#the constant fear of death was fucking *hellish*

[randomly--accessed--memories]

Vox's mind is stored in his heart. He's capable of staying completely conscious even without a head, limbs, or any other parts of his body— as long as his heart is intact, he can remain self-aware.

After physically torturing Vox, dismembering him until he was only a torso, all Alastor needed to do to begin the real show was to get inside his heart. The last thing Vox felt before his Old Life ended and his New Life began was one of Alastor's little shadow tentacles slithering into his heart.

On good days, Vox will sometimes abruptly become very aware of his heart/heartbeat and feel a frantic need to protect it, even though nothing's happening and his chest is totally intact. On bad days, he'll suddenly be gripped with the sensation of something wriggling around in his heart, which either triggers a directionless meltdown or a bout of self-harm aimed at his chest.

#vox (ram) #randomly accessed memories #dark #cw self harm #cw body horror #fun fact about me; i used to have constant panic attacks because the muscles in my chest twitch occasionally when i'm anxious #and when they first started happening i thought i was going to have a heart attack and die! that lasted for three years! #i am so grateful not to be scared of them anymore #the constant fear of death was fucking *hellish*

[someguywriting]

throwing in my two cents to GBU analysis, trigger warning if you don't do well with discussion of human suffering

It's very important to me that other people understand the pure horror that was civil war prison camps, to better understand the context of what Tuco and Blondie saw

Andersonville, a confederate prison camp which housed union soldiers caught on the battlefield, was a hellish nightmare death camp. There was quite literally a wall of death, lined with blood and bodies from people who approached it: the water was poisoned, POISONED, unfit for humans or animals because of the amount of sickness, death, and bodily horror within the prison: here's some passages from an NY Times article published in 1865 painting the horror of it all

the Confederate soldier Henry Wirz who ran Andersonville was executed for WAR CRIMES

if you were a confederate soldier captured on the battlefield, you likely stood a slightly better chance of survival because the Union was better funded than the south, and they generally had more resources to feed their prisoners

but generally, the point I'm trying to make is that even in a union camp (for example, Elmira Prison, which may loosely be worth studying in connection to the GBU) the three would see horrors. men starved to the bone, dying in their own rotting guts, abused by guards, etc, this is why I appreciate this specific scene, the actor playing the violin who managed to show all that emotion.. brilliant

the prison camp, I think, is one of the greatest indicators of the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly

the bad, angel eyes, commands the camp and is a guard there, an instrument in these poor suffering prisoners literal hell: he's very heavily implied to be abusing them and torturing them, even before Tuco and Blondie showed up! and why would he do that, why would he torture them if it's not bringing him anything? when conditions are that terrible, and the prisoners likely have nothing left to give, why is angel eyes still torturing them? because he truly is the bad, and he likes it, he likes seeing the fear and suffering, causing it

the ugly, Tuco, doesn't give a damn about it and cares about his own personal gain: it's not like he stops to smell the fresh blood and take in the sight of rotted organs, in fact he's shown to be somewhat disgusted by it, but that doesn't mean he's empathetic at all; he's devoid of caring, apathetic about the bloody war in front of him, a truly ugly point of view

imagine being a prisoner of war, captured and thrown into a hellish place where your captors don't care whether or not survive the winter, and then along comes a man who has not fought in your war, has not really taken in or cared about the suffering surrounding him, and still jumps with glee at the chance for what he wants. yeah, that's pretty fucking ugly

Blondie is the good, which from a technicality standpoint, is questionable because he has the highest kill count of the movie: but from a historical civil war standpoint, he is the most empathetic (mostly inwardly) of the three

his act of blowing up the bridge later in the film is shown to at least somewhat connect with what the major says about the bridge, and how it's the source of fighting: some part of Blondie, however small, did it out of empathy and to stop the constant slaughter, and later in the film the more well known scene of him comforting a dying soldier (as he gets his signature poncho) is a direct act of empathy

Blondie isn't bad, directly contributing to the suffering of human lives, he's not ugly, apathetic and wilfully ignorant, but an outward part of his already repressed emotions is sympathetic towards conditions and deaths of the civil war

so, did I just explain the very obvious? Yes! but I really wanted to put it into historical context, on why from an anti war and historical civil war context, these men truly are good, bad and ugly

ps, do not search up any info on civil war prison camps if you don't do well with grotesque images/facts of human suffering

#the good the bad and the ugly #western #lee van cleef #clint eastwood #eli wallach #tuco #blondie #angel eyes #american civil war history #woo #long post #Andersonville #sergio leone #american civil war #specifically prisoner camps #trigger warning #empathy #the gbu in historical context #it always fascinated me how different each of them react to the war #also #union prison camp elmira #supposedly the first commander had an injury #and supposedly in union prisons in general they tried to emulate the level of brutality of the prisons in the south #even though they had the funding and supplies to create a better environment #couldn't find a reliable source though #history nerd alert #some gbu analysis for you

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

bereft (Garlean AU)

(cut for 83 zone spoilers beneath)

The Rule was, never separate from the convoy.  There were so few of them now, to separate meant certain death.  It had been one of the few things that had kept everyone alive during the hellish journey out of the northern reaches.  Riven knew that Sebastian would have absolutely zero qualms at this point in dressing her down--rank be damned.  But she’d needed to get away.  She needed to be alone for a few minutes-collect her thoughts, scout out the land--figure out their next move.

Instead all Riven could do was stand at her watch-point, fighting back tears.

She was tired.  Beyond exhausted.  Grief and guilt had been a hot hole in her stomach since they’d fled--since that fucking night.  Fear had been her constant companion over the past six--forgotten gods, had it really been six months?  Was it seven now?  She didn’t know.  Everything was a haze of those nightmares, that silence that was her affliction--and frenzied bits of activity.  Intellectually Riven knew that she was hungry, malnourished, and extremely emotionally compromised/stressed.  They all were. 

And it wasn’t helping that the largest source of her stress loomed behind her in the distance.  Riven pulled off her cap and scarf--she could risk the cold for just a few moments.  Stomach churning, she glanced behind her.  Just out of the corner of one eye she could see the red and black haze that hung over the imperial capital, and the pointed nightmarish spires that reached toward the sky.  Even at this distance, she wanted to vomit from the wrongness that she felt if she let her mind fix on that otherworldly silence... 

What the fuck happened??  It wasn’t the first time the question had raced through her mind, and it wouldn’t be the last.  And she wasn’t alone in thinking it.  She’d seen it on the faces of the men and women she had left, in the eyes of both Sebastian and Mathye.  It hung in the air around the campfires, whispered in their ears as they all sank into exhausted and broken sleep.  And for Riven, Sebastian, and Mathye, the question was even louder...because of how they had escaped their possible gruesome fate.  Riven forced her attention to the scenery in front of her--the frozen pools of cereleum, the drilling station abandoned in the distance.

We should be dead.  The night of the roar, Riven had ordered Sebastian to leave the radio in the command-room, and had locked the door.  The three of them--her, Sebastian, Mathye--had gotten zero to no sleep the past two days, constantly listening for any updates on what was happening in the capital.  They’d all been in their rooms, Riven for her part sleeping fitfully.

How are we not dead?  How are we not...monsters?  Riven shook her head, trying to clear it.  If she let herself go down that road she was liable to finally snap and lose her mind.  They didn’t need that, not now.  Dragging in a freezing breath, she looked out and around her again.

Ice, the occasional monster, and miles upon miles of snow were all that could be seen.  If there were people to be found, they were probably doing the smart thing and hunkering down in whatever shelter they could find. 

The Eorzeans aren’t just going to put up a big sign going ‘Hi, we’re here, we’re coming to help, promise!’  For that was another reason why Riven had left the camp...alone.  If she could find where the Eorzeans were, and maybe if they truly had come to help...she could go to them, turn herself in.  If it meant her people...her family, if they could be safe and warm...

#ffxiv #ffxiv endwalker #endwalker #THE AU #ffxiv garlean #poor riven #tired beyond stressed and head hurting from her echo

[vvatchword]

Weird Dreams Are Made of This

why am I like this

The last two days have been terrible. Capital-T terrible. It’s like the blood-donation panic attack woke up every anxiety-induced nightmare I’ve had over the last six months. Let’s just say that I spent most of the last 48 hours sleeping.

I had an intense dream that I was in a church—very traditional, complete with white clapboard and steeple—that had fallen through a break in time and space. Unfortunately, most of it—sans steeple—fell into the Faerie Realm. For some reason, I believed—along with a lot of other people—that we had to take care of the Faerie threat before they used the church as a staging point. The Faerie actually had no idea this place existed, so our excursion would both reveal it and wake up a bunch of bad blood.

I had this sense that the Faerie were very old and well-acquainted with humanity, but looked down upon it and loathed it. Obviously, my feelings about them fell along the same lines: for the reason that they looked down upon me, I despised them.

We get to this Faerie realm by noclipping through a wall, and I’m not sure whether we were transformed by it or were just an eclectic mix to begin with—we weren’t human. I was more machine than person myself, and it was like I had put my body together using random shit in a dumpster. There were three parts to our army; I headed the second one. I want to stress that I wasn’t exactly high up on the totem pole. I was just a commander, and there was a proper general in charge.

We start to attack random Faerie bases. Everything in this world was neutral colors, beiges and blacks, ugly and geometric. Our bodies were terrible, too, all blacks and grays, and we were monstrous machines past description. The Faerie themselves were stereotypically beautiful, tall and slender with narrow heads and slanted eyes. It makes me wonder if the ugliness of Faerie were really because it was ugly, or because I could only see it as ugly because I was ugly myself.

We knocked a few wins out of the park, but soon our element of surprise was gone, and we were mired in a war of attrition, and we could do nothing but lose—we were buried in enemy territory with no reinforcements. We had no need for food there, at least, but soon the general made a decision: returning through the church was not an option, because our avenues of escape were all cut off. But the Faerie offered a truce: come to them, promise not to fight anymore, and they’d transport us back.

I was like lol no, and kept my secondary force back, but the first and third commanders went with their troops, and to no one’s surprise, the Faerie started transporting everyone into Instant Death. For a little while, they didn’t realize that the second force—my force—had been kept back. So I had some element of surprise.

“Fuck u guys,” I said, apparently, and went to battle right away.

I had lost one of my legs by this point and used a makeshift shield as a crutch to limp everywhere. I was some huge, genderless, vaguely-humanoid Frankenstein, towering perhaps ten feet, and every blow I threw murdered ten Faerie scum at a time. I could walk through fire like Darth-fucking-Vader. In some ways, this dream was a weird power fantasy. I didn’t like myself—my self was weird, bestial, in constant agony, and spoke mostly through inhuman bellowing—but I commanded a third of an army of monsters, which both loved and feared me, and we were smart, and we were kicking ass. There was something marvelous about us in all of our hellishness.

At some point, my avatar went down in a hail of sparks and brimstone, and the next commander had to rise by necessity. Like me, they weren’t that high up the totem pole, but enough commanders had died that they were shunted up into the leader’s position. In true nonsensical fashion, it was Porky Pig. PORKY PIG. Why???? Why are my dreams so awesome on one hand and then do shit like this

Anyway, Porky lost all cutesy cartoonishness immediately, except by name alone—reasoning being that he had taken such damage in battle that he now appeared completely alien. In fact, he had been close to death, and was saved by some kind of weird battlefield surgery, and now appeared NOTHING like Porky Pig. I don’t remember Porky Pig appearing in the dream until this moment so it’s probable he just appeared out of the ether. Anyway, he strode out of the surgery like some kind of monstrous one-eyed approximation of an angel, slender and human-shaped, the color of a birch tree, complete with scratchy brown lenticels. He wielded a golden staff shaped like an asparagus and wore a lopsided halo over a single horn, which grew from over his right eye.

I don’t ask my dreams why they’re like this. I should. They’d answer by making Elmer Fudd a biblically-correct angel, probably.

The real question here is whether or not we referred to this monster general as “Porky Pig.” The answer is, “Yes.” So this horrible monster went by Porky Pig and everyone just accepted it. (My “self” had reverted to a kind of universal eye that could see everything going on in the dream, but not affect it.)

Porky was incredibly cautious. My disembodied self was grumpy about it, actually. Everything he did was a power play. He was playing the field of diplomacy as well as fuckin shit up guerrilla-style.

Naturally, I woke up before I could see what fruits this methodology bore. There were some losses, but it seemed like Porky was gearing up for some big twist, and… I’ll just never know. The End.

I’ve had dreams like this for days. Full story-lines, cohesive plots and characters, fleshed-out settings full of color and architecture, and I’m tired of them, honestly. They are always so goddamn serious and there’s always a war or plot going on, and I’m not always in full control of it, even if my character is powerful.

I’ve started talking to myself before I go to sleep: “If you ever find yourself in a dream, don’t forget you’re in complete control. You don’t have to let bad guys win and you don’t have to find anything and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If Indy gets out, he’ll be okay, and you aren’t in school anymore.”

In response, my dreams make me go to war over and over. Thanks?

#storysnob

[fever-dreamer97]

Let’s Try This Again

Summary: "There's no way it's her." Bakugou kept repeating in his head as he stared at the girl in the front of the class. His heartbeats gain speed in his ears as the color drained from his face. But it was her. It was the childhood friend he grew up bullying and tormenting until they were nine before she disappeared: Midoriya Izumi. Now, she is his new classmate in their second year of high school at UA. It's official: the universe really does hate him.

Fem!Izuku/Bakugou No Quirk AU

Chapter 1: Seven Years Ago...

————————————————————————

"Huh? What do we have here?" A blonde boy chuckled with smug pride. A group of other boys surrounds behind him, laughing along as they stare ahead at their target.

Their target: a small, pale girl with untamable green curls and freckles that decorate her face like the stars in the galaxy. She was thin and looks like she couldn't hurt a fly. She wore her class standard uniform, and on her back was an All-Might themed backpack. The pack weighed on her shoulders as it was a bit heavier than it usually was on most days.

At the boy's booming voice, she immediately freezes, not sure how to continue on her way. She clutches at the pack's straps before she eventually decides to turn slowly toward the boy and his lackeys. Her large emerald eyes are full of fear and worry at what's to come, and her frail body started to tremble.

"K-Kacchan..." She offers as a reply in her delicate voice.

"Oi, Deku. It's always fun to see you. But also, it pisses me off when you have to make me find you around this dump."

Katsuki stomps toward the trembling girl with a dark smirk before he smacks a hand beside her face. She lets out a squeal in fear at the sound and brings her small hands in front of her face.

"You weren't gonna leave without seeing me today, were you?" he mocks into her face, his smirk growing as she shields herself.

Deku doesn't say anything but keeps her gaze on the floor between his feet.

"Answer me, Deku," he snapped harshly.

She jerks before she lets out a meek, "No, Kacchan."

"That's what I thought. Because, how else would you be able to get the homework packet that I received today? I got better things to do, so you can just do it for me." He takes out the said packet from his bag and shoves it into Deku's shielding hands. She stumbles from the impact, and the homework packet falls to the floor at her feet before she could catch it.

A series of echoing laughter rings out from the group of boys at the girl's clumsiness as Katsuki sneers in annoyance. "Great, now it's gonna have dirt on it when I turn it in!" He snaps loudly.

Deku flinches at the voice before she bends down and picks up the packet. Kacchan lets out a click of his tongue before he shoves Deku into the wall.

"I will say the one good thing about you, Deku, is that you can be smart. Obviously not as much as me, but I'm not in the mood to do extra work today. So, you better make sure every answer is right. For every wrong answer, you'll see what will happen." He spat out in her face.

Deku continues to tremble as she keeps her gaze on the floor. She opens her mouth but then quickly shuts it. Katsuki brings back his smirk before he backs away from her and walks over to his lackeys.

"Thanks De-"

"I-I can't do it for you..."

The group of boys and Katsuki freeze at the reply from the girl before his rage kicks in. He slowly turns back to her. "...What did you just say, Deku?" He questions with a cold and mocking voice.

Deku still refused to look at him and bites her bottom lip in fear. "I-I c-can't do the p-packet for you...I-I won't b-be in s-school tomorrow..."

Katsuki huffed at the weak excuse. "Huh? Then you can drop it off at my house in the morning before I leave for school."

Deku's eyes start to water but she kept her ground. "I-I...I w-won't be able to, Kacchan...I'm s-sorry..." She gives him a way to ease the tension. This doesn't work, however. It makes the rage in him burn more.

"And why can't you, huh?!" He races toward her, grabs the collar of her shirt, and yells in her face. Deku finally looks up in his eyes with terror as his death glare burns into her.

"I-I j-just c-can't..." She says meekly.

Katsuki and her start a staring match: one pair of eyes filled with panic and the other filled with malice. Eventually, after a good minute, Katsuki sneers and shoves Deku back into the wall again, this time with a lot more force.

Deku whimpers in pain as her head hit the wall and rubs at the sore spot. The packet also was snatched out of her hands. Her shock momentarily erases her pain before she looked back up at Katsuki.

"Damn hindrance. I don't have time to argue with someone like you," he spat before he whips around and stomps back at the lackeys.

Deku lets out a sigh, thinking the situation was over. But his voice booms out again. "At least we all get a day-off from the mumbling freak!" Deku flinches again at the cold voice.

The lackeys laugh and agreed with the statement. Katsuki darkly smiles at the girl before he lets out his final statement to her.

"Maybe you should do all of us a favor and make it permanent. Just head on up to the roof and take that one-step shortcut. It would help all of us if you just didn't exist!" He laughs out with malice.

The temperature of the room drops tremendously at his statement, even his lackeys freeze up.

Deku's face morphs into a look of disbelief and her ears ring with what she just been told.

Katsuki turns back and stomps past his lackeys. His gut screams something at him, but he ignores how twisted his insides suddenly feel now.

Deku snaps out of her gaze and watches as the lackeys hesitantly follow their leader. One of them looks back at her briefly with a slight look of pity and sympathy before he races up to the group.

Katsuki continues his march of victory before he imagines that the next words that come out of the girl's mouth were "Goodbye...Katsuki..."

—————————————————————————

Bakugo jolts awake as his phone alarm blares in his ear. His hand smacks down on the snooze button before he rubs at his eyes.

Damn it, he thought back to that moment again. Annoyance filled his being before he pushes himself up into a sitting position on his bed. He glares at his sheets when he thinks back to that final moment he had with Izumi. Why does he keep thinking of that damn moment? It's been seven years for fuck's sake.

His annoyance is interrupted at the sound of his phone pinging with a new message, and he snatches the phone off his nightstand table. He opens it up to see a message from his best friend, Kirishima Eijirou.

Shitty Hair: Hey bro! me & the squad want to hit up the coffee shop b4 school starts! come with us!

He lets out a snort before replying.

Fine. But you're paying for me.

Shitty Hair: EH?? WHYYYY

Payment for that hellish study session over the weekend, asshole.

Shitty Hair: Fine, okay bro...Thanks for that again btw man!!

Katsuki clicks his tongue before dragging himself out of bed to get ready. Over the years, Katsuki has grown into an extremely handsome and fit young man. His body was now hard with muscles from his constant playing in sports, workouts, and hiking. That was one of the things that he and Kirishima bonded over was muscle training and sparring. When he and Kirishima get at it, they start competitions of who can lift the most and how long can they lift before the other gets tired.

He does his usual morning stretches before he starts to put on his UA school uniform: a white-collared, short-sleeved shirt with gold buttons, dark navy pants, and a gray, navy-striped jacket with gold buttons. Only the most high-end uniforms for one of the best schools in the nation. Of course, Katsuki was more than worthy to wear it.

There was also the school-issued tie that he stuffed carelessly into his pocket because he refused to wear something so fucking suffocating. But sometimes, he would get called out in the halls by some anal rule-pushing teacher. Other times, it would be that stick-in-the-ass, four-eyed class president.

After a quick brushing of his teeth, combing his hair, and rubbing on some deodorant, he was out of his bedroom with his backpack in hand. He stomps down the stairs to the kitchen where his parents were already up and about.

His dad, Masaru, sat at the breakfast table with his newspaper in hand and a cup of coffee at his side. His mom, Mitsuki, hovered over the stove with a frying pan in one hand, a spatula in the other. Katsuki could smell the scrambled eggs as soon as he entered the room.

"Good morning, Katsuki." Masaru chimed before taking a sip of his coffee. "Morning brat!" Mitsuki chirped out as well.

Katsuki clicked his tongue at her greeting. "I'm not a brat, you old hag!" He shouted as he went to the key bowl where his wallet laid. A sharp thud hit the back of his head and he rubbed it to ease the pain.

"DON'T CALL ME A OLD HAG, YOU DAMN BRAT!" She roared at him.

Katsuki bit his tongue to snap back at the look of rage in his mother's eyes. He wasn't scared, nope. He just didn't want to waste more of his time to get going to see the gang. That's it.

"Now, now. Don't be hasty." His dad tries to offer as a way to ease the moment. Mitsuki huffs and turns back to her frying pan before Masaru looks back at his son. "Are you already heading off to school, son?"

"No, some friends wanted to meet before-hand to get coffee."

"Oh, good! Say hi to Eiji-kun for us!" His mother chimes in.

Katsuki snorts. Figures, she sees Shitty Hair as the son she wished she had. Katsuki just grunts before he opens the front door. Before he could walk out, he hears from his father, "Goodbye, Katsuki!"

He slams it behind in his wake and walks down his sidewalk before he stops at the gate.

Goodbye...Katsuki.

The statement hangs in his mind as it has been for the past seven years and he swallows at the uncomfortable feeling of regret and sorrow.

Seven years. Seven years since he told his childhood friend to go kill herself. Seven years since she magically fell off the face of the earth and to this day, he still doesn't know what the hell happened to her.

Katsuki just shook his head in annoyance before letting out his signature click of the tongue and a sneer.

What's the point of thinking about this now? It's in the past. He just continues his way out of the gate and down the sidewalk towards his destination.

But the moment still lingers in the back of his mind.

#my hero academia #anime #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #boku no academia #bnha bkdk #bkdk fic #bkdk #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bnha fanfiction #genderbend izuku #female izuku midoriya #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #fem!izuku #fem!deku #fem deku #fem izuku #bakudeku #bakugo x deku #boku no hero fic #boku no hero #boku no hero manga

[nelllraiser]

into the fold, two: surrender | adam & nell

PREVIOUSLY: into the fold: part one TIMING: the ma’al cult investigation. PARTIES: @walker-journal​ and @nelllraiser​. SUMMARY: nell and adam dive deeper into the cult. CONTENT: sibling death mention, torture (implied), gaslighting (demon telepathy)

The intrusion of the eldritch on Neveah Alcott’s palatial home had initially been a subtle thing. Corruption came in degrees, and just as Neveahs parties were initially just high society networking that occasionally dabbled into idle metaphysical conversation, so too were the tiny within changes Alcott’s manner easy to dismiss as tricks of mood lighting or fanciful imagination until it was far too late. 

