#tw disembodied limb

[grimprotector]

Day 19: Cannibalism

[spectrethespectacle]

Cringetober 14: Candy Gore

Ahhh it's a day late and I don't like it. I had to do SOMETHING, though so here it is

I'm going to try to catch up soon

[peppertoastuniverse]

more than a late night snack – gojo satoru chapter 4: chicken curry

contents: gojo satoru x reader, tw!ptsd, mental health issues, swearing, mild angst/comfort, hesitant fluff, no one is good at feelings, 2 idiots summary: gojo shows up unannounced during one of your solo missions. in a battle of egos, you pick a fight when you mistake his worry for bravado. 

wc: 4.1 k

something in gojo’s stomach drops, barriers breaking, white anger over taking his thoughts.  “fine, fucking fine! next time babe, I’ll just stand by and watch you get slaughtered- ”  “you should have left me to die then, save yourself the trouble! Looks like you regret your decision.” You counter deathly calm, not sparing him a second glance before slamming the door in his face. 

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you had to start running faster. the growing pounding of your heart led the rhythm of your quick steps. your lungs started to feel the strain as you dodged yet another attack, adrenaline carrying you. you grinned, blood pumping through your veins, there was a guilty and growing part of you loved the chase.  perhaps it was because you felt the most alive when you were running for your life. you felt the wind in your hair - it was colder than usual for this time of year, your breath making clouds from your rapid exhale. the rustling of the trees stilled as they turned into ash beside you, a reminder of your mortality.

in the brief yaga provided instructed you to locate and eliminate a second grade curse in Hiroshima. there were multiple reports of disembodied giggling near the primary school and mysterious cuts that appeared on children near the forest but when reports escalated to missing children is when you were assigned. on the third day you quickly found that it was stemming from the abandoned orphanage near by. the mission was straightforward, a walk in the park -  until multiple lower level curses decided to join all the fun. 

now you were running through the forest the low sun chasing you, trying to lead all the curses away from the town. You scoffed sensing at least 20 weaker curses within the area, converging together.

where did they did they all come from? 

shit. you dodged another blast that formed a deep crater in the ground to the left of you, you slightly stumble at your sloppy the landing.  sensing something close, you take another curse just in time before choosing to make a run for it rather than fight them all at once. You’d rather avoid a battle of attrition - you had to save your cursed energy for the second grade still lurking around  - you needed to be careful. 

the trees looked familiar, branches snapping easily, just like the necks of the children screamed and screamed when -  you tsked, as you felt a searing hot pain on back of your right bicep. 

you sighed heavily. how annoying. this really wasn’t the time.  it was the first flashback from Shirakawa that you had in a long while. you frowned, you thought you were doing better. for a while you worried if you were losing it, and this recent set back confirms that you may have.

you felt the blood trickle down your forearm, while you jumped to dodge yet another attack, perching in the trees to see where they were all coming from. concentrating your energy, you send a blast from behind you, effectively taking care of the 2 curses tailing you at once. gazing through the bush, you can see at least 10 curses converging in the distance.

fuck. this was getting bad. you had to move it before-

your breath stalls, the air shifts.  you feel it before you see it, cursed energy surging… this was definitely more than a second grade - this was at least a first grade. huh. It wouldn’t be the first time that the brief was slightly off, but it seemed like this was happening more and more lately.

quickly jumping to the ground, you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up - it must be close. turning, you see it: a creature with multiple gangly long limbs, its  body covered in long, dark black hair. rising 16 feet behind the trees, attached to it’s thin neck was an upside down humanoid head, in place of its eyes and mouth were black holes filled with multiples rows of sharp teeth. the lower level curses wind around the black mass of hair, swarming with renewed energy. you dont want to think about what happened at the orphanage to create this monster.

once it spots you, it jerks its legs uncoordinatedly, running on it’s 6 legs as it stalks towards you with surprising speed. 

fuck the strategy. if it wants to play, let’s play. a chaotic grin dances its way to your face. you love a challenge. 

you begin to run towards the curse, it charges towards you in return the cold air filled with it’s echoing giggles with the voices of hundreds of children. 

you remembered the children, you saw them in your nightmares as their heads rolled off their bodies, their screams for help right before - stop. stop. you had to concentrate what was left of your cursed energy before - 

abruptly you sense an unmistakeable force, his cursed energy. your jaw tenses in annoyance, it was unmistakable.

why was he here? you didn’t need his help. 

you felt another sharp pain on your left calf as a smaller curses slices into you. Shit.

you needed to focus, breathing heavily now you jolt to avoid the multiple curses trailing you as you blast a curse away – there were just way too many of them. in the chaos you take your eyes off the of the long limbed monster, dodging a gangly limb at the last second, cringing as you feel the coarse hair on your skin.  

“OYYY! BABE. MOVE!” you hear in the distance. your eyes widen, you turn your head just in time to see a ball of blue tumbling quickly towards you. swearing at his recklessness, you sprint as fast as you could through the trees just in time before the ball of energy lights up the darkening sky, overwhelming the shaggy haired curse and obliterating the remaining smaller curses. just like gojo, the blue energy leaves only destruction in its path - the silence after the chaos deafening.

breathing heavily, a grating voice brings you back to reality.

“heh, I knew I’d find you. suguru owes me 1000 yen.” gojo appears from behind the trees, dark glasses shielding his bright eyes, his stark white hair almost glowing in evening sky. “did ya miss me?”

your temper soars. you were almost shaking with the bitter anger that filled up your stomach, shame anchoring your rage. 

“why are you here, gojo?” you have yet to turn around and face him, you're afraid that if you do you're going to kill him.

“what I can’t see my favourite  - what?” at his cocky tone falters when he notices your shaking clenched fists.

“are you fucking kidding me right now?” you spit out, hands crossed across your chest acting as a lock to prevent your raging emotions from escaping. you stomp past him as the veil above you disappears.

“.. what’s wrong? hey!” 

he trails after you in the halls, calling your name. 

“–look, it’s fine! at the end of the day, the curse is gon-“

you slam the door to your room, leaving gojo standing at the threshold.

pacing around your room, finding some pajamas before practically ripping off your uniform. you were done for the day but more importantly, you were done with him.

how dare he? did he think that you were weak? incapable? useless? worthless? 

you scoff, pulling up your shorts. he had no right to make decisions for you - he was so fucking inconsiderate, selfish and so, so infuriating. you shove the oversized tshirt over your head, muttering profanities about the white haired menace.

his incessant knocking on your door was adding to your rising blood pressure. “heyyyy! hey! cmon, don’t be difficult. let’s talk about this!�� he calls your name multiple times, each time his tone getting progressively less and less playful.

gojo whines your name from behind the closed door. “…are you going to make me wait here all night? At least get your wounds fixed by shoko!” 

of course you were. he could rot there for all you care, it’s what he deserved. 

“You can’t keep running forever, babe!” 

you hear his persistent knocks, echoing the beat of your heart.  

“look if you don’t open the door, i’m going to blue it open in three, two, on-“ 

It’s so like him to force your hand.

you rip open the door, hot tempered and ready to tear into him. standing in front of you, his foot was tapping, gojo’s patience wearing thin.  

“what? gonna try and blue me again tonight?” you spit out, resentment dripping from your voice. you would have rather been caught in the crossfire than rely on him. 

He scoffs. His hands frustratingly fluffing his already messy hair. when you looked into his eyes, the blue was stormy electric, his presence oozing with frustration. 

he scoffs. "please, I knew where you were. you were being reckless. If i hadn’t showed up-“

“I was being reckless?” you step towards him, temper showing. “How would you know, you didn’t even let me try! i didn’t need your fucking help! and then you – you show up –unannounced –  to my mission, and –“ you turn your back to him clenching your fists. You were showing too much - you had to control yourself.  You didn’t want him to see you like this. you had to reign in the storm that brewed within you, the same one that you saw currently in his eyes.

“yaga said you were missing for 4 hours. if I hadn’t shown up you could’ve gotten yourself fucking killed, ba –“ he adds taking a step closer to you. you whip your face towards him, meeting him half way , your face right up against his, noses almost touching. The tension is thick, his condescending tone stomping on what little control you had.

