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atsadi-shenanigans · 6 months

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Feeding Alligators: Chapter One

Screw schedules. Posting the first chapter of my (very) slow burn Astarion/Tav fic, Feeding Alligators.

Turns out, it’s not heart disease that gets you. Not a car crash, the second coming, or even a plain old slip in the shower that removes you from this mortal coil. It’s motherfucking aliens. Your Uncle Randy would be so proud. Or: two losers cheat, stab, and flirt their way to a win.

Turns out, it’s not heart disease that gets you. Not a car crash, the second coming, or even a plain old slip in the shower that removes you from this mortal coil.

It’s motherfucking aliens.

Your Uncle Randy would be so proud.

You wake to heat and smoke. The acrid taste clings to your tongue, and grit crunches between your teeth. Your first thought: the Big One finally happened; your apartment has collapsed in the earthquake and you’re stuck in the rubble. You were in bed. That might have saved you from being completely crushed?

Only you’re not on your bed, anymore. Nor are you on a pile of splintered wood and concrete. The floor is cool and disgusting, in a kind of spongy way. You can tell this rather intimately, as you’re naked.

Then the smoke clears, and you’re not in a debris pile. Because there’s a squid-face motherfucker grabbing at you. The ancient, primate part of your brain that remembers loping along tree branches and eating bugs takes one look at that thing, and it starts shrieking.

And that’s when you realize you’re not on something, you’re in something and it’s a goddamn cage and you flail around, buck-ass nude, as Squidward lifts something squirming towards you.

“Fucknofuckthis!” you say, in a long, one-word primate screech.

Squidward jerks its hand and your head slams the back of your cage. Things go a little fuzzy.

More smoke billows into the room, and your cage shudders around you. Squidward is moving fast and frantic. It gives the smoke a hateful glare like the smoke insulted it.

You can’t move. Can’t even blink. Can only pant and wheeze and shriek as it all but smashes what you think is a worm onto your fucking eyeball.

Pain digs in. The little fucker writhes, chewing, flattening itself around your eye. The pain blinds you.

The next time you wake, it’s to the feel of empty space. You cartwheel once. Hit the ground. Pain blasts through your left hip and knocks your breath out. You lie there for a second, lungs spasming and trying to inhale, and it’s like sucking air through a coffee straw.

The floor has the same, unpleasant squishiness. It makes you think of congealed slime, like bare toes sinking into cold cat vomit, and you finally recover enough to gag.

You’re in the same room, you think. You’re not sure. It’s moderately on fire, hazed in rancid smoke that smells like the worst crossover of burning rubber and scorched slugs. You force yourself up—your bad knee miraculously not popping like the hateful bitch it is—and find yourself alone. Except for dead Squidward.

***

The ship is large. A lot of it is made of cat vomit floor, and the doors are people-sized buttholes. You find a room which sets off your “xenomorph from Aliens” phobia. And inside, you find the intact body. It’s another human, a large man dressed up in some kind of SCA reenactor’s clothes. They’re not crusted in blood or anything else, and it’s way better than running around with your tits flapping. After a struggle that leaves your out-of-shape ass flushed and panting, you slip on an off-beige tunic. It comes down to mid thigh.

So now you’re in a large, on fire alien butthole ship, still defenseless and alone, dressed like medieval Winnie-the-poo. It’s an improvement.

***

You find an H.R. Giger box. You almost don’t open it. But your white women ancestors reach out through you, and your hands are fiddling with the thing before you can think, “Hold on.” Inside is some weird shit: a slug in a jar, a funny rock, and—is that gold? What the fuck? There’s also a little voice whispering in your mind, that you follow over to some slack-jawed dude strapped to a chair. And you know it’s not his voice because 1. it echoes in your skull and 2. the back of his skull is gone, leaving exposed brain.

Your primate brain is having none of that. You end up reflexively slapping the thing when the creepy voice speaks again. You don’t mean to? You probably don’t mean to. You’re high as a kite on adrenaline and shock, and your hand just kind of does the thing. Oops.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” you say to the actually this time dead guy.

You haven’t seen any other aliens. Might be because the whole “on fire” part. Something bad is happening, and a very loud part of you insists you better find somewhere to hide. But an even louder part rages at this entire situation, and it would really like you to find a gun or space laser or a goddamn butter knife please.

Things do not improve in the next room. The far wall is gone. It’s not the vacuum of space that tugs your short hair. Your nose doesn’t fill with what one astronaut described as the “burning metal” smell of low earth orbit. What hits your nose is sulfur and smoke. The outside holds no stars. It’s orange and hazy, with weird, shifting dark slashes. And it’s filled with demons.

The butthole ship is in hell. Actual, literal hell.

Your Aunt Patty May would be so self-righteous right now, the stupid bitch. You really did die and go to hell.

You take a couple of steps and catch yourself on the slimy edge of a wall. You manage not to fall onto your knees.

The ship zooms along what looks like a twisted, red ground swarming with ants. A rush and—is that a dragon—swoops past the hole.

Aliens, you can deal with.

Hell, you can be bitter about.

But dragons? You’re not on anything. None of your medications cause hallucinations. There’s no explanation for this 80’s metal album fever dream. Your brain has just about had it, and fuck if it’s not reaching for the shutdown switch.

Which is when a lizard woman vaults and flips over your head. She lands and twirls, and points a sword at your face. She’s green. She’s in metal armor. She opens her mouth and snarls something at you.

And you…you have no idea what she’s saying.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #tav #tav has backstory #fanfic #astarion x tav #it's a goddamn isekai #i'm not sorry #no betas we die like men

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

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Hey there, I’m not sure if you still take requests or anything but agh, I’ve been going through a really rough depressive episode since Christmas and your blog brings me such joy. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to write something about War saving reader from demons or something along those lines? Or even just something fluffy? No pressure of course, if you’re not up to it that’s fine :)

Sorry this took so long, hope you’re doing a bit better now, though if not, maybe this will at least cheer you up for a few minutes <3 <3

War X Reader.

---

When you ran into the formidable Red Rider in the ruined streets of your old home city, you knew without a doubt that you were gaping up at a veritable force of nature, rather than a man.

War turned out to be everything the name suggests.

Physically, he's enormous - taller than you by at least a few heads and broad as an ox, cloaked in red and covered from head to toe in weathered battle armour the colour of gun smoke. His pale face – half hidden by a crimson hood – seems to be etched with a permanent scowl that only ever shifts if he's snarling or unleashing a blood-curdling battle cry. Not once in all the time you've been travelling with him have you seen him crack a smile.

Although, you suppose, a Horseman of the Apocalypse might not have a reason to smile, nor an inclination to.

'Oh well,' you muse as you follow the gruff and stoic behemoth through the inner-city graveyard one foggy night, 'He's better company than the demons, at least.'

War certainly wouldn't have been your first choice of travelling companion, just as you're sure you aren't his. Yet, as circumstance dictates, if you want to stay alive, you'll just have to put up with his imposing presence and general lack of social graces.

All of a sudden, you're halted in your tracks when an enormous, metal gauntlet catches you roughly in the stomach, the fingers splayed wide against your shirt.

Slightly winded, you open your mouth and a wheeze shoots out. “What?” you choke, throwing War a nervous glance. He merely stands there in utter silence with his head turning on a slow and constant swivel whilst a pair of icy, blue eyes scan the graveyard, searching. After a few seconds, you swallow down a lump and hesitantly ask, “You see something, big guy?”

The Horseman's broad chest puffs out at the nickname, though you can't tell whether it swells from indignation or pride. However, instead of offering clarity, he reaches up with his free hand and tugs his sword – Chaoseater – from its place strapped to his back, and at the same time, he begins to push firmly at your belly, forcing you backwards. “H-hey!” you yelp, “What're you doing?!”

Before you can protest further, your spine hits something cold and solid and you whip your head over a shoulder to see that you've been unceremoniously herded up against a large, mould-caked headstone. Sending a quick, mental apology to the owner laying buried just below your feet, you crane your neck around War's bulk in an attempt to see the cemetery beyond him, only to have your vision promptly obscured by the appearance of familiar, billowing smoke. In another second, the mass of darkness has taken on a much more tangible form and you suddenly find that the minimal space where you're sandwiched between a Horseman and a headstone has been invaded by the Watcher.

“What's the hold up?” his wispy voice hisses in your ear and forces you to fight back a shudder at the chill his trailing, vaporous tail leaves when it brushes against your legs.

“Dunno,” you reply in a whisper, “I think War sees something.”

The Horseman in question lets out a low grunt. “Not see.. Smell,” he clarifies, which is as descriptive an explanation as he's inclined to give, apparently.

Scoffing, the Watcher mutters, “All I can smell is this rancid human standing next to me...”

“If you don't want to smell me, then why are you hovering so close,” you shoot back, swatting at the wisps of smoke that escape from the top of his head until he draws back to a less suffocating distance. Still, with your curiosity peaked at War's strange admission, you tilt your head back and sniff idly at the air. “It just smells... earthy? Uh, and kind of sweet, I guess, like-”

“- death...” the Nephilim finishes.

You fall silent for a couple of seconds, using the time to share a bemused glance with the Watcher. “A graveyard that smells like death, huh?” you smirk, noticing that all six of the sprite's eyes are now glimmering with amusement,“Wonders will never cease.”

While he may be far from a fan, the Watcher still takes great delight in seeing you poke fun at War, and of course, he can hardly resist jumping in with a jab of his own. “Next, he'll complain that a forest smells of wood,” he sneers.

You're not quite fast enough to bite back a laugh as it bursts out of your throat.