Those ‘idle conversations’ became more pointed speculation and the reading of certain disturbing texts readings as shadows darkened with the discrete crevices of the Neo-Gregorian architecture. The nooks behind statues, pillars, and within arches grew deeper until those shadows became actual holes into nothingness rather than the mere absence of light. Those avant garde readings proved to be strangely magnetic, even to those with no previous intellectual interest. As dalliance turned to obsession, angles within the Alcott residence started to be ...not quite right...not lining up correctly even when one squinted. 

More people were invited to these readings as doors in manor started opening to rooms that weren’t on the building's floorplan, only to lead elsewhere when opened again later. After Helena’s first ‘demonstration’ of bloodshed and symbology could attract the attention of beings beyond the confines of four dimensional space, guests started to report seeing the horrific landscapes of alien worlds beyond the house's windows. As high society parties devolved into debauched experiments to ‘expand consciousness’ through dangerous excesses of sensation, the manors’ light bulbs started to shine with colors that didn’t exist in the electromagnetic spectrum. 

It had been around the time Helena performed the first ‘miracle’ by being briefly possessed by her otherworldly patron, that the walls began to bleed. 

Now Adam sat in a dark room where the floor breathed, fleshy surface moistly yielding beneath him. The walls and ceiling stretched inward as the faces of hellish things strained against the fabric of reality. Maws, mandibles, and not quite human vissages pressed in a menagerie of faces from every angle as creatures from beyond the veil struggled to rip their way into this world. 

“Nell…,” Adam managed to gasp past the broken spasming of his ribs, “you there?” 

It hadn’t taken all that long for Nell to begin dreading the trips to the mansion. It wasn’t so much the bleeding of the walls, or even the screams that seemed to shatter silence out of nowhere that turned her stomach. No— she liked to think she was fairly ironclad when it came to things such as those at this point in her life. Instead it was the slow and steady transformation of the people, Neveah Alcott’s loyal followers, that made her insides squirm. Many of them hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were being readied for, harvested for as they pledged undying dedication to the woman whose ‘miracles’ left them wide-eyed and breathless despite the brutality of it all. 

It had taken most of what Nell had to make sure she didn’t succumb to the trials and tests of the demon, and the witch had been sparing her magic and strength specifically for nights such as these when she wasn’t sure whether the shifting of the floor beneath her was due to the emerging hellscape or loss of blood. It would have been easier if she could use her usual protections against the less savory side of demons and their effects, but such a thing wasn’t thinkable when she was meant to be embracing the demon that lay in wait, getting closer to phasing through the thinning veil every day. No doubt any resistance would be perceived as opposition, and that wasn’t the behavior of a willing and wanting devotee. 

Nell’s eyes were closed when Adam’s voice found her, cutting through the fog of her mind like the beam of a lighthouse on land’s shore. In a moment they were opening to the twisted visages of the creatures waiting to emerge into this world, but she quickly searched for Adam’s face amongst them until she found it next to her, reaching a hand toward him instinctively as he looked for her. “I’m here,” she answered, the tail end of a cough finishing the words for her as she covered her mouth, pulling her sleeve away to find fresh blood amongst the dried bits of it. Her first thought was to check his injuries as she usually did during a quiet spell of their demonic endeavors. “Everything in one piece?” she asked, already trying to scoot closer so she might try and take a look. 

Adam stirred again at Nell’s voice. Bloodshot eyes opened. Adam’s gaze was unfocused at first, as if he were looking at some other world entirely. But his broken fingers found Nell’s outstretched hand and that physical presence seemed to anchor him. The red-rimmed brown of his eyes eventually found Nell’s face. 

“Uh more or less,” he rasped, a weak attempt at a smile stark against a livid canvas of bruises and lacerations down his face and neck. 

Adam had been conditioned to quietly endure suffering and even agony if it was necessary to preserve humanity’s destiny. But spiritual wounds that’d sapped his Hunter powers have become all the more serious  in the sadism and darkness of this place. Day after day the cult’s rites wore Adam down physically as the tendrils of their master’s psychic  influence drilled down into the bedrock of Adam’s selfhood. Little by little, Adam felt himself giving ground inside. 

Adam struggled to sit up, but broken ribs protested so much that he abandoned the attempt. He himself fall back against the fleshy softness of the not-quite-stone floor. 

Adam adjusted his head as the now literally blue-veined marble throbbed with cardiac warmth against his temple.

“How’re you holding up?”

Nell cradled Adam’s broken fingers gingerly, thankful for the grounding effect his touch had, but reminding herself not to squeeze his hand in reassurance for fear of making things worse. A pinpoint of frustration surfaced in her stomach, wishing for what wasn’t the first time that she could mend bones as well as she closed up flesh wounds. “I guess I can’t ask for more,” she managed to say while matching his half-hearted attempt at levity. “Actually that’s a lie. I can and will ask for more, but I know it’s not gonna do anything.” As she spoke she reached her free hand towards the gashes she could see making a jagged and broken path across his neck, beginning the work of magically willing them shut, scabs beginning to form where open wounds had been before. It wasn’t anything as useful as healing fingers or ribs, but it at least made her feel like she could provide some relief, no matter how small. 

“I’m not super sure if I’m just lucky enough to see two of you- or if there’s actually some doppelganger who’s decided to give up the long con and just lay right next to you.” Who said you couldn’t mix potential impending doom with a bit of flirtation? Despite everything, she was determined to keep things light for a moment longer, hoping it might somehow hide the truth of their shared misery. When she’d finished with the gashes on his neck, Nell tried to lower herself closer to the ground to begin work elsewhere, but it seemed her noodle-like ams had other plans when they gave out halfway through her descent. She landed roughly next to Adam, and a grunt of pain paired with a gasped curse of “Fuck,” worked its way through her lips. 

Sometimes Nell thought about what it might be like to give in. To fully immerse herself in the whisperings of the walls inside this mansion, and let herself be truly taken into the fold. It would stop then, wouldn’t it? The pain she watched Adam go through far too often. Her own injuries, and the constant ache in her body she couldn’t seem to shake since joining up. Fighting had always been second nature to her, as if she’d been born with a stubbornness that made it impossible for her to give up no matter how far ahead or behind she might be. There’d never been any exception to that rule, and yet here she was— doing her best to keep herself semi-vertical and thinking about how the easy way out was looking more and more appealing every day. If she were being honest it wasn’t just about making sure she and Adam were safe. There was a space for here whether she wanted to face that truth or not, a place where her talents would be embraced rather than shunned or cast out. This was a coven that wanted her, not one that had turned their backs to the witch. “You know...do you think he’d settle for just...one of us?” she asked quietly as she lay next to Adam, her voice barely above a whisper as if she were worried that Ma’al might be listening at this very moment. “Like if I just hung out here with the cult and really gave it my all- maybe you could go keep working on getting your strength back and stuff. It might not even be so terrible.”

“Shouldn’t use up your power like that Nell…” Adam rasped even as pain became more manageable and the clammy numbness of blood loss stopped crawling up his body. Adam may not understand magic, but he intuited that everything Nell spent on him was strength she didn’t have to save herself later. This forces in this place were looking for any chink in their armor and Adam swallowed down guilt that Nell was leaving herself vulnerable to keep him from sinking. 

Adam’s gaze was drawn to the walls and ceiling as alien forms protrude into this reality. Spined proboscises stabbed blindly. Mouths with multiple interior rings of saw-blade teeth punctured outward like bladed xylophones before folding back in on themselves. Tendrils slick with acid fumbled around for organic matter to dissolve and absorb. Flowery blooms opened to lash out with hungry stigma while even stranger orifices extended luminous filaments or branching nerve clusters in search of fresh lifeforce to drink. Some of the faces pressing in through the walls were even vaguely humanoid, just with eye-sockets and too many mouths in all the wrong places. The stone and wood of the mansions structure buckled, like a dam about to give way before the tide. There was a taut tension in the air, as if reality itself was straining under some vast weight. 

Adam looked into that wall of horrors for longer than was safe, and found his mind wandering dangerously as something weaved insidious thoughts in Adam’s own inner voice. 

Why did Adam fight his true nature? He’d had always been addicted to the wrong things, craved the fucking, fighting, and killing like a drug instead of being pure and purposeful. Sure, he’d shackled himself with a code, hoping pious bullshit some dead martyrs had come up centuries ago could make him something more than just an adrenaline junkie that got his rocks off from killing. Adam had been a good little soldier, dutifully risking his life to save people who never even know he existed. 

But look at you now, Adam had told Adam. Broken, repressed, and bleeding out while those normie motherfuckers just keep slaughtering each other in rich mens’ wars. Admit it, your mission is pointless. You were made into a weapon for a cause that is already lost.

Adam looked at the woman who’ve risked everything to follow him in here. 

Shouldn’t he just be free? Free to fuck, fight, and kill without guilt. Why not take his strength back, and use it how he liked? It was his life wasn’t it? What claim did others have on it? Why was he afraid of what he wanted? 

‘Didn’t Nell deserve to be loved by a real man, not someone’s else’s wind-up soldier?’ asked a quiet voice that knew all Adam’s deepest insecurities. 

Adam put a small and feeble pressure on Nell’s hand, bloodshot eyes alive with forbidden thoughts as they looked at her with the wrong kind of hope. “I dunno but…” 

“I’m an oathbreaker and you're an exile,” the fallen Hunter pointed out softly. “Maybe like, this place we could just…,” Adam didn’t finish the question, but raised torn eyebrows to Nell as if trusting she understood what he was asking. 

“I want to,” Nell insisted stubbornly, not pausing in her work of closing up every wound she managed to find on Adam. By the time she reached the end of her efforts the black spots in her vision had widened, and a part of her was thankful for the way they blocked out the terrors of the surrounding walls. It was easier not to get caught up in the unsettling yet mesmerizing shifts that the twisted images went through when you couldn’t see half of them. She tried to wait until the world had stopped swimming to begin on the cuts decorating her skin that were bleeding a little too much for comfort, not all that keen on passing out here and now. It was taking the majority of her strength to make sure she didn’t slip into something of a forced sleep, her body practically begging for rest and a chance to recuperate the magic she’d spent while she swayed where she sat, forcing herself to sit upright, and hoping that would be enough to ensure she stayed conscious. 

Despite Nell’s best efforts, her head swam with the visions on the walls, and for a moment she could have sworn she saw her own face among them. The bones of her cheeks looked sharper, harder than the reflection she saw in the mirror, but there was a confidence that couldn’t help but be alluring, a promise of power and the ability to ensure that no one would ever make a victim of her again. She could make them afraid if she really wanted to. Most normies were already there when it came to witches. Surely it wouldn’t take all that much to rake others into a similar boat? And if they were afraid, there’d be no one to lop off the heads of sisters in clearings in the forest like a knife through butter, or trap Nell beneath a Ring while brain biters stole bits of her she never thought possible to lose. What was stopping her? The judgment of others? The fragile and paper-thin concept of right and wrong? Was it wrong to want to protect herself? Wasn’t releasing the demons within the walls of the mansion the perfect way to achieve such a thing? No doubt a town that was razed would be one that wouldn’t lift a finger against her or the ones she cared about.

It was the press of Adam’s hand in her’s that made her realize she’d lost track of time somewhere in the middle of her wanderings, and her fingers pressed lightly against his own while she blinked herself back to this plane of existence. A mirthless chuckle fell from her, because she knew he was right. An oathbreaker and an exile. The world didn't want them, so why should they want the world in return? But as her vision cleared and her black eyes searched Adam’s, there was the smallest reminder somewhere in the back of her head. They’d come here for a reason, right? She hadn’t wanted Adam to fall. But was it really falling? Focusing on the man in front of her, her brows furrowed, a frown claiming her lips while she spoke. “We...that’s not why we came here...was it?” What if they’d both secretly hoped to be taken into the cult? Perhaps Ma’al had simply awakened a part of them that was already present. No- there was a promise she was meant to be keeping. A promise to the hunter that she wouldn’t let him go under, because that wasn’t something he’d wanted. “That’s not why we came here,” she said with more certainty this time around even as another voice within her tried to poke holes in the words. “You...want that? To stay here?”

Adam knew Nell was right, that wasn’t what they’d come here. Something was leading them astray.

But the walls breathed, bulging and distorting inward as multitudinous alien things strained against the skin of the world. The bleeding painting on the walls asked Adam if that was true. 

Hadn’t he already been astray? Was really it so bad to realize you were lost?

“Only if you’ll stay with me,” he murmured.  

Let me set you free. It was the slithering voice of Kevin, and the words the dream-being had uttered within the caves of the catacombs that echoed through Nell’s mind as Adam made his admission. Even then Nell had nearly given in to the promise of peace and the sheer relief of simply letting go and giving up. She’d barely managed to shake free of the tempting offer when it was a stranger making it, but now that it was the familiar and comforting features of Adam that was making the proposal she found the words all the more intoxicating— certain that warmth and safety would be found on the other side of them. “I want to stay with you,” she said while reaching out her free hand to place it along the side of Adam’s face, thumb resting upon his cheek as she weighed the gravity of her words. This was one of the only things she was certain of these days- that Adam was one of the more stable pieces of her life, and she was more than willing to follow where he went. So many people had left in the last few months, other magnets that had kept her carefully balanced between one another. Winston, Bea, Blanche, and now Jared. They’d gone the ways they’d needed to one by one, and though Nell didn’t resent them in the least it was undeniable that their departure had left her adrift. So if Adam wanted to find the peace they deserved here amongst the cult, and so did she...what was there to stop them? “I’ll stay with you, and we can just be here together.” Away from the world that was determined to throw whatever pain it could their way.

Hey Ma’al,

It's me, Adam. 

Guess it's about that time?

If I do this, let you in...there’s one condition 

Soft spring sun refracted through townhouse windows, golden rays playing across the kitchen. 

“So anyway,” Adam said, trying not to get dish-soap on his jersey as he put plates in the washer. “Dad said Winn and Mr. Woods might be coming over later to help fix the roof...”

Sunflowers swayed in the warm wind outside the window, the nostalgic golden haze of the afternoon casting golden petals stark against their black centers. Light glinted off the harbor bay and the commercial bustle of the Sink District as tourists poured in from ferries to peruse shops and Spring Festival stalls. 

Adam turned to look across the rooms with gentle brown eyes that’d never beheld violence beyond a locker room scuffle. He ran an unscarred hand through his hair and gave Nell a lopsided grin. “Hey...Nell? What’re you thinking about?”

Nell had been watching the gentle arc of the sunflowers as the breeze played with them, more than pleased that they’d grown so beautifully in the past year and already thinking about what she might plant next. “Hmm?” came her questioning hum, head turning towards Adam with a look of chagrin at being caught staring into space. The light of golden hour played over her unmarred skin, the only lasting signs of imperfection being the dirt under her nails from the garden, and the roughness of her finger pads. “Well I was definitely listening religiously,” came her knee-jerk reaction of a tease. But as she took in the perfectness of Adam’s grin and the sun lighting his hair her own smile claimed her lips, softening in the slightest. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” Her mind was at peace, finally serene with a lack of problems to solve and shadows of witch-killers to fear in the night. “Just thinking about how I’m...happy.” She took a few steps towards him, beginning to close the space that had found its way between them. “Happy here with you.”

#// it's casual #soft and fine #sibling death tw #torture tw #wickedswriting #gaslighting tw #ch:Adam #into the fold two: surrender #chatzy

[cupcakes-and-pain]

So, uh, I just went through some massive writing block and the only thing I was able to produce was some sub par whump prompts. So yeah, that happened. But now I’m back and hopefully here to stay. Also, I have an idea for what I’m going to call this story. How about “Found Family”? Not super creative, but they are really a found family. I mean, Dyri and Kad are technically Eden’s niblings, but that’s still kind of a found family, being they found their estranged auncle. So, without further ado, comfortember day 16, protective.

CW: Swearing, stabbing, bleeding, going unconscious from pain

Master list

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @comfortember just let me know if you want to be removed or added to the list!!

“Back the fuck up!” Eden shouted at the guard, pointing their knife straight at his head. He didn’t move forward anymore, but he didn’t move back either.

“I said back up! Or you won’t last much longer,” Eden threatened, getting a little frantic but not allowing him to know that. After all, who wouldn’t be frantic when their nephew is heavily bleeding from being stabbed in the arm several times?

Kad was in hell. Not literally, of course, but he might as well be. Here on a battle field, gun shots and yelling surrounding him, lying in the dirt while his auncle threatens an enemy with a knife. Couldn’t get more hellish than this.

But the worst part about it was the pain. He barely had time to think about how much he rather be anywhere but here before another wave of pure agony hit him. He would have doubled over if he wasn’t already laying down. The pain left very little room for thoughts. It felt never ending. Kad felt that this moment of anguish and pain would last an eternity, assuming he didn’t die then and there on the war-torn field.

Amidst the waves of pain and the constant noise around him, Kad drifts out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of Eden’s desperate attempts to keep him safe from all the attackers.

Eden was hoping beyond hope that reinforcements would arrive. Someone. Anyone. They desperately needed help. Kad was down, they had to protect him at all costs and get him medical care, and Janelle could only take care of so many enemies before she went down for the count too. The few other spies they had teamed up with had already been dragged away to be held and tortured for information at the same place they first tortured Kad. Despite this seeming like an incredibly small fight, just a little skirmish between sides, Eden had a bad feeling that their life, Janelle’s life, and Kad’s were on the line. To be fair, they’re spies working to stop a hugest company since whoever invented sliced bread, so their lives were always on the line. But it never felt this real. Death always felt like some distant risk that they knew was inevitable and get far away. Death had never been standing there, staring Eden in the face before.

And yet, here they were. Fighting tooth and nail to protect Kad, watching Janelle do the same for herself, and just thinking, “where did it all go wrong? When did I fuck up so badly?”

Eden saw Janelle finally go down. In slow motion, they saw the enemies jump at her like hungry hounds after finally catching the fox. Eden watched in horror as one of them cocked their gun and pointed it straight at Janelle’s forehead. This all happened so slowly that Eden had time to process all of this information, jump in action, and knocked out three of the five enemy agents.

Fear can be a funny thing. It can feel all consuming, all powerful one moment. It can feel down right crippling and infinite. It can feel like all hope is lost one moment, but then the very next moment, that fear can give you strength. It can invoke the heck of the fight in flight or fight reflex. Fear can feel horrible one moment, and the the very next moment, although the fear is still just as horrible, it can empower you.

And just like that, Eden’s protection reflexes kicked into overdrive, they completely recked the rest of the enemy squad. No one messed with their family. No one messed with their family and didn’t instantly deeply regret it.

“Holy shit, Eden,” They turned to see Dyri walk towards them and the pile of unconscious bad guys. “Winston sent me to check on the crew he sent to eliminate you guys. These were supposed to be the best of the best. I was just hoping that I got here before they killed you, but I guess you beat them to it.”

“I didn’t kill them, love, though it’s not like they don’t deserve it.”

“Deserved it-? Oh my fucking-... what happened to Kad?” Dyri voice immediately changed upon seeing vis brother, vis usual sweet, joking, jovial tone turning to a snarl like that of a fearful yet rabid wild animal, and Eden could get why. Kad was looking deathly pale and growing paler by the minute. Janelle didn’t look to good either, but at least she was starting to stir and moan in pain.

Dyri’s mouth moved a mile a minute, silent pleas and threats alike passing through vis lips. Ve pulled off vis sweatshirt and wrapped it tightly around Kad’s arm in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. It helped some.

Dyri then turned to Eden, a ferocity in vis eyes that made Eden glad ve was on their side.

Even vis voice is terribly frightening. “You should have hit those guys harder.”

“Oh, trust me, love, I intend to,” Eden said, aware of the fact their voice just took on the same fierce edge as Dyri’s, “But first we must get Kad and Janelle to medical attention.”

Author’s Note: Kad is fine, I promise. Well, not he’s not fine, but he’s not going to die, so don’t worry. Also Eden doing anything to protect their family is literally my favorite thing to write about.

#comfortember #whump #my writing #my story #spy whump story #found family #Eden the badass caretaker #Kad the babey #Dyri the whumpee filled with determination and spite #tw strong language

[adelia-maquiavelica]

The Lesser Evil: Chapter 1

- WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GORE AHEAD! -

It was dark in the woods, with light seeming to disappear despite the full moon held aloft in the night. The air was humid with the reminder of the day’s strange and unexpected rainfall, and the ground lay moist and waterlogged. 

The herbs and weeds rooted to the ground groaned with the drowning they were forced to endure. With silence overwhelmingly loud among the trees, the night seemed to grow drearier as lack of noise in the area formed a void where nature’s call used to sing. The dismal gloom in the woods was such, that even the owls restrained their calls, and the crickets halted their music, for even these creatures knew that there was a monster afoot.

Even the wolves hid in their dens for fear of retaliation from the great, giant, hulking beast. A creature far larger than even a bear, that lumbered and sniffed the ground. The creature pawed near the trees. 

A large snarling mouth filled with blade-like and jagged canines, cracked open. Drool and blood from a victim not even an hour before, dripped onto the already waterlogged grass. Its skin was a sickly gray, covered in patches of rusted red and coal black. Spikes covered with decaying gore emerged from its humped back, its sour stench noticeable even several yards away. The creature walked on all fours, yet its movement suggested the ability to walk on two. The hands were brutish and dirty, fingers ending with tapered and deadly claws, almost longer than the individual fingers. All in all, it had the appearance of a hellish beast. A mix between a man and a corpse.

Its face lifted occasionally, scenting the air. Once assured of the lack of any threat in the gentle breeze, it released a tremulous wail, its sound echoing far longer after it ended. The gentle wind kept blowing, bringing the scents of rain and earth, completely hiding any scents hidden downwind. The Alghoul continued to sniff the ground, completely unaware of any presence due to the shielding of that gentle and calm wind. Complacent in its safety, it never paused to scent the air again after the direction of the wind changed. It simply lumbered around, far too distracted in the new scent of old blood, its desire for a new victim and meal occupying its sole attention into distraction

A distraction, that Geralt was counting on.

It was an ugly beast, he admitted. Its description by Marian doing it justice.

At the time he and Jaskier arrived at the village, it had seemed abandoned. Its only life appeared to be the quivering forms of the few villagers that braved to look outside at the visiting Witcher, and colorful bard. Yet even that bravery had limits, for once their curiosity was satisfied, they retreated back to their homes, locked the doors and drew their curtains closed, till the village seemed abandoned yet again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Jaskier abortively lower an impatient hand, originally intent upon greeting the villagers, but unable to as they disappeared on sight. Jaskier snapped his mouth shut, paused, and then smiled shakily up at Geralt.

“Well, that’s not strange at all Geralt!”

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, his scent growing heavier in the air in comparison to his natural clean chamomile and primrose.

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, but not fear. Never fear.