“don’t you fucking dare call me babe.” you whisper, dangerously challenging the strongest. “youre so full of yourself that you can’t even see what you’ve done wrong.”

his eyes dart to your lips, and back up to your furious face, his cheeks blushing for millisecond before his eyebrows further slant down to match his lips. 

he spits out your name with malice, a warning, his cursed energy being to swirl dangerously. his eyes narrow, 

“just swallow your fucking pride and say thank you for your help, gojo and move on -“

he’s so close that you feel his frustration, you feel the tenseness in his muscles, the tightness in his jaw, the thinness of his lips

“thank you?” laugh humourlessly, your bruised ego poisoning your rational mind. “you know what your problem is?” You tense your jaw. “you always think you know better.” Your eyes narrow, “you just don’t fucking care as long as you’re right do you?”

“what the hell are you talking about– why would I still be here if I didn’t care!?”

“you don’t - do you fucking pity me? Is that it, gojo? you think that im so weak that I can’t take out some stupid curse by myself? that I can’t even win against my own mind?” you take a step back, turning away from him, insecurity consuming you. you rope your arms around yourself, unable to hold back your finely controlled feelings back from him.  “you think I want to hear the screaming of people i failed to save? How I see them dying?” you couldn’t look at him. you want to beat at his chest, make him understand what he’s done, but you were too embarrassed that he not only destroyed the curse in Hiroshima but your pride and ego as well. You hated how he made you feel this way, how you he made you lose control in his presence.

“what?! that’s not –I didn’t know-  “ his eyes flashing. 

you had enough. he was too much. he was always too much.

“I don’t need help. I don’t need your pity. And I sure as hell don’t need you.”

something in gojo’s stomach drops, barriers breaking, white anger over taking his thoughts. 

“fine, fucking fine! next time babe, i’ll just stand by and watch you get slaughtered- ” 

“you should have left me to die then, save yourself the trouble! looks like you regret your decision.” you counter deathly calm, not sparing him a second glance before slamming the door in his face. 

through the closed door you hear him sigh heavily before his retreating footsteps signal his leave. 

you watched the shadows move across your wall, how long has it been now? 

tossing and turning, you dramatically sigh: you couldn’t sleep. giving up, you decided to grab your phone to check the time: 2:17 AM.

sighing you rub your face with your hand, you grab your phone and irritatingly shift the covers off of you. you feel your stomach rumble. maybe if you ate something you’d be able to get some sleep. as your socked feet stomp across your dark room, your mind wanders, would you have been able to take down that curse if he hadn’t shown up?  afraid of your answer, you wrench open your door, you stumble at the mass of sanrio plasters, disinfectant and gauze left at the foot of your door. 

you blink owlishly. ah. gojo.

your gaze softens slightly, before irritation returns at the echo of his scalding words. grabbing the medical supplies you put them on your desk before shutting the door once more. 

heading to the kitchen, you turned on the lights idly.

opening the fridge, you sigh. moving over geto's neatly labelled kimchi fried rice and shoko's half empty strawberry milk, you take out some chicken, potatoes, carrots and onions.  you could've gotten yourself killed, he said.

grabbing a pot you sear the chicken, ensuring that there was even browning before adding the prepared vegetables. 

you were reckless, he said. that was the first time you’ve seen gojo so irritated at you. his eyes looked so different, no playful glint complimenting blue, no bounce in his step, no humour in his tone. 

reckless, my ass.

you roughly add some water to the pot before adding the curry cubes. 

why did he have look at you like that when he showed up anyway? 

closing the lid you wait for it to simmer as you take out some leftover rice from the fridge, moving it to a dish to heat in the microwave. you tapped your fingers on the countertops, mind still restless.

suddenly the kitchen door swings open. wide eyes meeting tired blue. gojo looks unusually worn and tired, his back slightly hunched over. a stand still, a pregnant pause, eyes meeting unsure of how to start a conversation. it's awkward. he opens his mouth before the beeping of the microwave interrupts him. 

“i’ll.. i’ll go,” he says in a low voice. through his hardened expression you can detect that his eyes void of irritation, fatigue replacing it. he sheepishly fluffs the back of his hair, your eyes spot his loose tshirt riding up uncovering his toned abdomen. 

gojo turns his body to leave, but your feet lead you to him. out of your own accord you find that your arm quickly reaches for him. you grab the back his bicep to stop him in his tracks.

“..was it you? the uh.. medical supplies?”

“..yeah.” be gulps, unsure if he should prepare for another fight. he cant help but notice how sweet you look - messy hair, comfortable clothing, a soft frown painted on your face. you were usually so controlled, seeing you this way felt almost forbidden. a secret that he wanted to keep for himself.

“.. thanks.” a quiet thought.

eyebrow raised, he turns back toward you, “I knew it…” he mutters, a playful grin slowly appearing on his face - the first bright smile to melt the ice away. 

“i knew you liked me! don’t worry babe, we can be best friends, I know you've been silently begging for-“ 

your eye twitches. you quickly drop your hold on him, slow hands moving up to his pale neck to strangle him, your expression unwavering. gojo senses your rising cursed energy before yelping your name, “it’s a joke - I swear I’m joking!”  you turned around, hands morphing into closed fists. closing your eyes, you massaging your temple before stirring the simmering curry. 

“.. hey.. uh- whatcha makin?” he asks, hesitantly moving closer to you.

“… what?” he’s relieved find no aggression in your eyes.

“i’m making chicken curry. Uh.. sit,” you say “if you want,” you add hastily. 

reaching to grab another bowl for him, you hear gojo take a seat at the kitchen table. watching you curiously, he drums his fingers on the kitchen table, an unsteady rhythm. feeling warm at his gaze, you split the warmed up rice and spoon out the simmering curry into the two bowls. handing him chopsticks and spoon, you set down his bowl of food in front of him as he says his thanks. a peace offering, one that you don’t realize that he’s been wanting the minute you slammed your door. 

the meal is silent, hung in limbo, two large egos taking up the space. you savour the way the curry tastes, mild and satisfying but with an underlying sweetness to it, lurking in the background waiting to be appreciated. you watch gojo’s satisfaction as he spoons the rich curry into his mouth, you notice his knee bouncing up and down. 

was he nervous? 

he clears his throat. “...another one of your mom’s?” he asks conversationally.

“yeah. the first one she was really proud of.” you spoon some curry into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. 

“yeah it’s really good. was it your favourite?”

“not my favourite but.. it reminds me of her. she kept remaking the recipe until she got it right, she always said something tasted like it was missing…” 

“eh, really? what was it?”

“nothing, everything was there. it was like.. a miscommunication with the person who gave her the recipe over the phone. mom got the measurements wrong.“

concentrating on eating, you look up at gojo to see him already staring back at you. 

“i was.. you need to focus, you’re going to get hurt.”

you sigh irritatedly. “gojo, just leave if you’re gonna be-“ you shoot him a look, curling defensively inwards.

his tired eyes widen in surprise, he feels you retreating, slipping like water through his fingers. “no, no, no- just listen...”

something in his tone begs you to listen, curiosity getting the better of you. you hesitate, unsure of his intentions.

“i just knew that you couldn’t sleep.. I didn’t know it was - and I didn’t want.. I mean like - last time you came back injured…and you….” his ears tinging pink. words spilling out clumsily, venturing into unknown territory.

wait was he.. was he worried? is that why he showed up - you slightly blush with realization. you sigh, what a waste of energy. he shouldn’t worry about you, you weren’t worth worrying over when you knew he had so much on his plate already.

“i’m working on it. I was doing just fine.” you say irritatedly, walls crumbling at his words.

“yeah, but y’know one day you won’t be.” he says as he takes off his dark glasses rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“that doesn’t mean you can show up to my missions.” 

“I won’t anymore, if you dont want me to…” he retorts in a chipped tone.

“…you don’t have to worry about me.”

he rolls his eyes in response. “i don’t have to but I do. i want to.” you wither under his gaze, you felt too warm, the air thick with something other than the scent of curry.

“you can run all you want, but i can always find you.” he says with a shrug and an air of finality. “… and, one day you might seriously need help, babe” he slides his glasses back on his face.

“… i need to learn from my mistakes even if that means I get hurt.” You say softly to yourself. you wanted to improve, if you were stronger they wouldn’t have -

you swallow roughly.

“there are ways to learn that don’t involve pain, yknow?” he says, with a mouthful as he scrapes the bottom of his dish with his spoon.  blue eyes challenging yours as his dark glasses slide down his slender nose. 

you hum thoughtfully, mulling over his words.

a long finger pokes your cheek irritatingly. “where’d you go babe? OooooooOoOoOh gonna cry, huh? I know, I know it’s our first fight, it’s hard - I almost cried too.” he clutches his chest dramatically while poking your cheek.

why was he always so close? 

