#tw head injury

[funfairsundaes]

💙💔💙🌼💙❤️‍🩹💙

[checkeredflagggs]

Febuwhump Day 20: “I did good, right?”

pairings: gen

summary: a story about y/n, Redbull’s new second driver, told in non-sequential order

a/n: I love febuwhump and have participated before for other fandoms but this is a first for me — attempting to compete it via smau only. Hopefully I can write a complete story eventually and I will be posting it on its own masterlist in the correct order to read but it’ll be written based on the febuwhump prompt list! @febuwhump

a/n2: based on the 2024 year; sorry checo but you got replaced earlier!

Masterlist | Taglist

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 2,726,193 others

tagged: y/n_rb

f1gossip: transcripts of y/n’s radio moments before her crash. despite y/n being conscious in the aftermath, there seems to be evidence of head trauma in her responses.

view all comments

user1: who hurt my girl…(other then herself)

↳user2: right?? Like girl you just crashed, why are you so worried about whether or not you finished…

user3: petition to wrap her the fuck up in bubble wrap and give her some damn comfort

↳user4: double signed!

↳user5: I’ll triple it if we give her some damn blankets and like tea or hot chocolate

↳user3: oh absolutely

user6: redbull I am in your fucking walls. Treat our girl right!

↳user7: right????? Like fucking he’ll she should NOT be that worried about the race — she should be worried about herself

user8: oh this really clarifies her recent posts…

↳user9: she’s a fucking riot

↳user10: for real! We need to see her drunk cause I bet that shit is funny af

user11: I don’t know who is y/n or what f1 means but I googled her after seeing some of her posts (funny and relatable) but I hope she’s doing all right?

↳user12: everything looks like it will be ok user11. y/n is a race car driver in the formula 1 series and she’s gotten into a few bad crashes before

↳user12: her being conscious is a good thing!

↳user11: oh that’s good to hear!

↳user11: and race car? Like cars from Disney?

↳liamlawson30: yes

Bluesky

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @msimpala-67 @Americanvenom13 @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @yawn-zi

[honey-bell-aint-well]

I had a bad night two [or one?] nights ago and I drew this, but I no longer feel like working on it. And I'm having an absolute shit day today, so I'm sharing it as is.

I called this drawing 'LV fogged head' in my notes.

I personally think it looks sick /positive.

[fanciernessa]

in honor of the devils playhouse remaster finally coming out in a few days i post this drawing i made a while ago 😎

[serickswrites]

Wham!

Warnings: head injury, concussion, unconsciousness, confusion, disorientation, field medicine

The sounds Team Leader didn't make any sense. Nothing made a lot of sense. Their eyelids were too heavy to lift. Their head hurt like nothing before and they felt like they couldn't move.

A cacophony of sounds filtered into their awareness. People were yelling. There was the sound of fighting around them. And there was a voice gently speaking to them. They knew that voice.

"Smallest Teammate," Team Leader croaked as they finally opened their eyes.

"There you are, Team Leader," Smallest Teammate said with a smile that didn't quite reach their eyes.

"Wha?" Team Leader asked, trying to sit up. The world spun around them and tilted on its side. Team Leader screwed their eyes shut tight as a wave of nausea filled them.

"I think you should just lie here a while, Team Leader. It's good you're awake. I...I was worried you weren't going to wake up."

Smallest Teammate's words didn't make sense. Why wouldn't they wake up? How long were they out for? None of the words Team Leader tried to form came out. Everything was fuzzy and didn't make sense.

"Team Leader," Smallest Teammate said more urgently, "I need you to stay awake. It's a good sign you're awake. Keep awake, Team Leader. Help is on the way. I've wrapped your head wound where Whumper bashed it, but I don't know how bad your concussion is. You need to stay awake, Team Leader. Can you do that for me?"

Whumper bashed their head? When did that happen. As hard as Team Leader tried to remember, they couldn't. They nodded. They could stay awake for Smallest Teammate. Anything to make Smallest Teammate worry less.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @artisticdemon

[tiredsn0w-extrablu]

He didn't even stop there, those are only the slaughterhouse deaths (+near death in the elevator +end). Dude was livid.

[bungeepuppet]

Hisoillu Week 2023 - Day 5 - Killer / Lover

when he says "i love you" 👉👈( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)💕📍💖

(...he'll be fine i swear 👌)

[theseance444]

@handlcd

It was only supposed to be a couple of drinks, with old friends. Instead, Klaus was coming home with blood in his hair, and what felt like a broken rib. Of course it had been a ploy--these were people he'd snitched on, stolen from, manipulated in the heart of his addiction. The robbery should've been obvious, the moment he arrived. But Diego had once briefly convinced him that his middle name was "Gullible".

In reality, Klaus knew he was lucky they'd stopped at knocking him out. Then again, reanimation usually had a shorter heal time. Either way, he was almost certain he could feel more braincells dying off. How many concussions had he gotten? Did they count if he reanimated since, like a reset, or did it stack?