Geralt grunted in response atop Roach, not interested in providing an opinion and giving invitation for the talkative bard to start his endless squawking. Although now slightly more resistant to constant noise compared to before Jaskier, it was still a difficult thing to become accustomed to. The constant walking beside him, steps crunching alongside the dust under Jaskier’s boots. The gentle breathing that Geralt was sure he could hear miles away. And the never ending chatter that the bard seemed to consider a competition against silence. All of those things were a shock compared the total silence that used to accompany him before.

(And Geralt felt himself go back to that categorization. Everything in his life seemed to sort itself into before and after. Before Jaskier, after Jaskier. Even when he was loathe to give Jaskier such importance in the organization of his life, he was helpless against it.)

Before Jaskier, the world had been an endless list. Travel to a village, go to said village’s pub, ignore the overwhelmingly sour stench of fear emanating from surrounding villagers at the sight of him, search for villagers more afraid of hidden monsters than him, for death, accept a contract, fulfill the contract, collect the bounty, and continue the cycle all over again.

That was the before, and that was the way things should be for a Witcher. It was long and painful, quiet and lonely. It was a life with no companionship aside from that occasionally found in the arms of faceless whores. For any concept of company during the before had been unthinkable. No one would want to follow Geralt. No one would want to subject themselves to such an unstable way of life. No one would want to subject themselves to the company of an emotionless Witcher. And for the most part, the before Geralt had peacefully accepted it. Used to the silence, he learned to find it comforting. Forced into solitude, he grew to find the presence of others bothersome.

The before Geralt liked the way things were supposed to be. The before Geralt understood his place in life, and why it had to be that way. The before Geralt remembered the last time he sought for something more,

(The memory of the girl in the woods still haunted his dreams)

And the disastrous consequences of his foolish desire. So the before Geralt had made peace with his life, and had no plans to change.

And then Jaskier happened.

—————————————————

Posada was a strange little town, filled with strange people and creatures, who all had the strange pastime of fucking hating each other. The elves hated the humans, the humans hated the elves, the elves and humans hated the monsters. And surprisingly enough, Posada was the kind of shit town where even the humans hated other humans. From where Geralt was seated in the back of the pub, he could see the patrons sitting, hunched protectively over their food like beaten dogs, as though afraid someone would snatch it from under their noses. Tense in their seats, the people in the pub sent wary glares and glances to their fellow humans from the corner of their eyes. Untrusting even amongst their own. The sour scent of fear and distrust had been there long before Geralt arrived to search for a contract, and present in each and every one of the pub’s residents.

So Geralt was not surprised when the tavern remained solemn and glum, despite the colorful bard’s every effort.

He was a young thing. Light brown hair, with eyes that were a deep blue, shimmering with mirth. He was dressed in blue and red, prancing around the dull room as though unaware of his less than happy audience. He was not the first bard Geralt had encountered. Bards like him were one among hundreds. So common, that a man could not throw a stone and not hit one of the them. This one was no different. Same gaudy clothing. Same raunchy shitty songs.

After a cursory glance over him, Geralt tried to pay him little attention. Once you’ve seen one bard, you’ve seen them all.

Geralt would not have paid him more attention. Not at all, had it not been for the clean warm scent of chamomile and primrose emanating from him.

Geralt’s mutant enhanced senses were so acute that he had the ability to discern the particular smells that made up people’s individual, and unique scents. Yet fear turned even the most lovely of scents sour and strong, altering it into something completely different. After years of becoming accustomed to his enhanced senses, Geralt had grown used to the smell of fear and hatred, present in every human that cared to be near him.

In a town such as Posada, fear and distrust seemed to seep from the floorboards, even without his presence. It overwhelmed even his resistant nose. But stranger still in the shit town of Posada, where every fucking person seemed to have and fear rooted in their scents, the bard’s scent remained clean and warm. The only one in that tavern free from the sour stench of fear.

Geralt could not remember the last time he had caught a scent lacking in fear. It surprised him to where he actually turned his head to glare at him, instead of keeping a tab on him out of the corner of his eyes. Geralt’s fear induced headache grew worse due to the movement of his head. After long consideration, he forgave himself for shifting in the way of the gentle breeze coming from the open window, carrying that fearless clean scent from the bard towards him to ease the pulsing pain behind his eyes.

The bard kept playing and singing, seemingly unaware of the relief he brought to the suffering Witcher sitting in the corner of the tavern.

Geralt continued to watch him, the bard growing somehow more dramatic, as he placed a foot on a chair with flourish and delivered another verse.

“Meet old nan the hag, to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abbborrrtioon-“

Cut off from finishing the song, the bard dodged pieces of bread thrown at him as a particularly angry man screamed,

“Abort yourself!”

Geralt tuned out the protest of both the angry tavern patrons and insulted bard, staring at the rim of his cup of ale until he noticed that the smell of chamomile and primrose had grown stronger. No, not stronger, nearer.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner… and brood.”

Geralt made the mistake of raising his head to look at the bard, casually leaning against a wooden beam, eyes clear and unguarded, and expression warm and inviting with a gentle smile upon pink lips. His scent, despite his eyes gazing directly at Geralt, remained free of fear and clean.

Geralt regarded him warily.

“I’m here to drink alone.”

Not at all deterred, the bard ignored him and pressed forward.

“Good yeh, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance,” the bard said, pausing his words as he fumbled for the first time, fingers unable to settle on the mug in his hands, “… except you.”

And yet, Geralt could not smell any fear from him at all, despite the obvious awkwardness coming from the bard.

“Cmonnn,” the bard whined, brow furrowed while the smile remained on his lips, in response to the lack of reaction from Geralt, “you don’t want to keep… a man with… bread in his pants….waiting.”

At that last line the bard’s smile disappeared only to be replaced by an embarrassed wince, but that was short lived, as the smile stubbornly returned to his face.

Had Geralt been eighty years younger he would have snorted.

The bard’s gaze remained glued to Geralt, doe eyes innocent and open, the color of the sky as it acquiesced to the night. His expression remained hopeful, smile never wavering, and his scent as stubborn as his smile, remained cheerful and fear free.

Geralt had encountered many humans in his long existence. They liked to call him monster, with his yellow eyes, and strange white hair. Yet in his experience, most of the monstrous acts he saw in his long life tended to come from humans more often than not.

A man slapping and beating his wife in front of him for giving him a daughter instead of a son, while ordering Geralt to kill a Kikimora.

A child begging on the streets homeless, after his parents were executed by an indignant lord, for not paying adequate taxes.

A girl, beaten and raped for being born on the wrong day.

Geralt had encountered many types of humans. Angry humans, tense humans, greedy humans, monstrous humans.

Their scent always gave them away. They all try to hide it at first, but their true intentions were always given away by the beat of their hearts, and the panic scent of a lie.

But so rarely had Geralt ever encountered a human with such a pristine aura, with a clean and honest scent. With eyes that were unguarded and trusting. His heartbeat remained steady, without a hint of dishonesty.

Geralt reasoned that it had to be attributed to his youth. His eyes must not yet have truly seen all the horrors available in the world. His soul must have not yet blackened by the tragedies of others. So inexperienced with the true cruelty of the world. Too inexperienced to know of the strength that Geralt possessed, because surely if he knew, he would not be so generous with his smiles. So inexperienced and trusting, he did not suspect ill of anyone, not even the man who had yelled at him earlier, who was also incidentally hiding a knife under his coat, while his eyes tracked the bard discreetly.

And thus as the bard continued to fearlessly pester him for comment on his fucking awful song, blissfully unaware and uncaring of a monstrous Witcher, and the bloodthirsty thief, Geralt realized,

“This fucking naive shit is going to get himself killed.”

And Geralt was disturbed to realize that the very notion of harm coming to this obviously young human, bothered him.

Unaware of Geralt’s internal dilemma, the bard slid into the seat in front of him, hands gesturing as he said,

“You must have some review for me! Three words or less.”

Annoyed at the bard completely disregarding all the signs pointing towards him not being welcome, Geralt kept his gaze impassive, hoping it would finally deter the bard and allow him to continue with his peaceful silence. It worked with everyone else.

And never mind the fact that the moment he left the tavern, he would probably be mugged and possibly murdered.

You’ve seen countless humans die, it doesn’t matter, he tried to convince himself, What is one more to the list?

After a pause, Geralt grunted,

“They don’t exist.”

The bard’s brow wrinkled, tilting his head slightly to the right as he appeared puzzled.

“what don’t exist?”

Geralt schooled his face into remaining cold and inexpressive.

“The creatures in your song.”

The smile turned into a smirk, as the bard scoffed, voice deepening, full of confidence.

“And how would you know?”

Geralt remained silent, sure that the conversation had ended, only to be surprised when the bard’s eyes brightened with understanding as he licked his lips. He rapidly tapped the table with his finger, seemingly unable to contain the glee from showing in his hands, as excitement flooded his scent.

And again, Geralt was surprised with this human, because so rarely had any of those emotions ever been directed towards him.

“Oh fun! White hair, big ol’ loner, two… very very scary looking swords-“ the bard’s face twisted, pausing too long on his swords, before his mouth returned to that cocky grin.

And at this Geralt stood up, because obviously he had been wrong. This bard was not naïve enough to be unaware of Witchers. And as the bard continued with his elbows resting on the top of the table, excitedly about to remind everyone in that shitty tavern of Geralt’s existence, Geralt could not help but feel cornered. And how ridiculous that was. That it was the monstrous, hulking Witcher, feeling panicked due to a strange, young, thin looking human, who spoke to him without a hint of fear in his chamomile and primrose scent.

“I know who you are,” the bard said, with the same expression of a cat that had just gotten the cream, mouth pulling into a crooked grin. “You’re the Witcher.. Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt walked away, but paused slightly as he caught the gaze of the man with the hidden knife in his coat, eyes still tracking the bard. Geralt debated dragging the bard out with him before abandoning him in some ditch. A ditch, but a safe ditch at least, free of murderous humans.

“Called it!” the bard exclaimed behind him triumphantly, the annoyingly cheerful and sunny smile obvious in his voice despite Geralt not being able to see his face.

Geralt promptly left the tavern.

The pompous little shit could get himself killed for all he cared.

——————————

The pompous little shit did not end up getting himself killed, because after that scene in the tavern, the bard stuck to him like a leech.

No matter how much he glared, or growled, Jaskier (as he learned was his name) remained cheerful and sunny, seemingly undisturbed by Geralt’s gloomy disposition.

Not even after punching the little shit, did he become afraid. He took it in stride, coughing and wheezing as the force of the punch pushed him backwards. Geralt kept walking, but as the wheezing for breath failed to abate, Geralt felt something like panic strangle his heart, and worried whether perhaps he had put too much force into the blow.

Geralt had never intended to truly hurt him, but the thought of Blaviken, the mere mention of what had occurred there, broke through the thick lock of control he kept over his anger. Not only that, he had a pattern in his life, silence and solitude. It was something that the chatty human still wheezing behind him, did not appear to understand.

But just as Geralt was beginning to fret, Jaskier recovered, caught up with him, and continued on as if nothing happened. He talked about making songs for Geralt, and changing how people viewed him and other such nonsense. And despite Geralt’s best attempts, he could not glare him, growl him, threaten him, or ignore him, into running away. He continued talking about devils and hands and reputations, not once caring when Geralt in his absolute fury at the human not leaving him in peace, threatened to murder him for touching Roach.

And yet despite his fury, Geralt promised to himself to never hurt him again. After he regained control of his emotions, he thought about the way in which Jaskier had mentioned Blaviken. His eyes had lit up with the prospect of writing Blaviken into a song, arms spread wide and his voice raising in pitch with excitement. He was young, Geralt had to remind himself. More likely than not, Jaskier had no idea what had occurred in Blaviken. He had meant no harm in his statement, which left Geralt feeling foolish for being baited by an 18 year old whelp.

——————————

“Umm hello? Geralt? Did your crotchety self suffer an aneurysm?

Brought back to the present, Geralt turned to look down where Jaskier stood to the left of Roach, lute in hand, the instrument practically cradled in his arms like a child. It was a peculiar object, given to Jaskier after their first adventure. Jaskier never let that lute out of his presence.

The subtle, swirling chaos weaving around Jaskier, that made Geralt’s medallion vibrate gently above his chest, also never left his presence.

—————————-

Geralt could only assume that the lute was enchanted. After all, it was given to Jaskier by elves, and he would not be surprised if Filavandrel added any extra protection or wards to such a precious instrument.

Jaskier seemed completely unaware of it. In the beginning, Geralt had been wary of Jaskier, chaos gently twirling around the human’s form, to the point where Geralt had begun to doubt his Witcher training, since he had not noticed the chaos around Jaskier when he met him at the tavern. However, he eventually connected the dots and came to the conclusion that the chaos originated from the lute, and not the bard. It made sense as well, considering how infectious most of Jaskier’s tunes were.

Jaskier would perform in every tavern and inn that they travelled to, and the bard never failed to have them all in a drunken stupor, the masses readily and happily tossing their well earned coins into his lute case. Geralt would have been impressed, were it not for the gentle vibrations from his medallion morphing into a stronger hum whenever Jaskier performed.

After much observation, Geralt concluded that the bard used the lute’s chaos without meaning to. Geralt could not come to any other more nefarious conclusion. The man hated any sort of violence. He was absolute shit with any kind of weapon, and screamed shrilly whenever some monster or another made it past Geralt and launched itself at him despite Geralt having told him hundreds of times to stay behind because it was dangerous.

Just to be completely sure, Geralt purposefully let a monster past him during his second contract with the bard. It had not been poisonous, and was rather small. However, it had a nasty bite and smelled worse than the pig pen inside a barn. Jaskier had scrambled in a mad frenzy, his first instinct to run away. Just as the creature was to bite through Jaskier’s jugular, Geralt speared it from the back. The monster had twitched on his blade, before stilling in death.

Someone with a hidden power, would have no doubt revealed it by then to defend themselves against any near death experience.

But all that came from Jaskier was the quickened pitter patter of an accelerated pulse, and the weak scent of panic in the air.

Jaskier had clutched a hand to his chest, fist gripping the front of his doublet, as he gasped breaths in and out, staring at Geralt in surprise. Geralt had dispatched the corpses, intent on ignoring the bard, and tied them to Roach, while he tried to extinguish the traitorous, guilty thoughts burning through his mind.

No, Jaskier was no monster or mage. He was simply a human bard with absolutely no sense of self preservation, and an enchanted lute.

————————————————

Geralt hmmed back, gently urging Roach forward to the desolate town.

“It must be glorious to look inside your head Geralt,” Jaskier continued, subconsciously moving along with Roach as she trotted forwards, head raising and hand gesturing in a circular motion towards Geralt’s brow, as he continued to talk to Geralt. “

“And I only say this because I hope you know I actually can’t read your mind Geralt!” He exclaimed, his voice going higher the way Geralt had learned was his way of showing mock frustration. And it was easy to see that he was not truly bothered by Geralt’s lack of response, for the easy smile remained on his face, as the words left his mouth.

“Sometimes I think you forget I cannot read your mind.”

Geralt only grunted in reply, not caring at the sigh from Jaskier in response to his answer.

“Ugh Geralt please! I am in need of social interaction, on the road for five days, no bath, no bed, and only you for company,” Jaskier waved his arms over, his voice growing louder the more he gestured, while his mouth morphed into a pout.

“I’ve even started talking to Roach out of desperation, its absolutely not fair Geralt! I mean, she is a perfectly gentle and decent lady, but please, have mercy on the poor human bard following you, and please deign yourself to speak to me in complete sentences at least.”

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s gaze boring into the side of his head, and yet Geralt stared straight ahead, straining hard to hide the grin attempting to emerge due to Jaskier’s dramatic tantrums. At being ignored, Jaskier squawked indignantly, waved his arms above his head again, and went on another tirade having to do with boorish dull Witchers, and how terrible they were to keep as company.

Geralt would like to think he teased the bard because he hoped it would give him the incentive to leave, but the more he traveled with the Jaskier, the more effort he had to put into not grinning at every ridiculous thing that seem to spew from his mouth. But the mere difficulty in keeping a straight face, at enjoying something other than the loneliness, terrified him until he shoved his amusement into a box, locked it, and threw it into the furthest corners of his mind.

“Gerraallltt, come on, you have got to be joking at this point, even you aren’t this quiet. Geralt, please tell me we are going to be able to stay at an inn tonight? My poor feet can’t handle much more of this road.”

At that remark Geralt focused his senses on the bard, turning his head to look at him and well as check his scent. His sudden movement stunned Jaskier, who blinked in surprise at having the Witcher’s full attention. Despite being startled, smiled back and stayed silent as Geralt quietly observed him.

Weaker men before the bard had quivered at having the Witcher’s complete gaze, but not Jaskier. Geralt was not sure whether he was brave, stupid, or was just lacking in self preservation, but the bard held Geralt’s gaze calmly and easily, for some reason not questioning why Geralt so abruptly focused all his attention on him.

He quickly checked for the smell of any blood from blisters due to the road, and was relieved when all he could catch was the good natured humor coating the bard’s natural chamomile scent. There was no fear, no pain, the bard was only teasing. Geralt relaxed, content and sure that Jaskier was only exaggerating.

Geralt allowed himself a snort of amusement.

“You have only yourself to blame. When we were over at the merchants square, I told you to buy the hiking boots, and what did you do? You bought those flimsy dress shoes.”

Geralt returned his gaze to the front of the path, silently noting how abandoned the village seemed. There was the scent of old fear in the town. Yet, it only seemed old because few villagers ventured out of their homes, for the scent of fear was strong and new near the doors of the villager’s houses.

So focused on the strangeness of the village, that he barely heard Jaskier’s shocked gasp.

“The Witcher speaks!” Jaskier grumbled, “My dear Witcher, you cannot expect me to wear such monstrosities!”

In his hurry to get the words out, Jaskier nearly tripped on a lose pebble in front of him. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose in response, the only sign of how amusing he was finding the whole conversation.

After regaining his balance, Jaskier continued.

“They were Black Geralt! Black! Ask me what outfits I have that match with black! Well for your information, absolutely none.”

With a dry drawl, Geralt replied,

“It might surprise you to know Jaskier, that I could care less about how shiny and colorful your shoes are, if they wear quickly and slow us.”

Jaskier huffed indignantly, “Well of course you wouldn’t care,” putting special emphasis on the you by deepening his voice, “You have absolutely no eye for clothing, At the beginning of our glorious joint travels, I thought Witchers were colorblind.”

Geralt only grunted back, eyes straight ahead, while Jaskier went off on another monologue. The bard’s scent remained clean chamomile and primrose, heart beat steady and strong.

Yes, Geralt found that the constant noise that now accompanied him on his travels, was difficult to grow accustomed to. The sound of steps, the whisper of breath, the thrum of a pulse, and the endless lilting tones of a voice. These all disturbed his precious silence, and if Geralt tried hard enough, he could convince himself to try yet again to get the bard to leave. To let him return to his list of a life, since the bard disturbed his peace so much. It would be for Geralt’s benefit, to leave this fool of a bard somewhere far behind.

And he ignored the way his heart would race into something near panic, whenever he could no longer discern the gentle sound of the bard’s breathing next to him.

The bard at is side quieted, steps growing closer to Roach a he leaned towards Geralt, eyes eyeing the town as he muttered,

“What desolate, and miserable presence this town has Geralt. I would write it into song, if it were not guaranteed to get us thrown out of every tavern on this side of the continent for being absolutely depressing.”

Geralt hmmed in agreement, “These people are suffering,”

And it was true, the heavy cloud of anguish and fear hung over the village like a shadow over a man.

“Well no doubt Geralt, there’s no one outside. Which begs the question, what do they fear?”

Their slow and gentle meandering had brought them to the entrance of the village’s inn, a lacking and bereft building with peeling walls, and a sun bleached roof. The dirt around the inn was so dry, that the dust seemed to stay heavy and present in the air despite the lack of movement from recent of arrivals.

“I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.” Geralt replied, dismounting and handing Roach’s reigns hesitantly over to a thin and sickly looking stable hand. He reeked of anger and frustration, despite the lack of expression on his face.

As they entered the inn, Geralt endeavored to not stay there too long, despite Jaskier’s pleading. No amount of contract money was worth a stolen horse.

—————————————-

The mood inside the inn was morose.

Where inns such as Posada were inhabited yet uneasy, this one was bereft of people, and the few employees inside the inn were dusty and dirty. Their eyes were empty as they stared at the swirl of the wooden tables in front of them. It was eerily silent, for despite it being clear that they were all neighbors, they held no conversation with each other. The only sound coming from a thin woman in the corner sweeping the endless dust that drifted through the door when Geralt and Jaskier entered, with a crooked and shabby broom.

So strong was the silence, that even Jaskier was over-whelmed for a moment. Mouth remaining shut despite his obvious desire to state the obvious.

Geralt turned to tell Jaskier to ask for a room for the night, only to be see a somber look upon the bard’s face. It was so out of character for Jaskier, that Geralt could not help but pause for a second. His lips became a thin line. His gaze was unfocused, as though staring at a distance far away. His eyes were a darker color than his usual sunny sky blue. Jaskier abruptly caught Geralt’s intrusive gaze, and just as quickly as Jaskier’s somber face appeared, it was gone, an easy smile returning to the bard’s face.

“I’ll go ask for a room for us Geralt,” Jaskier beamed, smile frozen on his face as his hands tightened their grip on the strap of his lute case. He hurriedly turned his back to Geralt, and quickly stepped away to speak to the inn keeper.

Geralt followed behind, but did not intervene. It was always easier to buy food and lodging if he let Jaskier do the talking

Jaskier put his hands on his hips as he addressed the bone thin crone at the head of the tavern.

“Well hello there madam! I’m here to purchase food and drink from this fine establishment, for my friend and-“

“There is only stew, no ale, and one room,” the inn keeper croaked.

“Well that won’t be a problem, will it Geralt?” Jaskier turned around and sent Geralt a grin.

Geralt stayed silent, keeping his gaze focused on the old woman in front of him. She was weathered, skin the texture of leather, with a hunch on her back. He mentioned nothing of how strange it seemed, that the inn was bereft of people, and yet there was only one room available.

“Are there any monsters causing problems nearby?” Asked Geralt, as he accepted the room’s key, and shuffled forward some coin as payment. While he watched the old woman search for something along a dusty shelf, Geralt heard a slight creaking in the floor boards, behind a closed door that the withered woman seemed desperate to keep hidden with her body.

“There is nothin’ here for you, Witcher,” The crone returned with a rag and a jug of water, which she used to wipe down the table aggressively, avoiding Geralt’s gaze while not even collecting the coin in front of her.

The heavy scent of a lie permeated the air.

Jaskier shuffled his feet and picked at his nails, staring at them before looking back at the old woman, “Well, it’s only that everything is so quiet around the-“

“There is absolutely nothin’ here for you!” The crone banged the jar of water harshly, with enough force to spill some along the sides, as she glared at the Witcher and bard.

“Nana, I’m ‘ungry, and so is Munty.”