“Quiet.” War's growl causes your mouth to snap shut and the Watcher bristles irritably, preparing to remind the Horseman of his place when the blood red hood twists to one side and you briefly catch a glimpse of War's striking, blue eye. He doesn't look angry at you though, or at least, no angrier than usual. Instead, if you didn't know any better, you'd swear you can detect the barest sliver of confusion as the Horseman peers down at you and asks, “Do you hear that?”

Furrowing your brows, you cock your head and listen intently to the eerie ambiance of the graveyard.

To begin with, there's nothing especially out of the ordinary, only the creaking of rusty hinges as the wrought-iron gates swing to and fro in a gentle breeze and the skittering of leaves against the cobblestone path somewhere nearby, or the soft 'ssshk,' 'ssshk,' 'ssshk,' that breaks up the monotony of near-silence -....

“Wait a second,” you murmur, holding a finger up and going completely still, straining your ears to hear the shifting, shucking sound coming from somewhere very close by. So close, you can feel the vibrations through your.... feet?

The Horseman locks eyes with you and all at once, your heart plummets into your shoes when, at the exact same time as War and the Watcher, you realise exactly where the bizarre sound is coming from and all three of you drop your gazes to the heaped dirt you've been standing on.

There isn't even a split second to react before a cold, clammy hand suddenly shoots out of the loose soil below you and latches itself around your ankle, gripping with a supernatural strength that causes your bones to grind painfully together. Although you know that screaming is the absolute last thing you ought to do in the middle of a demon-infested city, the unexpectedness of being grabbed it sends a bloodcurdling shriek jumping up your neck and out of your mouth, drowning the graveyard in a noise like an especially shrill dinner bell.

Sensing the impending battle, the Watcher swiftly disappears back into War's gauntlet as the Nephilim lunges towards you and curls his fist into the front of your shirt, wrenching you towards his chest without thinking too hard on the consequences of doing so. The motion does rip you free of the sinewy hand that flails in the air afterwards in search of its lost victim, but in doing so, long strips of your skin are left behind, embedded underneath the vicious claws of whatever had a hold of your ankle.

Gritting your teeth against the sting, you spin about, feeling your back hit the Horseman's sturdy chest and he keeps you tucked under him for a moment, his lips curling into a snarl as the two of you stare down at the emerging arm that braces itself against the soil. Then, in a fashion hideously similar to that of those old zombie movies you used to watch, the earth begins to rise as the monstrosity buried beneath it heaves itself up and out of its premature grave.

The sweet stench of rot hits your nose full force now, but you hardly even register it, too busy gaping at a grinning skull that emerges from the tumbling dirt, its empty eye sockets and parting jaw filled with soil and worms, all of which are flung in every direction when the living skeleton wrenches the rest of its body onto solid land.

Your startled yelp is swallowed as War promptly tries to swing you behind him, letting go of your arm in the process and inadvertently sending you crashing to the ground at his heels. Not that you can complain about the rough treatment however, for not a second later, the skeleton throws itself at him and lets out a shriek of outrage that cuts through you as sharp as any knife.

The Horseman, apparently having recovered from the unexpected attack, simply lifts his gauntlet and engulfs the monstrosity's skull when it leaps within range. In a rather anticlimactic turn of events, the skeleton's assault is cut short and now it resorts to scrabbling furiously at War's metallic fingers. You forget that for a man as large as he is, the Nephilim can move extraordinarily fast.

However, before you can marvel for much longer at War's impressive catch, you stiffen, splaying your fingers over the ground underneath you and twisting your head around to watch a few, nearby pebbles skitter up and down in place.

“U-um, War?” you gulp, now painfully aware of a continuous and thunderous rumble coming from deep under the earth, as though an enormous train is careening along on its tracks somewhere far below you.

At the sound of your timid voice, the Horseman spares a glance over his shoulder and sees you sprawled out on the ground, your attention turned to the graves lining an iron fence several metres behind him. Casting the skeleton dangling from his fist a last, fearsome grunt, War flexes his gauntlet. There's a sickening 'crack!' and the creature's flailing limbs fall perturbingly still. He tosses it dismissively to one side and you hear the clatter of broken bones hit the stone nearby as the Horseman turns fully and blinks down at you, his eyes going immediately to the bloody welts left in your ankle.

Sensing his gaze, you whip your head about and almost gasp at the wrathful expression he's subjecting your injury to. One side of the Nephilim's mouth and nose scrunches up until he's giving you a very uninterrupted view of his gleaming teeth and you find yourself swallowing loudly, your heart throwing itself against your ribcage so violently, you'll hardly be surprised if it manages to break out of its bony prison. Your eyes fly nervously to War's hand as he forces it out of the tight fist it had curled into, regarding him closely when he raises it, draws back in hesitation for a moment before at last reaching down towards you.

He doesn't manage to get far though, because just then, the rumbling you'd been feeling reaches a crescendo and there's a sudden cacophony of howls and bellows all around you, filling every corner of the dark graveyard like a terrible orchestra playing its funeral march.

War tears his eyes off you and raises his head, leering hard at another skeleton that bursts out of its tomb, though it’s soon followed by a second, then a third, and after that, you stop counting because the knowledge of how many undead are suddenly surrounding you makes you feel queasy and light-headed.

A veritable plethora of skeletal monsters, each varying in shape and size, turn their skulls in your direction, their hateful, burning glares washing over you with the force of a tidal wave and you wonder if you're the object of their ire because they're envious of your life, or hungry for your flesh.

Regardless, neither leads to a favourable outcome for you.

You're almost embarrassed at the sob that manages to push out from between your tightly closed lips, but staring into the faces of creatures you know had once been human is a little more than you're equipped to handle.

Behind you, War's immense shoulders bristle when he realises that the majority of skeletons have their sights set undeniably on the vulnerable human sitting near his boots. In response to the clear threat, something angry rushes to curl itself around the Horseman's heart. At the very epicentre of his swirling rage, he becomes aware of only one thing. Those skeletons are standing between his charge and safety – and that, War will not permit.

Like a murderous river eddying around a fern, the Nephilim steps out in front of you and plants his feet firmly on the ground, an immovable barrier of flesh and metal standing protectively between you and the salivating undead.

Once again, you find yourself with a grave at your back and the Horseman to your front.

Then, all of a sudden, something changes.

Still subjecting the skeletons to his loathing glare, War falls back a few steps, moving himself around and to your rear where he proceeds to crouch over you, his chest pressing uncomfortably against the top of your head until you get the message and bend forwards as well, twisting your neck about to shoot him a wary glance but finding his eyes are still trained on the circle of creatures surrounding you. He plants one hand into the soil, digging in with the clawed tips of his gauntlet whilst with the other, he raises Chaoseater high above your heads where it lingers, poised and waiting - for what however, you have no idea.

As the bloodthirsty blade begins to hum in anticipation, you try to twist your neck around to peer up at War, hoping that your horrified expression accurately conveys the question you want to ask. 'What the Hell are you doing!?'

He doesn't look back at you.

With the skeletons prowling towards you like a pack of circling, salivating dogs, he can’t afford to lose focus.

You're not ashamed to say you let out a hoarse cry when, without warning, they all charge as one.

The skeletons are just a few feet from being right on top of you but as they close in, one of your hands flies up to cover your face and in the same moment, War suddenly brings Chaoseater down hard, plunging the blade's tip into the ground mere inches from your toes.

No sooner has it breached surface soil than a dozen more blades burst up from within the earth, each resembling the Horseman's treasured sword.

The skeletons don't stand a chance.

Like a shockwave, the ethereal blades that have been conjured from seemingly nowhere continue to erupt out of the ground and take the charging undead by surprise.

Femurs, rib cages and tibias are obliterated in less than a second, skulls are thrust from the ends of spines as Chaoseater's earth-bound friends impale the skeletons from below, a place where they never would have guessed an attack could come from.

You can feel the heat of the blades closest to you, hot enough to singe some of the hairs off your legs, no doubt.

Then, just as soon as they appeared, they begin to retract back inside the earth, and when the dust settles and you lower your arm to look, all that's left is a scattering of bones, strewn about the vicinity. Blank, featureless skulls stare back up at you through unseeing eyes, dead – for what you really hope is the last time.

“Ho-lee crap,” you breathe shakily, flopping back onto your elbows and knocking your head against the underside of War's chest, adding, “Ow,” at the latter.

“You're hurt...” The rumble of the Horseman's voice rolls gently over you, prompting you to glance up, only to find a pair of bright, blue eyes blinking back down at you.

Lifting a hand, you rub absently at the spot where you'd bumped your skull into his armour. “I'm all right, that didn't actually hurt.”

“No,” he insists in a growl and roves his gaze down to the scratches on your ankle. You follow his glare, blanching at the sight of the gouges left behind in your skin and grimace, bracing your hands on the ground in an attempt to pick yourself up. You hardly manage to get one foot underneath you before a large, metal hand promptly grabs the back of your shirt and lifts you effortlessly into the air. “Hey!” you squirm, trying to stretch your toes to find purchase on the ground, “Put me down, War. I can stand up by myself!.”

The Horseman makes a skeptical sound at the back of his throat, but he does lower you – albeit hesitantly – until your shoes meet the dirt once more.

Any confidence in the strength of your legs is short-lived however the moment his hand withdraws.

You take a step, only to find yourself immediately punished for the action when a white-hot bolt of pain lances up from your ankle and you cry out, teetering sideways and trying to hop desperately for a few seconds on your good leg.

Just then, there's a deep sigh of exasperation and War's gauntlet is at your side in the next second, sliding around your waist and nudging you upright again.

“Here, sit down. Let me see it,” he murmurs, and you hesitate to say he's gentle when he turns you around and attempts to guide you to the ground once more.

“Are you sure it's a good idea to stop?” you ask, leaning out of his grasp to glance around the shadowy cemetery, “I mean, that wasn't exactly a quiet fight...”