Finally finding himself teetering at the front door of the Academy, Klaus tried to open it as quietly as he could. Thank God the building was too old for SimplySafe. But instead of an automated alarm, his sister-in-law's voice nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Jesus, Lila!" Klaus hissed, grimacing as he reached out to shut the door. His other arm hugged his side, where the pain made him short of breath. "I'm not bleeding, go back to bed!"

[annoyingcloudearthquake]

Febuwhump Day 20

”I did good right?”

Photo without shadow/text under the cut

[dunkledog]

his name is Gabriel and he has seen things.

Dr. Gabriel Jean-Louis Vauquelin (his most recent full name) is S.H.A.U's team leader. Begrudgingly. He's one of the team's three medics, responsible for mending anything from general ailments such as "broken leg" or "cough that makes my chest hurt" in addition to things like "oof ouch my liver fell out" and whatnot. Discombobulated Notes:

Born in Haiti, raised in France from around the age of about 13.

He doesn't make a habit of getting particularly close with any of his teammates. "Feathers" is the exception, Werner and "Blue" (the other two medics) know him better than most of the others.

He spends a lot of his time cooped up in his office. Alone. He uses paperwork as an excuse to stay isolated. The most socialization he gets is while he wanders around in the afternoon to see how tasks are going. Typically this consists of asking a few questions, maybe dispensing an order, then leaving.

He's not very good with compassion, but he is a great source of calm in dire situations.

May or may not be absolutely zoinked off his rocker at any given time. (Tobacco is not the only thing he's been putting in that pipe)

He's not like other medics in the sense that he has a real medical degree that he earned from college (rare.) Specifically Harvard

Speaking of Harvard, he had this roommate he kept in contact with post-graduation. His name was James Sinclair, and they'd spend an awful lot of time together, even though they worked a few hours away from each other. It was mostly swell until James wound up in a horrible accident. It left him in a coma for a year, after which he seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. Gabriel went mad looking for him and on his way, got himself caught up in this 'meaningless' affair west of the Mississippi.

He has a chronic obsession with looking at and making medical diagrams. He has an uncanny memory for how each of his teammates is wired. It's also probably dawn down somewhere.

He has a mild-moderate regeneration ability as a result of long-term exposure to medi-gun fluid vapor and possibly respawn error.

local CEO of thousand-yard stare

ok thats all i can put into words rn. 4 am is nigh, my brain is brainrotted soup, and i could sleep for 20 years. i have more gabriel images i drew but dont think ive uploaded here that i could. upload later mayb e

coat tail-less ref below cut for like . idk if you wanna see his pantaloons. scandalous

[serickswrites]

Why Won't It Stop?

Warnings: explosion, head injury, blood, bloody nose, unconsciousness

Caretaker staggered out of the burning building, Whumpee following closely on their heels. "Why won't it stop?" Whumpee whined.

"What?" Caretaker couldn't hear out of one ear.

"The ringing. In my ears. It's so loud. Why won't it stop?" Whumpee stopped walking and clamped their hands over their ears. "It's so loud, Caretaker."

"Whumpee, we were just in a major explosion. It's normal to have some tinnitus."

"Some what?" Whumpee let their hands drop. Caretaker could see blood trickling from their right ear.

"Tinnitus--ringing in your ears. I'm sure when my hearing comes back in this ear," they pulled on their left earlobe, "it'll be ringing and ringing and ringing."

Whumpee screwed their face up. "It's so loud."

"I know, Whumpee. I know. If there's something the medics can do, they will. Are you sure that's the only thing wrong?" Caretaker stopped and really looked at Whumpee.

Whumpee's hair and clothes were coated in a fine layer of dust. Both ears had blood slowly trickling down--both ear drums had probably ruptured in the blast. Whumpee's face was pale, but Caretaker wasn't sure how much of that was dust. They were sure they looked just as bad as Whumpee.

"'m fine. Why?" Whumpee stopped and stared at Caretaker.

"Because your nose is bleeding," Caretaker said as they patted their pockets for a tissue.

"Hmmm," Whumpee muttered as they took a stumbling step and listed sideways. "I....I....I'm gonna be sick."

Caretaker had a moment to register Whumpee's words as Whumpee dropped to their knees and collapsed forward. "Whumpee!" Caretaker tried to rouse Whumpee. But as Caretaker turned Whumpee onto their side and placed Whumpee into the recovery position, Caretaker's stomach dropped. Blood dripped in a steady flow from Whumpee's nose and had begun to drip from Whumpee's mouth. "HELP!" Caretaker roared hoping someone would come. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

[tiredsn0w]

Nice dream...

I had this idea for a little while and finally sat down and drew it. The first panel is my favourite. Whether or not his helmet would actually shatter if hit with a bullet... it depends, both on the type of bullet (ex. piercing vs expansive/self defence) and location.

I was initially considering it being him shooting, like under his chin pointing up (there's a chink there, but it would be pretty hard to aim for as an enemy), then thought he would like it a lot better if he didn't have to go through the effort of pulling the trigger himself.

Too apathetic to live, too apathetic to stop living. I present to you, unit 5a82. Kepler's best-occupationally and worst-mentally assassin.

[autocrats-in-love]

Hero has amnesia from an injury Villain caused. villain is guilty and gaslights the hero into loving them

Don't You Remember?

