am “good at talking to people from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds,” whatever the hell that fucking means. or maybe, ugh god, i’ll work for an ad agency? or do digital strategy? and um, i could say some shit about how capitalism is darwinism and money is a form of social control that works so well because it’s out of the hands of any individual person, and i should probably just stick with art and believe in it, and maybe like, apply for grants. but i want a job, a full-time job. i want stability and enough money that i don't feel guilty buying new underwear and i don't want to hustle to keep the tap running month-to-month and i want to spend the majority of my time doing something i find fulfilling. and soon enough i'll get that, and all my dreams will come true: i’m going to get married and become a fat mom taking my kids to piano practice and saying “the meeting went on forever today,” and i’ll have a husband who never cleans the house enough, and then we’ll get divorced and he’ll find someone 20 years younger and i’ll live out the rest of my years semi-happily alone and i don’t know how i will ever have time to make art again. or if i do i just hope it’s not hobby-like, second-rate.

i wish i could have (feel) the bare-faced honesty and love of sha’carri richardson hugging her grandmother after she worked her ass off for a race. instead everything is this weird simulation where i never feel like i love anybody enough or like i’m working hard enough. i can’t speak honestly except when i am writing about myself (strong, sweet, intense, narcissistic) or things i have noticed, as directed to my own imaginary friend. when i try to communicate irl (or, worst of all, “be real”) it’s all so overthought, overwrought, self-conscious. the only person who knows my real private self is the girl winking at me on my black lives matter poster. i hope she doesn’t mind being here in my room. ducky, the stuffed animal brandon gave me, was also supportive but i put him away because it seemed bad to tell future guys that my stuffed animal is “the child of divorce.” and now /you guys/ know me a little bit, because i took the time to pretend you were all my imaginary friend, my dearest pen pal who laughs at all my jokes and gets all my references, and stopped pretending i was anything besides what’s written here.

and i think, like, a lot of people now live in this weird simulation? and are so confused about romantic and familial love to the point where everyone is getting off on family members fucking each other and can’t decide if it’s normal to think kids are hot? but i guess that was always some weird fucked-up demon side of human existence? another thing i’m supposed to accept. (also sorry trigger warning.) and another thing i took for granted as a child, that most people, if not everyone, is weird/gross/evil, but now that my mind is cracked this shocks me all over again and i seek some sort of explanation. it’s like i can’t find a real hunk of closeness anywhere. i’m close to my own family, but in my other relationships we’re either too distant or too close and i’m desperately searching for just some normal friends. and to be able to give a speech where i tell someone i really love them and for it to ring true. but i try to be grateful that i live in driving distance to the beach and there’s air conditioning and once i stop being a stupid baby there’s probably more friends and work and stuff out there for me. and then i’ll have some new problem.

#i would put this as read more but it doesnt work on my blog SORRYYY

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