“god, you’re insufferable.” You slap his hand away with a scowl, while he grins fully. you’re surprised that you’re happy to see it again. 

he snickers as he promptly gets up to put your empty dishes in the sink. you sigh, getting up to tidy up the counters. gojo starts humming the digimon theme song to himself but when he notices a ghost of a smirk on your face it prompts his humming to progressively grow louder and louder until he’s enthusiastically singing. a new comforting warmth spreads across gojo’s chest at your smile, he wonders if he could make you smile everyday. only when he starts doing an interpretive dance to accompany his singing is when you move to you smack his chest.

  “shhhh! You might wake the others up! It’s like almost 4 AM!” You hiss, unable to contain your laughter when he tries to get you to dance with him blocking your attempts to put away the left over vegetables into the fridge. gojo easily side steps your slaps to move behind you to finish clearing up the table. you turn around in time to see gojo quickly placing your phone back down. you narrow your eyes suspiciously. 

sensing your questioning gaze he quickly skips toward you. “pfff you just act like a meanie but deep, deep down I know you love me!” he says wiggling his eyebrows.

“uh huh. sure, keep dreaming, gojo,” not looking at him, concentrating on tidying up the kitchen.

halting your cleaning, gojo sneaks up behind you swing his arm around your shoulder, squeezing you slightly. your cheeks flush at the feeling of his firm arm around you, the softness in his tshirt against your face, his smells like a mixture of the ramune candy he always eats in class and the fresh scent of his laundry.

“y’know babe, i don’t want you dead.. that was a shitty thing of you to say.” the words spill out, voice low and soft, something that he didn’t know how to express falling out clumsily.

you hum in acknowledgement. unconsciously you lean into his touch, the familiar warmth radiating off him comforting you. your apology evident in the way you react to his touch, gojo grins fully.

“mhm… thanks for the curry, babe,” he says softly in your ear, too intimately. you turn to meet his gaze, there was something there that you couldn’t discern.

heh, probably his body thanking you for giving him vegetables for the first time this week. you smirk.

“see? told ya - you love me” he playfully whispers. you blink, smirk disappearing instantly.

this fucking asshole.

you roughly shove him off you, earning a laugh from the white haired menace. breaking whatever …. that was.  huh. weird.

he ruffles your hair affectionately as you hiss his name in annoyance. flashing you another grin as gojo practically sings good night to you as he waltzing out of the kitchen. you glare at his retreating figure.

feeling lighter, you turn off the lights in the kitchen walking down the dark halls to room, closing the door gently. you move to sit at your desk to disinfect your shallow wounds, absentmindedly choosing a cinnamoroll bandaid to put on your right bicep.

clearing up, you hear your phone vibrating with in a string of messages.  you grimace.

 oh god that’s what he was doing. 

💙🎀 MY BB SATORU 🎀💙

physically recoiling at his contact name, you fight the urge to throw your phone across the room. you called him neither of those things. you quickly move to change it. 

gojo:  b <3 i know u can handle urself  just msg me when u r safe next time or if u need me just lmk lol (4:11am)

you roll your eyes. typing in a response before deleting it, instead replying with:

you: k (4:16am) 

you yawn as you make your way into your cold bed, undoing the half made covers, grabbing one of your pillows to fully sink into comfort. your eyebrows raise at gojo’s quick response, your phone singing.

gojo: ૮(╥﹏╥)ა.  ur so mean 2 me b  (4:16am) thought we were  finally bffs  dw we have loads of time 2 get closer tmr (4:17am) (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ gud nite <3 <3  (4:18am)

turning to feel for Bun Bun laying on the other side of the bed, you sigh contently as you feel his plush body. you place your phone on the night stand table beside you as you shut your eyes. an insistent vibration causes you to groan, disturbing your growing drowsiness.

gojo: heyyyy  (4:20am) hey don’t ignore me? lol  say gudnite!!11! b omg  say gud (4:21am) nite  omg stopppp !! ૮(╥﹏╥)ა (4:22am) mfw b hates me  (4:23am)

scoffing you lazily type out a response since he was begging you for one. Bun Bun's plush pink arm against your cheek, mimicking gojo's earlier actions.

you: omfg go to bed gojo

gojo: (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) SAY IT  B CMONNN SAY IT IM GONNA CRY IF U SONT (4:21am) ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ (4:22am)

biting your lip to prevent the grin you threatened to escape, an amused smile makes its way onto your tired face. he was ridiculous.

you: nite  (4:24am)

gojo: (◡ ‿ ◡ .) ♡ gud enuf 4 me  nite <3 <3  (4:25am)

hugging Bun Bun, you silence your phone as you settle in comfortably, blankets settling finally. the last thing you think about before drifting to sleep is the way he felt when he had his arm around you. you huff softly, what an idiot.

a/n: i totally see gojo as someone who does not give a fuck and will triple text you. omg this chapter was difficult to write, but i hope y'all enjoy it -- head image credit: Isekai Shokudo dividers from: @/adornedwithlight

[adrift-in-thyme]

Bite?

Tw for blood, injury, and body horror

Wild stumbles over the doorsill, breath coming in haggard hiccups as he slips and slides on rancid piles of guts and blood. He is moving fast, propelled by adrenaline and the nauseating pain that pulses beneath it, and he hardly has time to register the sight before him as the door slides closed with echoing finality — half a dozen disembodied arms stand erect, ramparts of ghostly white and warm red.

The ground shifts beneath his feet, panicked and chaotic, then spews a monstrous being from its depths…a monster that catches sight of him instantly.

There is nowhere to run, his weapons are gone, and when multiple hands shoot out and encase his limbs in their bony fingers, holding him fast as the monster opens its mouth wide and bites down with ravenous fervor…all Wild can do is scream.

[tic-toc-clock77]

Tw//Familial Abuse, bullying, slight mentions/implied SA, mentions of physical abuse and neglect, Suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation

Clockwork is an incredibly frequent insomniac; because she was abused by literally every person in her family, she always had to keep her guard up and that included sleep.

She'd fall asleep in class the next day after pulling an all nighter but her bullies would throw things at her to wake her up. She had to find a very secretive spot during lunch and recesses to sleep which landed her in a bathroom stall by herself most times but of course, the bullies found her there too.

School wasn't safe, home wasn't safe. She had nowhere to go, she knew if she went home she'd be attacked one way or another. If it wasn't being hit in the face with a beer bottle by father, her brother would be breaking the lock she placed on her room that she always had to repair herself. She knew she had to go somewhere but where could she go?

"They'd be happier if I disappeared." She thought bitterly, 2 blocks down from her home. It took her a millisecond to take off running as far away as she could get from that place. She didn't have to get hit, she didn't have to get her cries ignored, her insides wouldn't hurt every morning, even if just for a moment, she could be safe and happy. She was going to take that chance.

Late at night, Natalie found at herself at a park with her drawing book and pens in her hands. The hood of the 11 year olds green jacket was up so nobody would notice her. Her pen scratched the paper as she disembodied limbs and organs spewing out of each hole. There was something freeing about it, taking that pain she'd been forced into and making something out of it.

Sure, the girls at school had found her drawing books once and pasted all the images around school, having written things on them such as "NATALIE'S A FREAK!" In large letters across her art but she paid no mind when she was here. Feeling at peace, at long last, she wanted to find a place to sleep but that dream was dashed when the police cars that'd been circling the area finally caught wind of her.

"There you are, Ms. Ouellette." An officer stated, Natalie hid her book in her bag and began to back up. "Now don't run but I'm afraid your time is up out here. I need to take you back to your parents." Natalie was defeated. She wanted to kick and scream but she knew if she evaded this any longer, the beating would only be worse so she stepped toward the man in the car and got led to the back seat.

Finally home, she stood in front of the door nervously and watched her father fuming from the window to the living room. Her eyebrows immediately furrowed in anger at the man as she pushed the door open, ready to get it over with and gone. "I'm back!" She yelled, her father's attention immediately turning to her. He yanked her by the arm and she prepared but when the first hit landed.

"Clockeye?" Clockwork turned on her side to look up at the face that held the familiar gash and she raised her hand to graze it. "You looked like you were having a nightmare so I woke you up." Toby smiled, placing his hand on her hair. "Oh, uh, yeah. Just some bad memories coming back up." She sits up, letting herself rest on his shoulder.

