#So I think he ought to be a pack animal.

[pyramidofmice]

where u thinking about something in particular or just rotating them in your brain? 👀

Mostly rotating fshfksd. Here's an example:

See this fox and bear? From the 2017 game Night in the Woods?

Don't they give you Gary and Andy vibes?? I've literally said before that Andy reminds me of a bear!! And yeah, if I had to pick an animal for Gary, foxes are in the top 3. Not to mention the outfits matching up so well (and the personalities!)

also their names are Gregg (fox) and Angus (bear)

#I'm sick so this is as deep as my thoughts can go at the moment 😂😂 #Ps if you're wondering the other Gary animals: #Lion + wolf #I think Gary should be a trickster animal which is why I also think of foxes #but as the movie commentary says. Gary just wants to be with his friends!! #So I think he ought to be a pack animal. #Lion makes sense for the royalty thing...but wolves are far more familial than male lions so. *shrug* #pyra speaks #albossharuland #the world's end #blood and ice cream #gary king #andy knightley #andy & gary #pulling a blorbo #this is shameless blorbo content and i'm not afraid to admit it

[merakiui]

long-distance love.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, phone sex, obsession, power imbalance, kidnapping, implied (cyber)stalking, non-con touching, characters written as 18+ note - sea witch, the magicord mod you've had intimate online relations with, is closer than you thought.

Sea Witch is a busy man.

His weekly schedules are almost always packed to bursting, each event meticulously arranged into open slots as if aiming to form a perfect puzzle. Times never conflict; he’s particular about how he spends his hours, and very rarely does he allow himself a break. It has always been work, work, work. He’s one of the city’s most affluent, eligible bachelors and yet he’s married to his business. Those who lust after him think it’s a wasteful shame. Azul finds it to be a relief far greater than any he’s ever known. He will never compromise the enterprise he’s built from the ground up just because of some flimsy, fickle feelings.

Originally, he had no interest in Magicord, a messaging platform that grants people from all over the world the chance to congregate on specific servers for mutual interests like anime and gaming. He only downloaded it because Idia Shroud, a fellow friend and business partner, lived and breathed the app, his online presence so profound it was almost like a second home. He’d swipe away notifications from his actual messaging app, too busy in a voice call with his group of dungeon raiders to bother answering important calls.

So he resolved to get on Idia’s level in hopes of improving communication. Although Idia’s level, as Azul often noted, was not exactly a place he wanted to be. While Magicord could be used for business purposes, that wasn’t what drew people in. Azul of all people knew very well which target audiences were being reached with apps like Magicord, and he was not one of them.

“To think I’d stoop as low as this,” Azul had once groused over a phone call with Idia, who was giving him quite a lengthy, not-very-needed-but-also-very-much-needed rundown on Magicord’s inner workings. “I hardly have time to play games, let alone socialize on this…app.”

“Aren’t you always going on about how adaptable you are?” Idia sniped back, not in the mood for normie criticism. The sound of clacking keys could be heard on his end. “And you’re the one who asked. Kinda defeats the purpose of learning if you’re just gonna complain.”

Azul rolled his eyes. “I fail to see the logic in downloading another app just to ensure my messages reach you. Honestly, you ought to start checking your email. Or, at the very least, go through your missed call and text logs.”

Alas, Idia had been stubbornly adamant about his preferences and so, much to his displeasure, Azul was forced to undergo something of a Magicord Training Camp until he emerged a pro. And being a pro meant knowing how to navigate his own profile and toggle between that and Idia’s, which was really the only tip he needed because that was all he’d use the app for.

But Azul has always had an innate itch for wanting to know something from top to bottom, inside-out, and the idea of not knowing every little detail about Magicord drove him insane. If there was an opportunity he could capitalize on, why should he risk squandering it with his elementary-level knowledge? So he spent his rare slivers of free time playing around in there, creating a server and wondering who could ever become so attached to an app when the world beyond the screen was filled with just as many, if not more, social encounters.

His introverted side understood the appeal. In fact, he loved the idea of hiding behind a manufactured persona online. He didn’t have to be Azul Ashengrotto on Magicord. Rather, he could rid himself of his dislikable traits and become an entity—an idea or a concept—rather than a flawed man who others might scrutinize ruthlessly.