The implication hangs in the air between you and after a moment, War draws his head up and blinks, the strategist in him concurring with you. “That is... a fair point,” he mumbles and if you weren't so grateful to him for keeping you alive, you'd be insulted that he sounds surprised by your common sense.

In keeping with the typical, straight-forward bluntness you've come to expect from him, War wastes no time in bending down and extending his arms, aiming to scoop you off your feet. “Come,” he declares, “I shall carry you to Ulthane. He will know best how to treat a human's wound.”

The Horseman’s permanent frowns deepens though, when you hop away from him on your good leg, splaying your hands out to stop him from proceeding. Undeterred however, he gives you a warning glower and huffs, “Keep still.”

“W-woah, hold on now,” you protest, stumbling back as he once again tries to reach for you, “Seriously, War, thank you. But I can walk, I'm not a baby who needs to be carried!”

“You are injured.”

His tone implies that he's angry, but the way he's now staring at your leg makes you consider whether he's angry at you, or something else entirely. “Wait, what if... what if you need to use your sword?” you point out, “You won't be able to if your arms are full of me.”

You can tell that he's far from happy, but he tilts his head, pondering you for a moment longer before huffing brusquely and averting his fiery gaze. “Very well,” he grumbles, adding, “But if you fall again, don't expect me to catch you.”

The Horseman's acquiescence, if nothing else, at least reassures you that you won't be a total liability. Satisfied for the time being, you nod and turn about, starting to hobble off towards the cemetery gates, confident that the enormous Nephilim will overtake you in a few, steady strides. You make it all of five steps before your ankle turns to jelly and seems to lose all of its bone structure, collapsing out from under you and as you topple sideways once again, arms flailing, you idly wonder whether the damage is only skin-deep.

Luckily, whatever jarring impact you might have made with the stone path is prevented by a strong set of arms that emerge like a pair of safety nets and sweep underneath your knees and shoulders, letting you fall harmlessly into a secure hold. Gasping, you tip your head back and sheepishly risk a glance at the Horseman, meeting his disapproving frown. At the sight of it, you try and push against his broad chest to put some distance between yourself and his ire, but he soon silences you with a throaty growl that reverberates through your head.

Pursing your lips, you reluctantly give up on your meagre effort of trying to escape the warrior and instead let yourself flop gracelessly in his hold. “Hmph.. I thought you said not to expect you to ca-” War whips his head down to glare at you so fast, you instantly allow your mouth to click shut and decide – perhaps wisely - not to finish that sentence.

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dont-tempt-me-frodo · 4 years

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Prompt: The first time Jaskier sees Geralt hunting a selkimore, and the ensuing panic because Geralt Did Not advise that the best method was to “get it from the inside”

hey so thank you for this, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write.

you can also read it on ao3

“So, what is it we’re hunting again?” Jaskier chirped as he struggled to keep up with the Witcher.

Geralt grunted as he waded through waist high reeds and rushes. The scent of silt off the lake ahead of them hung heavy in the air and the thick heat of the sun was stifling.

“The alderman didn’t seem very sure about it,” Jaskier stumbled slightly, readjusted his lute strap and tried to pick up the pace, “He was very vague. ‘A big monster in the lake is eating people.’ That was all about he said wasn’t it? Did you get anymore from the villagers? You know? The witnesses? I mean, you’ve taken on contracts with less to go on before but – Geralt? Are you even listening to me?” Jaskier stopped, hands on his hips, frown on his face.

Geralt paused, scanning the surface of the lake with keen amber eyes, then continued to push his way towards the shoreline. He didn’t miss Jaskier’s indignant huff and he rolled his eyes.

“A selkimore,” he gruffed.

“A what?” Jaskier hurried to catch up to him again.

“A selk – A big monster in the lake that eats people, though not usually on purpose,” the Witcher growled with a sigh.

“Wait what?”

“They’re plankton feeders but can suck up a boat if it gets in the way of its feeding path. Usually I try to leave them alone, but this one has settled too close to people,” Geralt grunted, “And we are not hunting anything. I am hunting it. You are going to stay out of the way.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier waved him off nonchalantly.

“I mean it Jaskier,” Geralt glared at him over his shoulder and Jaskier wilted.

“Fine,” a slight pout graced his lips.

“Hm.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply then fell into step behind the Witcher as they continued their trek through the tall grasses.

“So, how does one kill a selkimore?” the Bard asked.

“In a very specific way,” Geralt rumbled.

“Care to elaborate?”

Jaskier crashed into Geralt’s back as the Witcher halted abruptly.

“What? Did you see something?” he peeked out from behind Geralt.

The reeds bled into thick mud littered with rocks which met with the murky water of the lake, stretching out for miles beyond. Thick, dense forest lined the far shore and the mid-morning sun glinted off the water like glass.

“It knows we’re here,” Geralt mumbled, pulling his silver sword from its sheath.

“Ominous as statements go,” Jaskier lilted, keeping that light air about him even though Geralt could tell he was on edge, could sense the coil of tension creeping into his posture, could smell the spike of uncertainty mingling with his usual floral scent.

“Stay here,” he ordered then marched, or rather, squelched his way to the water’s edge.

Jaskier crouched down among the rushes, keeping his blue eyes trained on Geralt as the Witcher stalked slowly along the shoreline. Getting to witness his muse carry out great and heroic deeds in person always made for better ballads than second-hand information, and Geralt was terrible at recounting what happened. Watching from a safe distance suited Jaskier fine. He had no intention of putting himself in danger if he could help it, and he would get to watch his friend in action. A win-win situation.

He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun as Geralt picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. The water shimmered with the ripples and anticipation clawed at Jaskier’s gut.

The lake became still again, and he heard Geralt’s grunt of annoyance. The Witcher scooped up another stone and launched it even further. It broke the waters surface with a ‘plop’ and the ripples chased each other with the impact but still nothing.

Jaskier shuffled slightly in his hiding place. Any other person would assume that either the monster wasn’t there, or try a different spot to bring it forth, but Geralt has sensed it and Jaskier trusted the Witcher to know what he was doing.

Geralt tossed a third stone in the air but before he had the chance to throw it, the lake erupted in front of him and he stumbled back as streams of water and a foul stench washed over him.

Jaskier let out an audible gasp.

The creature that rose from the lake towered a good thirty feet above Geralt. It resembled a large, thick, white skinned worm with rows upon rows of jagged teeth in its gaping maw. It fixed Geralt with small fierce eyes and, sensing malicious intent, it lunged at him, crab-like legs scrabbling at the mud as it hauled itself out of the water. Its piercing screech rang across the lake.

Jaskier’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as he watched Geralt leap out of the way, brandishing his sliver sword and steadying himself. The Bard felt that familiar pang in his gut as he wondered how on earth the Witcher was going to take down something that seemed so impossible and then walk away, or limp away as was often the case.

He’ll be fine, Jaskier assured himself, he always is. He’ll do some cool thing with his sword or his magic signs and – SWEET MOTHER OF MELITELE!

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Bile rose in his throat. Shock blurred his vision.

It-the selkimore-the-the fucking-it had eaten him! Swallowed him whole! And Geralt just…just let it! Didn’t even try to defend himself. What the fuck had just happened?

Panic muddled Jaskier’s brain as he crouched among the reeds trying to process what he had just seen. He was struggling to breathe as the grief crashed into him and tears pricked at his eyes and he didn’t know what to do.

He’d been travelling with Geralt for a few years now and even though the life of a Witcher held many dangers, he had assumed that there would be plenty more years to come. He was building a life for himself, a reputation, he mattered to people. He was building something with Geralt. Trying to be the man’s friend was like pulling teeth, but he was slowly getting there, and he knew that even though the Witcher would never admit it, Geralt enjoyed having him around. But for it all to just suddenly come to and end, and for it to end like…like this?

Jaskier stared at the selkimore as it swayed slightly. A burning hatred towards it scorched through him. The thought to rush out and stab it with the knife tucked into his boot did cross his mind, but he knew that would only accomplish his own death. And then who would remember Geralt? Who would immortalize him in song so that he wouldn’t be forgotten? That was his job now. To sing about the White Wolf until the end of his days. To honour him and his good heart and… Jaskier brushed the tears threatening to spill down his face with the back of his hand.

Oh gods, another thought struck him, how am I going to tell Roach?

The selkimore lifted its blunt-nosed head and seemed to shiver. It blinked up at the sun and made a soft hissing noise. Slowly, it started to slither back into the water but then it stopped. Its whole body seemed to coil and convulse and then, to Jaskier’s horror, it reared up with a bellow of pain as its guts spilled from a gash along its stomach. Organs and blood slopped onto the wet mud and Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. Geralt tumbled to the ground as he hacked his way out of the monster. The selkimore writhed and flailed then crashed back into the water, its last cry gurgling in its throat as it died.

The Witcher stood, gulping in air and trying to wipe the worst of the gore from his face. Jaskier burst from his cover and pelted over to him.

“You’re alive!” he whooped, grinning from ear to ear, giddy relief plastered all over his face, “I thought you were gone! I thought I’d lost you!”

“I told you there was a specific way to kill it,” Geralt gruffed, pulling at face at the rancid smelling muck coating his skin and clothing.

Jaskier’s beaming smile faltered and indignant fury clouded over him.

“You dick. You should have told me. I was worried sick. I thought-“

“Jaskier. It’s fine. I’m fine,” Geralt glanced at him, that annoying confusion tainting his expression, like it always did whenever Jaskier expressed concern for him.

“Well-well-fuck! Bloody hell Geralt! How was I supposed to know you planned on getting yourself eaten! I thought you were dead! I thought –“ his voice broke on the last word and he turned away from Geralt, shaking with the effort to control himself.