"You okay with telling me about it?"

"....Maybe not now."

"Alright."

Toby plants a small kiss to her temple and she smiles, resting more comfortably against him.

She felt rested at long last.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒱𝐼𝐼𝐼: 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑀𝑒 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you again to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

TW: graphic depiction of drug use, overdose, addiction, relapse, vomiting, crying, panic attack, Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Author's Note: I have not experienced cocaine use, so I am basing this on descriptions I have found online. It may be inaccurate. Also, I'm pretty proud of myself for writing some parts of this chapter, because I am emetophobic and this is the first time I have written that kind of content! So if I glossed over symptoms related to nausea, that is why.

Summary: While he waits for John to return, Vincent spirals terribly until his life is at risk.

At first, there was only pleasure. The great “thank goodness” of the mind, overriding all else, to such an extent that when Vincent tried to think of the gravity of his position, tried to think of what had just happened, tried to think of anything but an incoherent string of plans and celebrations…he failed. There was only “I feel good,” written in hot pink bubble letters across the inside of his skull, and then nothing more until he started to come back to himself, pacing and shaking, some 20 minutes later.

No. Not yet. There couldn’t possibly be that little of this glorious moment of clarity. Not when he was planning to ration the rest. Now he couldn’t ration it. He needed more. Under ordinary circumstances, he could control himself - usually. But these circumstances were frankly ridiculous. The things that everyone thought of him…all else vanished into the simple need to not think that those things were true.

Writing on the sides of crushed paper cups. Finally able to plan. Texting half-assed comebacks that he knew he shouldn’t send. Dancing to the music channel. Ignoring the pain of the bullet wound, so small and far away. Swelling with heat in every limb. Watching more responses come through. Filling up with tiny drums inside his veins. Checking the curtains. Turning gradually brittle with terror. Running to the bathroom. Collapsing against the side of the sink, empty. Curling up in the corner, bleeding from the nose and from torn open stitches. Rocking. Crying.

Ashamed.

John knew now, about all…this. Why did that have to happen? Why were they doing this to him? Why was he doing this to himself? This would ruin the small hope that he had so foolishly started to cherish, of some friendliness between them.

“I’m coming back.” Vincent clung to those words like a lifeline. He held his knees against himself, and listened to the rain. Dog licked at his cheeks, smelling blood. Dog was still here. John wouldn’t leave for good, no matter what the text messages said. Maybe they were right. Maybe John didn’t care about him, but he cared about Dog. He would come back. Even if he was coming back to kill him.

But it had been so long. What if something happened to him? Vincent fought down his nerves and called, despite the cracked screen. The call could not be completed. John was out of range. Over and over he called, getting desperate. Was he…dead?

Vincent was retching again.

When that was done, he dragged himself up and along the wall, towards the door. Outside, puddles had formed along the perimeter of the parking lot, where concrete met asphalt. The lamps in front of each motel room made fiery white lines along the ripples as Vincent waded through them to stand in the open, just reeling stupidly around as if he expected to see John anywhere. But the space beyond those lamps was utterly black, aside from the distant lightning, and the night was frigid. He clutched at his chest. With the numbing starting to recede, the pain returned, along with a horrible tightness. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and he was going to die, right here, alone -

And then a figure came out of the trees.

Sleek with enough rain to soak him to the skin, emerging at first as a disembodied face and hands, the rest of him a part of the darkness in that black suit, he glided smoothly towards Vincent, unstoppable. The emissary of death. Despite looking for John just moments before, he suddenly wanted to run, but found himself rooted to the spot. As the lamplight broke over John’s features, it revealed a face littered with cuts with its lips drawn back into a feral snarl.

For the second time that day, John met him at the center of the parking lot. This time, he halted, stone still, in front of him, and finally spoke in a calm voice that made Vincent wish he would scream and yell instead. “Last night…I didn’t realize. You were trying to use me. To get through this.”

Vincent trembled wildly. He could not possibly run, or fight. “S'il te plaît! [Please!] Please just don’t hurt me, I’m sorry. I did what I had to do.” He closed his eyes, waiting for a muzzle to press into his forehead, for a hand to tighten around his throat.

“What? No. Je ne vais pas vous faire de mal à cause de votre dépendance. Ou pour essayer de s'en sortir. [I am not going to hurt you for having an addiction. Or for trying to cope.]” He felt arms close around his shoulders, pulling him against John’s chest. He was…he was hugging him. A powerful vice grip, colder than his own body after running through the storm, yet so ridiculously welcome. Vincent’s brain seemed to finally fizzle out, once and for all.

“Que…fais-tu…? [What…are you doing…?]”

John pulled away. “Voulez-vous que je m'arrête? [Do you want me to stop?]”

Cold air rushed in between them and the loss of those strong arms around him felt like the clutches of the void. “Non! Reviens, espèce de salaud. Ne me quitte pas. N'ose pas me quitter. [No! Come back, you stupid bastard. Don't leave me. Don't you dare leave me.]” His words gave out into choked sobbing in spite of himself.

And just like that, he was in John’s arms again. He hugged him back this time, burying his head into the crook of his neck as John stroked his back and rocked him. He could not believe it was so simple, to ask for affection and receive it. How could this be? He was almost wailing, grateful for the roar of wind and water to drown out the torrent of emotion that he was pouring over the collar of John’s already soaked suitcoat. He could never live this down, if anyone saw them, and yet, for once, he didn’t care about that at all.

“Allez. Nous allons à l'intérieur. Je ne te lâcherai pas. [Come on. We’re going inside. I won’t let go of you.]” And John pulled away just enough to wrap an arm around his waist and help him back into the motel room.

They stood dripping in the entrance, droplets flowing from both their hair as the warmth washed over them. A furnace, against Vincent’s already overheated body. John stripped off his own coat and then looked questioningly at Vincent, who nodded and allowed himself to be undressed by great, tender hands that peeled away his shirt and then the gauze while being careful of the bullet wound. John sucked in his breath upon seeing the torn open stitches. “We’ll fix it. It’s okay,” he said, and continued to strip off the wet clothes.

He freed his belt with devastating gentleness while averting his eyes from Vincent’s pelvis. He knelt on one knee to pull off Vincent’s shoes, making for a positively knightly picture. He lingered over every touch, yes, but it was not sexual. There was a reverence there, an intimacy. John touched him like he was a very precious object. Despite being out of the rain, Vincent found that rivers were still running down his face.

Standing, he examined the stitches, and pressed a hand against Vincent’s forehead. To Vincent, it felt icy. “…Why are you so overheated?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I made such a terrible mess of things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay. You’ll start again tomorrow.” He paused, and pulled back to examine Vincent’s face. “How much did you take? Do I need to…” To what? It wasn’t clear what they could even do, if it was too much. They certainly couldn’t go to a hospital.

“I think it’s fine. Just…my heart feels…” He shuddered, all the way through the shoulders.

“Damn it. This isn’t a bullet, I don’t know what to do.” John ran a hand through his hair. He was scared. Vincent had never seen him scared before. John, the rock, who handled everything.

“Putain, s'il te plaît, ne dis pas ça. Comprenez-le. [Fuck, please don’t say that. Figure it out.]” John’s instability was ramping up the speed of his heart to a degree that he couldn’t control, that sent pain shooting through his arms and stomach.

Calmness instantly swept over his face again, at the suggestion that it was what Vincent needed. “I will. I have to call someone.”

“Do not call 911, you know better.”

“No, I know. I talked to Marjorie earlier. She knows I have a second person here and has been covering for us. Has a lot of social work connections too. Maybe she can get us a doctor.” He picked up the phone to call the front office.

“Pouah, I don’t want a…” but John was already on the phone and the room was spinning so much. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground trying not to be sick again and John was rubbing his back.

“Shit. Vincent, reste avec moi. Juste pour une demi-heure. Ils seront bientôt là, d'accord? [Vincent, stay with me. Just for half an hour. They’ll be here soon, okay?]”

That pity again, that desperation in John’s voice. He rolled onto his side and scoffed at the situation. Naked on the floor, not able to do the simplest things, even to breathe. What must John think of him now? “Ne me juge pas pour ça. Vous n’avez aucune idée de ce que c’est. [Don’t you judge me for this. You have no idea what it’s like.]”