So he became Sea Witch, and within just a week he’d constructed quite the comfortable server. The invite link was spread throughout the various branches of Mostro. It would provide employees with an online sanctuary, where they could easily connect should doing so in person prove complicated (as had been the case regarding Idia, which was the sole reason he’d even poured so much time into this effort). Most of all, it gave Azul the chance to keep watch from afar, silently sitting in wait and curating a collection of mostly unimportant intel. Mere gossip, if anything.

But gossip is just as good as the next scandal. He likes to be prepared, a razored edge on all sides.

As far as the company was concerned, no one knew who this Sea Witch character was and no one knew who spread the link. And as far as individual employees knew, this was likely just some overworked intern’s labor of love—a well-crafted server intended to function as a digital gathering place for those exhausted after a long day. And that was mostly true, but all of the potential blackmail he could gather, the information he could glean, and even the people he could keep a closer eye on in an online setting—all of that paled in comparison to the real prize he’d attained. This was of great importance. It was something that altered the course of his life, opened his eyes to the brilliant beauty of a first love.

It was there in that undersea-themed haven where he met you, the one who would add flavorful spice to the once bland, boring meal that was his life. And just after a few weeks of simple, cordial conversation, he realized a single taste of your kind companionship wouldn’t be enough to sate him.

Greedy to a fault, Azul wanted you in your entirety.

Which brings him to the present, where he’s currently leaning back into the expensive leather of his driver’s seat. He’s parked on a silent strip of road, in a more residential part of the city. It’s not very busy here, and his windows are tinted to avoid immediate recognition. Rush hour won’t hit until later, and he’s not due for any conferences. He has time. Plenty of it to spare on this little excursion.

“I wanna meet you, Sea Witch,” you admit, nearly whining through the phone. “Where’re you from? Maybe we’re in the same area.”

Azul smiles at your impatience. You just can’t get enough of him, can you?

Every weekend, you hop into a VC with him and chat for hours on end. At first he simply provided a listening ear when you wished to rant through text or call. You’d voice all sorts of complaints. Azul filed them away in the event that they might be useful in the future, initially intending to use such information to ruin you should you prove to be someone worth ruining. But the more he spent listening and scrawling notes on blank paper, the more he realized you were just overworked and struggling financially.

Upon making these connections and learning all sorts of facts from you regarding your life beyond Magicord, he felt compelled to help. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course, ever the benevolent saint. And you weren’t complaining when he offered to pay you for your time. In exchange for two hours of conversation, he’d provide you with the funds you needed to afford your necessities.

Somehow, throughout many months of give and take—with his giving being on the jaw-droppingly exorbitant side, always one to top his own ludicrous generosity—your hours-long conversations would sink beneath the surface of mere companionship. It was one-sided intimacy. Azul was careful with what he shared, building a mostly secretive profile for himself. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing your fondness for Sea Witch by sharing details that felt more like Azul and less like the effortlessly funny, charming, and eloquent Magicord mod you’d originally made contact with.

You didn’t seem to worry about compromising your own privacy, easily divulging a variety of fun tidbits about your life. You’d share the tiniest of details and he’d eat it up every time, hungering for more than just crumbs. That time you sent him a photo of the octopus macarons you’d bought from a local bakery because you were thinking of him? He remembers it well, and he’s constantly reminded of it when you text him about things you did over the weekend or hobbies you basked in. Sending photos of your houseplants, asking him for his opinion on clothes you were hoping to buy (which he was always more than willing to sponsor; all you needed to do was send the link and he’d purchase it), and even trusting him enough to fall asleep in the VC with him (arguably one of his favorite things about your unique relationship).

And he called it unique not because it was a bad sort of strange. Rather, it was unique in the refreshing sense. He’d never had an online friend before, let alone someone who would so willingly and readily indulge him. Granted, this willingness stemmed from the deal he’d cut with you and so you were really only doing these things for your own gain. But then so was he. It was a relationship built upon necessity. You needed money to survive, and he needed you.

So it was okay to fall into sleazy fantasies. It was all an act anyway, and it wasn’t like you judged him or his preferences. At least, not outright. If you did, it was silent. You were considerate and sweet; and you really did consider him a friend. Or so he hoped. If your casual conversations were any proof, it was obvious there was some sort of enjoyment and trust there.

Friendship or something more, he would have you. Whether that meant in the safety of his pocket, enclosed within his mobile phone forever, or in his penthouse, tucked away in his bedroom—he’d have you.