Be warned: gaslighting (no fake love in this part), head injury

The villain heard something. They dropped their book and ran over to their room. In their bed was the hero, who had been passed out for two days. But now the hero was stirring, mumbling something as their eyes fluttered open and closed. The villain rushed to their side, holding their hand as the hero pulled themself into consciousness.

“Hey,” the villain said as the hero’s eyes fluttered open.

The hero stared up at the villain, who was holding them up with their arm. The hero blinked a few times.

“Um, hi.” the hero said.

Their face was covered in sweat. Their voice was scratchy. The villain couldn’t help themselves. They pulled the hero into a hug. The hero hesitantly returned it.

“Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. I just. . .I was so worried.” the villain said when they parted, tearing up.

“Um, thanks.” the hero said.

The hero put their hand to their forehead, where bandages wrapped around it to the back, where their injury lay.

“What happened?” the hero said.

The villain raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?” 

“I don’t.” the hero said. “I don’t remember a lot. Like who you are. And who I am.” 

“Oh. Oh, no.” the villain said. “This is bad.”

The hero frowned slightly like they disagreed.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” the hero said. “You can help me. I’m guessing you’re my partner, right?”

The villain froze. The villain thought about the hero’s stuff that they had lugged to their own place for the duration of the hero’s recovery. They thought about the hero’s favourite foods in their fridge. Finally, they thought about the aching in their heart when the hero had asked their question.

“Yeah, yeah I am. Can you remember anything about your- our life?”

The hero blinked slowly. “Um, not really. I think I can kind of remember . .a bedroom. But it doesn’t look like this one,” the hero looked around the small, windowless room. “not at all.”

The villain shrugged. Their heart leapt in their throat. “You’re probably remembering a friend's room or something.”

“Yeah, maybe.” the hero said.

The villain’s heartbeat calmed down. “Do you want some water? Or toast? You like toast.”

The hero wearily leaned back against the headboard. “Could I get water?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be right back.”

But before the villain could stand up, the hero grabbed their wrist. It made the villain blush. 

“Wait. What. . .what happened to me?” the villain asked.

The truth? A few days ago, the villain was trying to open an interdimensional portal. The hero arrived at the scene and tried to stop them. The villain decided the best way to stop their enemy would be to throw them through the portal. But, when they managed to toss the hero, the portal closed. So the hero hit a wall. Hard. Too hard. The villain panicked and took the hero back to their underground lair, getting their medic to patch the hero up. 

No way in hell could the villain say that.

“A metal beam fell on your head when you were walking.” The villain said. “Under a construction site.”

They got out before any follow-up questions were asked.

The villain got the hero their water and then left them to sleep. The villain needed a minute to figure out what their plan was. They sat down on a couch and flicked on the nearest television.

“-is still missing. Any information on their whereabouts can be reported anonymously to this number.”

There was a news reporter, talking as a phone number flashed on the screen. Above the numbers was a picture of the missing person. The hero. 

The villain gritted their teeth. This was not going to be easy.

[yeetmeoutthewindowdaddy]

Rolan's lisp headcanons:

Inspired by this post [alt]

A/N: I am not a doctor. I am not claiming that Rolan's voice actor has a lisp IRL, nor am I speculating on the causes of his lisp IF he has one, this post is nothing more than me reaching for angst for one of my blorbo's. Does Rolan have a lisp in-game? It sounds like he does to me, but maybe he doesn't have a lisp and that's just how his accent sounds to my uncultured US American yee-haw ears. --- This specific post is not a lore breakdown, it is pure speculation and conjecture. Some actual lore-breakdowns are linked to provide the canon sources that led me to these headcanons. I posited the information below as though it is factual because it is true for my headcanons, not because it is actually canon.

Content: Angst, a nonmedical-professional speculating on medical things.

TW: physical trauma, brain/head injury, anxiety/stress, child abuse, species-targeted violence*, orphans, homelessness, real-world parallels to discrimination.

*A/N: I am taking a page from WotC and using the term "species" instead of "race" because of the real world connotations that "race" has. And frankly using real-world terms like "racially targeted violence" when discussing a fictional world seems disrespectful to the very real people who must contend with it in their actual lives. And such terms hit too close to home— I'm ethnically ambiguous and pale enough that I don't have to worry about racially motivated violence in my day-to-day life, but many of my family members and loved ones don't have that privilege.

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

A/N: (Hard facts are in green, information bookended by green * is info that I'm fairly certain is factual— everything else is headcanon.)

● (Section 1) Possible reasons why Rolan has a lisp:

Rolan was was born with an articulation disorder:

Rolan's speech impairment was much more pronounced (pun unintended) when he was younger.

He taught himself how to speak Common despite his disability because he wanted to be a wizard, who needs to be able to properly pronounce the verbal components of a spell, and because he was severely bullied about it as a child— as it was yet another thing that othered him.

---

Rolan has a forked tongue that makes it difficult for him to speak Common:

(A tiefling specific physical reason why he has trouble speaking.)

A/N: (I don't think that any of the tiefling character models in game have a forked tongue. But based on what I know about tieflings, at least some of them should have a partially or fully forked tongue.)