Geralt frowned at him, trying to puzzle through the torrent of emotion coming off Jaskier in waves.

“I’m sorry,” he said carefully, “You’re right. I should have told you. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Just…” Jaskier turned to him again and Geralt was taken aback by how very small and hurt he looked, “Just don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Geralt tried for reassuring and sincere but he wasn’t sure the Bard believed him.

“Right. Good,” Jaskier mumbled.

He cast an eye over Geralt then sighed.

“Come on. Back to the tavern. We’ve a hefty coin purse to pick up and you need a bath.”

“Hm.”

“No protesting. If we are sharing a room tonight, I refuse to sleep in the same space as you, stinking like that,” Jaskier sounded a bit more like himself, blue eyes sparking with mirth.

“Fine.”

Jaskier spun on the spot and marched off back in the direction of the village. Geralt followed after him and even though the Bard was babbling on about trying to find words that rhymed with selkimore, the Witcher could tell that this had affected Jaskier more deeply than he was letting on and he promised himself to remember to talk Jaskier though each step of the hunt in the future as to not cause him any more hurt if he could help it.

#the witcher #my writing #answered #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #dandelion #mayastormborn

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crystalxfrost · 3 years

Text

To Live or To Die

I gripped my steering wheel tightly, knuckles bone-white with tension, shoulders bunched up and sore. The road spun out endlessly under my tires, a strip of slick black silk painted with bold yellow lines. My eyes noticed and then promptly ignored the beauty of the dark-washed scenery around me; there was only one room for one thought in my mind.

I had been at the end of my rope for some time now, but still too much of a coward to just turn out my own lights. I had tried therapy, only for the bitch to laugh and tell me I was beyond help. I had tried talking to the people in my life, but my own parents just shrugged it off. I had even tried drugs and alcohol to drown my depression, but I had found out the hard way that it wasn't the right road to go down. I had been debating over the best method of my execution when a friend of mine I hadn't heard from in years messaged me out of the blue.

After some very emotional pouring out that left me feeling drained but somewhat relieved, my friend gave me some information that had led me to where I am now, driving down Route 236 in the middle of the night. She had told me to come to the beginning of the highway and just drive and think about my feelings and my depression, let it really take me over. Then, she'd said, that's when SHE would come and make it all better.

I remember pressing her on who SHE was, but she wouldn't tell me. She just said that SHE would come only when I was at the very very end and couldn't stand it anymore and that SHE would take all the hurt away. She had made it abundantly clear that for the entire time SHE was with me, I was not to look at her or I would belong to her. As long as I kept my eyes away, I would be fine...I would be healed. Desperate for any relief from the impending shadow of my own death, I had agreed.

I scoured the shadowed landscape around me for any sign of movement but saw nothing. My fingers clenched even tighter as hot tears prickled behind my eyes and my chest hitched, and suddenly I was bawling out loud, great big gasping sobs that racked my body and forced me to struggle for breath. I pulled over blindly on the side of the highway, threw the car in park, buried my face in my hands and just openly sobbed. It was like expressing poison from a snake bite; an enormous weight lifted off my chest in a flood of emotional downpour as I cried out every bit of hurt I'd ever struggled to push down.

In the midst of my sobs, the temperature in my car dropped noticeably, and even in the dry heat of the desert summer, goosebumps rose to prominence on my arms. A cold chill wormed its way up my spine and between my shoulderblades with an icy fingertip and my breath hung in the air like frozen crystal vapors. Then the voice spoke from behind me, murmuring soft things I could almost hear.

Immediately my hair stood on end. The voice, which I had been somewhat expecting to be deep and powerful, was little more than a high-pitched whisper of breath that drifted to my ears from somewhere beyond my vision. But it felt...wrong. My entire being screamed at me to not turn around, not to lay my eyes on whatever was currently occupying my back seat because to do so would mean the instant loss of whatever sanity I had left. And all at once, I knew that SHE had come.

As if in response to my mental acknowledgement of the heavy presence, a soft breath drifted to my ears, but with it came the sickening stench of a thousand rotting corpses under a blanket of desert sun, and I was unable to stop myself. I threw open the car door and emptied the last three days worth of food from my stomach in a splatter on the pavement.

After my stomach had settled, the voice came again. "I can taaaaaste your paaaiiin." Then a hiss like an indrawn breath. "What issss it you waaant from meeee? "

I had had a million things to ask, a million points of hurt I wanted to spill, but that all vanished in an instant, leaving only white hot honesty. With tears threatening to fall again, I sighed brokenly. "I want it to stop hurting."

There was silence, followed by a darkly throaty chuckle that made me want to scream. "Isss that all? Coommme. I want to shhhhooowww you sssomethinnng." The back door of my car opened then and I physically felt the oppressive presence leave my aura. Careful to keep my eyes averted, I followed the voice over to the side of the road. I sensed rather than saw her raise an arm and point down into the darkness. "Look theeerrre."

I squinted out into the darkness and was able to barely make out a pair of glowing taillights far down below. With horror I realized that there was no footing there, only an endless void of darkness down a sheer face. I stepped back, a lump in my throat, and turned back for the comfort of my car, but when I turned around, my car was gone.

Sputtering and stammering, I nearly forgot myself then, turning in the general direction of the voice. I managed to catch myself just as a flash of white flickered into and back out of my view. "Where is my car?"

Again I sensed her point down at those suddenly damning twin spots of flame red so far down in the darkness. "That is yoooouuuu down theerre. You drove yourssssself off the cliiiiffff."

"No, no, no, no..." I pressed my hands hard against my ears and squeezed my eyes shut in a weak attempt to block out her lies, but all at once, freezing cold hands were on mine, forcing my hands down to my sides and unblocking my ears, and her rancid breath flooded my nostrils with the odor of rot. I swallowed my gorge and forced my eyes shut even tighter, my friend's warning standing out in stark white against the blank whirling fury of my mind.

"You wanted to die, did you not?!" The voice was no longer a breathy whisper, but a deep roar of monstrous proportions. The force of the voice blew my hair back and showered my face with foul-smelling spittle. I felt the cold hands move up and grip me by my upper arms, and suddenly I knew what was coming next. I struggled to twist away from those freezing cold hands.

"No, please..."

The voice boomed again, "You wanted to die. So DIE!" And with that, I was thrown violently out off the cliff and into the void of darkness. I snapped my eyes open and screamed, covering my face with my arms and fighting to brace for impact, and when it finally came...

...I crashed against the surface and plummeted down underneath the freezing cold water. Disoriented, sore from the impact and still screaming, I clawed my way up to the surface, my scream choking off when I felt the icy hand grip my ankle and pull me down, hold me down under the water. I kicked at the fingers that dug into the tender skin of my ankle but it was like kicking stone. My lungs burned in my chest and I felt myself start to gray out. My vision went dark, and I opened my mouth to scream. The water poured down my throat and into my lungs, and just as my lungs felt like they were about to explode...

...I was hauled out of the water by more hands I couldn't see, which pulled me to my feet none too gently. I was surrounded by yammering voices, some men and some women, and was soaking wet and gasping for air, but the invisible hands that gripped me forced me along anyway to a wooden pole standing upright all by itself. The voices around me began to clear up even as I felt more hands press my back up against the pole. My hands were then tied behind me with thick rough rope that dug deep and scraped my wrists raw. It was then that I heard the chant begin spreading.

"Burn the witch...burn the witch...burn the witch..."

"Wait...what?!" I cried out, fighting to get free of the ropes that lashed me fast to the hard post behind me, to no avail. "I'm not a witch!"

"Tha's wot they all say," an invisible woman's voice jeered in my ear. "But yer a witch just as clear as I c'n see ya. 'n guess wot? Yer goin ta buuuuurn." The voices around me melted back into a wordless clamor...and then I felt the heat and looked down in horror. A flame had already been drawn to life in the pile of wood that now surrounded my feet, and the yellow-red tongues climbed higher, licking at my feet hungrily. I screamed in pain as my pants caught fire and my skin began to bubble and char as the fabric seared to my very flesh. In mere moments I was reduced to helpless agony as I felt my flesh melting off of my bones, leaving huge exposed sections of sinewy muscle and bone for the fire to take. And still the voices clamored on.

It was when my hair caught fire and my face begin to first grow warm, then melt into liquid puddles of pulpy flesh, that I found a new voice, carried on new waves of fresh pain. The flames consumed my entire body, and as I felt myself dying and was ready to give in to the sweet release of death...

...the car blared its horn as it missed me by a hair, goddamn asshole city drivers. I was no longer wet, nor on fire, but I was terrified nonetheless. I scanned my surroundings wildly but saw only a busy street filled with the hustle and bustle of the city's nightlife. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a few seconds to prepare myself for whatever horrible thing might happen next.

A footstep next to me made me jerk wildly, and I glanced up to see a large man in a mask staring down at me where I was sitting. That in itself wasn't terrible. What made it much worse was the dark empty tunnel of the gun barrel that was pointed directly at my forehead. The man pulled the hammer back slowly, and when I heard the bullet enter the chamber, I froze.

"Please..." I breathed, every muscle as taut as wire. "Please...don't kill me."

The man's eyes remained locked on mine. His breathing came heavy and ragged, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly. "Do exactly what I say and I'll let you live." I let out a shaky whimper as he gripped my arm and forced me to my feet, then propelled me into the nearest dark doorway. The next thing I knew, he was on me then, grunting like a beast in heat.