“Je ne sais pas. Je pense que tu es très courageux pour tout ce que tu affrontes. Et je suis vraiment en colère contre les gens qui te laissent faire comme ça. [I don’t. I think you’re very brave for everything you’re dealing with. And I am fucking pissed at the people who let you get like this.]”

The memory of the text messages flooded over him again, sending something bitter and heavy into the pit of his stomach. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Les choses qu'ils m'ont dites, John… Ce sont des gens horribles. Je ne sais pas comment ils vivent avec eux-mêmes. [The things they said to me, John… They're horrible people. I don't know how they live with themselves.]”

“Ignore les. [Ignore them.]” His voice was strong and dangerous. “Leurs paroles sont destinées à tuer. C’est exactement la même chose que de se faire tirer dessus. Et s’ils te font encore du mal, je les tuerai, tout comme ce dealer qui dort dans la rivière en ce moment. [Their words are meant to kill. It’s just the same as being shot at. And if they hurt you again, I’ll kill them, just like that dealer who’s sleeping in the river now.]”

What a display of loyalty. Gratitude made him affectionate. He took in that viciously protective look, and reached up absently to brush a hand along John’s cheek. “Comme c'est… vraiment doux. Le chevaleresque John Wick frappe à nouveau. [How…genuinely sweet. The chivalrous John Wick strikes again.]” Vincent had no idea how to be sweet back.

Fortunately, it didn’t seem to matter for now. “No time for that. You have to get cool.” John was lifting Vincent’s arm over his shoulders, and stumbling along with him into the violently trashed bathroom, then into the shower. He pressed a waterproof bandage hastily over the now torn-open bullet hole and then icy water stung into Vincent’s skin.

John stood with him, in that water, to keep him upright. Arms still gently around his shoulders. “Je vais t'aider à ralentir ton cœur. [I’m going to help you slow down your heart],” John said, in that calming, flat monotone. “Comme la dernière fois, tu te souviens? [Like last time, remember?]” And he slowly increased the pressure around Vincent until it seemed almost to crush the shaking out of his body. To bring him a physical security.

Through his own fit of shivering, he realized John was shivering too. For a moment, Vincent tried to imagine what John must be going through, having walked or perhaps run for miles through the rain, only to stand with him in freezing water, fearing for his life. It was absolutely wrenching to think about, so he stopped, for his heart’s sake. He would be very good to John later.

He did not know how long they stayed there. Time was lost in a kind of total fear that made each second a chore to endure. The only thing to hang onto was the muscle locked around him, mooring him to Earth. He was getting into that bizarre state again, where the fear was too great for the mind to hold, and everything slipped away into a fuzzy numbness. He could not say that he minded it. It made him cuddly, it made him trace his fingers along the wet folds of the shirt that clung to John’s broad back. “…You are so kind to me. I like you, Mr. Wick,” he said, half dazed.

That gruff voice, speaking softly by his ear, almost sad. “I like you too.”

At some point, he was wrapped in a towel, with smooth and deliberate motions. At some point, he was being carried. John lay him on top of the blankets while he just closed his eyes and blushed. And when he called out, “Restez avec moi [Stay with me],” John settled in beside him, on top of the comforter. That such a gesture could exist between two people, not because of sex or obligation, and not the least bit tainted by pity…it was something he had never experienced before. He stood at the horizon of an unexplored territory, and it made him feel virginal and giddy. He grinned at John with a simple, bashful kind of happiness.

“Personne n'a pris soin de moi ainsi depuis que je suis enfant, à l'exception des domestiques. [No one has taken care of me like this since I was a child, except for servants.]”

“C'est un crime. [That’s a crime.]”

Vincent sighed happily, and let himself sink into the pillows, eyes closed.

“À partir de maintenant, s'il te plaît, dis-moi quand tu souffres de quelque chose. Je t'aiderai. Comment te sens tu maintenant? [From now on, please tell me when you're suffering from something. I will help you. How are you feeling now?]”

His body felt really horrible, but at least John was there and gave a damn. “Je me sens malade. Mon cœur bat vraiment la chamade. Ce n’est cependant pas bien pire que d’habitude. je pense que je vais récupérer. [I feel sick. My heart is really racing.]” He hesitated. “J'ai peur. [I’m scared.]”

“Je ne laisserai rien t’arriver. [I will not let anything happen to you.]”

The trembling was finally subsiding a little. “Merci, John,” he whispered. Did he dare? Why not, after everything else. He leaned his head against John’s shoulder.

“Hey. Reste éveillé, d'accord? [Stay awake, okay?]”

The world dancing and thrummed even behind closed eyelids.

“Vincent!” But the voice was very far away.

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[namig42]

Still not done with writing about Vincent and his plight because gods, he's just so compelling. I wondered what it must've been like for him after he was disembodied and I decided to explore that even more in my own take. Please enjoy!

Vincent (Disembodied Thoughts)

Read it on Ao3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Summary: Vincent's experience in his jar.

TWs in tags

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Flashes of memories were all that were left for Vincent. The memory of being thrown over Thisobald Thorm’s massive shoulder and taken somewhere dark and cold. The feeling of an immense saw digging into his neck with jagged, tearing strokes. The sight of his body being torn apart limb by limb as he watched from across the room. The buckets of blood that were gradually drained from his mutilated body and taken away by Thorm and his zombies.

There was the sight of the Sharran woman being forced to drink a concoction that left her delirious. Her narrow pupils widened until her eyes were entirely black with a faint, red glow, and she sat across the room with a vacant, happy stare. Though she looked at Vincent, she didn’t see him. Her mind looked to be somewhere not of this realm, perhaps in another plane entirely. Her canines grew and left her with smiling fangs as she sat limply in a chair, mumbling something that Vincent could never hear through his new glass encasement.

Then there was the memory of the Sharran woman being beheaded. She was laid on that same lab table that Vincent’s body had been left on for days on end, draining itself of what little blood was in those veins that were once his. Thorm took that same jagged saw and dug into the Sharran’s fair neck. Her life ended in that moment, while Vincent was forced to live in this state of purgatory. Thorm mumbled to himself in disappointment as he left the room without disposing of the woman’s body, leaving her corpse to rot on the lab table in the center of the room. The stone door shut behind him, and Vincent was returned to darkness along with the vision of a familiar stranger, now dead.

He never even learned her name. He never knew what brought her to this place. What misfortune it was for them to meet and for her to show any kindness towards Vincent. Despite not knowing what was happening, she had tried to help Vincent escape. Vincent never knew why, and now all he could wonder was if this was Shar’s punishment for kindness in her followers. The woman’s empty smile from only moments before flashed through his mind again, and Vincent willed his mind to quiet.

It didn’t work. Instead, the darkness was filled with haunting images of the woman’s delirium. I’m sorry… I’m sorry… was all Vincent could think as he sat in darkness, his blood being drained by the tubes Thorm had stuck in his neck at some point. Vincent couldn’t remember when the tubes had been inserted. They felt like they had always been there, just like the visions and warping memories that now plagued him.

There were disgusting visions of entrails running around the floor of the dark room like skittering rats, of fungus growing in the cracks all around him, of wood rotting over decades as Vincent simply sat here, trapped for an eternity as a solitary head. He couldn’t make out what was real and what was a conjuring of his mind anymore.

Sometimes Thorm would return to this abandoned lab, growing more and more massive each time he came back. He would come for more of Vincent’s blood every now and then, tapping at the tubes and trying to get every last drop out of them. It seemed like there was never enough vampiric blood in the buckets for Thorm’s tastes. “Bleed, be bled, be bloody, you useless spawn,” he would groan as he thumped Vincent’s jar with a thick, bulbous finger. Vincent would be rattled and brought back to an odd sense of reality every time the cretin treated him like a dying fish in an aquarium.

The monster grew more grotesque over the years, eventually donning a mask to hide his deformed features. Vincent was glad that he was spared from one less horrible sight in this cursed realm, but Thorm’s face was already etched into his memory well enough and had warped into even more grotesque forms over the years. Vincent didn’t need to see the horrors anymore to remember them in vivid, horrific detail.