"The speech of subjects with bifurcated tongues, while intelligible, shows a higher proportion of perceptibly atypical fricatives and significantly greater variance than seen in the control group." Source *Translated into layman's terms: While having a spilt tongue makes it noticeably harder to clearly enunciate and correctly pronounce words, people with a forked tongue are still able to be understood when speaking.*

Keep in mind that the test subjects in the above study were adults who had already learned how to speak. They already knew where and how to position their tongue when speaking, they just needed to adapt to speaking with their newly forked tongue.

Rolan had no one to teach him how to speak common with his naturally forked tongue.

A forked tongue is required to properly speak Infernal , so his lisp serves as yet another reminder of his infernal heritage.

---

It was caused by an improperly healed injury:

Unfortunately, prejudice against tieflings is very common in the realms. *Rolan grew up in* Elturel, a city that tolerated tieflings better than most (until the Decent into Avernus). *A combination of moral superiority and* strict laws enforced by the Hellriders meant that Elturel had a very low crime rate.

In a city where cursing in public could get one into legal trouble, who could ruffians take their aggression out on without penalty? Street children, specifically tiefling street children. Without any adults to look after or protect them, many orphaned/abandoned tiefling children have to resort to stealing to survive (like Mol)— which unfortunately feeds into the stereotype of tieflings being criminals.

Committing a crime against tiefling urchin would be easy to get away with. Because who is the city guard going to believe— a purportedly good and upstanding citizen who was simply defending themselves, or a gamin devil-kin thief?

Before descending into the hells overtly hateful prejudice against tieflings was kept behind closed doors and away from polite company— it would be uncouth to be openly intolerant. The holier-than-thou people of Elturel looked the other way when injustices were committed against tieflings.

After Elturel was retuned from the hells openly displaying anti-tiefling sentiments became socially acceptable and widespread amongst the non-tiefling populace of the city. *Before the tieflings were banished violence against them had dramatically increased in Elturel. (Which sadly meant that the general levels of violence tieflings faced in Elturel now matched Faerûn as a whole.)*

Rolan was abandoned by his human parents because he was born a tiefling. Even if Rolan wasn't a street urchin and had instead been taken in by an orphanage or a temple; his prospects there weren't much better, maybe even worse, than being on the streets. (Rolan was, at some point, thankfully adopted by Cal and Lia's mother.)

Rolan would have suffered because he is a tiefling— either at the hands of the orphanage's/temple's care-takers and/or from the other unwanted children (Rolan is intelligent and magically gifted, jealousy is a hell of a motivator for school-yard bullies), or from criminals/assholes who wanted an easy target, or all of the above.

All of this to say: Rolan was, likely repeatedly, subjected to species-motivated physical violence when he was a child, causing him to receive an injury that never properly healed or that permanently damaged a portion of his brain that controls speech/speaking.

"Neurological disorders, such as stroke, brain injury, or dysarthria, can affect the brain regions and neural pathways responsible for speech production. A disruption in the neurological pathways can lead to difficulties coordinating and controlling the muscles involved in speech, including those of the tongue and lips. As a result, individuals may struggle to produce specific sounds correctly, potentially manifesting as a lisp." Source "Dysarthria can be caused by conditions that make it hard to move the muscles in the mouth, face or upper respiratory system... [which] control speech. Conditions that may lead to dysarthria include... Brain injury... Head injury." Source "An injury to the tongue or teeth can also cause a lisp." Source

---

Rolan developed it as an adult due to stress:

Everybody responds to stress differently, and sometimes our bodies respond in strange and unexpected ways— such as developing a lisp.

"...anxiety and stress can cause a lisp. This is more common in adults than children." … "Stress and anxiety can surprisingly trigger or exacerbate lisping..." Source 1, Source 2

Reasons Rolan has to be stressed TF out before the events of BG3:

*Abandoned by his biological parents because he was born a tiefling.*

Grew up in an abusive orphanage/temple, in the streets, or both.

He is a tiefling, a species of humanoids in Faerûn that look like devils and are heavily discriminated against because of it.

*Rolan is the oldest and most responsible sibling.*

*His adoptive mother died, either before or during Avernus— leaving Rolan in charge of caring for his younger siblings.*

*Rolan and his family grew up poor, he knew that his magical talents could pull them out of poverty* and he trained incredibly hard to hone his skills without a teacher.

*Due to his lack of proper schooling*, and because his lisp prevents him from properly pronouncing the verbal components of spells, Rolan had to make his own versions of common spells.

He feels responsible for Cal and Lia's wellbeing, and is willing to go to extreme lengths/endure extreme things if it means he can provide a better life for them.

He doesn't truly believe that they consider him their brother/family.

Elturel, his home, was pulled into Avernus for at least a tenday.

He and his siblings had to survive actual hell.

Tieflings were blamed for the city falling into the hells because they look like devils, *leading to violence against them.*

He, his family, and all the other tieflings were exiled from Elturel because they were tieflings.

*He had to leave behind almost everything he had worked so hard to acquire.*

Reasons Rolan has to be stressed TF out during the events of BG3:

He has been roughing it with the other refugees for gods knows how long.