“I’m from a city, yes,” he answers, purposely cryptic.

“Obviously. Come onnn, Witchy. Don’t you wanna meet me, too?”

“I do, and one day we’ll meet. I promise.”

He listens to your irritated groan and his cock twitches in his slacks. Good god, your voice is a blessing—more heavenly than a cherubic choir.

“One day isn’t today, though.”

“Perhaps not.” He speaks to distract you from the rustling fabric of his pressed suit as his hand strays further. He spies his reflection in the rearview mirror, notes the flash in his irises. If only you were here, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. If only he could slide his own seat as far back as it would go, lie still and serene, and let you climb into his lap to spear yourself on his erection. Genuine leather be damned. He wanted your scent, your essence, your everything engraved into the very interior. “Humor me—if we were to meet right now, what would you like to do?”

“Mm, I’d want to get a good look at the man I’ve been talking to for nine months now.”

“Oh, you’ve kept track?”

“You haven’t?” Your laughter is fluffy and light—authentic amusement. “And I’d want to memorize your face so that I’ll never forget it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m so curious! You know what I look like—”

“Not entirely,” he interjects, sly and silver-tongued. “You’re a portrait half-finished in my mind. Not yet sketched to completion.”

And it’s true. From your shoulders down, you are a faceless beauty. He’s seen you nearly naked and fully clothed, in frills and lace, in latex and ribbons, in satin and chiffon. And yet, for all of the skin you’ve shown, he can’t place a face (or a real name, for that matter) to your body.

“Okay, poet,” you tease, and he’s already palming himself through the fine fabric of his trousers. “But I’ve still never seen an inch of you. You’ve never even sent a dick pic.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Can I have one now?”

“Nice try.”

“Asshole!” you gripe, clicking your tongue in disappointment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” he hums, squeezing himself, his breath coming out faint and haggard.

Yeah, he’s the worst. But then you’re the best at eliciting these sorts of reactions from him. The effect you have on him is utterly enthralling. Your ability to reduce him to a pliable puddle in just a few words—a mere few lighthearted, hollow insults—is truly impressive. He’d feel ashamed of himself if it wasn’t so good.

“You’re probably not even that big.”

“Would you like an exact measurement?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to measure it in person? See how many inches I could fit inside. I’ve been practicing with that dildo you sent me—the one shaped like a tentacle,” you purr, frustratingly coy. He wants your sinful lips wrapped around his dick right now—wants to fuck your throat sore and raw. Wants nothing more than to spill heavy and hot on your tongue so you’ll taste him for days. “If we met up, we could make that happen. Sooo, where’s my Sea Witch from? What part of the world?”

“Patience, angelfish.”

Even though he says so, he’s practically vibrating with excitement as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Soon. So soon. Very, very soon.

And then…

He imagines you rolling your eyes with your next words. “Fine, fine. I’ll be patient. But that’s not gonna stop me from fantasizing.”

“Well, what do you think I look like?”

“Now isn’t that a fun question?” You mull it over. He can tell because you mutter a variety of ums and hmms in that soft, sweet voice of yours. “I think you’re tall and you have a handsome face that matches your equally handsome voice.”

“Yeah?” he encourages, undoing the belt, button, and zip on his pants one-handed. “What else?”

Your giggles filter into his ears, seeming closer than they actually are due to the wireless earbuds he’s wearing. “From what I’ve gathered, you seem to have expensive tastes.”

Sitting in his lavish, one-of-a-kind, custom-made sports car, Azul thinks you would be correct.

“I wonder what gave it away…” he drawls, his voice creeping an octave lower.

He places his phone in the cup holder, reaching to open the glove compartment and retrieving a tiny bottle of lube. Squirting a scant amount on his palm, he fishes himself, throbbing and pathetically hard, out of his boxers. His slick hand is a warm, welcome embrace around his silky-smooth shaft. He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Mhm, I wonder. It’s not the fact that you told me I should just buy a designer bag for work when I asked for recommendations. And it’s certainly not your ability to get me lots of nice gifts as if it’s nothing. So maybe it’s just your excessive generosity that makes you seem so rich?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“Speaking of that, what do you do for a living?”

“Guess.”

“Okay, Mr. Mysterious… Um… Hm. I think you’re a pilot.”