Thorm would eventually leave the lab with heavy footsteps that shook the room and leave Vincent in the darkness with his mind and the figments of his immortal imagination. There were twisting visions of the Sharran, one moment aggressive and blaming Vincent for her agony, then the next as dumb as a drunken loon, staring into Vincent with those black, empty eyes. Images of his master sneering down at him - telling Vincent that this little tank of his was fitting for such an insignificant, useless pet as him - would come and go as well. Then there were the vivid thoughts of Thorm returning with that terrifying saw of his, ready to dig into the flesh Vincent no longer had but could still feel like a phantom. The vision that hurt Vincent the most was the terrible imagining of his friend who was angry that Vincent never came home and broke his promise. “You left me to suffer alone under Cazador, you useless bastard. How dare you? I thought we were friends, but I should’ve known better. You were always a useless coward. You can rot for all I care.” Vincent could hear the spite in that familiar voice as clear as day, and that’s what drove him into the deepest of agony.

There was no end to this existence. There was nothing to be done. All Vincent could do was close his eyes, endure the horrors, and wait for something to change.

A few times within the beginning of this hellish existence, Vincent could muster the strength to scream, trying to call for help, but it was all for not. He had no lungs, no larynx. If he screamed, the only sensation was the feeling of fluid moving around his mouth and flowing through his open windpipe.

No, all that was left was to sit. Sit and watch an eternity pass in a dark, decrepit room. Vincent wondered if death for a vampire was anything like this cursed eternity, or if it would’ve been a blessing to finally die. No one would come for him, after all. No one would find him. No one would help him return home. There was nothing left to hope for now except for his life to miraculously give out and allow him to finally perish.

Then one day, something different happened. Vincent sensed someone open the stone door and enter the room. He opened his eyes, curious to see if it was Thisobald Thorm again, even bigger than the last time he came.

It wasn’t though. A much smaller silhouette crept into the room and took quiet, creeping steps closer to his jar. Vincent’s eyes were blurry and dazed as he curiously observed the stranger.

“Hello Vincent,” said a familiar, lilting voice.

That voice… Vincent’s mind tried to place where he had heard it before. It was so smooth. The way his name rang from their mouth… It sounded so familiar. There was a warmth to it, something that soothed the back of what was left of Vincent’s neck.

Vincent’s dazed eyes slowly focused and he spotted a face so pale it nearly glowed amidst the dark, dreary laboratory. That silver hair, that awkward, nervous smile, that anguish that came from those red eyes. 

Astarion, Vincent thought. He was here, really here. Or maybe it’s another vision… Vincent waited for this vision to curse him as all the other ones did, but it never came. Astarion looked at him with a bittersweet stare and that soft crease in his brow.

It… It’s him… isn’t it?

If he could move, Vincent would’ve cried tears of joy. He was so afraid to get his hopes up since nothing felt real anymore, but he so desperately wanted it to be true. Astarion, he’s here. Really here… Vincent tried to move his lips, to show signs of life, but his face was stiff. He couldn’t tell Astarion how happy he was to see him after all these years. All he could do was keep his vision focused and watch Astarion explore the lab, unaware that Vincent was conscious and watching his every move.

Then, loud stomping followed. Three more silhouettes entered the lab, and the noise seemed to wake something in the floorboards. A rumble occurred from below Vincent, then suddenly, a body that Vincent wasn’t aware he was a part of sprang to life after decades of sitting and rotting in this lab. Though he was the only part with a brain amidst the fungal monstrosity, Vincent had no control over what came next.

The monstrous form attacked Astarion’s companions and was slashed, bitten, blasted with magic, and surprisingly embraced by something that felt like the equivalent of firmly grasping a hot coal by the three of them. After enduring a fair deal of damage, the monstrous limbs suddenly gave way, and all that was left was Vincent and his jar sitting in the middle of the pile of decay and rot.

There were muffles and movement around the lab, all while Vincent lay in his bodiless delirium. If he wasn’t sure that this whole situation was real, the violent shaking from being forced into a monstrous battle made him certain that this was happening. This surely wasn’t a figment of his imagination, and for that, Vincent could not be more grateful.

Unknown voices said his name from around the room and brought Vincent closer and closer to reality. He so desperately wanted to speak, to tell Astarion and his friends the story of his disembodiment, but it was all for not. Instead, he listened more intently to what was being discussed amongst the adventuring party.

“He’s sort of part of the family, and actually, I’d like to know what happened to him,” that familiar voice of Astarion’s stood out amongst the commotion. If only I could tell him myself…

“We gonna bring him along, then?” A woman spoke with a deep voice.

“Well he’s not really… he’s sort of not really… I’m quite worried because he’s been disappeared for a long time, and I don’t know what’s happened to him. It would be of great, personal joy to me if we could find out why he’s ended up in this jar.”

“Ooo, speak with the dead, speak with the dead!” A green woman began to chant.

“He’s not dead, he’s in a jar!” Astarion said dramatically. It sounded a bit silly. If Vincent could smile, he would’ve laughed at Astarion and his brash companion.

“Speak with animals, speak with animals!” Oh, that’s even funnier, Vincent thought in amusement. Gods, when was the last time he felt that feeling?

It likely was with Astarion before he left the city.

“Can he not communicate at all?” A horned man asked with a smooth, charming voice.

“You know, I actually hadn’t thought of that. Why don’t we see if we can snap him out of it?” Suddenly, Astarion’s face was only a few inches from Vincent. Though everything was a haze, Vincent could recall that last, loving face he saw the night before he ended up this way. Astarion took a finger and gently tapped on the jar. “Hello~? Hello in there…”

As much as Vincent wanted to respond, to show any sign of life, he couldn’t do it. His lips wouldn’t move. His eyes wouldn’t twitch. Nothing would give way to show that he was alive and conscious. He saw the disappointment on Astarion’s face and felt it tenfold.

“Alright, let’s stick him in a sack, take him back, and get this antidote sorted.” That first woman’s voice came said.

“Sure,” Astarion said with a sigh.

Wait, Astarion! Vincent thought as Astarion broke eye contact. Astarion lifted Vincent’s jar and placed him in a sack carried by the large, red tiefling. Though the pack was full, they secured Vincent with a bit of rope and left the top part of his jar poking out slightly from the pack.

Astarion, I’m here! Please… Vincent tried to will his body to react in any way possible, but it proved useless.

Vincent was almost entirely lucid for the first time since he had been disassembled, and as he watched Astarion and his companions investigate the lab, he couldn’t take his dazed eyes off of his old friend.

It had been so long. How long though? And what was Astarion doing here? Who were these people with him? Was the shadow curse gone? No… Vincent could still feel its chill in the remains of his neck. Astarion and his friends didn’t seem to have that lantern that the Sharran had though. Was that necessary anymore? Had the shadow curse weakened over the years?

In the midst of his busy, confused thoughts, Vincent watched Astarion explore the room, peeking through the bits, bobbles, and bottles that lined the shelves around the lab. Then suddenly, Astarion spotted something and he froze. His eyes focused on a work table pushed against the wall, and he hesitantly picked up something that glistened amidst the dreary space. Vincent willed his eyes to focus so he could see what it was that Astarion now held.

It was a ring. A silver ring, to be precise, with a red stone embedded in the band. It was the same ring that Vincent was wearing that night they said goodbye to one another back in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion looked at it with that familiar pain in his eyes that Vincent remembered from before. He gingerly turned it over in his hands, then suddenly, a stray tear fell from his eye. Vincent watched Astarion wipe it away softly before putting the ring on his pinky finger, the same finger Vincent himself wore it on when he still had hands of his own.

“Any luck, finding the um… thing?” Astarion said with a lingering sadness in his voice as he turned back to his party. Despite his melancholy, his friends seemed oblivious to his plight. The green one was licking sludge from the floor, and the red one was blowing her nose into a ripped page from one of Thorm’s journals.

As the party continued their investigation and chaos, Vincent watched from his spot in the tiefling’s pack with a range of emotions. If he was capable of it, Vincent would’ve wept fully and loudly. He was found. The person he cared for most was here. He would be taken away from this dreary eternity he had endured for so long, and maybe even be given a second chance at his undead life.

When Astarion’s party found whatever it was they were looking for here, they left the lab and made their way back into the horrid tavern. Vincent, despite the shadow curse still chilling him to the bone, was so immensely grateful to finally be in a place that wasn’t that cursed lab after all that time. It was refreshing to see the dim glow of shadowroot sacs that lit the tavern.

The party made their way to that open floor that Vincent once walked on many moons ago, and watched as Astarion’s friends drank some sort of concoction that was mixed with all the things they found in Thorm’s laboratory. Their fangs disappeared and their eyes turned distant. It seemed that they were all having some sort of vision simultaneously. Vincent was curious if they drank Thisobald’s drink before and why they were drinking this strange concoction, but that curiosity quickly disappeared when Astarion suddenly began to weep.