If he takes too long to get to Baldur's Gate he risks his apprenticeship, *his one and (thus far/possibly) only chance to learn how to become a powerful enough wizard that he can support his siblings.*

The druids are threatening to kick them out of the grove.

If they are forced from the grove everyone will be slaughtered by goblins.

Some meddling adventurer convinced his siblings to stay and help protect the other refugees instead of making a break for it on their own.

Wyll is a devil now!?

They traversed through the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

Insane, murderous, cultists attacked the tiefling caravan intent on slaughtering them.

Zevlor (seemingly) betrayed them.

His siblings were captured by said insane, murderous, cultists *because he wasn't strong enough to protect them and the children at the same time.*

That asshole adventurer is back, and they save him and his siblings again.

Baldur's Gate is refusing the refugees entry into the city.

Lorroakan doesn't let Lia and Cal stay in the tower.

Lorroakan is an abusive fraud.

He has to help the Nightsong and the adventurer fight Lorroakan.

He is suddenly the master of Ramazith's Tower and owner of Sorcerous Sundries.

A Netherbrain is set to attack the Gate and take over the Sword Coast.

He promised his help in the fight against said Netherbrain.

He has to figure out how to get the tower's arcane cannons, *which Lorroakan had neglected and allowed to fall into disrepair,* up and running before the final fight.

Just to name a few.

● (Section 2) Rolan's lisp misc. headcanons:

Rolan's lisp gets worse when his is tired or stressed.

It is ironically easier for him to speak clearly when he's drunk (up to a point) because he's used to struggling to pronounce words.

His adoptive mother taught him where to position/how to move his tongue when speaking common with a forked tongue.

Part of the reason he speaks in such a haughty tone is because doing so makes his words more clearly pronounced/enunciated.

His siblings only teased him about his lisp once when they were children, Rolan was so distressed that they vowed to never tease him for his speech impairment again.

Lia got into several fights when she was younger with kids who made fun of Rolan's lisp.

He might as well be a wild magic sorcerer with how often his spells have gone awry because he mispronounced a verbal component.

He is deeply self-conscious about his lisp.

He holds the forks of his tongue together, even when his mouth is closed, which gives him persistent tension headaches.

Once he gets comfortable enough around a romantic partner he stops (actively) trying to suppress his lisp around them and his siblings in private.

● (Section 3) Rolan's lisp forked tongue NSFW headcanons:

Because he has adapted to speaking common with a split tongue he is able to independently control both sides of his tongue.

His tongue is strong because he constantly flexes it.

His tongue is long. While this makes it harder for him to speak, it also leaves his partner very satisfied.

You know you're fucking him real good when his begging words start to slur together.

His ahegao face is top tier.

The amount of time it takes him to recover his ability to speak after an orgasm is increased by how mind-blowing said orgasm was.

[inkblot22]

The Same As Always

So I can already hear it. If I'm so scared of Rook, why am I always writing about him? That's because fear makes me nut, and I'm horny on side (this is not my main blog lmao) Also I'm so sorry, I cannot remember who made this divider since I downloaded it a few years ago, so if it's yours please let me know and I will credit you! This is kind of a reimagining of events based on that very loose series I have floating around on my page (He Begs Not For Petulance) so I hope it comes across as well as those.

Who is this fic for? I tried to keep it very gender-neutral, so hopefully anyone who can handle it. I apologize, since Rook does use the masculine version of most pet names in this (cheri instead of cherie, etc) but it's less feminizing than him referring to the reader as "ma biche" or "ma coccinelle", so that's just how that goes. It is a shame, but I also stayed away from "mon nounours" because that is also a bit too gendered. Very cute, though.

Anyways, this fic is DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. It's not as dark as my usual stuff, but that's not saying much. TW for noncon (touching and sa), knifeplay, blood, head injuries (accidental), captivity, and yandere. Also rusty, probably incorrect French and Rook Hunt, of course. I don't add translations because I feel like if the reader doesn't know all or any of what he's saying, it adds to the creep factor.

You don’t like it here. You think you don’t, at least. It’s hard to explain.

It’s winter, it has been for far too long. Maybe you’ve been here for a bit too long as well. It’s hard to keep track of time, since the sun seems to never rise wherever you are.

You can’t exactly remember how you got here. You remember the wagon. You’d needed quick travel through the mountains, but you also can’t remember where you were traveling. You remember everything going dark, waking up to see a blood-stained stone before you, feeling the warmth on your forehead and wondering where the wagon had gone. Your first thought was that you were now in a survival situation as it began to snow around you, the snowflakes dancing in the wind that found its way inside your loose clothing. You stood there for a moment, maybe, and then you started walking, and from there it all goes black. 

You can definitely remember the first time you saw him. You were lying in an unfamiliar bed, something snug around your forehead. A candle cast a warm, quiet light into the room, and it burned through your eyelids, your vision a murky orange-pink until you opened your eyes and came face to face with… him.

Flaxen hair, a soft smile as he reached forward to caress your cheek, and most of all, those intense jade eyes. You jumped and immediately felt woozy, but you were confused enough to pay that little mind.