The whiplash that assumption brings is so seismically jarring he thinks he might go flaccid. Gripping himself with renewed vigor, he slides his fist along his length, slow and perfunctory, picturing you under his desk, your mouth open wide to receive him…

“A pilot… Mm, no, not quite.”

“Aw. My second guess was gonna be a contract killer. They make lots of money.”

“You have quite the wild imagination, angelfish. Even if I was one, do you think I’d admit that to you?”

“Maybe,” you tease. He pictures your smirk as it twists your perfect, pretty lips into something wicked. “For the right price, yeah?”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

Please. Please keep going. Don’t stop talking. I need to hear you, closer, louder, clearer… More.

“What sort of price would I have to pay to get Sea Witch to spill his secrets?” you muse, your voice a tantalizing curl of syllables, but he suspects you already know the answer to your hypothetical. “I can’t offer you money, so you’d have to settle for something a little more…physical.”

He shivers, nodding his agreement even though you can’t see it. “Physical’s good,” he mumbles, foregoing eloquence in favor of filth. “Much better than—mm—than money…”

“Yeah? All right. Let’s see… You’re well-off and you might or might not be a contract killer. Do you wear suits?”

“I do.”

“Ooh, so you’re one of those contract killers.”

Azul can’t help it; he laughs, the sound tumbling out in a breathy gasp. “I prefer looking nice at all times.”

Languidly, his hand continues its idle pumping. He cracks his eyes open to peer at the pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Even if you’re just going to get messy?”

“Explicate the situation that’s leading me to soil my clothes. Details, angelfish.”

“Well, if you’re a killer who wears suits, you wouldn’t like even the smallest stain. It ruins your image, but if it was me…” You pause, probably for effect, and it works. His back arches with anticipation, fingers closing tighter. “You’d make an exception.”

“I would,” he admits far too quickly. “Always.”

“So you really would out yourself as a killer if I spread my legs for you?”

“No, but I’d let you dirty my suits.”

“Good. They’ll look better on the floor anyway.”

His breath hitches. Fuck, your every word is a siren’s song, leading him deeper into mist-clouded waters. He’d keep you pinned on his cock all day if he could. Why should you continue to work your mundane job when you could spend your precious hours with him instead? He’ll be your job. Seven days a week, during each of the breaks he’ll pencil into his schedules, you can visit him and he can empty all of his stress into you. And you’ll take it because you’re such an obedient sweetheart for him, always so ready to please your master.

He prays you can’t hear the salacious squelch of skin on skin as he works himself towards the edge, but a nastier part of him wants you to listen in so you’ll be reminded that this is your fault. No one else can possibly make him this messy. No one else is capable of rendering him a clumsy, lovestruck fool. You’re probably well aware of these facts, having brought him to this same edge numerous times in the past. Sometimes you would reach that tipping point alongside him, your gasps and groans joining his in an obscene duet.

Neither of you decided upon today’s development, but he thinks—knows—you’re intentionally stringing him along. You want this as much as he does.

“So was I right? You’re totally a contract killer?”

“I’m a businessman, angelfish,” he corrects, a silly, drunken smile softening his jaw. You make him feel so stupid, so warm and fond.

“So basically the same thing. Just as ruthless, no?”

“Please, you wound me. I’m always kind.”

“Ah, so there are others who get this treatment? And I thought I was the only one…”

“You are. No one could ever compare to you.”

He intends to tack my love onto the sentence’s end, but he stops himself. You’re not his love. Not really. You’re his angelfish, sure, but that’s different. That’s just a pet name befitting the aquatic theme he masquerades behind. And you’re not really Azul’s. You’re Sea Witch’s.

It’s Sea Witch you know and love. Beyond that, Azul is just Azul. And he’s nothing like the ideal he’s cultivated on Magicord.

He sighs and forces himself out of the turbulent trenches of his withering self-esteem. Now is not the time to contemplate which version of himself you’d be more preferential to.

You’ll have no choice but to love the real him. Soon.

“Really? I feel so special.” Impressed, you whistle and add, “I’ve gotta make you feel special, too.”

“You already have—”

“Not inside the VC. Come on, Sea Witch, don’t you wanna meet me?”