What? What happened? Vincent was baffled as to where Astarion’s weeping had come from. He watched in astonishment as Astarion spoke to his friends, “Yes… well… My life hasn’t been the easiest, as you know, and the fleeting moments of joy I had with some of my… siblings, was the only levity that we enjoyed. Poor Vincent,” Astarion spoke as he looked towards the jar that Vincent floated in. Vincent couldn’t communicate anything to his friend. All he could do was watch uselessly as Astarion looked at him with eyes full of tears. Vincent could do nothing to wipe them away, only watch them fall down his friend’s pale, thin face.

Vincent was useless, but his mind wasn’t. He was still here, but what good was it if he couldn’t make himself known? Why did Astarion suddenly begin to weep and speak of Vincent? What did Astarion see? Were his friends able to see it as well? Vincent had many questions and absolutely no answers to a single one of them.

“I’m sorry… I’m going to need a moment.” Astarion excused himself from his friends and took a seat at the opposite side of the room. Vincent watched as Astarion wept for him, for the friend that he lost. What must’ve he endured in the years since Vincent disappeared?

What had happened to Astarion?

Then, Vincent watched as Astarion’s friends all followed him and came to hold his hands. They all sat there together in the tavern, holding the vampire spawn, and then all at once, they all gave Astarion a kiss on the cheek. Whatever they saw in those flashes of vision they shared, it brought them closer to one another.

Though Vincent grieved for the years he had lost, there was a comfort knowing that the person he cared for most had found new friends to make up for his absence. Watching the band of four, Vincent felt a twitch of his lip, almost as if a smile was on his face. Yes, for the first time in an eternity, Vincent felt something that wasn’t sadness or despair.

He felt happy to see his dear friend be loved.

[softer-marshes]

just a thought about our boi alastor

so almost everyone knows this son of a deer, that smug bastard

and after a bit of research i present to you my theory in alastor’s background story

SOURCES: {x} {x} {x} {x}

so it says from the source above that alastor’s name means “he who does not forget”, or “avenger”, “persecutor”, “tormentor”, “one who suffers from divine vegeance.” aside from that;Alastor was an epithet of the Greek god Zeus, according to Hesychius of Alexandria and the Etymologicum Magnum, which described him as the avenger of evil deeds, specifically, familial bloodshed. The name is also used, especially by the tragic writers, to designate any deity or demon who avenges wrongs committed by men.

now its interesting since a lot of people in this fandom long theorized that alastor was being abused by his father, but i think this changes things.

basically, familial bloodshed means killing or wounding people within the family. according to @alastanor​ [and their theory right above too] :

“ What [they] personally theorize is that Alastor did witness his mother getting abused in some manner or another. Perhaps more than one. Which wasn't that uncommon in his time period, as divorce still carried a heavy stigma in society throughout the early 1900s. You were looked down upon for divorcing your spouse for any reason, with the exception of adultery, bigamy, and impotence.  So his mother likely stayed in the abusive marriage because she had to, and Alastor was powerless to do anything about it until he was a grown man. But witnessing that injustice night after night likely brought about what inevitably made him a serial killer. “

so i think that his father doesn’t really abuse alastor, spoiling him or neglecting him are more plausible ideas since alastor deeply loves his mother. maybe his mother treats him more? whatever suits your boats :)

SPOILERS!!!! READ THE PREQUEL COMIC FIRST BEFORE VENTURING HERE:

it is also clearly shown from the prequel alastor comic [above in the source brackets if you want to read it] that alastor has a\ look in his eyes, like something inside snapped. and we ALL know what happened to that butcher...

now i have no idea why the father did what he did but whatever he did to alastor’s mom pushed him over the edge to just kill him right then and there.

now lets discuss what “one who suffers from divine vengeance” mean

divine vengeance means the wrath of god

so whatever alastor did when he was alive pissed of the lord of heaven himself or themself?sorrygoodomenswasinmybrain-

to maybe punish him?

yes, god is capable of that, like the infamous example of the garden of eden and other instances in the bible

now you can ignore this idea of mine but:

consider that the voodoo magic is god’s punishment towards alastor, other than being sent to hell for obvious murderous reasons

like maybe its how he died in the first place?like a voodoo spell gone wrong and the magic possessed him to act like a deer and go to the woods which made him get shot in the first place?

maybe thats why vaggie said what she said in the pilots: “That kind of raw power has never been harnessed by a mortal soul[...]”

it might look like he has the hang of it now but maybe

sooner in the nearby future...

he wont

thanks for coming to my theory, see ya!

[aconissa]

Hannibal, 1x7, ‘Sorbet’ / The Terror, 1x3, ‘The Ladder’

[eracqoon]

Fall aesthetic!! I love fall (so much fun clothing and halloween (spoopy spoopy)  

[jaenessaispas]

My body doesn’t belong to me anymore and I don’t have control over it

[elleroodles]

i had a dream last night that i had a cat........... waking up was so hard.........

[mcsiggy]

tw: blood, disembodied limb

:) these two had a baby together

[beatrixblog]

The Endless Blizzard

TW ! body horror, death

I had a dream about this and thought i’d make it. What if frost queen cookie attacked the soldiers of the dark cacao kingdom? What if it all went horribly wrong? By the way this does include my cursed dark cacao au but  this does NOT i repeat does NOT take place before or at the same time as my  bearer of the curse post this takes place like a few months after

Dark Cacao Cookie awoke sitting hurled against a withered tree, the blizzard raging Admist the past chaos. He gazed up to see the many disembodied limbs sticking up from underneath the thick layers of snow, and the horrid stench of strawberry jam emanating from the corpses. He knew that this was once, his army. But what happened? He flinched, staring horrified at the destruction. Immediately his expression turned solemn, because he knew as his duty as King he had to carry on, despite the tradgedy. One particular hand that stuck out had the sleeve of a familiar black and white robe. ``Caramel Arrow Cookie..!`` He gasped softly, picking her Unconscious body up from under the snow. He placed his hand on her chest. ``She Still Has A Pulse..Shes Still Alive.`` He removed his cape, placing it around her as he sat her against the withered tree. Walking over to one of the corpses, he spotted a vial of healing medicine glowing from the pocket of the deceased healer. He picked it up, walking back to where Caramel Arrow Cookie lay. He slowly opened her mouth and poured the medicine in, hoping she would wake up soon enough. He sat next to her Unconscious body, just waiting…yet the curse was growing impatient, clawing at his countenance. He Couldn’t lose control..not now. He picked up his sword, gripping it tightly as he checked for any remaining survivors. He must have found about 2.. because his expression turned melancholy as he picked up the survivors. Luckily.. one of the two was one of the other watchers, and one was Crunchy Chip Cookie. The wolf squadron must have been decimated by the snowstorm. He laid them next to Caramel Arrow, trying to recall how this occurred…thats right. They were marching off to battle, to go battle the licorice sea which once more which constantly threatened their existence..when the blizzard all of a sudden swept us off our feet and decimated the rest of our army in an avalanche. But that wasn’t normal…was it something? Or someone?

He suddenly thought he heard something...the voice of Dark Choco Cookie.. which had constantly been bothering him every since he left..but this time it was more persistent.``Son?`` He called out weakly, his voice wheezy and raspy from the painful cold. He was too pained to think clearly, so he had no choice.  The snowstorm seemed to grow harsher as he walked towards the dark figure. He kept walking…however seemed to find no one was there. The pain must have made him hallucinate. He began to tremble, clenching his fists in vexation. Gripping his sword tightly, he collapsed nearby the tree, feeling himself succumbing to his sorrow. He felt his heart begin to pound, with every beat increasing in speed. He held his head in his hands, as thick tears ran down his face. He wiped his tears, getting up. Yet he found it was hard to stand because of his injuries. He grunted as he sat back down, figuring he should wait to regain his strength before continuing. The others must have waken up by now.