The hand with the gun stayed pointed at my head while the man pushed me down with the other hand onto the hard concrete floor. I struggled to get away, but the icy hands once again gripped me by the shoulders and pinned my legs apart, through the floor somehow, and I found myself powerless to move. The man straddled me then, dripping sweat onto me as he fumbled clumsily for his knife. Almost teasingly, he snapped the blade out, turning it back and forth a few times so the light caught the silver blade's edge. Then with a few unskilled cuts, he cut through my shirt, my bra and my pants, leaving me only in my underwear. And still the hands held me down, that breathy voice now laughing wickedly in my mind.

The man turned the blade then even as I screamed and fought against the hands that pinned me down and slid the blade underneath the bottom of my underwear. With a sudden sharp jerk, he jabbed me lightly with the blade on the inside of my thigh and I bit back a sob of fear. Then he simply turned the blade again and cut through my underwear, leaving me now fully exposed and powerless to escape.

Thankfully, I blacked out before the man was done, but the torture and abuse was something I'd only ever heard about or read in books. I was used several times in several different ways as the man acted out every one of his depraved fantasies on me, and when he was finally finished and was pulling up his jeans, I looked up at him through swollen eyes from where I lay on the floor, bleeding and bruised, and he returned the look, not one of pity, but of disgust. "You probably liked that, didn't you, you filthy whore?" he growled.

Too weak to move, I simply lay there shivering and aching, and he clicked his tongue in disgust. My vision grayed out even as I felt myself fading out, but was brought back swiftly and in sharp relief by the sound of the gun cocking back. I managed to look back at him again to see that the gun was once more trained on my head.

With all my strength, I whispered through battered and cracked lips, "You said...you...wouldn't kill me...if I did...what you wanted."

The man shrugged. "I lied." I somehow found the strength to scream once more, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Nooo! Please, that's enough! I don't want to die anymore!" The gunshot was deafening in the tiny room and I tensed, waiting for the bullet to tear my skull apart...

...but instead, I found myself standing back on the edge of the cliff in the darkness. I was whole, and not naked, or drowned, or burned, but most of all, I was alive, and never before in my life had I been so happy to be on solid ground. I stumbled back in relief, sobbing openly again but with celebration of my life, and felt the familiar and welcome smooth texture of the door of my car.

The voice came then from somewhere in the darkness, once more that terribly wrong high-pitched whisper. "You no looonnngggeer wish to diiiieee?" Unable to answer, I could only keep my head down. "Tell me noooowww!" the voice whispered demandingly. "Will your life become miiiinnne? Make the chooooiiiccce!"

I shook my head back and forth furiously. "No! Never! I want to live! I want to live!" Sobbing harder, I dropped to my knees, and I felt the icy hand touch me gently on the top of my head.

"Then live you shaaaalll. But jussst know that I will allllwwaayys be watching you. And should you eeeeevvveer decide to taaaakkke your own liiiifffe again, I will be theeerre, and you wiiilll belong to meeeee." The hand drew back. "Now goooo. Go and never eeeevvveer come back!"

I needed no more coaching. I leaped into my car, shoved the key into the ignition and slammed my foot down on the pedal, spinning my tires wildly as I peeled off in the direction I had come earlier that night.

I have heard some say that their guardian angel saved them, sat on their shoulder and protected them from some danger. But what about when all the guardian angels are busy? I still say it was a demon that saved my life that night, that pulled me back from my dark thoughts and made me realize that my life is worth it. And who knows? Maybe if someday another one like me happens to feel like their life is as worthless as I thought mine was, maybe they'll find Route 236, and maybe they'll meet HER too. And maybe, just maybe, they'll be braver than I was.

#spooky #creepy #horror

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kondraki · 4 years

Note

what's the worst shit you've ever taken at the foundation?

July 19, 1998. About 4:39pm (time beginning). I remember it well. I hadn’t had a shit in over a day, which is unusual for me (generally I can count on a nice daily shit, which I personally think is the best way to go – no more, no less). I’m a bit worried, but not too much. Everything is quiet down there; no rumbling, no bubble guts. Now I realize my naivety. It was only the calm before the storm.

I am not sure what I was thinking, but I had had a lot of dairy that day. I’m not lactose intolerant, but when I’m stressed I do have a sensitivity to all the usual suspects – dairy, gluten, that stuff. Starting the evening before, I’d managed to consume a milkshake, several huge plates of cheese fries, several huge slices of cheese pizza, all washed down with copious amounts of coffee and the odd sip of vodka. I was a lot younger back in the day, so usually this wouldn’t cause me too much discomfort. However, one’s luck must always run out. That day was the day.

As I said, I felt fine. Right up until the moment I no longer felt fine, everything was going great. I’m walking up a hallway (thankfully a lesser trafficked one) and feeling great, and then… I sense it. A disturbance in the gentle fauna of my gut. Now, I’m no stranger to shitfests. Stress is a bitch on the gut. I’ve spent a fair few shifts gripping the bottom of the toilet bowl like it might be able to save me from my fate. There truly is no god in the bathroom. Anyway, I’m walking along, and I feel that little rumble. That little… movement.

Immediately I go into survival mode. I know I have roughly thirty seconds before this is all over. I take five of these precious seconds to home in on my location and bring up my mental map of site bathrooms, which I have for this specific purpose (years of stress shitting will make you a physical Google Maps of bathrooms). I realise there’s a bathroom not too far away, but sometimes it’s locked. There’s another bathroom close by, but it’s roughly forty seconds away including a short elevator ride. Do I risk going to the first bathroom and finding it locked, or do I risk going to the second and getting stuck in an elevator (a great fear of mine) and then shitting myself, thereby gassing myself in the stench?

A fart slips out. It was only a fart, but I know it was a close one. It’s also so hot it singes my ass hairs, and stinks so bad I can almost see the cartoon stink lines. I know I’m in trouble. I go for the first bathroom. There’s a storage closet nearby – if the worst happens, I can probably just shit in a mop bucket or an empty box or something. Off I go. The first half of the journey is uncomfortable but bearable. There’s a lot of movement going on in my gut that gets gradually worse. By the time I reach the hall the bathroom is on, I’m starting to think I have an idea of what it’s like to be pregnant. I remember when my son’s mother was pregnant with him and I would feel him kicking around in the womb, and she would try to explain how it felt from her perspective, but of course I couldn’t imagine. At that moment, I think I had a good idea. It felt like something was alive in there, rolling around and pressing against my organs. It was a strange feeling, but one with fond associations. That was my last moment of happiness for forty minutes.

I reach the bathroom. Mercy of mercies, it’s unlocked, but I barely register that. I stumble through the door, walking like I’ve already shat myself. I cannot unclench my ass, less the swamp within unleashes itself. I’m ashamed to say it, but I consider just dropping my pants and shitting on the floor and getting out of there. Some of my conscience remains, and I shuffle to the stall. There’s no time to check if there’s toilet roll. There’s no time to do anything. I’m unzipping and unbuttoning as I approach the bowl, and then it hits me – how am I gonna turn and sit on the bowl? As soon as I crouch, it is all over. I waste a precious second considering this conundrum, but then, with a grimace and a deep sense of resignation, I realize I’m completely at the mercy of this shit. I have no choice but to get this over with, and then try and work from there.

I whip my pants and undies out of the way (or at least, I hope I do). As I do so, I turn and begin to sit. Usually I like to get my pants all the way down around my ankles, but there’s no time. I’m shitting before I even hit the seat. I miss the back of the toilet, but not the back of the seat. I have to sit in some of the shit. Alright, that’s gross, but I’ve had a newborn by that point. I’ve had shit on places I don’t want there to be shit. I’m kind of relieved that it’s my own, which is not a great bar to set, but do I look like I’m in a position to be choosy right now? I should mention that this shit is completely puréed liquid. I mean, it feels like I’m sitting in a warm, half-blitzed smoothie. The smell is… I don’t even know. I am a writer, and I am a person who has seen unfathomable things, but even with these two major advantages I cannot describe how it smelled. It smelled hot, for a start. You know what I mean. The stench of this shit singed my god damn nose hairs. It was rancid. It was pungent. It made me consider the duality of man – how could my body have contributed to making something as wonderful as my son, yet still be the vessel to create this monstrosity? I do not mean to keep bringing up my son in a story about the worst shit of my life, but you have to understand that such situations really do make a man consider life and death.

The initial blast tapers off, but I’m still going. By now I’m sat on the seat, and rather than my usual position (hands gripping the underneath of the bowl) I find myself leaning forward and briefly putting my face in my hands. I’m regretting my dietary choices now. I might be verbally cursing myself. I quickly have to sit up properly again because the hunching is crushing my stomach and making the pain worse. I did not know that shitting could be so painful. I mean, I’d experienced such things before, but this is… this is something else. I’m experiencing hot and cold flushes. My heartrate is dangerously elevated. I think about the celebrities that have been found dead on the toilet and wonder if that’s my fate. I consider the fact it might be kinder. Meanwhile, as I contemplate my possible death, the acoustics of my ass’s contribution to the world are deafening. I have never heard sounds like it. I think it might be like if somebody accidentally drilled a hole to hell. They would put their ear to the hole and the sounds from my hole is what they would have heard. The splattering, the guttural growls, several different pitches of farts all at once… I cannot possibly tell you how much I wished to temporarily lose my hearing. I considered trying to blow out my eardrums, but thought that might be too painful and cause me to fall off the bowl and further complicate my situation, so I decided I might as well just suffer.

Suffer I did. This continued for almost twenty minutes. I have no idea how that could have all fit inside my intestines. Four times, I reached behind me and flushed the toilet (I have learned the hard way not to let it pile up). The Poseidon’s kiss from each metric ton of shitwater eroded another piece of my psyche. Finally the smoothie shit tapered off and I was treated to a final hurrah of machine gun fire that pinged rock-hard little pellets right off the back of the porcelain, loud enough that it actually made me jump. Like a dog, I was frightened by my own ass. Then, silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

I’m alive. I’m sweating, I’m actually trembling by this point, I’m breathless, my heart is in the range of BPM that’s probably dangerous, but I’m alive. I sit there for a long moment, the silence in the bathroom deafening after the hell I experienced, and then I realize that there’s still more hell to come – I have to, somehow, clean up. I take a slow breath and regret it (the flushing didn’t eradicate much of the stench). I rise to my feet.