Eyes widening in fear, she abandoned her task and dashed to the door behind her. Geralt remembered the creaking floor boards he heard earlier, not surprised to spy a child through the newly open door. The weathered inn keeper lowered herself to kneel to the height of the child, a movement that wore on her knees and made her wince in discomfort. She steadied herself before gripping the child’s shoulders tightly.

“What did I tell you about leavin’ your room!”

The toddler’s brown eyes watered, and he brought the bunny stuffie clutched in his hands up to his chest, cradling it protectively while he avoided his nana’s gaze.

“But we were getting lonely, and we wanted some suppa’.”

The innkeeper’s stiff lips and stone eyes softened. She took one hand off the toddler’s shoulders, and ruffled the child’s hair fondly.

“Oh don’t you worry now sweet child, no crocodile tears here. I’ll bring some warm stew to your room before long, now go back inside.”

“Ok,” the child muttered, reluctantly walking back to the open door, until he caught sight of Geralt.

“You’re a Witcher…” he said in awe, eyes wide and far too large for such a small face.

Geralt blinked in surprise at the lack of fear in the boy, and nodded.

“Lucas go back to your room now!” The woman snapped, patience running out. “This here Witcher has no business here.”

The little boy struggled in his Nana’s grip, determined to stay where he was.

“But he’s a Witcher,” Lucas stomped his feet, face scrunching up. “He can ‘elp us.”

“Indeed, he is a Witcher,” Jaskier soothed, cutting in before the old woman could say anything else, and the toddler’s sudden tantrum worsened.

“And you wanna know something else Lucas?” Jaskier asked, a small smile on his face, his voice gentle as if he were talking to a spooked animal. It was the first time Geralt had ever heard him be that quiet, the Witcher used to him talking as if he were belting out every word.

“What?” Lucas replied shyly, momentarily distracted, his voice slightly distorted over the rabbit ear in his mouth.

Jaskier walked over to Lucas, until he too was crouched beside him. Then, he turned his waist and pointed one hand over to Geralt as if presenting him before some grand audience, while the other cupped over his mouth to whisper into the boys’s ear conspiratorially. All the while, ignoring the death glare the old women sent him.

“Yes indeed, he is a Witcher, but not only is he some regular Witcher, he is also the best Witcher in the world.. he’s fought dragons and trolls, pixies and wyverns, and prevailed against every one of them.. all the while saving soo many people..but you must keep it a secret, only between you and I.”

The child gasped and looked back at Geralt in wonder, before hiding back behind Jaskier’s hand and asking, “but why must we keep it a secret?” His eyes focused on Jaskier.

Jaskier swiveled his head, looking around despite there being no one else near except Geralt and the crone. He then turned to look at Geralt suspiciously, but his grin gave him away. He then motioned with his finger for Lucas to come even closer.

As soon as Lucas drew nearer, Jaskier covered both his mouth and boy’s ear with his hand before whispering in mock seriousness, “because if we ever told him, his head would grow far bigger than it already is, and become far too large for the rest of his poor body to handle.”

Geralt mentally rolled his eyes. Jaskier knew well enough that no amount of whispering would be able to hide his mutterings from Witcher ears. Besides, if anyone was in danger of developing a big head, it was Jaskier.

But the effect was immediate, the boy’s face lighting up with mirth as he giggled

“So Lucas, if you’re having any problems around here, any at all, you know our Witcher is up to the task,” Jaskier appeared to still be speaking to Lucas, but his eyes sought out the old woman’s and stayed there, until he wore her down. Her stubborn scowl relented, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“We ain’t got no coin Witcher,” she admitted, all the fight gone from her, “like I said, there is no job for you here.”

“So there is a monster here,” Geralt grunted, voice rough and gravelly.

Lucas bit his lip. He eyed his nana, the Witcher, and then his nana again, before escaping his nana’s hold and rushing towards the Witcher, small fists grasping Geralt’s trousers along with his bunny.

“Please Lord Witcher!” Lucas screamed, voice shrill and high.

“Lucas!” The crone roared, but not in anger. Her eyes swam with fear as eyed the imposing form of the Witcher towering over her six year old grandson.

Geralt’s face relaxed, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible, as he stared at the cherub face now lined with tears. He did not move to dislodge the child’s fists from his clothes.

“I’m no lord little one,” he said gruffly but gently.

The child’s brow furrowed in thought, before his eyes brightened.

“Then please sir Witcher! Please, you have to help us!”

Geralt was about to say he was not any type of ‘sir’ either, but was interrupted by the old woman.

“Lucas, get back here now!” The crone hissed, fists clenched at her side. Her tone urgent, and her gaze panicked, yet she herself clearly unwilling to draw any nearer to Geralt.

“Please Witcher sir!” The boy’s voice was desperate and pleading, completely ignoring his nana.

Geralt eyed the child’s trembling form, watery eyes gazing at him stubbornly, despite the sharp new scent of fear coming from him.

It was easy at first for Lucas to be lulled by Jaskier’s words of a courageous Witcher, defeating dragons and fighting trolls, but up close, Lucas could see Geralt’s pale skin. He could see those slitted golden eyes, and snow bleached hair. He did not mean to be afraid, but Lucas could not help it.

“Please,” Lucas whispered, at seeing no reaction from Geralt.

The boy swallowed, as his eyes filled with even more tears and he pulled at Geralt’s clothes beseechingly.

“It killed my sister,” he choked, a hiccuped sob escaping him.

Jaskier stiffened.

“It left none of her!” the child wailed, “nuthin’ except Munty!”

Geralt froze, unsure and completely inexperienced at how to soothe the wailing child in front of him. He turned to Jaskier, because between the both of them, the colorful, affectionate bard was by far the best at soothing children. He turned, only to have his world shift on its axis.

He was hit with an overwhelming wave of fear. At first Geralt was confused. He searched for the old woman, because surely the fear was coming from her. At finding her still frenzied but not the source of the smell, the emotion roiling in his gut turned to disbelief. The overpowering, sour stench of fear was coming from the bard.

Jaskier’s wide unfocused eyes, so blown that there was almost no blue left, stared off into the distance, as though seeing some vision visible only to him. His hands let go of his lute strap, only to tremble spastically in front of him, not quite at his sides. His breath seemed frozen in his chest, unable to make a sound, yet his mouth gaped open as though about to scream in reaction to some hidden enemy.

Geralt didn’t think, he didn’t have a thought in his mind that told his legs to move. They did it on their own. Because Geralt recognized that look. Empty troubled looks that spoke of loss and bloodshed, spastic trembles that never seemed to end. He’d seen those looks before, but never on a bard.

Never on Jaskier, who always smelled of sunshine after a long winter.

Never on Jaskier, who always took the time to braid the springtime flowers into Roach’s mane, because he said “Oh away with the scowl Geralt, Roach is a lady, and a lady deserves to have her gorgeous locks in order.”

Never on Jaskier, who let the local children of whatever town grip and tug at his lute to entertain themselves, despite the hours of cleaning and tuning he would have to do afterwards.

Never Jaskier, who was gentle and kind, and who barely knew how to hold a knife “pointy part away.”

Never Jaskier, because in a land of shit and piss, Geralt already missed Jaskier’s clean and warm chamomile and primrose scent.

Never Jaskier, because out of everyone in the world, his face was the last one that Geralt wanted to see frozen in the memory of sorrows past.

Geralt did not remember how or when he got to Jaskier, only that once he did, he grasped the bard’s shoulders, panicked, and angry, and unsure, because he didn’t know a damn thing that could help. He could not slay the monsters in Jaskier’s mind, not matter how much he wished to.

“Jaskier,” he murmured, hoping to draw him back to the present.

“Jaskier,” he said, louder and more insistently, gently shaking his shoulders. If Geralt were panicking before, then he lost his mind when the only result of his jostling was Jaskier’s head lolling limply atop his shoulders.

Geralt was so lost in this worries he did not notice Jaskier’s eyes focusing. Only when Jaskier’s fingers gripped his forearms, did Geralt notice that the bard’s gaze was once again in the present.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s wrists, and with more force than expected, Jaskier pried Geralt’s hands from his shoulders.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, hands still trembling slightly, “let me go.”

Geralt jerked his hands back as if they’d been holding burning coals.

Jaskier took a couple steps away from Geralt, trembling slightly and hugging himself, quickly putting distance between him and the Witcher. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

A second later and they reopened, calm again, staring resolutely at anything except the Witcher.

“Geralt,” he said, voice cold as ice, “I do believe you are long overdue to have a little chat with this woman.”

It as wrong.

It was like a stranger was moving the bard’s mouth stealing his voice. If Geralt hadn’t known better, he would have thought the person in front of him to be some imposter, a Doppler.

And there was no fear left in Jaskier, but his scent was wrong, it was still wrong. There was no sunshine, no chamomile. The sense of wrongness just would not go away. Because Jaskier never smelled afraid. Jaskier never smelled angry. And most of all, Jaskier had never avoided his eyes before, the way he was doing now.

Geralt couldn’t smell the chamomile, or the sunshine… Jaskier didn’t smell like Jaskier. It was all wrong.

Geralt’s heart dropped to his stomach.

It was as if the sun had stopped shining.

“Marian,” the old woman muttered, sees shifting between Geralt and Jaskier, “My name is Marian.”

While Geralt’s attention had been occupied by Jaskier, Marian had rushed over to her grandson and pulled him back into her grasp, stifling the child’s sobs.

“Again,” Marian croaked, “We have nothing to pay you.”

“I’ll do it, “ Geralt grunted, ears still trained on the quickened pulse of the stock still bard staring at his fingers four feet from him, utterly silent in the appearance of calm, yet his thundering heart giving him away.

“We don’t take charity, never have,” Marian scowled, the wrinkles on her face deepening, “especially not from mutant monsters like you.”

“This isn’t charity,” Geralt growled, ignoring the insult, “If left alone, whatever monster it is will continue killing, till someone becomes desperate enough to ask for my help. If I don’t kill it now, I will be forced to kill it later, when it’s stronger and smarter and far more dangerous to slay. If it is able to reproduce, then the resulting creatures will not limit themselves to this town, and spread to surrounding villages until not even an army of Witchers will suffice.”

The woman’s face paled at the thought.

“It will keep killing,” Geralt continued, face stern “I’ve yet to meet a monster that leaves after a few meals. It’ll continue feeding till all that is left of this town is a trail of corpses, and all because you would not accept help for the sake of your pride”

“So Marian,” Geralt asked, voice grim and tired, “Which monster do you fear more, the mutant in front of you, or the man eater out there,” Geralt pointed to the nearest window, “picking you off one by one?”

Marian swallowed, the silence in the inn deafening as neither Witcher nor grandmother backed down. The few workers in the inn had fled to rooms upstairs, wary of any encounter with the Witcher. Eventually Marian looked away, frustration evident on her aged and weary face.

“We don’t know what it is,” Marian warned, still consoling the now silent child at her side, “None of us have seen it and lived to tell the tale.”

“What does it leave of the bodies,” Geralt asked patiently, “How many creatures?”

Marian moved to answer, until a whimper interrupted their conversation.

Marian glanced down at her trembling grandson, sighing in understanding.

“How bout’ we continue this conversation in private?”

Geralt glanced down at the child shivering in Marian’s arms. He was pale and jittery, crying silently, no doubt reliving his sister’s death.

“Dearest Lucas,” Jaskier said with far too much liveliness for a man that not minutes ago had been reduced to a quivering ball of fear.

“How about you and I go get ourselves a meal? Aren’t you still hungry? I know I’m famished!”

The child nodded, face partially hidden behind his bunny stuffie.

Lucas glanced up at his nana, “Nana, can I go?”

Marian glared at Jaskier suspiciously, grip tightening on her grandson’s hand.

“We will just be going to that table over there,” Jaskier assured her, pointing to the furthest table in the inn, “He’ll be in your line of sight.”

Marian hesitated, torn between having her grandchild leave her side, or letting him overhear the gruesome details of his sister’s death.

At her continued distrust, Jaskier’s back straightened.

“I promise.” Jaskier said, tone changing, his voice harder than Geralt had ever heard it before.

“I promise” he asserted, eyes like a frozen glacier rather than a summer sky. “no harm will come to your grandchild, certainly not while he is with me, you have my word.”

And there was no way Jaskier could promise such a thing, Geralt thought. He couldn’t even defend himself, much less a child. And yet there was no doubt in Jaskier’s voice, or any falsehood in his scent.

In his strange, empty yet present scent.

Marian paused, searching for something in the bard’s face. After a moment, she nodded slowly, having seemingly found it.

She turned to her grandson, “Lucas, you’re going to go with…?” Marian turned to the bard, waiting for his name.

At this, Jaskier grinned, eyes filled with instant cheer, as if someone had flipped a switch.

“Jaskier is the name, fine madam!” He turned to Lucas with a flourish, tilting his head slightly at the youth before launching into an intricate and court worthy curtesy “and fine sir, at your service!”

The boy’s face remained somber, the thought of his sister’s death still too heavy in his mind to be distracted by even Jaskier’s antics.

“You’re a bard?” The boy asked.

“My poor, sweet, unaware, dear child,” he mockingly despaired at the heavens, hands gesturing towards the ceiling, “you are only in the presence of the most decorated bard in all the continent!” Jaskier bragged, head high and eyes beaming, both hands now at his waist, “praised by kings and queens,” he continued, “voice complimented by sirens themselves!”

“We get it bard,” Marian grumbled dryly, exasperated by his theatrics.

But boy’s mouth hung open, not yet cheered but successfully distracted, “What’s a siren?”

“Come with me,” Jaskier held a hand out to Lucas, “and I’ll tell you.”

Lucas bit his lip, and looked up at his grandmother, silently asking for permission again without uttering a word. Marian mouthed a gentle go, and it was all the prompting the youth needed before he hesitantly took Jaskier’s hand, letting himself be led to a distant table, the bard rambling about nonsense all the way.

Geralt stared at the bard’s retreating back, still distracted by Jaskier’s scent. It was no longer covered in fear, or anger, but it was also devoid of… well..everything that made Jaskier, Jaskier. And despite the joy the bard exuded while talking to Lucas, no accompanying joyful scent had emanated from the bard. He had been empty.

And if Jaskier’s pulse was sedate and far too calm for the emotions passing through his face, then Geralt’s heartbeat soared, elevated far beyond what was normal for a Witcher. And Geralt realized that this was what if felt like to be worried. After ages being devoid of worry, for himself, for anyone else except his brothers, it had become difficult to recognize it. Witcher potions diluting the emotion till it was nothing but an echo in his mind. Yet the fiery hot tension pounding through his veins could not be confused for anything other worry for the bard.

And he was annoyed, because without Jaskier’s comforting chamomile and primrose scent, the world had gone back to smelling like the shit hole it truly was.

And he was annoyed by how much he’d come to rely on the human’s calming scent. It was ridiculous how he was annoyed at how annoyed its absence made him.

Whatever was going on, it needed to be fixed, soon.

“I believe we were talking Witcher,”

Geralt blinked, and tore his gaze away from Jaskier’s back, towards Marian.

“How many?” Geralt asked.

At this Marian grimaced, glancing to the side, pulse accelerating at the thought of the beast, “one, of this I am sure.”

Geralt frowned, “How are you so sure?”

“It leaves tracks,” she explained, “Only one set of tracks, though none of the men are stupid enough to attempt to hunt it down. And its doubtful if those tracks will ever disappear, with the rains lagging as much as they are.”

“Hmm”, Geralt grunted, acknowledging what she said.

“You’re in a dry spell?” Geralt asked.

Marian wrung her hands, “Worst one in twenty years. Crops won’t grow, and the soil rises from the ground at the gentlest of winds. If it doesn’t rain soon, then the monster might be the least of our worries.”

She continued explaining anything she knew about the monster. Geralt listened, but he also couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between Jaskier and Lucas, the distance doing nothing to muffle their voices against his sensitive ears despite his inability to see their faces.

Jaskier spun tales of sirens and fairies, obviously attempting to distract the child, yet it seemed in vain, as Lucas uttered not a single question or word.

Jaskier finally went quiet, and just as Geralt was beginning to think he’d given up, he spoke.

“I had a sister too, once.” words hesitant and slow coming from Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt’s heart froze in his chest, barely hearing Marian in front of him.

Geralt heard Lucas squeeze his bunny, beads scraping against each other inside the stuffed animal.

“Where did she go?”

“Well,” Jaskier’s voice was breathless, raspy and weak as Geralt had never heard it.

“she’s gone, like yours” the admission from bard sounding as though someone had punched it out of him.

Even from that distance, Geralt could hear the bard’s nails scraping the soft dry wood on the table’s surface.

“Oh” Geralt heard Lucas hug the bunny to his chest.

“Well, maybe they’re together now.” Lucas whispered.

Geralt heard the boy’s heart beat start to race, and the scent of tears began to permeate through the inn.

“Do you” the boy’s voice trembling from the strength of holding in his sobs, “Did you ever stop missing her?”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.

He heard it begin anew in a broken rhythm. A rhythm Geralt knew well from others.

Anger.

After a long pause..

“Never.” Jaskier said, voice frigid and steady as a mountain in the wind, fear completely gone from his scent.

And Geralt could only rage at his inability to fix this, fix all of this, because for all of Jaskier’s talking, he never even knew the bard had a sister at all.

—————————

After gathering any important details from Marian, Geralt watched her collect her grandchild, while the bard was as cheerful as ever, telling her how well Lucas had behaved. The bard clasped his hands, a grin from ear to ear, promising to sing for Lucas later. His voice was kind and calm, far too calm for a man admitting to his sister’s death only moments earlier.

And Geralt wished everything were fine, but his heart still beat two paces too fast (Geralt didn’t let himself think when and why he’d learned the bard’s resting heartbeat), and his eyes lacked a strange light they’d had before, leaving them looking bereft. And Geralt felt the world was upside down, because everything was still wrong, and yet it still seemed fine as ever at the same time. Because Jaskier was still the same as ever, but different at the same time.

Jaskier still clasped Geralt’s shoulder and told him he’d be going to their room to get some rest, just like in every hunt before.

And he still held Geralt’s gaze with a calm smile despite the Witcher’s yellow slitted eyes, just like in every hunt before.

And he still ran up the stairs, taking two at a time while making a racket that Geralt used to find ear splitting, but now only left him fondly exasperated, just like in every hunt before.

But it’s not ok, not alright at all, because the comforting scent of chamomile and primrose, was still gone, unlike every hunt before.

And Geralt, for all his strength, and mutations, and training, has no idea know how to fix it.

No idea at all.

————————————

Geralt checked on Roach soon after. He focused on brushing her down, all the while ignoring the suspicious glances the bone thin stable boy kept shooting him. Geralt had bigger worries. Worries such as finding out what kind of monster he was hunting. Worries such as, how to fix whatever was wrong with Jaskier, because Geralt couldn’t imagine a world where the bard’s gentle scent was absent.

The stable boy muttered an insult that Geralt still caught, and all but stormed outside.

Geralt ignored him, Focused on brushing Roach down. Once he finished with that, he poured her feed into a trough, watching her have her meal.

Geralt relaxed into the routine of it all, until he smelled a gentle but sharp scent of moisture in the air. It coiled through the stable gracefully, till the humidity reached Geralt’s nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened.

It couldn’t be.

Outside, Geralt heard the stableboy shout in surprise, along with suspicious sounding plip plops rebounding on the dry ground.

Geralt rushed his way out of the stable, steps heavy yet hurried, only to have his face be assaulted by heavy droplets of water once exposed to the outside.

He found the source of the shout, only to be met by a waterlogged stable hand. Although completely drenched, the stable hand seemed not to care. His arms were held out, catching stray droplets, as an incredulous smile adorned his face for the very first time since Geralt had seen him.

“The rains are here! The dry spell is over everyone!” the stable hand screamed, “It’s over! THE DRY SPELL IS OVER!” He roared.

And outside, Geralt could see all the townspeople leaving their homes, the same look of wonder and relief on their faces as on the stable hand, as they held their hands out, letting the long hoped for rain fall onto their welcoming palms.

Geralt watched the town come alive, until Marian came running outside as well, her face twisted in disbelief. She held her hand out as well, and watched the droplets run through the deep wrinkles in her palm before returning it to cover her mouth.

Tears began to glisten at the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a miracle,” she choked out, struggling to maintain her composure as the rain turned into a downpour.

——————————————

Geralt walked back to the inn, eager to dry himself after the surprise rainfall.

Sadly for him, the townspeople’s luck was his misfortune, as any tracks left by the monster would have no doubt by then been erased.

Geralt heaved a sigh as he walked up the steps, only for his calm to be broken by the scent of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt ran up the stairs, his mind rushing through successively more horrible scenarios as to why his bard was bleeding.

Did he fall from his bed?

Did he cut himself on accident?

Did some angry viscous villager break in and attack Jaskier, just from associating with a Witcher?

At that thought Geralt doubled his pace, not thinking as he slammed the door open while simultaneously pulling out his steel sword.

It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier was attacked due to his association with the Witcher. Geralt recalled one such occasion when he’d been out on a hunt, only to return to their inn to find five men outside, completely unconscious. He’d gone in only to find Jaskier sporting a black eye, and a story.

“You wouldn’t believe it Geralt!” the bard had exclaimed, words rushing out of his mouth, “Those men attacked me, but that knight over there,” he’d pointed to some dazed looking knight in the corner of the inn, “ saved me from certain death, this poor face, imagine Geralt, could’ve been damaged forever!”

And Geralt didn’t need to ask why they’d attacked Jaskier. He’d heard them earlier, moaning about emotionless, evil, witchers, having no business in an inn. He’d simply thought they didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.

He’d been wrong.

And the thanks he’d given the strangely dazed knight had tasted like shit coming out of his mouth.

Because Geralt had failed.

He’d failed at protecting the bard, and instead, Jaskier had to rely on some two penny knight to save his hide.

At a slurred response from the knight, Geralt had frowned, and asked Jaskier what was wrong with him.

Jaskier had rolled his eyes, “Oh Geralt, don’t you worry. While courageously defending your companion, he took a blow to the head, but he’s fine now, aren’t you?” Jaskier had asked the knight forcefully, smile pasted onto his face.

The knight had looked at the bard, and then mumbled some response, incoherent to even Geralt’s sensitive ears. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose.

However, Geralt had left it at that.

The important thing was that Jaskier was safe.

But Geralt refused to fail again.

When the door banged open, he was met by the sight of Jaskier attempting to staunch the flow of blood coming from somewhere on his face.

At the sudden noise, the bard inside the room jumped, the hand over his nose shifting as a result, allowing some droplets of blood to coat the floor underneath.

“Melitle’s tits Geralt!”

Geralt growled at the sight, and listened as well as scented the room for any possible intruders.

His anger turned into confusion as he found both of them to be the only occupants of the room.

“Oh my word Geralt!” The bard screamed at noticing Geralt’s sword in hand, “It’s just a nose bleed!”

Not at all comforted, and heart still racing from panic, Geralt sheathed his sword and approached the bard.