“I do. I really do,” he babbles dumbly, grinding his thumb into his slit and smearing pre-cum. He grits his teeth and tamps down a colorful word. How he yearns for this to be your hand wrapped around his length, tugging him to that far-off finish line. “I want nothing more than to—t-than to see you, all of you, in person…”

“So what’s stopping you? I could do a lot more in person than I can over the phone.” He has a smart reply for that, but it sticks in his throat. Pitifully, like the rightful debauched mess he is, he groans, low and guttural. “Let me turn the question on you, Sea Witch. If we were to meet today, what would you like to do to me?”

So many things, he thinks, a litany of smutty imagery flickering through his head.

But Sea Witch is classy (most days) and today is one of those instances. Or at least he’s going to make an attempt, however weak it may be.

“Take you to dinner,” he mumbles, executing jerky, quick motions in a daze, his cock weeping for release. He throws his head back, peers up at the interior roof of his car, and inhales sharply. “Take you all over the city if it pleases… I’d spoil you with so much finery—dress you up and then tear every article off…”

“And then?”

“And—god, fuck—wanna be inside you, angelfish… So badly—need you so badly. I wanna feel you and kiss you and hold you.”

He’s unraveling, strings pulled taut and fraying to extremity. Azul bucks into his hand and imagines it’s you, tight and warm, a sweet, snug embrace. He opens and closes his mouth, intending to beg you for more, but all that slips out are the tiniest huffs and grunts. He’s so wrapped up in his own ardor that he almost misses your quiet pants, every breath squeezed out of you as if you’re struggling to withhold your gratuitous moans. And it’s deplorable, really, the way his ears prick at these muffled sounds, the way his cock stands rigidly at attention, the way he’s falling through fragments of filthy fantasies, each one so close and yet impossibly far.

“I want you, too,” you mewl, tone wavering between shameless thrill and some sort of seventh heaven.

He wonders what you’re using to pleasure yourself. Are your fingers, slick and curled, rubbing up against those perfect, pretty spots that have you seeing stars? Or are you using the toys he purchased for your enjoyment? Maybe you’re lowering yourself onto the dildo right now, gummy walls clenching around girthy silicone. And maybe you’re tugging at your nipples, massaging them between the pads of your fingers, or maybe you’ve swapped skin-to-skin for a bullet vibrator instead.

Maybe—just maybe—it’s the mere thought of him that sets your flesh aflame with an intoxicating desire.

“And I want you—” you gasp, and his mind travels to all of the risqué photos you’ve sent, each one saved in a password-protected album on his phone— “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I want you to show me that no one else can compare to you. I want you to—mmh, hah—to hold me down in bed and fuck me until my legs are sore and I can’t walk.”

I will, he thinks, lashes fluttering on his cheekbones. He strokes himself quickly, chest heaving, tongue near-lolling out of his mouth as he pants like a hound in heat. I’ll do all of that and so much more. I’ll fuck every coherent thought out of your pretty head, keep you just smart enough to rely on me, turn you into the prettiest sea flower who’ll only blossom for me.

“I promise, angelfish. I promise I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he vows, his nerves alight with lustful delight, “and you’ll never know misfortune again.”

“I—oh! I’m close, so close! Please, Sea Witch! Please don’t stop. Please fill me up and make me yours!”

The sheer vulgarity twined through amatory vehemence, coupled with his own hurried pace, has him tumbling down the slope, arousal peaking and spilling over in thick, creamy spurts. He has half a mind to catch his spend before it can ruin the pristine interior of his car, and he blinks down at the semen sullying his palm. Idly, he rubs his fingers together to test the viscosity, wondering how his fluids would look on your face, your stomach, your ass—or even pooling out of your hole in plentiful amounts.

That fantasy is enough to send blood rushing right back to his softening cock, and he wills those thoughts away with logic—complex calculations and the financial forecast for Mostro. There will be plenty of time to indulge in sexual cravings later. He reminds himself of this while he tamps down his zeal, his heart relaxing in his ribs as he sits with the slowly ebbing aftershocks of orgasm.

You seem to be doing much the same, for you’ve gone perfectly quiet.

“Everything all right, angelfish?” he whispers after a few minutes, his breath now evened out.

“Mm, yeah. All good over here. Messy, but good.”

“I’m comforted knowing we’re in the same boat.” He chuckles while fumbling to dig a cotton handkerchief from the depths of his suit jacket. He cleans the cum and residual lube from off his hands and dick before neatly tucking himself away. Soon, there will be no need for this charade. Soon, he can adore all of you from beyond the screen. “Angelfish, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

“What’s up?” you murmur, your own voice settling into its usual cheery cadence. He suspects you’re just putting on an act to sound happier. That will change when you’re reunited in person because it will be real. Because there will be no point in pretending through the phone.