I fall flat on the floor, shit-covered ass in the air. My legs have gone numb. For almost a minute I have to lay there, until I’ve wiggled my traitorous legs and feet around enough to be able to stand. There are pins and needles in my left leg, and every slight change in pressure makes me teeter precariously to the side. I reach for the paper dispenser.

There is no toilet paper.

I don’t know what I expected. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the ajar door (I had no time to lock it), and something within me breaks. Fuck it, I think, and I stride – I do not shit shuffle, I do not waddle, I stride – into the next cubicle. No TP. Nor in the next. This is a small bathroom, so there are only three stalls. I stand there, holding my pants around my thighs in a big bunch like a Depression-era grandpa trying to keep his string-tied pants up his starving frame, and then it hits me. There’s a storage closet next door. Could it possibly contain TP? I edge to the door. I peer out. The hallway is clear. I slip out. The stench has permeated the hallway outside, but at least masks me as I creep to the storage closet and open the door. Thank god, there’s TP. I grab two packets of 24 rolls and jam it under my arms, and then I scuttle back into to bathroom like the disgusting mistake I am. I retreat back into the stall like a worm returning to the soil. I begin the immense task of cleaning up.

Now, I’m not a talented mathematician, but I’m fairly certain that two 24s is 48. Which means I had 48 rolls in there with me. By the time I was done, there were probably 10 or 11 left. My flushing was likely responsible for every drought in California since that date. Miraculously my pants and underwear had escaped splashage, but the poor toilet had seen better days, as had the trail of drips scattered throughout the bathroom and hall from my adventure. Even when I was done, there was still a disturbance in the atmosphere of the bathroom that would tell anyone who passed by what had happened in there (even though the stench probably had something to do with that). I had to utilize all three toilets to flush everything. Finally, exhausted, I stumbled to the basin and scrubbed my hands and arms all the way up to the elbow, like a surgeon prepping for an operation. I did this three times before I felt even remotely clean, and knew that I would have to return home for a long, hot shower before I thought about doing any more work.

There were of course no paper towels, and the hand drier was broken. I dry off my hands and arms as best as I can on my pants… and that’s when I notice that my walkie talkie, tuned to the general channel and clipped to my pants, had been on the entire fucking time.

#anon #asks

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haberdashing · 4 years

Text

No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (5/?)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7

Jon wasn’t sure how much time passed there as the car kept speeding down the road, nobody saying a word the whole time, though Martin hummed along to a few bars of that song every now and then. Eventually Jonah made him uncurl, made him look up and out the window, but the unremarkable and indistinguishable bits of field that dominated the landscape didn’t actually help Jon get a sense of where exactly they were or how much longer it would be any more than staring at the car seat fabric.

At some point, though, a point that had to be several hours after their departure from London, Martin turned off of the main road.

“Running low on petrol.” Martin explained as the car turned into a little town that could be anywhere, as far as Jon could tell. Not that it really mattered where they were right this minute, he supposed--this trip was very much about the destination, not about the journey to it. Safety, or some vague semblance thereof, awaited them in the far reaches of the Scottish highlands, and unless Jonah Magnus had something to say about it, that was all that mattered.

“Think I’ll grab a few things in the station while we’re at it. D’you want to join me?”

And Jon found himself replying, “Sounds good. I could use to grab a snack.”

Did Martin’s expression tighten a little there, or was that just Jon’s imagination?

The inside of the petrol station was almost exactly how Jon would have imagined it at a guess: a few aisles of unhealthy portable foodstuffs, a bored-looking cashier, grimy floors, and an unpleasant smell that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Martin went down one of the station’s handful of aisles, Jon down another, and soon Martin was out of sight.

What do you want to eat?

It took Jon a minute to register the question and all that it implied: that Jonah was speaking to him first rather than vice versa, seeking out his input, and on a subject as trivial as food, no less.

Can’t you just Know?

It was half a knee-jerk reaction to avoid giving Jonah any information and half an actual question. Jon knew from experience that Jonah wasn’t entirely omniscient, but he’d only been caught off-guard before when he was distracted, and here, in the middle of an unexceptional petrol station in the middle of an unexceptional small town, there was precious little in the way of distractions.

I thought you might like to have some input.

Jon began pacing up and down the aisle, the constant movement oddly soothing even though he wasn’t the one in control of it.

I’m not going to help you with... convincing Martin you’re me, or, or whatever this is.

Fine. Just thought I’d ask first.

Jon slowed to a halt near the front of the aisle, not far from where that still bored-looking cashier stood at their station, and started to scratch his arm.

He didn’t think anything of it at first, but the scratching just grew stronger over time, until it was painful, until it would probably leave red marks for some time, and when he focused on the area he realized he wasn’t even itchy there-

Is this that big plan you alluded to earlier? Your trump card for getting me to cooperate? Because if so-

Jonah Magnus laughed, then, and Jon hated the sound of it as it echoed through his mind.

Hardly.

Martin caught his eye as he, too, headed towards the front, a handful of snack foods in his arms. “You... you alright there, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes drifted down to his arm, and then the scratching finally stopped as he looked back up at Martin. “It’s nothing, really. Just the worm scars. Every now and then, I swear I can feel them itching...”

“Oh... I’m sorry.” Martin’s eyes looked so sad, there, and weirdly... guilty? Was he still blaming himself for losing track of them when they’d been under attack in the tunnels? That was ridiculous, all Martin staying with them would have meant was that three of them would’ve been covered in worm scars instead of two, and they probably wouldn’t have found Gertrude’s body until even later...

Jon wanted to say something, to reassure Martin, but he couldn’t and Jonah made him just stand there and...

“Did you find something to eat?”

Oh. Right. Food. The whole reason they’d gone inside the petrol station in the first place. Jon had almost forgotten about it--and, given that his arms were still empty, evidently so had Jonah.

“One second.”

Jon would put money on the fact that Jonah’s choice of food for him was simply the first thing that caught his eye within arm’s reach.

“Oh, good. I’ll buy that for you then.”

“Th-thank you.” Did he really sound like that when he stuttered?

“Don’t thank me, thank Peter Lukas.” Martin grinned as Jon turned to him with what must be a look of confusion on his face. (A feeling both Jon and Jonah shared, presumably, then.) “It’s his money I’m buying all this with.”

“Ah.”

As the cashier started scanning items, with no change to their dead-eyed expression, Martin said conversationally, “Didn’t know you liked salt and vinegar crisps.”

Jon did not like salt and vinegar crisps.

Jon had, in fact, gotten in arguments on multiple occasions due to that fact, and he still stood by his usual explanation that in nature, when food tasted like that, it meant that it was poisonous or rotten or both, and who was he to decide that he knew better than his own taste buds what was or wasn’t good for him?

But as Martin’s car drove away from the petrol station and trudged closer and closer to whatever lay in store in Scotland, Jon had to stomach an entire bag of the things, bitter and rancid and awful with every bite, and he didn’t dare lodge a complaint with the only person who could hear him.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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readfelice-blog · 6 years

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moominland chronicles elf . its not you, its me.

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good.

It's late today, well i mean there is no set time, but im slow, on this gorgeous early autumnal sunday, i dozed till 15h, getting up intermittently to empty my washing machine, tug at my hair (vinegar makes it sticky? I'm trying to find the perfect all natural solution to shampoo because I’m no poo now : https://www.nopoomethod.com , in fact i’m practising a very loose version of alchemy in my house, trying to find drinks that energise but don't make me anxious, cleaning solutions for my body and for my house that bewitch the nostrils and incinerate grease / kalk. Essentially I’m just concocting weird stuff, hunched over materials collected around the city, boiling my hell broths in ikea pans, surrounded by recycled jars).....

Lets press on…...

Yes, my morning, my intro to the day, I was up so late because I was up last night so late, till 4am, painting and listening to sweet feminine soundwaves in my kitchen, getting it done in my way, step by step. Because now I’m working a 5 day week again, my days are 3 hours long, 5 at a push, 6 in the most extreme cases, so now I’m back to burrowing out time where i can find it, because now i have my teeth dug in to a big project, a big project that will be realized, for the first time since may May last year.

May last year:

I killed myself, artistically, me artistically is the majority of me.

My whole life has been sewn into my practise, my method, my way of understanding and redistributing everything that comes into my life, and May last year I moved out of the house I shared with my ex husband , moon, and into a shared flat, to embark on a restorative journey. Me and moon were not doing well in our little cramped caravan, we were at each other's throats incessantly, already broken up, him with a new partner, me in full swing of frantic madness, fuelled by bottomless bottles of booze.

Day in day out in my studio, I slowly turned my 450sq ft basement into a mermaids cave, drunk on 8% cider, night after night, sticking black bin liners to the walls with double sided tape, hanging spirals of bubblewave to the ceiling, spray painting floor tiles, screaming at the camera on my iphone half naked, making terrifying life size dolls and cry singing to myself, emphatically paranoid and fractured, writing letters to a man I’d never met who I thought could save me. It was my last great project, I created a film I can never show my parents and documented myself throwing my life away, in my wedding dress, shadowed by the virgin: a wreckage, a car crash, a lot of footage I haven’t been able to edit because I haven’t got the equipment to do so.