The man shushed you, gently pulling you back into a relaxed position and cooing at you as though you were a small child, “Ah-ah, fear not, mon cheri, you are no longer in death’s grasp. Do you remember your name or how you’ve gotten here?”

You couldn’t answer him at first. His eyes narrowed, the rest of his face still a pleasant mask, and he eased you onto your back, your head against the pillow.

“Fret not, mon petit. How about I tell you my name, and then you can decide if you’d like to tell me yours?” His voice was quiet when he spoke to you, and you noticed that there was a large knife sheath snug on his thigh.

You were still bewildered. You couldn’t connect any of the dots that had led you to this moment, and it was making your heart beat a bit too fast for your liking. The stranger smiled wider and squeezed your trembling hand.

“Je m’appelle Rook Hunt, le chasseur d’amour. I found you wandering aimlessly in this forest, the life pouring from your head like a faucet. You passed out in my arms, and brought you here.”

You didn’t remember wandering around. You could remember getting up, but you didn’t remember wandering around. Your hand comes up to your forehead, the soft bandages rubbing against your fingertips. When you looked back at Rook, you tried to figure out what you should say. Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.

“I… I’m kinda thirsty.”

Rook smiled ever wider and stood, and you got the chance to look around a bit more. You seemed to be in a small log cabin, the bed in a sort of nook, away from the rest of the cabin. You could see Rook from where you were, his back facing you as he poured you a cup of water. The kitchen area was open, but small, a table with three chairs right next to it, and you could sort of see a pretty ornate looking rug, but as you were looking at it, Rook returned and helped you into a seated position.

He held the cup for you as you drank. When you finished, he placed the cup on the table and stroked your cheek, still smiling. His actions towards you were awfully familiar, as though you were old friends or something.

“Where am I?”

“A little cabin in the woods.” Rook didn’t remove his hand from your cheek. His gloved thumb was so gentle against your cheek. “Why don’t you get some rest? You lost quite a bit of blood, cheri.”

You did feel tired… and even though you were confused, it was almost as though a spell was cast on you, lulling you back to sleep.

You’re almost certain you don’t like it here. Although he never said anything to you about it, it became somewhat clear that you couldn’t leave once you felt well enough to move around again. At least you were moving, though.

It was also at this point that Rook began leaving the cabin often. It left you bored, not that his form of entertainment was a good one, and you started cooking to alleviate that boredom. You couldn’t really recall if you were good at it before, but you were decent enough to make basic stuff, so you did. For some reason, Rook had an icebox, not a refrigerator. You didn’t know what it was at first, and you felt like it was rude to open random cabinets in a strange man’s cabin, so you left it alone until he informed you that there were usually fresh vegetables inside.

You’d sit next to the potbelly stove and sip tea as you stared out the window at the snow. This winter was going on for far too long, and it always seemed to be dark here, but you didn’t know where “here” was.

Rook would stomp back in, snow caked along the feather in his hat and melting off the brim, and he’d cast you a smile before swishing into the basement. When he’d return, he’d guide you back to the bed and sit at the table himself, writing furiously… until recently.

Last night, he’d led you back to the bed after checking your wound and changing the bandage, but instead of taking a seat at the table and writing, he slipped into the bed beside you. You didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the precedent for the rest of your life.

“What are you doing-”

“Shh, shh. Relax, cheri. I will recite a poem for you.” He curled his arms around you, holding your aching head to his chest as he whispered.

“What?” You were fatigued, still recovering from your injury, but you struggled to break out of his hold anyway.

He shushed you again, his deceptively slim arms keeping you immobile, and then he began to speak, quiet and steady, “My darling is silent. Quiet as the night.”

“R-Rook…”

He continued speaking as though you hadn’t said anything at all, “Mon orilles sont pauvres faute de sa douce voix.

As I look at that sweet face,

Beautiful as a flower, as the moon, as the blood in our veins,

Je me sens seule dans ma peau.”

You… are not amazing at French. A small English to French dictionary was left on the table whenever Rook left, but reading made your head swim, pangs of pain so bad that you had to rest immediately. But, from what little you understood, the man who had saved you from a cold death outside seemed to have something worse planned for you, if you were in fact this “darling” he spoke of.

You definitely do not like it here. You’d made the mistake of pushing Rook’s increasing affections away every chance you got, resulting in him reading your reluctance to be around him as hostility. You’d gone to cut some vegetables and found that all the knives were replaced with children’s safety cutlery. While you could very well still cause damage with them, you couldn’t do anything life-threatening without a lot of effort and no fighting back. The serrated plastic edges were only good for cutting through the flesh of fruits and tender meats, and the rounded tips meant you couldn’t really pierce anything.You couldn’t even skin a fish that Rook came back with, he did it with his hunting knife after watching you struggle for an irritatingly long time.

And then there’s the cellar. You had taken a nap after trying to read and woken up, the sky dark as usual and a terrifying grinding, clunking noise coming up from the basement. You felt like you needed to hide, so you did. You crawled under the bed and waited, the basement door flying open and a few more candles getting lit echoing as the grinding noise- the sound of something big and heavy being dragged- moved further back towards the area of the cabin that you didn’t go in usually. There wasn’t much over there except for a wardrobe, and you didn’t like opening cabinets here. It stopped being about politeness a while ago, and had turned into the fear of finding something you didn’t like.