“Let me see,” Geralt grumbled, reaching for the hand staunching the blood in Jaskier’s nose.

What proceeded was a rather vicious tug of war between Jaskier and Geralt. Geralt’s goal was to remove the hand and check for damage, while Jaskier’s goal seemed to be attempting to be as difficult as possible.

“You impossible oaf! I’m fine, let go of me!” Jaskier shrieked, almost hysterical.

The resulting struggle only added to the small but growing puddle of blood on the floor.

A fucking puddle on the floor, from a fucking nosebleed.

“Stop being so difficult!” Geralt snarled, worry at the amount of blood exiting the human’s body overcoming his already thin patience.

Were nosebleeds supposed to bleed that much?

Jaskier continued to struggle, heart beat racing, still sounding wrong to Geralt’s ears. However, the bard’s strength soon ebbed, and Geralt ripped his hand from his face to get a clear view of Jaskier’s nose.

Jaskier whined at his hand being ripped away, but Geralt ignored him.

Geralt cupped one large hand over Jaskier’s check, this thumb brushing over the top of his upper lip while accidentally smearing the blood there over one cheek. All the while Jaskier’s eyes never left Geralt’s eyes, while his hand remained clasped over Geralt’s wrist. His face was pale, his eyes wide, breaths quick and gasping, reminding Geralt of earlier when Jaskier had seemed far away and in a nightmare. Except now, it was clear Jaskier was looking at Geralt.

His nose didn’t appear broken, but it was bleeding far more than what seemed normal. The blood left a thick trail down the front of Jaskier’s doublet, the resulting path coating the bard’s mouth and chin.

“Fuck” Geralt grunted, his heart still racing as he replaced Jaskier’s hand and gently pinched the bridge of the bard’s nose, attempting to staunch the bleeding.

He was so focused on staunching the blood, that he barely noticed the bard’s eyes losing focus, and his heart starting to race like a hummingbird’s.

Geralt could only utter one loud and vicious, “Jaskier!” Before the bard swayed on his feet, legs collapsing as he began to fall towards the floor.

Geralt caught him before he hit the ground, now completely panicked at what the fuck could be going on.

Geralt pulled Jaskier’s completely limp body closer to him, sliding one hand under the bard’s shoulders, and the other under knees before lifting him completely, Jaskier’s head lolling disturbingly on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt made a beeline for the bed, only for him to notice the way his own hands were shaking as they gripped Jaskier’s limp body closer.

Stunned, Geralt could only stare as his hands refused to stop trembling.

His hands never trembled.

Trembling hands meant hands that were unable to wield a sword.

Trembling hands meant the inability to defend himself.

Trembling hands meant death for a Witcher.

Vesemir had beaten the shaking out of hands ages ago, only for it to return now.

At the sound of more blood hitting the floor, Geralt shook his head and slowly laid Jaskier over the bed.

Geralt felt around the bard’s body for any sign of collision, any sign of damage, that could lead the Witcher to understanding why Jaskier was hemorrhaging from a simple nose bleed.

But Geralt found nothing.

Geralt was startled out of his escalatingly more terrified thoughts, as he heard Jaskier choke, liquid that could only be blood gushing out of his mouth and nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he rushed to turn Jaskier’s motionless face to the side, opening his mouth to allow the buildup of blood to exit his mouth. In his distraction, Geralt had almost let Jaskier choke to death on his own blood. Jaskier gagged, and Geralt worked to clear the bard’s mouth of blood.

Somewhere in Geralt’s mind, numb amongst the horror he was living through, he noted how stained the bed covers were becoming. How stained his hands were becoming. Stained with blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt felt ice pierce his chest.

Geralt began pawing desperately at Jaskier’s head, breaths quickening with dread, trying to find any sort of bump or bruise, anything that could cause this.

He couldn’t lose Jaskier over a nosebleed.

He wouldn’t lose Jaskier over anything, not while he could help it.

Just as Geralt was prepared to gather Jaskier into his arms again and demand to see the town’s healer, the blood flow ebbed, only a slight trickle to what had previously been a torrent of crimson.

Geralt held his breath and pinched the bridge of Jaskier’s nose again to try to stop the nosebleed completely.

After a terrifying couple of seconds, Geralt lifted his hand, praying to all the gods he had previously cursed at, and begged to all the heavens, for the bleeding to have stopped.

To his utter, bone weary relief, the bleeding had stopped. Geralt let his shoulders slump in exhaustion, more worn from this haunting experience than from any hunt in recent memory.

Geralt allowed himself a moment of calm before he began checking Jaskier over.

Geralt placed two gentle fingers underneath the bard’s jaw to the side, feeling for his pulse.

The calm and steady, if slightly thready pulse comforted him. And as Geralt let his fingers rest over the pulsing artery, he could feel it picking up strength.

Satisfied with the knowledge that Jaskier’s heart wasn’t about to fail from blood loss, he continued checking him over.

He looked a fright, his lower face completely covered in red. But his eyes were closed, and his face relaxed.

He was still far paler than normal, but his cheeks were beginning to regain a healthy blush.

Before doing anything else, Geralt reached for Jaskier’s legs, bunching up the covers so his feet were higher than the rest of his body. After, he moved Jaskier’s head into a more comfortable position, while he adjusted his arms to lay at his side. Geralt finally reached for the thickest of the blankets and covered jaskier with it, tucking it in at the edges to makes sure the warmth wouldn’t escape.

Geralt then placed a hand over the bard’s nose and mouth. His breaths were regular and easy.

He placed a callus worn palm over the bard’s brow. His temperature was fine, not too hot, not too cold.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Geralt covered his face with his hands, before gathering the strength to fetch a rag and a bucket of water.

When he returned with the desired items, Jaskier was still lost to the world, eyes closed and chest rising steadily.

He began the laborious task of cleaning the blood off Jaskier’s face by dipping the rag into the bucket, excess moisture squeezed out by strong hands, before being applying it carefully over the bard’s upper lip.

Blood looked wrong on Jaskier’s skin, Geralt thought, as he worked to clean the crimson liquid off of him.

He moved the rag back and forth over Jaskier’s soft skin, working to rid the bard’s soft skin of any remainder of blood.

Just as he was near done, the bard jerked, coming awake with a horrified gasp. His eyes focused, and an angry snarl came over his face at seeing Geralt.

“Get off of me!” The bard shouted, eyes furious as he ripped the blanket off him.

Geralt grunted in surprise, before backing away and lifting his arms to show he had nothing in his hands except the bloodied rag.

Geralt could only watch Jaskier, stunned, because Jaskier did not tremble in his presence. Jaskier was never afraid of him. He was the only one to never be afraid of him, and so why was Jaskier staring at him as though he’d murdered his mother?

Trembling gasps continued to pass through Jaskier lips, as he stared at the Witcher like a spooked horse, hands gripping the sheet tangled around him.

And the smell was back. The wrong, sour, scent of fear.

Geralt wanted it gone, because that smell, the smell of terror, was not meant to be coming from Jaskier.

“What the fuck was that!?” Geralt roared, his anxiety morphing into fury despite his mind cautioning him to be gentle.

“Nothin,” Jaskier breathed, his scent calming, yet still different, “Nothing.”

“That was not ‘nothing’,” Geralt growled, “I’ve never seen a nose bleed like that! Was that even a nose bleed? What the fuck happened?”

“It’s just a nose bleed Geralt, nothing happened!” Jaskier shouted, voice bordering on frustrated.

Geralt looked at the bard’s still trembling form, and started to walk back towards him to finish cleaning off the rest of the blood, only to see Jaskier’s mouth turn into a grimace.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier bit out.

Geralt glared, fury threatening to overwhelm him as the vein on the side of his head bulged, and the day’s events began to weigh on him.

The stupid fuck was not fine. He was so completely not fine, and Geralt still didn’t know what the fuck had happened. If it happened again, Geralt still wouldn’t know what to do, because the fucking bard wouldn’t tell him.

Biting the inside of his cheek to restrain his temper, he tossed the bloodied rag towards bed. It landed to the left of Jaskier.

“You can wash your own damn face off then,” Geralt snarled, frame shaking with the effort of reigning in his worry and fury.

Geralt left to wash the fucking human blood off his hands and under his fingernails, while Jaskier stared at his retreating back, hands feeling his mostly clean face in disbelief.

Geralt scrubbed his hands harshly, making sure to rid himself of blood underneath his fingernails.

The rusty drying liquid made him nauseous.

He couldn’t stand the smell of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

——————————————

Things were quiet after that.

They avoided each other, sticking to opposite corners of the room. Geralt set out to prepare his swords for the night. Sharpening them as he counted the number of potions he would need, just in case.

Geralt refused to look at Jaskier, whose scent was still wrong. No, he could not look at him, because if he did, he might see the horror filled images of earlier. Jaskier limp and dead looking. No, he would rather not look at the bard at all.

However, as the sounds of Jaskier cleaning his face and changing his shirt passed, so too did Geralt’s anger. Instead, it was replaced by concern.

Geralt had reacted harshly in his worry, and he only grew to regret it as the hours passed.

Jaskier had just relived his sister’s death, and suffered a strange nosebleed, all in one hectic afternoon, only to come to a furious Geralt.

Geralt didn’t even know if Jaskier had watched his sister die in front of him.

He shuddered at the thought.

That would certainly explain the terror filled episodes. Perhaps when he looked at Geralt as he was waking up, he saw what killed his sister.

The thought only made Geralt feel guiltier at his reaction, as Jaskier worked to pull the bloodied bed covering off the frame.

It was unlike Jaskier to remain quiet for so long, and Geralt found himself missing the bard’s nonsensical drivel.

His scent was still wrong, and Geralt found he missed that too.

Geralt wasn’t good at gentle. He wasn’t good at comforting, not like Jaskier. But he had to try.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt choked, words tasting like dirt.

And the ones after were even harder to get out.

“I was worried,” Geralt grimaced, his mouth twisted in disgust.

Geralt heard Jaskier’s hands freeze where they were tugging a top over his head.

Geralt held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

Jaskier snorted gently from the other room, humorless laughter following it.

Geralt relaxed. He was forgiven.

“How hard did you have to smack yourself to get those words out,” chortled Jaskier.

“Almost as hard as you must have, to nearly bleed to death from a nosebleed,” Geralt responded dryly.

The laughter ended abruptly.

“Geralt..” Jaskier said hesitantly, as the bard moved closed to the Witcher finally in his line of sight, and placed a gentle hand over the others’ shoulder. “I really am fine.”

Geralt let the contact happen, strangely comforted by the warmth from the bard’s hand.

If Jaskier was touching him, it meant he wasn’t afraid of him.

“And thank you,” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulder, “for taking care of me while whatever that was happened,”

“I don’t know what that was,” continued Jaskier, “but I feel fine now,” he said reassuringly.

After a long pause, Geralt grunted, accepting the answer and gratitude.

“If it happens again,” Geralt warned, “You’re going to a healer.”

“Duly noted,” Jaskier answered, a gentle smile on his face.

Jaskier went back to unpacking his bags, checking that all his things were in order.

Everything was apparently back to normal. Except it wasn’t. Because Jaskier still didn’t smell like chamomile, still didn’t smell like primrose, still didn’t smell like Jaskier. He wasn’t talking nearly as much as he should be. Something was still wrong.

And drawing upon his already severely strained and diminished conversational ability, Geralt forced himself to try and fix things once again.

He searched for the right words to both comfort Jaskier, and have his own curiosity answered, but what left his mouth had absolutely no tact.

“I never knew you had siblings.”

The bard froze again.

He turned to face Geralt, his expression struggling to remain soft and smiling, but his eyes gave him away.

“And I never knew witchers were so nosy,” Jaskier countered teasingly, pulling at an invisible stitch at his shirt seam, forcing humor into his voice.

At Geralt’s continued silence and pointed impassive stare, Jaskier sighed, knowing the Witcher wouldn’t let it go.

“You never asked,” Jaskier admitted, voice hardening.

Geralt frowned. His voice had gone cold as ice again. He couldn’t tell what Jaskier was feeling, what he was thinking. His scent was all but gone, and his face was expressionless, those usually warm eyes gone icy.

Words that Jaskier would normally offer freely, Geralt now had to drag and scrape for.

Geralt found it unsettling.

Unsettled, but not dissuaded, Geralt continued.

“What happened?”

The bard’s face did not change, but his fingers twitched on his lap.

“She was murdered”, Jaskier answered in monotone, not taking his eyes off Geralt’s.

His voice was made strange by his lack of inflection.

So unlike Jaskier.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted, probably using that phrase for the second time in his life. This time, the phrase did not taste like dirt.

“Were they ever caught?”

At Jaskier’s continued stare, Geralt elaborated.

“The murderer?”

At this, Jaskier’s face did a strange little dance, muscles twitching, as though wanting to move yet being halted halfway through.

Finally the bard’s face settled on impassive again. But the heart inside the bard’s chest soared into a dizzying rhythm.

“No.”

Geralt tried. He tried so hard, but knew no words capable of consoling such grief. He was not gentle, or tactful, or apparently comforting. He didn’t know what to do, and his inability frustrated him to no end. He had to say something, but again, the words that came out could only be described as pathetic.

Geralt winced even as they left his lips.

“…Things like this, things like this have a way of righting themselves.. in my experience,” It was a pitiful attempt, and Geralt knew it.

But Jaskier’s gaze focused, his words seeming to have some effect as light returning to his eyes, but not like before. This was a different light, one that Geralt did not recognize. His staccato heartbeat calmed.

In an empty voice, with an empty gaze, face like stone and staring at Geralt eerily, he titled his head to the side like a cat.

“I think you just might be right about that Geralt.”

————————-

And so, after such a bizarre day, Geralt found himself downwind of an Alghoul. It was an ugly creature, pink drool dripping from its mouth. Despite the lack of a trail, tracking the monster had been a quick affair. He simply followed the stench of rot, strange and out of place in a forest.

Geralt prepared, his hand reaching for the hilt of his silver sword, briefly brushing on Renfri’s pendant. He held the hilt of his sword, readying himself. Just as the creature lifted its jaws to scent the air, Geralt burst for the thick foliage before the creature could sniff him out.

It screeched at the interruption, its face bulging in fury as it rushed to meet the oncoming Witcher. Geralt swung his sword, attempting to lop off its head with one smooth stroke. It was not to be, as the creature dodged to the side, lunging with its own blade like claws. Geralt danced away, focused on the monster in front of him.

Alghouls normally led a small to medium pack of lower ghouls, but this one seemed to be a solitary male, kicked out of its own pack by the reigning male for fear of eventually being deposed.

This one was probably in search of a pack to call its own.

Geralt swung again, clipping the Alghoul on its side. It gave out a hoarse howl, screech grating on Geralt’s sensitive ears.

The monster re doubled its efforts, blows coming quicker, and in a rare moment of distraction, it managed to swat Geralt, sending him flying onto a thick old tree. Geralt grunted, liquid trickling down his forehead.

Through the mess of blood Geralt saw the Alghoul rush towards him, and he only just managed to dodge what would have been a head separating bite to the neck. Instead, the creature got a mouthful of tree.

It’s jaws seemed stuck in the old and weather worn mark. Roaring at its body struggled to free its teeth.

The battle was over. Immobilized as it was, it would be an easy kill.

Geralt readied his sword, prepared to lop of the monster’s head for a quick death, when a sharp pain at his arm distracted him.

He hissed, sword flashing and cutting through what he saw to be a wailing ghoul.

His eyes widened.

He’d been wrong, the Alghoul was not solitary.

It was leading its own pack.

He had to the time to utter one, solitary, and desperate, “Fuck,” before he was flooded by a sea of Ghouls.

All screeching and yowling as they attempted to take a bite out of Geralt.

Ghouls were easy enough to kill, but hunting so many of them at one time was dangerous.

Geralt struggled to defend himself against the horde, killing many with one swing, but it was in vain as more rushed to take the fallen’s place.

One eventually broke through his defense, and bit through the arm not holding a sword. Geralt hissed in pain, his sword occupied in defending himself against Ghouls. Geralt swung his arm wildly, only for another Ghoul to jump at his back, launching him to the ground.

At having the Witcher down on the ground, the remaining Ghouls mobbed him, biting down with sharp jaws on anything limb they could find.

Geralt growled, and with a desperate surge of energy despite even more bites lining his limbs and torso, he struggled to his feet.

The Ghouls did not let go, hanging off the Witcher like macabre ornaments decorating a tree.

Geralt howled in throbbing agony, recognizing the battle was becoming deadly, before batting Ghouls off his frame, ignoring the way they took chunks of his flesh with them.

Geralt desperately swung his sword, trying to dislodge more of them, when a huge force hit him on the side, throwing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him.

Geralt sucked in a ragged gasp, as the remaining Ghouls ravaged him. And past the wriggling squirming horde, Geralt saw the Alghoul, finally free of the bark.

Geralt’s heart thundered in his ears, barely noticing as the Ghouls continued to tear and butcher his body, blood flowing from him like water in a river.

Geralt knew he was done.

Geralt’s last memory before the blood loss overwhelmed him, was Jaskier’s nimble fingers braiding flowers into Roach’s mane, smile gentle, and sky blue eyes turning to look look at Geralt, fearless and sweet.

As Geralt’s vision tunneled, and his hearing faded, Geralt realized he had regret.

Regret that he would never see Jaskier again.

————————————-

Hidden from view, and silent as a mouse, Jaskier watched in the distance.

He watched as the the Ghouls overwhelmed the Witcher.

He watched as they tore into his flesh, ripping chunks of meat and skin as blood began to pour.

He watched the Witcher lose consciousness.

Jaskier watched it all, with the same emotionless, empty gaze, moving not a single finger to help.

He watched the horde of Ghouls part for the larger Alghoul, making way for him to issue the killing blow.

All the while, Jaskier kept watching, motionless, as the Alghoul stalked towards the unconscious Witcher.

His pounding, frenzied heart the only sign betraying his otherwise calm exterior.

------

If you liked this chapter, then you can head on over to my account on archive of our own, where you can find up to chapter 6 of this story. Feel free to comment and critique. (Comments are like cookies, there can never be too many.)

Have an awesome day!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842804/chapters/57298867

#geraskier #fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #writing #geralt/jaskier #godhelpmefinishthisstory #powerful jaskier #renfri #kindof #dark #thewitcher

[rexnihilis]

“Hawks, we recently received information from an anonymous source that the S-class villain "Apostle of Faith", real name is unknown, will arrive in Japan with the aim of creating an alliance with the League of Villains, or rather the Paranormal Liberation Front. This villain became famous thanks to the creation of terrorist cells or opposition movements, promoting the removal of the privileges of certain segments of the population, which in our country are people with a Heroic License, and the full legalization of quirks, up to Anarchy. Its quirk is designated in the world register as "Sermon". It allows him to use his speeches to brainwash people and lay commands and orders in them based on his “sermons.” Your task is to find out what exactly he is going to offer for the League and, if possible, capture and interrogate without compromising himself. If this is impossible then find a place to base it in Japan and tell us or Endeavor. End of briefing. Free."

An official from the  Hero Commission finished his speech and disconnected.

'Heck. I hope, he doesn't have time to do anything before I eliminate him... '

                                                                                                                “Aizawa Sensei, we can't reach Izuku,” Iida didn’t look as calm as ever, and his movements became less robotic.

It’s already 11 a.m. in the morning, but the Problem Child did not get up? Usually he could be met at 6 a.m., and on Sunday even at 5 a.m.

"Go and call Present Mic, meet at Izuku’s room."

Most of the dorms was surprisingly quiet, due to the lack of main noise generators. Mina, Kaminari, Sero and Mineta were probably asleep, but the absence of Bakugo and his endless cries of children led to not very pleasant thoughts. If they had a fight again, then I will break into the office of this mouse and demand an salary increase and a monthly supply of coffee.

On the second floor near the door of the Problem Child stood Urarakа, Yaoyorozu and Todoroki. All three looked worried and tried to reach Izuku.

"Problem Child, get up. It's 11 a.m. already."

Listening and not hearing anything, Aizawa repeated a little louder. The yawning Bakugo heard this, and having looked with his evil gaze, he went up and yelled in his usual manner.

"Get up, you fucking nerd!!!"

Not getting a reaction, he yelled even louder and again not getting a reaction, he decided to use cunning.

"Deku, released a new action figure of the All Might in a Bronze Age costume!"

Not having received a reaction, he blasted from anger at the door with an explosion and she immediately opened with clatter.

"Bakugo, stop damaging school property!" Iida cried out, leading the Present Mic.

" Shouta, there’s no reaction from you, have you really fallen asleep again? " Hizashi expected smiles from the students and grunts from Shouta, but he saw only the frightened faces of the students and the tense hero Eraserhead...

The room was turned upside down, the entire All Might merchandise was burned or broken, traces of fire were throughout the floor. Here and there were especially blackened spots that just could not have been burnt, it was more like ...

Blood...

It was scattered here and there, and large spots of blood were visible on the right wall, from which dried red pens were flowing, and on the left ...

The entire left wall was painted red, and on this red only one phrase was visible: "Death to the Ninth Antichrist and glory to our Lord!"

                                                                                                                What happened?

I...

I remember that I was sleeping, then I heard some noise, and then...

Then they attacked.

One of them shouted something, and I tried to hit him with the help of 8%, but they tied me up with something and I felt...

Fear. He piled on a powerful impact and immediately spilled over into the attack with the Black Whip. He was not so painful, but this time he besides usual blows also burned. Each of its flagella felt like something dark and destructive, and the energy resembled tongues of flame, not harnesses of pure darkness.

The pain passed through me like a hellish express, and I lost consciousness...

How...

How hard to think.

Trying to move, I finally felt my body. The impulses of pain from the Black Whip were still felt in him, but this time it was much easier. Something sticky, warm and smelling of iron flowed down my cheek and eye...

After tasting a little, I realized that it was blood. Trying to move, I grasp that the main areas of pain are in the palms and ankles, and I can’t move them normally...

*Crack!*

My back was burned with pain, and the sound of the whip was still ringing in my ears. To my dumb joy, this pain was nothing compared to last night or a couple of particularly bad days at Aldera High ...

I was hit several times, and then somewhere on the side the door swung open and a tall man entered. He was very pale and thin, his black long hair reached his shoulders, anger was read in his red eyes and his lips were open in an animal grin that promised nothing good to anyone

He said something, but I didn’t hear this anymore, having fallen into the quiet and calm nihility...

                                                                                                                The "First of the Twelve" burst into the building where the "Fifth of the Twelve" tortured the Ninth possessor of the damned power of One For All.

“The First” was a friend of the Lord even before he accepted his title, but because of constant attempts to change his plans and "remind him that he is still a human and don't forget about those who are affected by your plans, but who are innocent", that our Lord didn't need, because in His greatness He must be ruthless so that everyone would stand under His wing, was called the "Apostle of Dissent".

The "Apostle of Faith" never trusted him and longed to expel him from the "Pantheon of the Twelve Chosen One's", but couldn't contradict the will of the Lord. What is this traitor doing here, and yet so displeased?