It's all stored on a clunky hard drive bundled up with the moon, he saved it for me, without him I would of lost it because my laptop, his laptop, broke in the middle of me editing it and since then its been untouched. I’m afraid the hours of video that follow me dancing around everything i’d ever owned up until that point, rigorously chucking it all in more black bin liners. When I can find a place to edit everything and the capacity in my mind, then I can piece it back together and show it to the world.

Since May last year, I have totally uprooted my life, moved out of London, had a very strange, sometimes beautiful, sometimes harrowing time with my family in Devon, rolled through Turin, Cork, Helsinki, chasing the man I’ve never met, blocking the man I’ve never met at the behest of my friend in Cork, defending and understanding my art more deeply in Helsinki, and finding Tove Jansson. Her bronze bust on the door of the studio she used to hold, her gorgeous expanding black and white prints in the mumin cafe that towered in the sky under artificial light, her room in the museum of Modern Art, her soul in the botanical gardens amongst the families having lunch together.

It's been a glorious invigorating illuminating intrepid journey (I’ve been writing a hip hop song recently, can you tell?) but its not been anything monumental in terms of creation and since May last year is the longest time I have gone without a major project in my life, for possibly my entire adult life, bar being at uni, where conversely I was more orientated towards squat parties than art making.

So here I sit now, with a great big juicy exciting idea inflated in a giant balloon, ready to be released into the atmosphere, the only snag is that it needs to be manifested into real material, which means a lot of work, and so, I find myself back in a place I’d forgotten about.

That's the very good thing about having such a long break, is now I can totally observe what happens to me when I’m in this phase: it’s quite extreme from a fledgling perspective.

Not fueled by booze this time, but instead concocting things to give me a buzz that I can buy in the supermarket (don’t drink to much valerian, it gives you a bad tummy, im not drowsy or euphoric I just feel sick from the after affects and rancid smell) and developing my cleaning routine to be the most streamlined and creative that it can be, to give my art sustenance.

But if I could I would lock myself away from the world in a cabin far up on a mountain and painfully draw out everything in a more concentrated form, the cleaning is fine for now but it's hard to concentrate when I have to go to peoples houses and deal with their kalk as well, it might be one of the factors in why the whole thing is so stressful, but I have the suspicion that it will always be stressful, even if I ever get the luxury to entirely dedicate my day to working on my art.

The big thing I’m noticing is incessant, almost intolerable paranoia, that someone will steal my idea and present it to the world before I’m done. I notice it now and then I turn and look at my past and see its infected traces throughout my history, it's a big driving force in getting the work finished and I’m starting to see that I cannot share or talk about what I’m doing when I’m in the midst of it, but all i want to do is share and talk about it, hence why that cabin would be a better place than a city I’m not fully established in.

I know it’s unreasonable, untrusting, maybe even unkind of me, to believe that someone would steal something like this from me. I know that sharing ideas is healthy and loving and makes the world go round, but this paranoia is totally immovable and so I just accept it and try to satiate it, hoping by feeding it homemade remedies that it won’t make my life worse.

But these big idea’s, they come upon me, I don’t choose them, all the strands of my life and experimentation ferment slowly and then one day I wake up and I know what I have to do, then as I start to do it it grows and morphs, develops, things come and go from my wall, until I have reduced and finelined the parameters of a project, that's where I am now, all the mental groundwork is laid, its just the creation that's left, I’m now half way through the musical aspect of it but not halfway through the visual and I need to amp up, because it must be done by November the second, so I can take it to Turin with me, so I can deposit it at the gates of hell, so I can complete a cycle, so I can be free to make blue music and who knows what, maybe try something formless, kind and organic - that's not for me to know yet though.

Once it rears its great dense head, I am in its power, I am in the throng of obeying my art and that's a lonely place to be. It's lonely being an artist, some of us are collaborative and collective and have communities, but I’m not among those right now, this project, lets just call it by its name for here in : восем acht ocho : is not something I can share and make with others, it is a process of me picking up the pieces of my life, of giving praise to the moon, who has saved me and supported me so many times. I must give praise to him finally so I can move on and give praise to myself.

So I sit in my house and dutifully work back and forth between paint and ableton, singing and faux performing in my hallway in between, performing to my very tolerant invisible neighbours that must think I’m some kind of banshee from a deep buried part of the world. I sit in my house alone, I reject all the invitations extended to me, I retract from the life I am building to some extent and just hope the friends I have been finding will be understanding, though it's hard to explain to someone that I can’t come because of something I am choosing to do myself. It's not work related in terms of my bread and butter, Its not health related, I’m not resting, I guess a lot of people won’t understand which is perhaps why I feel compelled to try and somehow explain myself in this blog today.

I must make this work, it is not a choice, I am in my house alone because this idea has bound me up and demands my care and attention, because for the first time in over a year I can make work again and make it with diligence, create something on a large scale. It means that Berlin is working, this is the change I was looking for, because I feel like I have a future again, whilst the 100’s of drawings, paintings, books, trinkets from my life decay in some junk yard close to London, I have the space to bring new art into the world. It’s really a glorious turning point in my life so far.

I am still terrified that it will all collapse in on me at any time, but there are ways of fighting this paranoia, careful planning, creative problem solving, and probably just not talking about the details of what I am doing anymore until it is finished.

Phew, nothing enlightening this week, more of an attempt to bridge the gap between myself and the life that flows around me. I’m now off to edit my most current track on ableton then do some line work and probably make up some mixes of citric acid / bicarbonate of soda cleaner for the week ahead.

We just have to do what we must, and be grateful when we know what it is we must do.

#big ideas #realisation #self growth

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popofventi · 7 years

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MENTAL YOGA SUNDAY / 5 FAVORITE LONG FORM READS THIS WEEK / ISSUE No. 16

The best Sundays are languid, slow motion, sprawling, stretching cats in sunshine kind of days with a good long something to read and a good long silence in which to do it.

INSTAGRAM’S KEVIN SYSTROM WANTS TO CLEAN UP THE &#%$@! INTERNET. (Wired)

"KEVIN SYSTROM, THE CEO of Instagram, was at Disneyland last June when he decided the internet was a cesspool that he had to clean up. His company was hosting a private event at the park as part of VidCon 2016, an annual gathering that attracts social media virtuosos, and Systrom was meeting with some Instagram stars. They were chatting and joking and posing for one another’s phone cameras. But the influencers were also upset. Instagram is supposed to be a place for self-expression and joy. Who wants to express themselves, though, if they’re going to be mocked, harassed, and shamed in the comments below a post? Instagram is a bit like Disneyland—if every now and then the seven dwarfs hollered at Snow White for looking fat.

AFTER THE CHAT, Systrom, who is 33, posted a Boomerang video of himself crouched among the celebrities. It’s an ebullient shot of about 20 young people swaying, waving, bobbing, and smiling. In the lower right corner, a young woman bangs her knees together and waves her hand like she’s beating eggs for a soufflé.

The comments on that post started out with a heart emoji, a “Hoooooo,” and “So fun!” Soon, though, the thread, as so often happens online, turned rancid, with particular attention focused on the young woman in the lower right. “Don’t close wait just wait OPEN them leg baby,” “cuck,” “succ,” “cuck,” “Gimme ze suc.” “Succ4succ.” “Succme.” “Go to the window and take a big L E A P out of it.” A number of comments included watermelon emoji, which, depending on context, can be racist, sexist, or part of picnic planning. The newly resurgent alt-right proclaimed over and over again that “#memelivesmatter.” There was a link in Arabic to a text page about economic opportunities in Dubai. Another user asked Systrom to follow him—“Follback @kevin.” And a few brave people piped up to offer feedback on Instagram’s recent shift to ordering posts by relevancy rather than recency: “BRING BACK THE CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER!”

Systrom is a tall, lean man with a modest bearing. His handshake is friendly, his demeanor calm. He’s now a billionaire, but he doesn’t seem to play the alpha male games of his peers. There is no yacht; there are no visits to the early primary states; there is no estranged former partner with an NDA. Systrom’s personal Instagram feed is basically dogs, coffee, bikes, and grinning celebrities. A few years ago, Valleywag described his voice as “the stilted monotone of a man reading his own obituary,” but he’s become much smoother of late. If he has a failing, his critics say, it’s that he’s a sucker: He and his cofounder, Mike Krieger, sold Instagram to Facebook too soon. They’d launched it a few years after graduating from Stanford, and it went into orbit immediately. They got $1 billion for it. Snap, which spurned an offer from Facebook, is now worth roughly $17 billion.

Systrom takes pride in this reputation for kindness and considers it a key part of Instagram’s DNA. When the service launched in 2010, he and Krieger deleted hateful comments themselves. They even personally banned users in an effort Systrom called “pruning the trolls.” He notes that Krieger “is always smiling and always kind,” and he says he tries to model his behavior after that of his wife, “one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet.” Kevin Systrom really does want to be the sunny person on display in @kevin’s feed.

So when Systrom returned from VidCon to Instagram’s headquarters, in Menlo Park, he told his colleagues that they had a new mission. Instagram was going to become a kind of social media utopia: the nicest darn place online." - Read Full Story

In the future, your body won’t be buried... you’ll dissolve (Wired)

"The Resomator stands monolithic in the corner of a room in the bowels of the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). It's as sterile as a hospital here, but every patient is already dead. This is the penultimate stage of their time under the care of Dean Fisher, director of the Donated Body Program at the David Geffen School of Medicine. Bodies are wheeled in under crisp sheets for disposal in Fisher's alkaline hydrolysis machine, which turns them into liquid and pure white bone. Their bones will be pulverised and scattered off the coast by nearby Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps Base, where they will float and then disperse, because pure calcium phosphate will not sink. From the coastguard's helicopter it looks like drug lords flushing their stash.