“Well…” Azul smiles, folds and unfolds the sodden handkerchief, and then straightens his posture. He should be on his way now. “Ah, it’s nothing. Never mind it. I’ll tell you later.”

“Whaaat? But you’ve made me so curious now. Don’t just leave me in suspense!”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in that suspense indefinitely.”

“Ugh. You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He knows you don’t mean that.

“I’ll tell you soon, angelfish. Exercise a little patience. There’s no rush.”

“Easy for you to say. You know what it is.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, considering his next words. “Would it help if I left you with a word of advice?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

“Um. Okay, sure. Hit me. What’s your advice?”

Azul buckles himself in, starting his car via push button. It rumbles to life, smooth and steady. “Don’t fight so much, my dear.”

“Don’t what? Sea Witch, what are you talking—”

Your words are interrupted with a startled yelp. Azul listens to the struggle as if it’s a podcast enjoyed at sunrise. Things are toppled in the chaos; something shatters. He catches the beginnings of a blood-curdling shriek before it’s swiftly silenced. There’s more muffled scuffling before, eventually, absolute peace.

It’s broken by Floyd’s petulant whine. “Maaan, Shrimpy was so difficult. Thought you said they were easy, Azul.”

“Understandably so,” comes Jade’s astute reply. “We did catch them when they were most vulnerable.”

Floyd hums his agreement. “Y’know, Jade, Shrimpy’s kinda cute…”

“They are, aren’t they, Floyd?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, perish it right now,” Azul hisses, features twisting into something dark. “Keep your slimy mitts off of my angelfish.”

There’s an unsettling silence. Azul rolls his eyes. They’re fishing for a reaction he refuses to give.

“Clean up whatever mess you’ve made.” He takes his car out of park and eases into drive. “And don’t let anyone see you. It’ll be a hell of a pain if neighbors make unnecessary reports.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard ya loud and clear.”

“Very well. Farewell for now.”

The call is cut. Azul grips the steering wheel, smug.

Soon waits for him on the horizon. He will not be a minute late.

You wake on a bed, in a spacious bedroom with exquisite floor-to-ceiling windows, many stories up in the clouds. A brightly lit cityscape sprawls beyond the confines of this room, illuminated with the deceptive shine of promise and success. At first it looks foreign. But then you recognize notable buildings, each standing tall and proud amidst the rest, and it occurs to you that you’re in a stranger’s home, in the heart of the big city.

The room itself is plainly colored; it reminds you of a hotel or a room you might find in a real estate catalogue. Perplexed, you sit up and take pause as your unfamiliar surroundings prove to be more frightful than your own confusion.

Pasted to the walls are various printed screenshots from Magicord, each one detailing a conversation of sorts. You stare at the wall behind you, the one in which the bed is currently pushed against, and peer closer at the contents of these messages.

They’re all from you.

Endearing terms you’ve called him in passing. Gentle insults. Lewd flirts. Vents and rants. Photos you’ve sent of very insignificant things—houseplants, meals, clothes. And then there are the photos of your body in skimpy lingerie and cosplay, all taped to the wall like this is some abstract museum of the digital you. The you who, despite being honest most of the time, took solace in the world of Magicord. The you who’d grown close with the mod from that whimsical ocean-themed server. The you who is now trapped, your ankle enclosed in a cuff. There’s a lead that only allows you to meander into the attached bathroom if you so please, and you suspect it’ll pull taut if you try to leave the room.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, your stomach twisting with disgust.

You look down at your clothes—you’re in someone’s collared shirt, intentionally designed to be oversized so that it drapes like a nightgown—and horror prickles your skin.

And then he arrives.

He’s dressed casually in black slacks and a simple white dress shirt, primly tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. You stare for a long moment, studying his features as his familiarity dawns. Your mouth falls open in a muted scream.

He smiles sweetly, stepping further into the amber glow from the bedside lamps. “It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Sea Witch.”

But that’s not what’s shocking about this. The real shock—the thing that has your brain stumbling in an effort to put the pieces together before the picture can crumble—is far more jarring than the kidnapping and the captivity. You find your voice then, and before you can stop yourself the words are falling out in a hurry.

“CEO Ashengrotto?!”