“Greetings to the First of the Twelve. Why did such a busy person honor me with his presence?” In the voice of the Fifth there was a maximum of poison, which he saved up from sermon to sermon, in order to bring down it against His enemies.

"Do you know what you did Agustin Cristobal Teofilo Hose Maria Mora Rey Santos?" In the voice of the First, could hear two hundred years of hate and endless war with heretics and fools.

"I do His will and vengeance on those who are guilty of His fall! The Eighth, most damned and abominable of all Antichrist handed over his power to a boy who believes in him like the Guardian of the Body of our Lord, believes in Him! They must be finally wiped off the face of the earth as He desired at the damned Ground Zero in Kamino, be damned this place thrice! Do not stop me, Traitor, because our Lord is with me!" In the voice of Agustin Cristobal Teofilo Hose Maria Mora Rey Santos, an quirkless priest, disillusioned with Christianity and finding strength in His Church, all burning hatred for the One for All clan poured out. If even though six times the “First of the Damned” was the brother of his Lord, he did not deserve such love from His side, because he couldn’t submt to the Lord. The Lord granted him strength, and because of the ingratitude of His brother, that he could not side with the Lord, like his faithful servant Teofilo Santos.

The First looked at the Fifth with the executioner, who did not know where to start torture, sharply flinched, and then his face shone with dark pleasure and stretched out in an ominous smirk...

"Oh, really? Then I'll probably start and we just look at your reaction. Ghrm. Agustin Cristobal Teofilo Hose Maria Mora Rey Santos, the fourth "Apostle of the Faith", occupying the post of the "Fifth of the Twelve", you are accused of violating the most important of the existing the laws of our Church by me, the first of the Twelve in... Crucifixion the Son of our Lord and heir to the great power of his brother, the legendary One For All ... "Agustin's face froze like a mask, and only misunderstanding danced in his eyes. Which, to the joy of the First, was replaced by a look of absolute horror. "Ghm. And this, apart from other minor and major violations the laws of the "Church of All For One". The sentence for this crime, the most terrible of all possible executions - Imprisonment in "Hell". Seriously, that is the second Apostle of the Faith to which I read such a sentence and this is the second case of violation of this law. Rejoice that you didn't kill him. Ah, and something else. " Going аs close as possible to the former Fifth, so that he could clearly hear his whispers, he whispered:"Our Lord is not with you, but BEHIND you. "

The First went to remove the boy from the cross, and the Fifth began to turn slowly, reading one of the litanies of his God...

"Lord... I didn’t want... I didn’t know, I... I... Aaaaa! Argh!!!"

#bnha #dad for one

[breanime]

It’s In The Eyes

Requested by the great @melissataggart87, here’s some Jax Teller angst and fluff!

This has some spoilers from the early seasons…if you can call them spoilers, considering how old the show is haha.

*gif not mine*

Jax stared out at the street, cigarette smoke floating in front of his face. It was raining, but he was under the awning, sitting on the table as he thought of you…

…of what he lost.

“You said you would always be honest,” you’d said, eyes drowning in tears, “That you’d never lie to me…”

Jax shook his head, feeling the weight of his kutte more than ever. “I had to,” he tried to reason, “If you would have known—”

“Donna was my best friend!” You had snapped, tears trailing down your cheeks and meeting at the tip of your chin. Jax hated seeing you cry, hated it more that he was the one who’d made you cry. “She was family, she—she was your best friend’s wife! How could you not tell me that it was Tig who killed her?” Your mouth fell open as a new revelation hit you. “I—I held him after the funeral,” you said, jaw shaking, “I held Donna’s murderer… I’m gonna be sick—”

“—This isn’t on Tig,” he’d tried to explain, “That bitch Stahl set Op up, made him look like a rat to the club—”

“—But Tig pulled the trigger! And you knew!” You glared at him, looking at him like… like he was the enemy. “You told me you’d never hide club shit from me, told me that Opie had killed the man who killed Donna, let me believe it was over—”

“It is over!” Jax snapped back. This had already been a hellish day for him. Tig, out of nowhere, confessed to Opie that he killed Donna, and then—after Opie handed Tig a brutal beatdown—Jax had to spend his afternoon out looking for Opie. The conversation he’d had with his brother had been hard, but he thought he’d gotten through the worst of his day. Then he came home to you; apparently Opie had given you a call before Jax got home and told you the truth. It had been hard for him to lie to you, but it had to be done—it was best for the club, and best for you. Jax knew you were close to Donna, knew that you wouldn’t understand what happened with Tig, knew that you’d react badly…and he had been right. “We’re handling it, I’m handling it, okay?!”

“How long have you known?” You asked, eyes turning hard as you regarded him.

Jax looked away, running his hand over his beard. Jax loved you, he did; he loved how confident you were, how well you knew yourself, how well you took shit with the club…you were everything he’d ever wanted and more. You were Old Lady material, and Jax knew that one day he’d put his crow on your body and his ring on your finger. You were so comfortable with the life, but that was kind of the problem. You expected him to tell you everything about the club, good or bad, and he usually did, but this… This was too much. He was trying to protect you.

“Jax,” you said again, “How long have you known that Tig was the one who shot Donna?”

He looked back at you. “The whole time.” Jax watched, silently, as your eyes changed. Those eyes that had always been home to him, that always looked at him with fondness, soft and full of affection, were staring at him coldly now. It sent shivers up his back. But it was your next words that really made his heart stop.

“Jax,” you’d said, voice cold, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

That had been a week ago, and while he’d called, texted, and even showed up to your job, you refused to speak to him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, you did say “it’s over” to him a few times. He’d broken your trust, and while Jax knew his intentions were good, it didn’t stop him from having hurt you. He took another puff of his cigarette. He couldn’t get your eyes out of his head, watery with tears and staring at him like he was a complete stranger. And now you refused to see him. You lived just a few miles from the clubhouse, a short ride on his bike would have him at your doorstep in less than 15 minutes, but you might as well be on the moon.

“I knew you’d be out here sulking,” Gemma said, walking over to Jax and sitting on the table with him. “She still not talking to you?”

Jax shook his head.

“Ah,” Gemma reached over and took the cigarette out of Jax’s mouth, putting it to her own lips, “Give her time. She just needs to put it all in perspective.”

“She broke up with me, Mom,” Jax said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth, “She’s not putting shit in perspective.”

“She’s a smart girl,” Gemma went on, “At some point, she’s going to have to admit that this whole thing isn’t on the club. It’s on that bitch Stahl.”

“I tried to tell her that,” he shook his head, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets. “It didn’t help.”

“Well not in the moment, no,” she said back with a shrug, “You chose a tough girl, baby. She’s gonna react, be pissed, and you’re going to have to let her. But it’ll pass. She’s got the makings of an Old Lady,” Gemma smiled around the cigarette, “She’ll make a hell of a daughter-in-law. Just give it time.”

Jax nodded. He wasn’t sure if he believed that—he wanted to, but he was afraid of getting his hopes up. He’d never been with a woman like you, someone he could be honest with, someone who he could show his life to, the violence, the pain, the mayhem… You took it so well, it was like you were made for him, made to be his woman. You were the only person in the world he could go to, you were his safe place, his constant… He needed you like he needed air, and every day without you had been…

Fuck it. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Be back soon,” Jax said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the keys to his bike.

Gemma smiled. “That’s my boy.”

Jax drove to your place with a single-minded purpose: to get you back. He knew you were hurting, both from Donna’s death and his subsequent lie. You trusted him, and he’d lied to your face. He had to make this right.

There was a bike parked in your driveway when Jax pulled up—Opie’s bike. He parked next to Op, leaving his helmet on the seat, and walked to your front door. What was Opie doing there? Jax walked in, knowing your door would be unlocked, a frown on his face. He heard voices, yours and Opie’s, and followed them to the kitchen.

“I know,” Op was saying, “It’s hard to… To forgive, to wrap your head around it, but… At the end of the day, Jax was only trying to protect us. Both of us.”

Jax rounded the corner then, and saw you and Opie at the table, cups of coffee in front of you both. You were crying again, and Jax’s heart broke. “Hey,” he said, voice low.

Opie stood up and approached Jax, bringing him into a crushing hug. “She needs you, brother,” he whispered to him. Jax nodded. Opie released him, turning back to press a chaste kiss on the top of your head. “Go easy on him, sweetheart.”

Jax didn’t watch him go, just heard the soft slamming of the door followed by the hum of Opie’s bike as he pulled off. You wiped your tears, and Jax’s heart stopped when you looked up at him. The coldness in your eyes was gone. “Can I sit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yeah… Yeah… Do you want some coffee?”

“No, I…” Jax sat across from you. “I wanted to talk…”

“Can I go first?” You asked. Jax nodded. “I just… I know why you kept the truth about Donna a secret. But I just… I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” Jax interrupted, “Darlin’, I trust you more than anyone, I just… I didn’t want you to look at Tig different, look at the club…at me…” He took a breath, realizing a fear he didn’t know he had until the last moment. He loved you, and he didn’t want the club, his life, to make you love him any less. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Jax,” your voice was soft, “Baby… I know what the club is, what you are. And it doesn’t matter to me; it never did, because I love you.” Jax’s heart was pounding now as he stared at you. Your eyes were so warm, so open. “And talking with Op, remembering how he was with Donna, how much they loved each other… I’m mad at you, I’m—I’m hurt, but I love you. I love you like Donna loved Opie, and I can’t just throw that away.”

“I love you, too,” Jax said back, “and I’m sorry, I… I just wanted to protect you, protect Op.”

“I know.”

“I love you,” he said again, “and I trust you. I want to be with you, Y/N, for the rest of my life.” He couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. “Gemma called you her daughter-in-law today. Sometimes I think she can see the future.”

You laughed, and man, Jax could hear angels sing in that laugh. He wanted to get that laughed tattooed in his brain, hold onto it forever. “Sounds like Gem,” you said.

Jax got up then, and so did you. He pulled you to him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he said into your hair, “I love you.”

You leaned forward and kissed him, soft and slow and full of love. You were smiling when you pulled back. “So… You plannin’ on proposing one of these days?” You asked.

He grinned back. “Would you say yes?” He asked back.

“Hm,” you pretended to think, and Jax kissed your neck and face as you did, making you laugh, “Okay, okay,” you said, giggling, “Yeah, I’d say yes.”

Jax smiled down at you. Your eyes were shining, and he could feel your warmth, your love emanating from them. “Ok, so…” He pulled back a bit so you could see the seriousness on his face, the warmth and love in his own eyes. “…Will you marry me?”

Your eyes widened. “Are—are you being for real right now?”

“I am,” he said. Jax had to live his life making split second decisions and dealing with the consequences, he had to think and react and think and react in a cycle, always posed for action, always second guessing himself. But with you… The decision was easy; there was no room for questioning, no doubt in his mind that he wanted to be with you forever. “Marry me. Please.”

You answered with a kiss, whispering “yes” against his lips, and Jax picked you up and swung you around, laughing at your surprised shriek. When he put you down, he could see his own joy and relief reflected in your pretty eyes, could see that there were no traces of fear, uncertainty, or regret. You were in it, just like he was.

“I love you,” he said, kissing you as he spoke, “I trust you, and I’m gonna spend every day of my life proving that to you all over again.”

“I love you, Jax,” you said, eyes closed as you kissed him back, “I love you, but don’t lie to me again. I’m here for you.” You opened your eyes, and he found himself getting lost in them all over again. “I can handle the truth, no matter how bad it gets.”

He nodded. “I know, baby,” he smiled, “I won’t.” He pulled you to him again, determined to keep his promise, keep your eyes looking warm and soft whenever you looked at him, determined to love you the way you deserved, and be the man you needed him to be.

And every morning, when he woke up with you in his arms, greeted by the sunrise in your eyes, he was reminded of his promise. He thought about it every night as he held you in his arms, skin soft and warm under his fingertips, as your eyes closed, eyelids fluttering as you dreamed. He didn’t break his promise again. He told you everything that went on in his life, regardless of Clay’s protests, and you took it all in stride. He held your hand, laughing at your grimace, when you got his crow tattooed on you, and looked into your teary eyes when he stood in front of you at the chapel, declaring your love in front of all of your friends and families. Jax loved you fiercely, and you loved him right back. Everyday, when he looked into your eyes, he knew there could never be eyes as beautiful as yours, as powerful as yours, eyes that made him melt into putty with just a few easy blinks…

…until he saw your daughter’s eyes.

*******************************************************************************************

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! :)

Taglist: @lexxierave @loveintheroyalfamily @suchatinyinfinity@fanfictionrecommendations-com  @maxslime-blog @elanor-of-imladris@songforhema @lucielandss @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @themadhatter92@realduckvader @the-blind-assassin-12 @christinawxxx @anabella-baby @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @luminex3 @littlemermaidprobz @ashkuuuu@luckysstrikes @carlaangel86 @floralpeaceofmind @dylanobrusso@teacuplotus @iaintnofurry @thesumofmychoices @ymariejp @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @mrsjaxtellerfan @whovianayesha @holamor @drinix @rhabakoli @stories-you-wont-hear @king4thesirens @starkrobb @marauderskeeper @charlylama @thesandbeneathmytoes @something-tofightfor @banditthewriter  @binbons-is-theloml

#jax teller x reader #jax teller imagine #jax teller #soa imagine

[space-------kid]

can’t keep my hands (off you).

Anime/Manga: One Punch Man Pairing: Garou/fem!Reader  Additional pairing/characters: platonic Metal Bat/fem!Reader, Zenko, mentions of other heroes such as Saitama, Watchdog Man, etc. Genre: Romance, comedy Warning: Absolute silliness. Language – Garou and reader both ate rainbows for breakfast. Dumbassery. Teeth-rotting fluff, maybe? Reader is hella strong like Saitama. Half-assed spice because you’re good at cockblocking Garou despite being low-key thirsty for him. And LOTS of dumbassery from the reader, most probably. Additional tag: Dream-based fic, canon-divergent, Garou is horny af A/N: This is supposed to be a lengthy one-shot, but I’m a dumbass who can’t keep my word so the supposedly one-shot isn’t a one shot anymore.  Now I have to worry how I should properly divide all those parts (I mean, they’re already divided, but--) 😅

Establishing yourself in their world.

Summary: 

Your life had its general ups and downs, pros and cons, the good and the bad.

You were admittedly a coward and afraid of being targeted by people for it. Following the advice of your (best) friend you trained hard, like, FUCKING hard, and now you’re blessedly, utterly strong you can take down enemies with just one hit. A good thing, really. Can’t let any bad guy harass you or something.

But-

You were probably cursed with the biggest, baddest of luck. Not only were monsters chasing you, suddenly there was this fucking hot bastard weirdo who kept on calling himself the Hero Hunter. “I’m not a hero, goddamn it!”

iii. and iv. | v. | [more to be added]

“i can’t keep my

 hands

 off...!”

 - can’t keep my hands off you/simple plan

i.

If anyone who knew you could pick a single word to describe you, it had to be coward.

But it wasn’t like you could blame them, the choice was easily justifiable with how you always seemed to cower whenever a threat - even the smallest - popped out to inconvenience you and disturb the hopefully peaceful life you wanted to live.

You though that having a hero as your best friend would be enough to keep you safe. But considering his busy schedule, you were left with no choice but to fend for yourself.

“You just gotta get strong, ya know!” Badd (aka the one and only Metal Bat) told you countless of times whenever you would run to him, either telling him that some creepy guy was harassing you or a monster was chasing you.

It might have been the ‘what the fuck are you on about?’ look you had given him that day that left you sporting red, aching cheeks for the remainder of the afternoon, Badd having pinched and squished them - so hard you actually cried - for having the gall to non-verbally question him.

Fearing for the safety of your cheeks (Badd might pull your ears next, something you couldn’t afford to experience), you followed his advice.

Day after day you would lift weights, do some core exercises. You even went as far as to following some guy in a blue tracksuit’s training regime (he saw you training, you asked him on a whim on how to be strong, he nonchalantly answered your question) which consisted of doing a hundred push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and a 10-kilometer run every day. It was gruelling enough, and most of the times you would only find yourself waking up to Zenko’s glare, the girl telling you how Badd found you unconscious somewhere around the city.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Badd asked you one day, brows pinched with concern when you woke up in his arms.

Huh. You must’ve passed out again while working out.

“You told me to get strong, stupiiiiiiid,” you whined pathetically, hitting him on the face and chest with a trembling hand.

The recently minted S-Class hero snorted at your weak and pathetic display of attempted violence. “Yeah, I did. But I didn’t tell ya to train ‘til you’re on death’s door.”

You threw your head backwards dramatically, exposing your neck and making Badd drop you when he got an eyeful of the tops of your sports bra.

“Ow! Bat, what the heck!?”

“I can see your- y-your- ew! I need to wash my fuckin’ eyeballs! And why are you even wearing those in the first place when you don’t have any boobs?”

“I will fucking murder you in your sleep, Badd!”

You ended up in his arms again, only because you fainted once more due to exhaustion.

But you continued with your training nonetheless, slowly building up both stamina and strength to the point where you could finally make it home and collapse on your own bed after a long day of hard work.

Your parents were worried at how far you were pushing yourself, but they never stopped you when – for the first time in your life – you insisted that you had to do this for your own betterment. Never had they seen you so determined, your eyes still filled with fear but were now mixed with the fires of fortitude, and the way you settled the discussion made them relent. But that didn’t mean that they would stop worrying for you, often pleading for Badd to look after you whenever he could. Your parents might always be busy and far from home most of the times due to their jobs, but you (Badd and Zenko included) were always in their heart and mind.

For a year and a half, your training had been one of your constants.

You bawled like a kid the first time you punched some weird mushroom monster into oblivion - its legs the only evident of its existence after that one hit - because finally, your hellish (to you, anyway) training finally paid off!

Badd had hugged you and cried a little, telling you how proud he was of your achievement and how you could finally be strong enough to look more effectively after yourself. Being an S-Class had demanded more time from him and you couldn’t exactly come running to him every time you find yourself in a pinch. Aside from being a hero, his greatest priority was his precious little sister, and you would never have the heart to take away Zenko’s onii-chan from her.

“So, [Name]. Wanna be a pro-hero?” Badd asked you one night when you were out eating ramen with him and Zenko. “You’re pretty strong now, and you can take on monsters on your own. Man, I haven’t even seen you pummel one, now that I mentioned it!” he added, looking at you excitedly.

Your ears turned red from embarrassment at being praised. “I’m really not... at least not on your level. The monsters I meet by accident were all weak, thank god for that,” you replied. You returned his gaze, eyes narrow, and clicked your chopsticks at him. “And nope, I don’t wanna. Why would I want to be a hero? Why would I actively seek out those that I try to avoid at all costs?”

Zenko, who was seated between you and Badd, shot you a questioning look.

“Why did you get strong, then, [Name]-san?” she asked.

You chewed on your bottom lip, gaze zeroing on the steaming bowl of ramen in front of you. You could feel the siblings’ eyes on you and you flushed a bright shade of red under their scrutiny.

“Well, I did because I’m scared of monsters,” you replied. “What if there’s no hero nearby to help me when a monster appeared? I don’t wanna get eaten, you know, or worse-” here, your voice turned hysterical and caught a few fellow customers’ attention “-get killed and have some creepy, gross monster do lewd things to my body!”

“Eh? Lewd?”

A flustered Badd covered Zenko’s ears a little too late and made her turn her gaze away from your disgusted and scared expression.

“No, no, don’t bother with that, Zenko,” said the S-Class, eye twitching at the insinuation of your words. “Just eat your ramen while it’s hot.”

“But I was asking [Name]-san a question-”

“Just eat your ramen,” Badd gently pressed his sister who rolled her eyes in return.

“Teenagers,” the little girl huffed exasperatedly.

Nevertheless, Badd kept on asking you if you wanted to be like him. He would tell you the privileges you could get as a hero, not to mention the salary you would be earning. You, on the other hand, would never get tired of telling him no. As if a coward like you would actively fight monsters as a job. You were better off staying as a civilian, no matter how strong you finally had been.

You just weren’t cut out for that hero gig.

---

ii.

Yeah, you trained to get strong so you could defend yourself from monsters and creepy people who would harass anyone they fancied. And like you told Badd time and again, you would never be a hero. 

But you wouldn’t deny the fact that helping others when there weren’t heroes around would put a huge smile on your face and a fuzzy, warm feeling in your chest.

Growing up, your parents taught you that helping other people didn’t need a licence or a title. One just needed to have the drive and compassion to do so, lending your hand not because you’re a hero but because you’re a decent human being.

And wasn’t that what capable people should do regardless of their job or title?

However, helping people required courage - and you were sorely lacking on that department.

And truth be told, your aid would always be purely accidental. Well, more like your fight or flight instincts have switched your mind into autopilot whenever monsters come crashing wherever you were.

A monster resembling a humanoid iguana showing up in the shopping district while you were out buying groceries? Fight. You had kicked its head off its shoulders because its long tongue freaked you out.

Some giant and evil sentient tree started terrorizing the children at the park you usually frequented? Fight. You punched it to kingdom come when you felt some of its vines trying to creep up your shirt.

A weird humanoid octopus, harassing the ladies at a spa you once visited? Fight. What was left of the monster was a bloody smear on the walls after you’re through with him.

And perhaps your favorite was an honest-to-god giant fire-breathing worm which threatened to destroy the forest you had camped on when you felt like leaving the city for a few days. F i g h t. You blinked back into awareness bathed in the purple blood of the monster, its remains scattered as far as your gaze could reach.

The worst (or best?) part was that you were unaware of how you defeated them - your only confirmation that you yourself had beaten the monsters were from eyewitnesses themselves. People would ask you if you were a newbie from the Hero Association, and you would immediately shake your head no.

You even received an invitation from the Association itself to join their ranks, to which you gave an easy “nope!” as your reply.

Your main concern, however, was not H. A.’s incessant invitations for you to become a hero.

Alarmed at how you would seemingly black out before facing any monster who would disrupt your relatively peaceful life, you sat on your bed and put your head on your hands.

Was it really a fight or flight instinct that guided you during those moments, or was it just plain fight, your mind blanking out and your body moving on its own accord while you finish off any monster that came to your path? 

What controls your body during those moments? Instinct? The primal urge to survive?

But how come you couldn’t remember even just a single moment of the fight?

You rubbed your face with your hands and nodded to yourself. Of course you remembered something. That fleeting moment of feeling fear grip the entirety of your existence, when thoughts of surviving another day no longer filled your mind as a monster turned its malevolent gaze on you. The feeling of wanting to throw up your swiftly beating heart out of your own seizing throat, and you breaking out into a cold sweat. Your hand closing into a fist for a punch or lifting a foot to deliver either a stomp or a kick in a hopeless attempt to defend yourself.

And then your world would turn black.

And always, automatically, you would return to awareness once your auto-piloted mind deemed the monster for the day well and truly dead.