The machine emits a low hum, like a lawnmower several gardens away. The cadavers awaiting grinding sit in blue plastic containers at the back of the room, identities anonymised by numbers and dog tags. The chalky bones are soft enough to destroy by hand: touch a femur and it falls apart." - Read Full Story

The untold story of QF72: What happens when 'psycho' automation leaves pilots powerless? (The Sydney Morning Herald)

"Booooom. A crashing sound tears through the cabin. In a split second, the galley floor disappears beneath Maiava's feet, momentarily giving him a sense of floating in space. Blood rushes to his head as he, the off-duty captain and his wife are propelled into the ceiling, knocking them out.

Flight attendant Fuzzy Maiava was slammed into the aircraft's ceiling during the nosedives. He relies on visits to the gym to cope with his physical and psychological injuries. Photo: Chris Skelton

In the cockpit, Sullivan instinctively grabs the control stick the moment he feels the plane's nose pitch down violently at 12.42pm (Western Australia time). The former US Navy fighter pilot pulls back on the stick to thwart the jet's rapid descent, bracing himself against an instrument panel shade. Nothing happens. So he lets go. Pulling back on the stick does not halt the plunge. If the plane suddenly returns control, pulling back might worsen their situation by pitching the nose up and causing a dangerous stall.

Within two seconds, the plane dives 150 feet. In a gut-wrenching moment, all the two pilots can see through the cockpit window is the blue of the Indian Ocean. "Is my life going to end here today?" Sullivan asks himself. His heart is thumping. Those on board QF72 are in dire trouble. There are no ejection seats like the combat jets Sullivan flew in the US Navy. He has no control over this plane." - Read Full Story

The Last American Baseball-Glove Maker Refuses to Die (Bloomberg)

"The town of Nocona, located some 100 miles northwest of Dallas and named after a Comanche chief (hence the Native American-in-headdress logo on Nokona gloves), developed a reputation as a leather-goods hub.

The company’s name is spelled with a “k” because it was told in the 1930s that the town’s name couldn’t be trademarked. Today, Nocona is home to about 3,000 people and a few stoplights. “God Bless America” banners line the street, and locals wish you a “blessed day.”

Founded in 1926, the company originally made wallets and purses. It was a former Rice University baseball player named Roberts Storey who steered Nokona into ballgloves.

In the early days of baseball, it was considered unmanly to use a glove. Broken bones were common. The first mass-produced gloves had little padding and no fingers. In the 1920s and ’30s, companies started producing gloves with a web between the thumb and forefinger, to create a pocket.

The shift to Asia in the 1960s nearly put Nokona out of business. Storey wouldn’t budge. “It hit him all wrong that we would have to go to Japan,” said his grandson Rob Storey, now the company’s executive vice president. “One of his favorite sayings was: ‘If I have to tell my employees we’re closing up and they don’t have jobs any more, I may as well get a bucket of worms and go fishing’." - Read Full Story

A 2:15 Alarm, 2 Trains and a Bus Get Her to Work by 7 A.M. (The New York Times)

"Sheila James starts her Monday, and the workweek, at 2:15 a.m. This might be normal for a baker or a morning radio host, but Ms. James is a standard American office worker.

She is 62 and makes $81,000 a year as a public health adviser for the United States Department of Health and Human Services in San Francisco. Her early start comes because San Francisco is one of the country’s most expensive metropolitan areas. Ms. James lives about 80 miles away in Stockton, which has cheaper homes but requires her to commute on two trains and a bus, leaving at 4 a.m.

Plenty of office workers get up at 5 a.m. or a bit before, but 2:15 is highly unusual.

“Two-fifteen is early enough that some people are still having their evening,” she said on a (very) early morning. But she likes to take her time and have coffee. She keeps the lights low and the house quiet and Zen-like. “I just can’t rush like that,” she said.

When the second alarm goes off at 3:45 — a reminder to leave for the train in 15 minutes — her morning shifts from leisure to precision." - Read Full Story

#Long Form Reading #wired #Longreads #The Sydney Morning Herald #Bloomberg #The New York Times

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quowreadspact · 7 years

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Bonds 1.1 + Before we start

Alright, here we go. Before I start, lets clarify a few things-

I plan on updating at least weekly, but I hope to more than that. I’d love to do an arc every 2 weeks or less. Every post will be one “chapter” long (1.1 is a chapter, 1.2 is a chapter, etc.) I’ll tag every post with the chapters name.

You can send me questions here. I’ve read Worm and Twig before, but will refrain from posting any spoilers as a courtesy to others. Once I get a screener, I will edit this post.

On to fun stuff...

Some thoughts on the title to start- Wildbow loves his metaphorical/artsy/nonliteral titles and arc names. From reading the intro, Pact definitely involves magic so the title already seems more literal than his other stories, with pacts with demons and the like. However in a more metaphorical sense it definitely implies there is gonna be themes of bondage, promises and obligations. The arc title has similar themes.

Lets finaaally start reading.

Damn me, damn them, damn it all.

I’m sure this will be a happy story.

I looked down the length of the street. The property was framed by a short stone wall, shoulder height, along with an elaborate iron fence of roughly the same height, shaped into curling vines with metal points at set intervals. It had been covered in some black paint or coating, but rust and peeling paint made for a mottled texture. ‘No parking’ signs, a good distance in every direction. I was already regretting coming. Damn me, I thought, not for the first or second time.

How goffic. Also Blake I’m preeetty sure that is actually the second time you thought “damn me.”

I’d dated a wannabe-architect at one point, a brief-lived fling. I didn’t remember much, but I didn’t feel confident labeling the place as Victorian.

Thats because its fucking GOFFIC Blake you prep.

No ‘welcome’ was printed on the mat. Instead, there were stencil images of roses and thorny stems, as well as the initials ‘R.D.T.’

It fit, somehow. No consideration to the guests, only self-aggrandizement.

He definitely does not like his family at all. I’m sure I’ll find out soon. I bet it is because he is a prep though.

“Hi Ivy,” I said. She responded by pressing her head against our mother’s shoulder. “Busy soaking it all in, kiddo, so you have some good stories to tell your therapist, ten years down the line?”

Or not. Also Blake are you sure it isn’t you that needs to see the therapist? You literally randomly left your family, not even an adult yet, and just never came back? And reading on, they barely looked for you? Damn dude.

There are so many family members. I hope most aren’t important because it would take forever for me to keep them all straight.

“Mira. She’s finally going by a different name. No longer a testament to why immigrants shouldn’t let their kids choose their English names. She still asks about you, you know?”

“At least someone did,” I said, smiling a little.

The tension in this house must be unbearable jesus.

“With all due respect,” I said, picking my words carefully, “I don’t give a flying fuck, you disgusting, evil, rancid cunt.”

Very respectful Blake. Grandma seems like a lovely woman.

“You took advantage of those things, making all of this one big fucked up game. Laying down the rule, that only one person gets the property and the millions from selling it. Then you say it has to be a grandchild-“

“My children are useless,” she said. She was so dismissive and casual about it.

“-And then you drop the bomb that it has to be a girl. You broke up this family, you did it strategically. You set us tooth and nail against one another, and now you’re enjoying tearing the others down, ruining their hopes.”

Aww shes giving them a game! See, lovely woman. For real though she doesn’t seem crazy. I don’t see any normal reason why she would want the inheritance to go to a girl though. So obviously something sketchy going on with her. And the town. And the house. And with pretty much everything in the story so far.

I wouldn’t recommend jumping to conclusions, Blake. Dangerous business.

Can I though? I read the intro, probably shouldn’t have. But anyways theres definitely some magic shit in the house/the house is magic so she can’t tear it down. Still no idea why she only wants a girl for it though. Maybe its some bullshit like girls are better at magic. Doubt Wildbow would do that though.

My grandmother and her cat were both dead.

RIP cat :(

I stopped short as I saw my bike.

Tipped over in a way that had scraped it hard against the stone wall. Headlight and taillight broken.

RIP bike. Who did this? Family hates him sure but none seem... evil enough to do this. And I doubt it just fell... obviously someone hates this family as much as they hate each other.

And Oh here is a time skip.

“Cold-forged iron,” he responded, a little sullen. “Bone. Paper. Every other follows different rule. What looks like a goblin could be a demon, or a wraith, or a glamour. I mean, you remember those ‘vampires’ from out west.”

“The faerie? Sure.”

Magic stuff! Magic stuff! And trippy “dream” sequence. That is some kind of magic vision I suppose... I heard that Pact has a wonderful magic system and I’m excited to see it.

Maggie went stiff. “They’re watching. And listening. Darn it. Now I’m going to have to do something.”

Blake is watching and so am I, but I doubt that they mean just me and him. Either another group is watching, or maaaybe his other family members? Like his grandma’s death triggered some magic.. stuff.. with them? Or something? I don’t really know...

For a price. Resist the urge to dismiss what you just saw, you’re in a bad enough situation as it stands. Now do yourself a favor and wake up.”

Or maybe it just is Blake. At least for this one vision.

“Molly’s dead,” she said. “You’re next.”

RIP Molly... 3 RIPS in one chapter. Four if you count grandma. :P

The house is in your custody now, and so are all of Grandmother’s enemies. Understand? She has a lot. The house is sanctuary, Blake. Molly died because she panicked, and she left the safe ground. Don’t make that same mistake. Move. Run.”

Here we go!! Run Blake! Don’t die I don’t even know you as a character yet! Also who are you mirror girl? Are you evil? She could totally be evil but I guess Blake doesn’t have much of a choice but to trust her. Also wtf grandma why is HE the next owner of estate? I guess grandma thought the other girls would die. I guess it also wasn’t important if it was a girl... seeing as she abandoned that already.

And that is the end of the first chapter. I hope you like my way of doing it. You can send any critiques to the screener blog

#text #bonds 1.1 #before we start

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