Sea Witch—CEO Ashengrotto—stiffens, his brows furrowing immediately. He gives you a sharp, dangerous look. A look that seems to radiate one unspoken question: Where did you hear that name?

“You… You’re A-Azul Ashengrotto,” you continue, swallowing thick trepidation. “CEO of Mostro. You opened a new restaurant last year—Crave, right? And the menu features celebrity favorites—celebrities like Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanche.”

He laughs his disbelief, carding a hand through soft, silvery locks. “How…do you know this?”

“I work there. You visited once with your secretary for quality checks. We even crossed paths.”

Azul gawks, realizes he’s gawking, and clears his throat. “I… I see. Well.” He inhales, holds his breath for three seconds, and exhales. “This makes things rather…awkward.”

“When you said businessman, I didn’t think… I mean, how was I supposed to know? Your voice sounds so different over call than it does in interviews.”

“Of course it does! I never use the same inflection for those things.”

This cannot be real, you think, watching him flounder anxiously. Azul Ashengrotto is Sea Witch. This whole time… Nine entire months… I was talking to the CEO—to the city’s most popular bachelor—and I didn’t even know it. They write articles about this guy! He’s all over the TV! How did I never realize?

And then a very mortifying thought worms its way in: Oh my God. We both know each other’s preferences. He saw so much of me—more than I’d ever want him to see—and I heard too many private things during our calls…

“Let’s just…” You rub circles into your temples to quell the incoming migraine. “Let’s never talk about this again. You can buy my silence and I’ll move on with my life. I’ll even forget all of…” You glance at the Magicord conversations stuck to the wall and then the chain binding your ankle. “All of this…stuff. We’ll agree to call it a misunderstanding and life will be good, yeah?”

The bargain doesn’t seem to reach him. He continues to stare at you, his eyes glazed with an emotion you can’t place. Whatever it is, it’s stormy and dark. You don’t like it, and you shrink away when he steps closer.

“All this time you were right under my nose…”

Azul climbs onto the bed with you, the mattress depressing under the additional weight. Framed by the hypnotic radiance of the skyscrapers climbing heavenward, he’s certainly earned his place in every celebrity gossip magazine you’ve ever read. Articles debating whether he’s secretly committed to a relationship. Articles theorizing what his life plans may have in store for him. Articles discussing whether he’ll ever get married, if he’ll remain single for the rest of his life, if he’ll ever open his heart to the many people who hope to earn his romantic affections.

No one knows it—how could they when he’s so tight-lipped with the paparazzi?—but you are the secret variable the articles have yet to discover. You are the covert partner, the one who has won his heart, the one who now sits shackled on his bed.

What sort of tabloid journalist could ever spin this story?

You scoot further up the bed, your back pressing against the ornately extravagant headboard. Your knees are pulled into your chest, a futile attempt at protection.

“All this time you were so close to me…” He marvels at this, his baby blue hues locked permanently on you. “And neither of us knew. I could’ve had you much sooner had I just realized…”

You blink at him, your heart sinking with every passing second. “Mr. Ashengrotto, what do you mean by that?”

A pout tugs at perfect, pretty lips. “Why so formal, angelfish? We’re much closer than that, surely.” His hands settle upon your knees, gently pulling them apart. Your blood curdles with fear. “There’s no need to be so tense. It’s only me.”

“No… Please wait. Hold on!”

“Hm? If I’m not mistaken, this is what you want. You were rather vocal about your desires. You’ve always been. So why are you looking at me like that? I’m not scary, am I?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please let me go…”

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, his tone patient despite the subject. “You know I can’t do that.”

“But you… You kidnapped me! Y-You had those guys hiding in my home and they…” You shake your head, unable to describe the sheer terror that had overwhelmed you when those creepy twins descended. Hopeless, you open your eyes to give him your most despairing look. Tears brim in your eyes, threatening to fall at the slightest prodding.

“Oh, my dear, did they scare you? They’re brutes who know nothing of how to treat a person with adequate care. You needn’t worry anymore. I’m here for you.” He cups your face in a fond hold, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your cheek. “Don’t cry, angelfish. You’re in good hands—my hands. And have they not been the most generous?”

“You’re crazy. Obsessed! How can you think any of this is okay? Look around at the walls! You’ve pasted our conversations everywhere—they’re practically the wallpaper!”