He stared at the pearl white sky among the blizzard..something about it was oddly..alluring. The blizzard had calmed down slightly.. Yet something still felt wrong. He winced, holding his wound in pain. He stared down at it, confused as it began to heal. ``Hm..? What The..`` He clutched his weapon. He felt his heart racing as his head began to throb. He grunted in discomfort..as his eyes narrowed. ``Oh No- Not..Hrgh…Again…!`` He gripped his arm, feeling the discomfort turn to pain… and the pain turn to agony. Falling to his knees, he suddenly hurled over, grovelling against the snow. A thick black mist began to form around him, as the tips of his hair became smoke like. His vision became murky and bleek, as if it was being tainted. He gripped onto the tree, trying to get up with the little strength he had. Yet another surge of pain made his grip on his sword loosen, and made him collapse once more. His hands began to violently contort, straining against the fabric of his gloves. Just in time, and just barely, he removed his gloves, noticing the tips of his fingers faded into black, this.. darkness spreading across his hand. ``Uuurgh….What..Why..Now!?`` He gripped his wrist, his grunts and groans becoming more guttural. More agony seared through his body like fire…he screamed, his cries of pain becoming strained. It was now harder to talk, for his mouth had started to melt. He could only cry or scream. He banged his fist on the floor in frustration, his claw now fully formed with the knuckles protruding from the rest of the hand towards him like razors. ``Hhh..Rrrrrgh…Ca..nnt…M..move…`` Whilst he screamed in agony, his pained voice started to become more screech like and monstrous, akin to a demon. His dough had also began to darken, his form now almost ghost like. As his legs and forearms began to break away into the same mist-like smoke, he could only growl in pain, his eyes became white with rage, and the beast’s mouth had Disappeared. His crown had now become dismembered, only the spikes of it floating like crystals around its head. Grunting, a muffled cracking sound emitted from its body, as it  quadrupled in size to about 50 ft tall.

[pandoriasbox]

Legend of Laverna

(TW: Body Horror & Possession)

Listen closely little ones, learn from the Legend of Laverna so you do not fall prey to her wicked whims. As the tales go, when the threads of the universe fray, sometimes things slip through that are not of this world. Among those is that which we call Laverna, a most malicious being that is not only mischievous, but a dangerous thief.

It is said that long ago one Halloween night, a young mare was traveling the deserted paths of the forest alone. She was brave, not unlike you and feared not the creatures that lurked in the shadows. This mare however, did not realize that not all monsters use teeth and claws. On a dusty path she heard a soft tune being sung through the trees and her curiosity got the better of her. This beautiful paint trotted off the beaten path and into the forest, following the siren song that lured her forth. However, instead of a living creature she discovered a curious mask with long curving horns and intricate markings. Behind the eyes a beautiful blue light shone and seemed to flicker as the song died out with her arrival.

The mare tilted her head and called out to the strange mask. “Hello? Is someone there?” Her head tilted and she stayed back from the object, uncertain if its owner was near. However, to her surprise the mask spoke back.

“Yes indeed, little mare, I am.” The horse stumbled back a bit, shocked to see the twin flames that filled the eye sockets flicker in time with the disembodied voice. “My name is Laverna, have you come to hear my song?”

Slowly she took one step forward then another, the mare’s neck stretching forward to sniff at the air. “I… suppose so. I heard a beautiful melody through the trees.” She cocked her head, ears perked forward as she inspected the mask.

“Ah I’m glad you enjoyed it, I do wish I could share my songs with the world. I must admit I am so curious to see what lies beyond this deary wood.” The mask sighed and the lights flickered momentarily before burning brightly. “Are you a traveler dear? You seem rather inquisitive just as I. Perhaps we could see the world together?”

The mare lifted her head, pondering it for a moment before nodding. “I don’t see why not, with my hooves I can travel quite quickly and show you the many places I’ve been.” Slowly she took another step forward.

“Indeed you could, curious and clever, what a wonderful combination! I promise I can bring you great rewards as well with my song, just come closer and pick me up and I will show you the greatest adventure of your life.” The mask’s eyes glowed brighter and the little mare thought nothing of it as she reached out to pick up the mask from the forest floor.

However as her teeth attempted to connect with it she let out a squeal as the mask latched onto her face. The mare scrambled backwards and twirled around, anything to throw it off. She reared up and tried to strike her own head with her hooves but nothing could lodge the mask from her face. When she finally tired and grew close to giving up she felt her body shake as a greater will overcame her. Every limb locked and she stood panting as something crept out from under the mask. The mare’s body trembled as the sensation crawled over her flesh. It felt almost as if she was burning alive from the inside out.

She couldn’t move her head, every muscle tensed and paralyzed as bones crept down her neck and over her flesh. A muffled scream rose from her throat as a symbol was suddenly emblazoned upon her flanks and with a final flash of light the mare that once was no longer stood in the forest. Only blue glowing eyes stared out of the mask’s sockets as the violet creature known as Laverna shook herself free of the spell. She flicked her beautiful braided mane and stood proudly in her stolen body. Slowly she trotted over to a small pond nearby to take in her fascinating new form. She smiled under the mask, turning her head this way and that before looking over her handiwork. However a thought crossed her head, the mare who had graciously given her body certainly didn’t look as beautiful as she now was.

With a quick flash of light the mare changed, taking on a form far more similar to her host, that of a lovely paint mare and of course, no mask donning her features. The vain creature couldn’t help but spruce her new appearance up of course and as she stared into the still pool of water she adjusted the white markings crossing her body. Her mane and tail remained exquisitely braided but the colors of her darker energies were hidden under the surface of a simple sooty coat. With her new disguise in place she followed the way out of the forest the mare had taken to reach her. Now with a body Laverna could finally perform the mischief she had so dearly missed in her previous life. Softly she hummed the tune she had lured her host to her demise as she jauntily trotted away from the empty scene of her crime.

And with that the Legend of Laverna ends… for now. Beware her siren song and the masks of those who wish to deceive you for you too could fall prey to her machinations. They say Laverna still travels the paths of Jorvik to this day, tricking riders to take her into their stables as she steals away with whatever she pleases before disappearing with a new guise. What becomes of her hosts we may never know, nor if there is anything more beyond the mask. But in the end, is that really so bad compared to falling prey to her wiles? Stay safe and Happy Halloween…

[hanayumi]

Omg I really enjoy your works,especially your Yandere Sanzu ones! May I request for Yandere Sanzu with a darling that is completely oblivious to his tendencies and that maybe if she were to find out about his tendencies,she still doesn't really care?

Thank you!

heheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

tw yandere, violence/gore

it starts small, much like many many other things do. you let it slide the first time because, well, you love him and you’ve been together for a whole year now, your sixteenth monthsary’s coming up in a few days in fact — but you suppose you should’ve seen this coming sooner.

should’ve kept your eye on him a little longer when he snarled threats at your best friend, for simply getting close to you. should’ve flicked him on the wrist like you wanted to when he refused to let you detach yourself from him in public, refused to go anywhere without you.

you honestly should’ve said something about the dark glimmer in his eyes when he watched you giggle at your phone over dinner, and should’ve pressed further when he texted you an apology the next night for not being able to make it because he’d be busy at work.

he left red roses and a smiling teddy bear with the restaurant manager to make up for it. but you don’t care for flowers and gifts — you wanted him more.

you thought he knew that, but apparently not, because— because you’ve just come home early, and walked in on him doing… whatever he’s doing. murder? g-genocide? either way someone’s dead. you can’t really tell which it is, though, because there are limbs strewn everywhere (staining what was once spotless floors) and it’s hard to distinguish how many bodies they belong to exactly.

what a mess.

and it only takes a second to register; a short glance at the mess of broken bits and pieces of flesh piled on top of one another, quickly oozing carmine into the pristine carpet (the same burgundy carpet that you lovingly picked out with him on a furniture trip), dragging your scrutiny from every inch of the grisly scene towards your boyfriend caught in the act at the centre of it all, splattered in scarlet-dripping sin, leaking all over your floorboards —

the shock glazing over your eyes gives way to a muddled confusion, to a flicker of realisation, and then… amusement.

he watches as you tentatively deposit your bags on the floor, kicking off your shoes and then taking slow steps towards him. towards him. who has a knife shoved up someone’s disembodied throat.

“couldn’t help yourself, could you?” you murmur, thumb rubbing a blood smear off his cheek. fingers tracing the outline of the delicate scars. “s’alright, babe.”

muscle memory leads both your hands cupping his cheeks, tilting his head down as your cold lips clash against his, and he swears you’re shuddering out a sigh when the taste of cobalt unfurls on your tongue.

fuck. he loves you.

“i’m yours, you know,” you mumble against his lips, as if annoyed that he didn’t realise sooner, and the words have a cheshire grin splitting his face.

“mm, you are.”