When you heard the front door open and close, felt the frigid rush of air that entered the cabin, you felt like you were frozen as well. You couldn’t move as you heard the sound of water being poured, and you worried for a while that you would start to feel the wooden floor beneath you grow cold and wet. Instead of wet floors, however, you saw Rook’s feet- you could only tell because of the freckle that peeps over his sock on his left leg and the fine blond hairs prickling from his skin- in your narrow window of vision from where you were cowering.

“Cheri… come out from under there.” 

You did, but you did so slowly. As soon as you were no longer under the bed, Rook pulled you to your feet and looked at your face. He’d never made such a serious expression before, not that you’d seen, and it made you feel a bit panicked.

“R-Rook, what was all that noise?”

His face smoothed and he let go of you, then he waved towards the dark corner of the cabin.

“I’ve run a bath. The water is warm, lapin, so you’d best get in before it cools.”

You did feel grimy, and since you were okay with standing and walking around for longer periods of time now, as compared to the first few weeks you were here, you jumped at the prospect of getting clean. You quickly undressed, knowing it was dark enough that Rook probably couldn’t see you, and climbed into the warm water. You couldn’t see if there was any soap, but as you were squinting into the darkness, kneeling in the tub as you leaned forward over the side, you felt something brush against your back. When you turned around, you shrieked like an owl and had a very intense internal dilemma.

Rook was seated in the tub behind you, or in front of you now, since you were facing him. He produced a bar of soap and began washing himself, dipping his head under the water so he could wash his hair as well. You couldn’t help but blankly stare at him, eyes wide as he acted so casual. This had been a problem for a while, actually, but never so severe as this. Rook was overly familiar with you, he touched you as though you had been married or were close friends, and apparently now he thought it was fine for you to share a bath. His eyes met yours in the dark corner, and he possibly smirked. You couldn’t quite see, but you could hear it in his voice.

“Ah, mon cher, did you need the soap? But you can’t see very well, can you? Come and let me wash your supple skin.”

A moment before he said that, you were debating if you should get out of the tub or something. You couldn’t tell if it’d be better to be ogled as you dressed or if staying under the water would give you a bit more modesty. After he said that, his arms reaching for you, you began to stand up. Although it was dark, you still saw his eyes flash, saw a slight movement in his wrist, and you were brought to your knees. It felt as though vines were wrapped around you, and you tilted forwards into your captor’s chest as your balance failed you in the dark water of the tub.

This man was a mage. You didn’t think you’d ever met one before, but you couldn’t remember. You wailed and begged for him to let you go as he began to gently wash you, but he simply shushed you and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

You absolutely hate it here. As you chopped carrots for the stew you had decided to make, you wondered where you were from or where you were going, and hoped someone knew you had never shown up and was looking for you. You didn’t think that was the case, however.

“That does smell divine, trickster.” Rook said, walking up the stairs from the basement, “Et vous êtes terriblement mignonne, portant ce petit tablier adorable et préparant le dîner…”

“I can’t cut the meat well with this. Can I have an actual knife, please?”

Rook didn’t answer, leaning against the wall and watching as you chopped the carrots with some difficulty. He looked pleased, though whether it was with you or the situation remained to be known. When he finally pushed off of the wall, he wrapped one arm around your front, burying his face in your hair as his other hand slid down your thigh.

“Get off of me!” You tried to slash his arm with the knife, but it barely even scratched his skin, and the hand that was resting on your waist came up to crush your dominant hand so you’d drop the knife.

Panic spiked through your veins as he slipped his hand up your leg so he could slide it in the waistband of the pants you were wearing. His hand that was crushing yours lowered to hold your wrist against the counter.

You’d never tried this before, but when his lips pressed against your neck, you felt your breath hitch and you let out a desperate cry for help. 

Rook laughed in response and nipped your neck, his teeth pinching your skin between them. His hand in your waistband smoothed down your pelvis to gently massage your sex, and you screamed again, thrashing and flailing so he would let you go.

Despite him never quite showing this side of him to you before, Rook was something of a strategist. As far as you could tell, it hadn’t been that long since you’d gotten here, if your head injury was anything to measure time by.  

“Relax, ma crevette. You are still recovering, no? Allow this lowly hunter to take care of your body.”

Your head hurt and you felt dizzy as he stoked your arousal. A disconnect between your mind and body grew into a chasm and you began to bawl as a pressure built up in your core. Your head was spinning, it felt as though your brain was throbbing, and you shuddered and wept as Rook peppered kisses on your cheek. He had you pressed solidly against the counter, his body keeping you more or less still. His breath was hot on your skin, and you felt like you were in hell.

“Come, trickster. The soup can wait. Je dois t'avoir.”

“No!”