Looking back on the times you were still a weakling, you had never experienced undergoing a fight or flight instinct as odd as what you were having now. If it had always been flight for you before, the former now seemed to overcompensate for your spinelessness now that you have gained more than enough physical strength to back it up.

(If you had come across a certain Dr. Genus and he had come to witness your power, he would go as far as to claiming that you were the second person he met to have removed their limiter.)

(And if you would ask him if it had affected your fight or flight instinct, he would have said yes: your instinct to flee had been erased by your instinct to fight, and your id would not stop until it had the pleasure of witnessing your assailants’ death.)

You disliked fighting, you were too cowardly to face it, even. And while being strong had given you a little reassurance that you could now go outside of your house without having the need to get Badd check up on you for your safety every now and again, you still avoided getting attention to yourself either from creepy guys or monsters. A huge scaredy-cat at heart, you kept your head as low as you could muster.

There was, however, one thing you seemed to be forgetting, something you seemed to have been born with and you wanted to live without.

You were the human equivalent of a magnet for the biggest and baddest of luck.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

And so you spend your days being chased by monsters, blacking out as your fight instinct took over, and wake up somewhat drenched in monster blood.

Man, when would heaven give you a break?

---

to be continued

#garou x reader #platonic metal bat x reader #garou #garou the hero hunter #garou the human monster #metal bat #badd #zenko #opm x reader #one punch man #one punch man season 2

[sasorikigai]

If our muses got in a fight, who do you think would win? || @desxderium​ || accepting 

Send me a ♦ if you think yours would win

💥|| Being unapologetically himself is a virtue in itself; no doubt, which is a measure of acceptance of all the finite characteristics that makes him, him. The catch perhaps, is that he may adjust the intensity of each attribute he has in accordance to each relationship. With his rank embroidered on both of his shoulders with the sigil that feels more like a full regalia, the crowning accomplishment he had garnered, still young amidst the numerous lower ranked officers senior his age. Commander Hanzo Hasashi does not like to let go of all that makes him; nor cares if the fine, precarious balance that makes him amidable, yet rather demanding and obstinate. 

He refuses to show any signs of weaknesses, for the magnified despair and suffering of the past had shown enough of his vulnerabilities and powerlessness that the solemn, rather morose and gloomy enforcer of the law to show misery to be larger than life. Perhaps he understood all too well of the ‘grandeur of dooms’ as suffering became inevitable and constant. To protect the public at all cost, he must utilize his body, mind and soul to solder and become adamantine, to make a mighty spectacle of it and still rise from the hellish, war-ravaged rubble. 

A loud, albeit meaningless scream of his veins swell in the unending silent void beneath his gritted teeth, as the world renders into a shimmering, starkly noticeable disarray in the face of the endless dark abyss of the night. The celerity of punches barely graze by, and even if his own jabs and haymakers are thrown with aimless, purposeless might and way too slow to inflict any real damage upon her flesh, her overly reciprocated counters are devastating enough to render him senseless. He’s a fortified bulwark; he’s got the verticality of his height and resistance from the hard, smooth musculature, for he looks more like a linebacker than a quarterback. He can very well take barraging assaults and get away with barest bruises, the smoldering fever saturating him in magmatic flames and slick perspiration. 

If he wholly committed himself in this physical undertaking, the full testament and scope of his training, he would make it out from the close combat relatively unscathed, in order to cause roaring spectacle of firing at least three near-fatal shots in one’s throat and upper spine, completely paralyzing the opponent in two seconds flat. In other words, with the combined street-smart of being the greatest hitman the Syndicate has ever seen plus the accumulated amalgam of knowledge he had taken advantage along with his position, there was practically almost no one who could ever come close to let him taste an ephemeral hint of decay and death. 

Yet, how he stumbles with arms out, desperate for a feel of something solid - boxing ring rope, even the ground as it begins to slicken with their sweat - as the underside of his ribs ache. He needs to keep his guard up, even as his heart hit against Becky’s extending cross, hitting hard against his ribcage. How his blood beats like surging magma in his veins, swallowing emanating smoke from the fuming volcano with every strained breath. Hanzo whips around, as his biceps tighten, curling fingers ascending with such force that would knock her out if it fully connected, then he’d extend a devastating cross soon thereafter as he flits around a sharp ninety-degree angle. But it would be him that would end up knocked over on his hips, then all appendages sprawled like a starfish, as only a frustrated grunt would eject as the extended viper’s hook that would easily read his move would send him below. The entire time, he had held back, both with speed and power, for it would defeat the purpose of their sparring if he would break a bone or even worse, crack a skull. Despite it all, it’s him that is in a delectable haze, as sharp adrenaline further accelerates the foggy sensation as if senses were gouged out and clouds were filling his head instead. 

There was a long silence, before the expanse of his broad torso settled comfortably, maintaining the slowed rhythm as the deepened valley of his pectorals narrowed. A glint of light winked, a glow growing to blaze as Hanzo feels her ungloved hands caressing his chest. Four eyes bright, fearful and fearsome clash, before mellowing down and becoming sheeny. How his beautiful, sun-drenched olive skin spots with stars, glistening like the earthly night sky. “You fucking beat me fair and square.” There would be time the truth will eventually spill, but not tonight. 💥|| 

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon) #✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion) #✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au) #(I told you I was shitty at writing action) #(HOW IRONIC. considering I write as two action game characters) #desxderium

[momo-de-avis]

Wordtober Day 8: Frail

FOREWORD before we dwell into this mess: some of the events described here, just so you know, are actually real. Specifically, the fire that consumed Chartres and the collapse of the choir of Beauvais. It just wasn’t the devil, just shitty master builders. The Sacré Coeur does not exist. I made it up. I named it Scaré Coeur cause every fucking church in France in the 13th century was called Notre Dame and I need a break.

Also, though this is set in the 13th century, the Latin prayer you’ll read is actually from the 19th century, before some pesky historian comes bothering me -- I KNOW, I just don’t give a fuck cause this is fiction. It’s the same with the latin quote about the devil, I KNOW it’s from that one book fake satanists made it cool though it’s actually about witch-hunting and not that deep, but fuck it man, it’s what we get.

Moving on to some Christian horror (I hope to God you understand what Frail plays into here). Be warned of some gore and extremely violent themes ahead.

The man stood, silent and still, at the centre of the choir. He did not look ahead at the altar; instead, his back was turned to the Cross and he inspected every believer that sat on the pews, heads bent in devotional prayer. Abbot Odo though there was something disconcerting to him. He was so still one could easily mistake him for a forsaken statue, and his eyes were cold and buried deep into his craggy face, pale skin poorly stretched over his semblance, marked by angular wrinkles that crisscrossed around his sockets and the corners of his lips.

The silence that settled seemed to emanate from within himself, and realizing this, abbot Odo made the sign of the cross and swallowed a deep sigh. The man standing at the choir raised his head to the dome above him, his eyes dancing across the angular ribs of the tall vault, and his hands came together like in a prayer, but they relaxed at his lap instead. He dressed in black: black cape flapping freely around his shoulders, and black gambeson beneath chainmail. A scabbard hung from his waist, from which the bright silver pommel protruded. His trousers were scratched and ragged, as if worn through many travels, and abbot Odo could swear there were stains of red.

He wanted to believe him a knight. Many came to the Sacrée Coeur to pray, to cleanse themselves of hellish visions acquired in the battlefield – their brothers cut to pieces, members chopped with the swing of an arm, and cries of pain and misery that would forever resonate inside their ears. They believe it to be for God, but came back with the desolation of a Godless mind. They had seen burning hot oil poured onto the bodies of the foot soldiers clambering a rope ladder, up the walls of a fortress, and prayed for Jerusalem as their skins came peeling off, flesh bubbling red and pink in jarring pain as their eyes bulged for one last cry of horror. They had watched the lances and wheezing blades stab their friends though the chest, and the sound of cracking bone and gurgling blood echoed still in their consciences. Mumbled prayers from dying men became litanies they would forever repeat, and poison shook them in shudders and cold sweat as they lingered between the worlds. Before their eyes, desolation, but hope too: hope that, now, having fought in the name of God, the Pearly Gates would offer them Eternity, hope that a life of bloody brutality, away from their families, babes and pregnant women left behind, would at least be worth a noble death and a heavenly pardon.

But abbot Odo knew there was always a moment of hesitation, a moment where – haunted by this life of constant warmongering – they would face Christ and the Elders in their Judgement and tremble in fear of being cast out of heavenly Jerusalem. They feared mercy existed not for a man earning crowns in the business of death. They feared they had acquired a fondness for blood, a passion for swinging a blade, and on the moment the Archangel would weight their souls, their corrupted selves would reveal a life tarnished by bloodlust. They feared it would be the Devil the one to see their taste for putrid flesh and broken bone, and in the flames of Hell, they would remain shackled to constant torment.

Many came to the Sacrée Coeur to pray, to release themselves, to find absolution in the bosom of the Virgin, or seek inspiration and salvation from Saint Matthew. Many found solace and piety in tears shed before the image of Saint Stephen, while others adored the image of the dragon below Saint Theodore, and thought all their nightmares existed there, in the monstrous creature. Perhaps they had led a similar battle, and who they had fought was not the Saracens nor the barbarians from the north, but the evil cast unto the world by Satan himself.

For a brief moment, abbot Odo thought the man standing at the choir could be one such man, seeking redemption by bringing his hands together for something other than holding a sword. But as abbot Odo blinked his eyes, he realized he was wrong. Very wrong.

He had heard the tales before, had even witnessed it once. The Devil tempted in many a manner, seeking to blend in with the world it sought to scorch and destroy, to wipe it clean of beauty and serenity, sowing death and destruction – and sometimes, the Devil was successful. Of all the tales of Satan taking the shape of something recognizable, hiding its horns and demonic tail – something terrifyingly friendly – the one that frightened abbot Odo the most was when he appeared as a man.

He could be a haggling one, clad in ratty clothes, ripped shirt and dirty nails, hand stretched out with pious eyes as he begged for a silver coin to support a wife and a child, seeking charity out of those with good in their hearts, only to reveal himself as a skinflint disgrace, drunk and relishing in sin, between the bosoms of harlots and gambling in dingy, filthy towns, dragging the innocent into his vices. He could be a noble of clean-shaven appearance, wearing a finely stitched doublet and a cape held by the wealthiest of brooches, offering a helping hand to a woman who carried a basket, only to snatch her away and maim her with depravity and filth, stealing her honour, her earnings and her life, until her naked corpse would be found afloat in the river, drained of blood. Sometimes, he was even a man of Faith, wearing the robes of a clergyman, though no cross would ever be visible on their chests, and they would sneak into abbeys and bring about the sins to sow depravity all around, and destruction would follow: fires devouring the altar, food thrown in the waters and gone to waste, wells poisoned and a community sentenced to starvation and drought – and the brothers resting eternally, with blood squirting out of their throats and guts spilling out of their bellies, limbs sawn off and teeth pulled out. Most daunting of all, they always seemed to do it to each other.

The Devil would wipe his hands clean and say with a grin: my work here is done.

But there was one other abbot Odo knew of – the one he had seen before. He was a traveller – sometimes a merchant, sometimes a knight – and he carried in his clothes the dirt and filth to prove it, though never a horse, a mule or a wagon. It was said that, when he took the shape of a wanderer, carrying sword or dagger, he did not seek to corrupt others; he did not attempt to plant the seed of sin in the innocent, nor tempt a believer into wickedness and villainy. His goal was not to cause bloodshed, not to spread about the corpses of the innocent, not to steal the honour of a young maid. His goal, then, was to destroy.

To destroy the House of God through the hands of His own believers.

He had first heard of him when he was initiated in the Fontevreu Abbey, of a fire that had engulfed Chartres and destroyed near all of its main church: the people watching in horror as the flames rose to the tower and licked the bell atop; the tears shed at the sight of the house of Mary being engulfed by the scorching blaze. A priest had salvaged the mantle of the Virgin, hiding the relic beneath his clothes, and against the columns of rising smoke, coughing out the ash and fending off the flames, he saw, standing in the middle of the choir, a man: a man as motionless as any statue, with eyes glinting red, no pupils to be seen but a dark, hollow slit, like those of a snake. The flames licked his body, but he did not burn; the shadows danced around him like whores of Babylon, and small, blackened talons caressed the edges of his hands and feet. From behind, as the fire rose to a hellish rebuke, big and engulfing wings spread, and his mouth tore abnormally wide, sharp teeth and hissing tongue, his skin undulating before the dancing shapes of blackness that embraced him, brows jutting forward and claws ripping the skin of his fingers. The priest blessed himself and ran, certain it was the Devil that had destroyed the holy home of Mary. Yet against the auspices of Satan, he had saved Mary's blessed mantle.

Two years before he arrived at the Sacré Coeur, abbot Odo had stopped briefly in Beauvais to witness its constructions. Abbot Odo had been marvelled at the sight: the wooden scaffolding rising tall and high as the sounds of pickaxe and stilettos against the stone echoed by. On the ground, thin lines marked the church's nave, and he walked with awe in his heart, down to the choir, projecting a dream onto those lines he saw grow into steady walls, slender columns and thick piers. It was even taller than Amiens.

Abbot Odo had stood in the middle of the choir, observing the intricate vaulting above his head, the nerves dashing across the white stone in a promise of grandeur. Then, he had looked back and found a man there, right behind him. He wore a great black cape, closed around his body, which only allowed his tarnished, worn-out leather boots to be seen, and no weapon in sight. His hands moved and joined each other on his lap, but he did not pray. Then, abbot Odo looked into his eyes and there he saw the mark of Lucifer: bright red like blood, and two black slits for pupils – and in an instant, the earth quivered and began to shape to Satan's will.

He heard a scream and a crack; a gust of wind swept past, so strong he saw women holding on to their veils with a cry for help, and children collapsing on their feet as the gale made the foundations of the cathedral tremble. But the man stood. Like a tree rooted to the ground, he did not shudder. Another crack, and abbot Odo saw the wooden scaffolding snap and break, and people came falling down like rain, smashed on the ground, their skulls cracked open and blood pooling beneath their bodies. The wind sang, and the man remained – motionless and cold. His eyes glinted, and shapes danced around him, talons sweetly fondling his shoulders, and the darkness that loomed seemed to seduce him like a harlot. He parted his lips, tearing across his face into an ugly, gut-wrenching smile, and pointy teeth peered into a grin of malice. Though it had been a sunny day, the skies filled themselves with thick, grey clouds, and the wind blew stronger than anything abbot Odo had ever witnessed.

He blinked his eyes, and within a moment, the man was gone, but something remained; when he watched the vault above him crumble and stone began to rain down on the people below, at last, he turned back, ran into safety, and saw a devilish shape draw itself against the walls. A figure danced, crowned with horns and jutting talons at the edges of its fingers, and black wings spread behind, setting flight before the destruction it had just sowed, watching victoriously the men of God crushed to death by heavy boulders.

The ceiling fell, and the beautiful cathedral of Beauvais was shrouded in ash and dust. From the rubble, groans of pain appeared, and as the wind stopped, the ground began to paint itself red. Outside, the cries of women rose to the skies, and thick grey clouds slid away, casting light into the Devil's destruction.

Now, he stood again before him, and abbot Odo felt an urgency beneath his skin. The man lowered his gaze and found the abbot's; a sweeping wind blew, and his eyes – deep red and with two slits for pupils – glinted. His lips tore menacingly into a smile, a smile abbot Odo had known before – a smile of all malevolent things, disjointed and fearsome, ripping his elastic flesh until threads of skin stitched themselves together like a ripped, ragged cloth.

Abbot Odo gave a step forth, but the ground quivered; he stopped, glanced around. Everywhere, eyes snapped open and heads rose from prayer, and the imminence of disaster settled slowly. A woman grabbed her child by the hand and ran through the nave and out the door, but the others watched; abbot Odo thought he should leave, but there was something he needed to do first.

He would not let Satan win again.

"Leave!" He shouted. "Leave now!"

He was unsure if he was expelling Satan or passing a message to the believers, but nobody moved; abbot Odo launched himself forward before the man who stood impeccable, his hands softly resting on one another above his lap, those sharp teeth glinting as shadows began to swirl around him like trusting companions of all his heinous acts. He heard a crack and stopped; behind him, men and women raised their eyes to the ceiling above, and abbot Odo felt a bitter urgency of stopping an impending Apocalypse.

He gave another step, but stopped once more. Now, something pushed him back, and it hurt to keep his eyes open. He grabbed the thick chain around his neck and pulled the heavy silver cross from beneath his clothes; the touch brought him comfort yet it prickled his fingers, and through his chapped lips, he murmured a prayer – but his words wafted by unheard, for he was now in the domain of the Devil. When he snapped his eyes open, the man in front of him was twisting and shaping himself into his true form; abbot Odo blessed himself once, twice, three times, as he watched the horrid transformation take place.

He heard bone crack, joints snap, and flesh bubbled beneath the undulating, quivering skin. On the clothes around his body, holes formed as it if they burned from within, and the abbot saw the chainmail burning bright red as it melted and sunk into his skin, slender columns of smoke rising from his insides. His shoulders popped as he shook them, pointy and angular like two flying buttresses spreading outwards, and the arms bent back and forth in inhumane ways; from his hands, long claws ripped through his flesh, blood slithering in thick drops, as the creature opened its mouth to let a slick, rubbery tongue out, and a bellow that carried the deep stench of sulphur and rot wafted in the air. It smelled of burned flesh. It smelled of a thousand corpses. It smelled of a hundred fetid things the abbot deemed only worthy of a battlefield. It was the spirit of all men of war sentenced to hellish torment by the scale of Holy Michael, the souls of the damned who had killed for pleasure. Those who did not seek to repent before Saint Theodore, because they had never slain the dragon.

Abbot Odo quivered as much as the ground, and inside his chest, his heart pumped in cold dread. Drenched in sweat, he clung to the silver crucifix and prayed – an endless string of prayers, stitched together by his rapidly moving lips, as he watched, horror gripping his throat, robbing his lungs of air – and the creature danced in dark and red. The shadows now rose almost as high as the Devil, and they lurched themselves at the body of their Master; from below his twisted, animalistic feet, the floor cracked and lines of red and orange shined through. Abbot Odo began to feel incredibly hot, as if a volcano erupted below his very feet, and the silver of his cross started to burn the tips of his fingers.

Then, the walls and ceiling began to cave in; abbot Odo saw the fissures in the stone crawling like worms, past the shadows, like water running upwards, and trembled when the first loud crack echoed. A boulder fell, smashing pews to splinters, and above him, a hole tore itself open to let in the sunlight that fought and lost against the grey clouds. The creature in front of abbot Odo raised a hand, and a loud clang sang across the hollow nave – the front door was shut.

Abbot Odo looked back and saw people – trapped people – banging on the thick wooden doors with their fists. Then, in a fit of silent madness, they all stopped – frozen to their feet entirely – and their eyes painted themselves red. Their mouths opened, a collective hiss resonated around in unison, and they all lurched at each other. Before it began, abbot Odo somehow felt a stench he thought to be of hatred.

Horrified, abbot Odo saw their finger dig into their clothes, fingernails ripping skin apart and poking their eyes out; they grabbed candelabra, pieces of wood and broke, with inhuman force, the stone sword of St Theodore, and slashed their bellies until bowels wrapped in red slithered out like demonic snakes; he saw with paralyzing terror as they were driven into heinous insanity, falling deeper into the Devil's temptation, killing for pleasure with not a cry of pain, but many a growl of delight. They killed, they maimed, they tortured each other; and when the pain wasn't enough to satisfy their hunger for blood, they filled their hands with torn-off flesh and shoved it deep into their mouths, or dug their sharp teeth into their legs and arms. Breathless, abbot Odo watched as they devoured each other, as Hell materialized before his eyes and the Damned consumed the poor innocents entirely, who ate and clawed until blood fell from their teeth and their chins painted themselves in red – until they fell into lifeless beings, and the nave was riddled with the maimed corpses of God's creatures.

It seemed to last forever; it seemed time stopped so Satan could relish in his creation. And abbot Odo, gripped in paralyzing terror, watched.

The ground quivered again, the walls trembled; those who had not died at the hands of the Satan's madness looked up and saw as death approached in the form of a boulder that smashed their skulls and crushed the rest of their bones. The smell of sulphur rose, but now it blended with the stench of a thousand battlefields – blood and flesh, dirt and fire. The walls shook, and soon, the house of God would crumble over Satan's victims.

Before the abbot, the man was not a man anymore, but the Devil in full. Abbot Odo saw the curling tail behind it and the slender claws of its hands clench; its tongue curled and twisted, and from its mouth came a malodorous stench abbot Odo could not identify anymore. And the walls shuddered, and the ceiling groaned. The world was not coming to an end, but it might as well have begun then; the Devil made the wheels turn.

Then, the creature tore its lips open, and in a guttural growl that reverberated in a cold vibrancy all around, it spoke:

"Opus dei potest opere Diaboli omnio vitiari."

Abbot Odo collapsed on his knees, and fatigue possessed him. Clinging to his cross still, he watched the holy altar crumble down, candles tumbled over and their flame kissing the fabrics of curtains and flowers sweetly enough that they rose. The eyes of Holy Mary became engulfed by a sea of bright orange and yellow, and the paint of her stony face cracked and melted, until a skeletal remnant of her beauty remained; the vestments of Saint Anne crumbled into ash, and the babe on her lap fell over, its little head cracking and smashed to a thousand pieces; like in a demonic omen, the book of Saint Matthew, albeit of stone, burned and withered into cinders, and the abbot could swear the dragon at Saint Theodore's feet began to move, its sharp teeth sinking into the saint's ankles, thick blood pouring out as the statue's eyebrows arched and the eyes bulged in horror.

Abbot Odo looked up at the stained glass of the clerestory and wept. Once, its blue lights had been celestial, and a tinge of red had passed through only as a reminder of the Sacré Coeur's imperial might, of the Virgin's reign as Holy Queen of the Heavens. Now, her eyes looked back at abbot Odo in agony, and the ambience inside the cathedral had lost its celestial blue tone entirely. Everything was red – blistering, daunting red, where black shapes hovered and danced, the walls blemished with the shape of their flapping wings, and beneath the sounds of spluttering wood and the high-pitched clinks of shattering glass, he heard someone sing in tongues.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio," abbot Odo began to pray, and in a swift gush of courage, he moved against his every quiver and stood. Rubble and ash surrounded him, the air thick, prickling his eyes and throat. Abbot Odo thought of covering his mouth with his habit, but then his prayer would be muffled. So he screamed louder: "Contra nequitiam et insidias diabolic esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur—" he ran, though not to the door, but to the choir, straight to where that nefarious beast stood, and hoisted his crucifix with a growl: "Tuque, Princeps militia caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen!"

The cross in the abbot's fingers shined, and though the pain that shot through his fingertips blinded him, he remained; slick, bubbly silver began to melt, fusing with his skin, but he did not falter. Archangel protect us, he begged in a murmur, and protect this world in Light, through God's might, against the Evils we face.

Abbot Odo had always thought himself a man of physical weakness, unfit for battle. He had never sought a sword because the horrors of war did not appease him. But as God had willed, he was made to be a Knight of Peace.

The beast roared and shuddered, its talons retrieving into the putrid flesh that melted like wax, and danced a horrid dance of pain and anguish as it slithered through the cracks of the ground. Stood in terror, abbot Odo watched – watched as the flames diminished as if they were sucked away by the scorching winds of Hell, reeking of sulphur all around, and a thousand screams rose to the air into a deafening, blaring song of the damned that cracked the glass on almost every standing window. The black shadows winced and shrivelled; screeches, like nails scraping against glass, pierced through the abbot's ears, and the air was filled only with dust and ash – thick and grey as his hand rose in solitude amidst the destruction.

Then, everything was silent. Abbot Odo blinked his teary eyes open and watched the dust settle. A short moment later, the doors flung themselves open, and people stopped at the threshold, watching with horror the sea of bodies covered in blood, chunks of their flesh stuck between their teeth, arms and legs cut off by a ravaging possession of the Devil, killed at each other's hands for one last consummation of Satan's will.

The deafening, dreadful silence was slowly replaced by muffled weeps, cries and moans of anguish and horror. Nobody came inside. Nobody dared touch the dead. A dozen pairs of eyes looked dully at the broken ceiling above. The fire had stopped, disappeared entirely, and all it remained was the black mark of its scorching flames.

Abbot Odo looked at the altar. Amidst the wreckage, of piles of broken stone and scorched wood, molten wax and chipped off paint, the rose window stood. It cast celestial blue and royal red glints onto the floors, licking its marred stone with the grace of Heavens.

He did not feel shrouded in the Grace of God when the sun moved and the colourful lights brushed against his dingy skin.

Finally, abbot Odo looked back wistfully at the sea of frozen, bloodied horrors that filled the church nave, in blood and flesh and broken bone. 

He had defeated the Devil, but the Devil had won still.

___

Past challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

#wordtober #writing #my writing #creative writing #fiction #Odo isnt even a french name lmaooo #my wordtober

[whumpbby]

Symb!Jason headcanon so far

Okay, so I was thinking about this much harder than I probably should. 

I kinda got this: 

Jay god his symb (imma call it Red) from the Pit - the only other person who owns one is Ra’s and he’s about the only one who knows what the hell. Thalia told Jay what she knew, but most of the heavy lifting in understanding what’s happening to him was left in is hands. 

As he was a victim of a horrifying death and traumatic resurrection, not to mention brain damage and whatever the hellish ptsd got a hold of him - the bonding with the symb wasn’t easy, as Jay kept feeding it all the negative emotions - made only worse by the fact that a symbiontes usually magnify the emotion that feeds them. So, for a while, the only diet Red was getting was rage, fear and a pathological need for revenge. All the best soup;] 

It took a while for Jay to realise that the creature possessing him reflects his negative emotions tenfold and after a while of trying to de-bond them (didn’t work, Red wouldn’t let go) he started to try and maybe keep a lid on his emotions. That was the time they’ve circled the world, learning the craft on Thalia’s dime and were more-or-less stable (not at all, but hey). Then back to Gotham, failure with the Joker, and so on. Not until the All-Caste and Ducra’s help did Jay and Red see one another eye to eye and started to build on their bond. 

Present day. Red and Jay have an agreement to stick together and a total trust policy - things are discussed and solved, and they act like adults about it - because of the level of damage they can inflict on everything and each other when in conflict. They need the stability of a solid bond, and since they’re both damaged, they trust no one else. 

Red is a bit of an asshole from time to time and very salty about the “no eating humans” ban that they have going on in Gotham (they indulged while still in training and Jay wants to forget about that). They substitute with beef and veg, and insane amount of chocolate. It’s also salty about the “we’re keeping your presence on the down low” rule - meaning, no spontaneous growing of teeth, extra appendages and muscle mass, because once Bruce knows, he will try to split them. So, yeah, usually Red presents itself as just general articles of clothing (Jay hasn’t worn a shirt in the last 3 years and so far no one has caught on) and the helmet and, sometimes, a knife/sword/grapple line/mock bazooka. 

The emotional relationship is as follows - Red is possessive and protective of the host in the usual symbiote-appropriate pathological intensity. It will do what needs to be done to protect Jay physically and emotionally, but still tries to stick to the rules, becuase it understands that Jay needs to feel in control of his own life. It will take over, tho, when it think he’s a suicidal idiot, and is not above messing with him to get its way - inappropriate touching happens all the goddamn time, because Jay is adorable when flustered. 

Jayson lives in constant guilt that his post-Pit flailing and general madness messed up a perfectly good alien and gave it anxiety and murderous tendencies, so he tries to live his life stress free as much as possible. Hence, contact with the Batfam needs to be limited (against the family’s wishes, of course, the meddling fucks) and a set of rules has to be put in place to stop the situation from downward spiralling again. He appreciated Red entirely, even if his dating life takes a powerful hit as Red is not exactly ready for a third wheel. sSy, Jay’s first sexual encounter might as well have been Red, between dying at teenage and spending the next few years in a mind-damaged haze and then surrounded by career murderers. Red is very proud of that, Jay wonders if he’ll ever recover his dignity.  

So, this is what I have so far.   

#Symb!Jay #how do i tag this shit? #heandcanon #writing #next: how a symbiote wants to fuck dick and timmy #because family bonding is important #venom #symbiote #red hood #jason todd

[emathevampire]

uploading as a real photo post this time... and in somewhat better quality. Rough sketch of my plans for paintings for him, whether I get around to that or not has yet to be seen, but if I don’t at least there’s these!

The tragic tale of Amanthos Panideios as told by Tarot: his life, death, undeath, and ultimately his corruption into an Archfiend. Hopefully, I will earn him redemption and a true happy ending before his story is over... but have the meaning and such behind each of these under the cut.

The Lovers: Amanthos was at the middle of a polyamorous triad for roughly 500 years, the other two being Psamion (a dashing sailor who often visited his library on business for Kíhyué) and Arekos (a gifted necromancer who had been Amanthos’ best friend since they were children). Psamion seduced these two individually, and thought little of it until Arekos asked him how he managed to get Amanthos’ attention romantically, since he had been trying for centuries to no avail. Psamion simply laughed and told him to be blunt, as he knew Amanthos wanted a more committed, constant companion to fill the void Psamion left while he was away, but was afraid his feelings would not be reciprocated, or worse, that he would be made to choose between the two, so he kept to himself to avoid ruining his most valued friendship. Fortunately, the three of them came together to sort out that fear, and were quite happy together until fate called their foundation away.    It also represents how he was (and still is) a useless multiclassing bastard. He could never choose between one path or another, dabbled in a little bit of everything, and it held him back for a long time until that choice got made for him. He could have been so many things with an Intelligence score that high, a wizard, a death master, anything else, but instead chose to pursue monkhood, martial prowess, and more doctorate degrees than any sane being ever would, content to be a librarian for the rest of his days... but it was not meant to be. Eventually, he would be chosen to serve his god of knowledge in a way only he could... and it wasn’t a chance he could refuse.

Nine of Swords: The Ritual of Crucimigration. In order to travel the stars to receive the answers he asked of them, Amanthos would have to die. And it would be no ordinary death, either. He would need to be transformed into an undead. Ordinarily, unless the proper funeral rites are performed, his race of elves become ghosts bound to their corpses when they die, rapidly deteriorating mentally while their bodies rot away, and they cannot become undead any other way unless specially blessed by their gods with Lichdom, or unless they turn their backs on the gods entirely. A Lich would be too powerful to leave the universe, but a Necropolitan would be able to escape it. Their gods have no influence outside of their universal sphere, and if he were to leave it alive he would rapidly age and die as he turned into a normal elf and his soul would be lost. So, the only way the gods could continue to protect him outside their sphere would be to allow this ritual, simultaneously blessing him with what protection they can give, and cursing him to be forever banished from their afterlife.    The ritual required a Death Master to oversee it, and he begged his sister Nikiti to request the position, not wanting to be alone, needing someone he trusted to be there for him. She turned him down when he asked, as she couldn’t bear the thought of doing what had to be done to him, but the Ruby Knights selected her for the task anyway as she was the most skilled for the level required... and she could not refuse the demands of her order.    As per the ritual, Amanthos is affixed to a pole with cursed nails and subjected to grueling torture for 24 hours, before the last spike is driven through his heart. The physical pain pales before the spiritual agony of glimpsing Aetherius, feeling the precious release, Lady Death’s sweet embrace, and being dragged back into his corpse away from it all, watching the gates close to him forever before opening his eyes once more to the world he was destined to leave.

The Hermit: After leaving his home planet, it is difficult to calculate for certain how long he spent exploring the galaxy before he left, but it is somewhere between 100 and 200 years. Alone, with nothing but his books and his wits about him, and the faded, worn scraps of paper containing messages and memories from his loved ones. While he learns a great deal, ultimately he runs out of uninhabited planets and empty expanses of space, and decides to test his theories and explore the Black Hole.

The Devil: Going through the Black Hole was a bad fucking plan.    I kind of want to just leave it at that, because really, I feel like that’s the best summary I can give, but I’ll go into details anyway. Essentially, he got spit out into a different universe: the remains of a collapsed timeline where the Blood War spilled out onto all planes of existence, and it is Hell On Earth with Asmodeus and a replacement for Dispater as the last two Lords of the Nine standing against the endless tides of demons, doing everything in their power to keep the hordes at bay.    The Lord of Dis is simply a warforged doing his best to be a good person, despite the vile deeds he is contractually bound to commit. He created Sanctuary: a place on the second layer where those who weren’t evil in life have a chance to escape the horrors of the Blood War and live in peace for as long as they can, before ultimately their souls are harvested and condemned to Hell. There is, however, if enough people work together, a chance to escape once and for all: an ever-changing maze full of clockwork monsters, puzzles, and tests of mettle.    Amanthos, knowing none of this, but being trapped in this artificial paradise, knows he must escape it by any means necessary if he wants to return home. And escape he does: he rallies maze running parties, teams up with each gate’s party, and after a long year of hard work finally manages to unlock the way out. Only, as with all things Infernal, there is a catch.    Unit Two, as the Lord of Dis calls himself, wants to die. He thought he could help, fix things, make Hell better from the inside and fight the system, but Asmodeus tricked him into believing this could be done. He doesn’t have enough power to do it on his own, but if nine people kill him, Asmodeus is in a right mess without a council to do his bidding, and they might be able to succeed where he failed. It’s the only way to save the friends they had to leave behind in Sanctuary, and the only way to have a hope at finally ending the Blood War once and for all, which is what Asmodeus has been trying to do all along... by making Hell On Earth, ruling the material plane with an iron fist, he can simply take all the souls and make fiendish evil the law of the land. So, Two offers the group a choice: take his private spaceship and flee this hellish world while they still can, or take the scroll that makes him mortal and end his torment.    The group promises to come back for him, taking both the scroll and the spaceship, and adventures in search of things they might be able to use to win the fight, as naturally they were all intimidated by the 30ft tall hunk of solid adamantine with godlike power. But no matter what they did, they were bound to return, as they could not justify condemning their friends to Hell... and eventually came back to fight with a few tricks up their sleeves.    The battle was hard-won, with many casualties, Amanthos among them. But when Asmodeus showed up to inspect the wreckage, the party demanded he be brought back to advocate on their behalf. The party was made an offer they could not refuse, the chance to end evil forever, if they had the guts to do what had to be done to end it... and thus Asmodeus walked free, and the world itself rewritten as Tetsu became the new Asmodeus, Belle became the new Dispater, and the rest took seats on the Council of Nine, steeling themselves for the damnation that awaited them as they would fight, by any and all means necessary, to end the cancer of the Abyss forever.

   Amanthos is, legally, chained to his position as an Archdevil. He can send avatars out into the world and even other worlds, but he himself must remain, doing all he can to resist temptation and stave off the inevitable corruption that awaits him. So, in truth, what returns to his homeworld is but an image of what he wishes he still were: undead, but uncorrupted, untouched by the knowledge that in truth he lost his soul, believing that he won. He only hopes that this avatar will return soon with someone who is truly capable of doing the job he must do in the interim, since truth be told, he really doesn’t have the stomach for it. He may not be a saint, and honestly, not even a good person... but by all the gods he loves so dearly, he could never be an evil one.

#rixa's arts #Amanthos Panideios #there may be some errors in this story but fuck it the necromancer isnt here to proofread it so #i'll fix em if i ever do the paintings.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Lacus Vitae (Part 3)

The new moon was only two days away, three if the current one was to be counted.

 In her head, Azula recited the rules over again. She may not have been unfortunate enough to die at the month’s beginning, when the new moon was furthest away this year. But a little over a week (with three  days remaining) was a lot of time to have with nothing to do but run, hide, and hope. In a place where bending was null and creatures were evolved powerfully and grotesquely, what else was there to do?

“It is simple really.” The welcoming spirit had said when she first materialized. “Everyone who dies in the year of the dragon gets a chance to live again. But no one does.” The spirit made off like that was the end of the discussion. But Azula persisted. “The rules are also simple—not that they matter, because you won’t make it. You must stay alive, comparatively speaking, until the new moon. And when the new moon comes you best be swimming in the pond nearest to the place where your soul first came to awaken.” The spirit chuckled. “Most people who come here don’t even know where that is, they were doomed from the start. More doomed from the start than the people who do know it anyways.”

 Azula hated that cheeky waste of spiritual energy. His gross underestimation of her was just one of many irritants he had to offer. Of course she knew where she was born. All of the Fire Nation’s royalty were born on palace grounds. The turtle-duck pond in their back yard was considered sacred—the perfect place for their ancestors to bless their new souls.

For that she had mistakenly thought that this would be an easy feat, one that would only be problematic in that she would have nothing to do. Though she hated to admit it, she underestimated this place. Then again, the welcoming spirit didn’t bother to mention Bōryoku and its team of Honō-guchi Seishin.

 She shuddered, thinking again of her first encounter with them. The one that happened only hours after her arrival. She was lingering dully by this world’s distorted version of the turtle-duck pond when that hellish wail first harassed her ears, shrill and crackling. And like a thousand cries all at once. But there must have been only four or five beings making the racket. It sounded like death and torment—perhaps they were the cries of the souls that which were devoured. The first one emerged tall and slender, it’s skin most alike that of a wholly charred corpse. Its face was barren save for a zigzaged line that she came to know as its mouth. Another creature of the same nature appeared behind it, and then another, and one more. There were probably hundreds more scouting the realm of the dead. But there was only one Bōryoku. This being boasted the body of a man crossed with a red-scaled dragon. Whatever sort of face it had was hidden by a mask not unlike the one her brother adorned himself with as the blue spirit. But this one was red. Red and weeping with genuine festering sores that a mask couldn’t possibly have.

 This ghast lingered in the back as his army marched forward.

 The first of the Honō-guchi Seishin drew closer. The zigzaggy crack of its mouth opened and then widened some more, displaying a protruding array of torches. Now in much closer proximity, when it let out its horrific screech, she could feel her ears rupture. Fire splayed very nearly across her face.

For the first time she felt completely helpless and utterly useless.

She bolted.

 In that dreadful moment, somehow the city she’d known all her life, was impossible to navigate. She knew then and first hand, the power of fear. How it dampens the mind and weakens competence. How it leads to carelessness…

It came as no help that Capital City had undergone a sort of transformation itself. There were things that truly were only recognizable due to a particular landmark. And she was absolutely certain that if she didn’t know the place so well, she’d have been lost completely. The only reason she was able to pinpoint her location was because there was a blotch burned into one of the buildings, it was partially covered by a vibrant gold dragon painting. She remembered that it was she and Zuko (as children) who’d burned the building in the first place. They’d received a good scolding. Other than that the world was painted in hues of dark red and black with splotches of gaudy shades of hazy orange. Everything had a fine curl of smoke about it. But the smoke didn’t come with the pleasant smell Azula loved—rather the smell of a classic Fire Nation battleground, well-cooked bodies and all else.

 She ran along a cracked street, stumbling occasionally over a loose chunk of cobblestone. Her hasty sprit offered her a splendid view of houses that had what looked like dragon ribs jutting out of the roofs.  Tattered red banners flapped forlornly where there was no wind. Strange rotting plants had the place overtaken—they crept out of cracks and overflowing drainage pipes. There were other oddities; a decayed tree where none should be, a lonely and drooping paper lantern at every street corner, and a steaming crater or two. The noises that came out of those were ungodly.

Her least favorite though were the faces.  She was looking at the place when she first encountered one. She didn’t notice it until it was too late. Of course, she couldn’t have—it was hard to notice anything else when looking at the place that used to be her home. The place she longed so much to be at. It was now a monstrosity built of flesh and bone that pulsated like it was alive. It was alive in a way that it should not be. It was breathing and beating…

And she was not.

 She was well into staring at it when she found her foot wedged into something slimy. Something that made an awful suctiony, mushy noise when she pulled it out. She hissed with pain at the little jabs in her ankle and looked down to find a mess of parallel scratches upon it. On the ground, plastered within the cobblestone was a wrinkled and marred face. And she had just jammed her foot into its mouth. In her shock she backed up into another one, this one screamed when she stepped on it. She could hear the sickly crack of its nose snapping.

It had almost gave her away.

Almost? No, it did give her away. Its screams drew them in and then it told them which direction she had fled to. She figured it was an eye for an eye kind of deal and had come to find out that it wouldn’t have mattered if she stepped on it or if she offered it something to eat. It would have tattled either way. So she was glad that she’d offered it a deal of pain. In fact, she made a habit of offering them swift, hard kicks before they could rat her out.

 But before she had found out that the face had snitched, she had hidden away in some alleyway and prayed that her persuers wouldn’t find her.

They did.

She could never stay in one place. The length of time she had depended on how much distance she had put between herself and them.

 She had since grown used to the feeling of uselessness. And to the constant fear and adrenaline. She had grown used to the fear until it dulled and became something else. Something that was nothing more than a jab urging her to hurry the fuck out of wherever she was and get to the next place.

Since then she had also learned to manifest herself in the physical realm.

 Every so often, when the Bōryoku and his army were left furthest behind, she would make her way back to the grotesque palace…would actually venture inside of it and make contact with her darling Zu-Zu.

 .oOo.

 All Zuko had to look forward to these days was a steaming cup of tea. That morning he decided that he would try to feel some semblance of good. He would go for a walk with his tea in hand. The air was heavy with heat but carried the pleasant scent of firelily and freshly baked goods. He was well outside of the palace confines and well on his way to the much larger pond where many good fishermen made their livings. Though his own turtle-duck pond was nice, he fancied seeing one of a grander scale. Perhaps that would lift his spirits some, he could only hope. He could see it before him now, up close and as grand as he could imagine. He only had to climb his way down a flight of stairs nearly as ancient the volcano itself.

 He took the first step, unbeknownst to him, it should have been his last. Those stairs were well on their way to crumbling and had decided that the next person to put weight on them would be the final person to do so. Even lesser known to him, his sister held it up as he ventured down. All he knew of the matter was that there was a thunderous crash as the olden stair well tumbled. A few chunks grazed his cheeks, but Azula had the heaviest of them tossed just to the side—close enough to let him know how very near he was to a death of his own.

 He knew one other thing; and that was that he now had another reason to be spiteful towards fate. His peaceful cup of tea at the pond was successfully no longer serene. It was, however, drawn out. The Fire Lord didn’t make it home until well past dark only after the towns people decided to investigate the source of the noise and tremble.

 The men of the court leapt at this. “This is why we must attend you in your travels.” The worst of it; he couldn’t even dispute them.

 After being lectured for longer than he should have allowed he retreated back into his bedroom. He vowed to stay there for as long as possible. Though it was quite stuffy so he drew open one of the many windows and seated himself. Still reeling over how his day went, he slammed his fist onto the table much harder than he intended. He pulled a book from the shelf just behind him. He found that he could only stare at it. He came to realize that he was reading the same sentence, over and over again, not really comprehending it. He was too lost in his own thoughts. He set the book down, what sense was there in pretending to read it. He stared for some time, at the billowing curtains. Their brilliant red catching in the moonlight with each fabric wave.

 He found himself feeling quite tired. Perhaps on this night he would get some well desired sleep…

 He awoke to an unpleasant feeling. Something in the air was unsettling and made worse when he realized that it was still dark and his plans for sleep just got shot to hell. She was worse off than the first time she’d appeared to him. Her hair was twice as disheveled and along with the puncture wound was a set of four deep slashes. Her arm bared the faintest of burn marks.

 “I do believe that we were in the middle of something.” Azula spoke.

 He wasn’t in the mood. “Why do you only visit at night?”

 “For one thing, there are less people up to hear you talking to no one. For seconds, it’s easier for me. I don’t know why, but it is.” Azula shrugged.

 “Talking to no one.” He repeated. As far as he was concerned she had given him what he needed to know. He would ignore her and go back to bed. He pulled his blankets around himself and rolled to face away from her. He fluffed his pillow once to make his intentions clear.

 “Zu-Zu, don’t be like that.” She frowned.

 He snuggled up against the pillow.

 “Zuko.” She grumbled.

 This time he did nothing.

 “Fine.” She muttered. Growing bored of this game, she ripped the sheets away from him and tossed them well across the room.

 Zuko bolted up right, cursing rather loudly.

 “If I’m not real, do tell me how that just happened.” She gave a smug smile. “You know, I saved your life this morning. You’re welcome.”

 Zuko grumbled and rubbed his temples. “Alright, fine. Let’s say I didn’t just imagine things. Do something else.” He looked about the room. “Light that candle.”

 The phantom firebender apparated before the candle stick. In the tiniest burst of sapphire, the wick was aglow. Leaving Zuko’s mouth agape.

 “Why are you here.”

 “Like I told you. I’m here to make sure you’re handling things well.” There was something else in her eyes, something despairing. For a moment Zuko didn’t think that she was going to say it. “And…I need the company. You don’t know what it’s like here…” Her hand fell absently upon one of the thick tears in her skin.

 “No, I guess I don’t.” He replied, feeling bad all at once for trying to dismiss her.

 She was looking away, staring at the dark of the hallway. “But I never have long enough.”

 She faded, leaving him alone and thoroughly disturbed. For what reason he didn’t know.  In her absence he realized he that he had left the window open the balmy breeze it invited didn’t mix well with the cool air that lingered after her.

 The red fabric flapped like a lonely tongue tasting the night.

  For reference Bōryoku and the Honō-guchi Seishin are based on the Chinese Xīqìguǐ and a combination of the Jùkǒu Guǐ and the Dàshì Guǐ. The first of the two being a naturally violent and aggressive ghost. The latter of the two being a combination of a ghost with a mouth like torches and ghosts that devour human leftovers/remains.

#azula #zuko #avatar #fanfiction