Rook paid you little heed as he dragged you backwards towards the bed, and while you were expecting him to just throw you onto it before he assaulted you, he gently swept you off of your feet and laid you down. That was where his mercy ended, however, if it could even be called mercy here. That knife that was pressed to his thigh, still warm from his skin and him doing whatever he did in the basement, was quickly unsheathed and trailed lightly up your sternum.

“Not struggling any longer, mon petit lapin? I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses.” His blade slid back down and he used a finger to help hook it under the hem of your shirt, cutting through the fabric as though it was nothing, “And I am sure you must be confused, but a little… exercise is good for your condition.”

You wanted to vomit, but Rook’s gloved hand cupped your chin. His knife felt cold against your now bare skin, and your breath hitched as you sucked in and held it, your eyes looking down at where Rook had his knife.

One of his leather-covered fingers tapped your cheek, and you looked back up at him. He smiled sweetly and sat up a bit, his blade still pressed flat against your stomach, right over your navel. He caught the fingertip of his glove in his teeth and yanked that glove off, tossing it to the side and passing the knife to his now bare hand. As he leaned forward to hover over you once more, his knife pressed under your chin and his gloved hand slipped into your pants, shifting lower than your crotch to prod at your poor ass. You closed your legs tighter in panic, and Rook tutted at you as though you were an unruly child.

“Come now, cheri, you should relax.” He whispered, leaning closer to press a kiss against your forehead, where you’d hit your head and how you’d gotten into this whole mess. “Plus vous êtes tendu, plus la douleur est forte…”

“D-don’t do this, don’t-” Your voice sounded so shaky, and you realized that you were trembling. Every time you made the slightest movement, you could feel the sharp edge of Rook’s hunting knife against your chin.

“Open your legs, Trickster. I’m not touching you for my benefit… although your faces of bewilderment and pleasure are quite sweet.” His finger circled the tight ring of muscle around your anus and you slowly relaxed.

“Wh-why are you d-doing…?”

Rook smiled sweetly and removed his finger from your anus slowly, instead dragging your pants down your legs and relaxing his hand with the knife against your neck. When your lower half was mostly bare above the knee, he pressed two fingers into your ass and slowly massaged you from the inside, tilting his head as his face fell.

“After I graduated from NRC, I did not think I’d see your darling little form again. It was a welcome surprise… but I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.” He mused, reaching over your head to grab something. He opened the little bottle with one hand, the slippery liquid cold on your asshole as he resumed his gentle fingering, “You don’t remember me in the least. Do you?”

You felt so woozy and scared, but it explained so much if he knew you… but that didn’t matter. He was still a stranger to you, and one who was currently preparing to do more terrible things to you.

“Heh… I did think so.” Rook quickly unbuckled his pants and tugged them down just enough to free himself. He pulled back away from you to seat your thighs on his own, his cock slowly inching into your poor hole. His knife slid away from your neck but remained in his grip as he slowly slid his hips forward, his opposite hand holding your ass.

Your vision was white for a moment, and when it returned it was blurry. Were you crying? You could hear loud, shuddery breathing, and it took a moment for you to figure out that it was coming from you. Rook sighed peacefully, as though this was a walk in the park for him. 

“Aw… I do not enjoy harming you, trickster.” Rook murmured, his hips slowly beginning their undulating motion. He shushed your pained sounds, “This is my love for you. You’ve only grown more beautiful these past few years.”

You winced and pushed against him, your feet shifting so you could try to kick him away, and his knife came back to rest against your collarbones. His hips rocked a little faster, every pump leaving a burning stretch that only felt like it doubled over onto itself.

“Did you know? How I felt for you, how I longed for your touch all those years ago? These three on my own… they have been l'écrasement de l'âme. I’ve had far too much time to- Putain, tu n'es pas du tout détendu…” Rook wheezed and grunted, dark and low.

You felt a pit in your lower belly, and you grabbed the wrist that had the knife, your watering eyes wide as you looked up at this man who apparently knew you.

“Please, petit, you have to… fuck- you must unclench, or this will not last much longer.”

His demand was probably one of the most ridiculous things you’d heard. You couldn’t relax. He had a knife to your throat, he was rearranging your guts, and he had chosen just now to inform you that he was aware of at least a portion of your past. You made this strange whining shriek noise, and Rook’s hand holding the knife slipped ever so slightly.

It was unclear as to whether or not he did that on purpose, especially since he removed the blade from your skin and lasciviously lapped at the small cut on your collarbone, his lips trailing up to your ear.

“Préparez-vous, car je vais déposer mon amour dans votre estomac en attente.”

The sentence itself was honestly quite jarring, but Rook groaned loudly into your ear and nearly folded you in half as he came inside of your ass. It felt hot and sickly, and the musky smell of Rook’s skin and sex permeated the room. Your head panged, woozy throbs that made your stomach churn. Rook dragged his body up and gently teased your sex with his gloved fingertips, his murky green eyes glued to yours. 

“Wh-”

“Did you truly think I would not give you the same bliss you have given me?” He mumbled, “You really don’t remember me, then.”

As he pulled out of you and stroked you to your own orgasm, he smiled sadly.

"Don't worry, trickster. You will remember in time."

[ghostcashewart]

i said i was gonna draw a knight au for my dnd character and BOY have i been doing that