“What of it?” His hand slides down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet him at eye level. “I love you. I have for months now. And if those are the ways you choose to classify my care, so be it.”

Tear trails trace down your face. He leans in to kiss the rivers away, but they morph into the saltiest of seas.

“You may not approve of my affections right this very moment. You may hate me, think I’m monstrous, a culmination of all things foul, but you will love me. In due time, my dear. And when you do, the world will open and the chain will come off and you will know freedom under my roof.”

He has the gall to worship you with a loving smile. It poisons you with newly brewing abhorrence.

“So cry your heart out. Scream and kick up a fit. Do what you must. And when the floods subside, we can learn to love one another. Both at our best and our worst, within and beyond Magicord.”

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul #yandere azul x reader #n/sfw

[autumnslance]

Year of the OTP - November 2023 - Missing Scars

(An unusual look at the "De-aging" prompt, perhaps, but Shadowbringers' resolution for the Scions sits with me. 980 words.)

The differences were so subtle, it was difficult to explain. Six years all told had passed, which was not many, but just enough.

In six years in the First, he had watched children and adolescents grow up—had watched Ryne grow up, most importantly. Yet now, looking out over the Toll, local children exactly as he remembered them played in the yards and through the streets of their small frontier town.

Animals too; six years could be quite some time for many a beloved pet or farm animal. In dangerous lands and uncertain areas, six years was an entire lifetime for many. Yet the same dogs and cats scampered through the Toll after their masters.

The external similarities, where he expected changes, were not the only ones, of course. He turned back to the hand mirror and inspected his eye once more.

After his misadventure in the Lifestream, and all that had followed in Coerthas, and then their participation in liberating Ala Mhigo, he just hadn’t taken the time to let it rest and heal. The best he had done, that he could do, for so long was to keep it covered and unused, or at least as little as possible. His depth perception had suffered, and even now he had to practice to get back to using both his eyes, instead of compensating for missing one.

His body’s enforced slumber, tended to by their excellent healing staff, had finally allowed the aetheric damage time to heal. He didn’t see so much as a wisp of aetheric underlay, there was no eye strain, no clouded vision. He had been concerned about that, returning from the First to his own body once again. But the damage was finally healed.

A few other aches and pains he thought he ought to have seemed to have vanished as well; he couldn’t be certain if it was due to the rest, or if their healer team had taken advantage of his soul’s absence to repair some old damages.

Not to mention missing scars; he knew when he had arrived in the First, his mental image of his Self had neglected a few minor ones, or those he did not see and think about often.

Aeryn had noticed. The first time they were together as lovers again, she had noted the differences in his scars; some missing, some new—to her anyroad, there in Norvrandt, and his misadventures over the years he had spent caring for Ryne while missing Aeryn.

He had not asked yet about the changes to his scars again now. The ones they had forgotten, the ones that were now missing—all the evidence of his time in that other realm. Scars were stories, and so he had always been proud of his. Evidence of times he had survived, his years of experiences.

Six years wiped away and lost forever.

He finished shaving, cleaning and packing away his kit, tossing the soapy water. “You look years younger, clean-shaven and with your hair cut” more than one person had told him, in more or less those words. He had, perhaps, let himself go a bit, after Dravania.

After the Antitower.

Aeryn had never minded the stubble and long hair, but Ryne had quietly bullied him into shaving and trimming up. And it had made him look more fitting to be her guardian in the First, rather than a rough wilderness scout.

He turned, and found Aeryn silently watching him now, arms crossed, leaning on the doorway as he stood on the small balcony. “The washroom not bright enough?” she asked.

He shrugged. “That, and I didn’t want to disturb you, sleepyhead.”

“As if I ever mind being woken by you,” she pouted.

“Oh, you mind. I simply know best how to distract you from your ire,” he teased.

She blushed, as he knew she would, tracing her finger down an old scar on his bare chest. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fit as a fiddle—though we shall see if Krile agrees, and allows me to train with Radovan yet.”

“Just don’t overdo it, old man,” she joked.

“Oh, don’t you start that again,” he grumbled as she giggled. He frowned, looking down and away in thought. “I do keep forgetting how old I am now. I have to think about it.”

Her fingertip hooked under his chin, turning his gaze back to her lovely gray eyes. “Old enough,” she said gently, pulling him in for a kiss.

He hummed thoughtfully as they broke, leaning his forehead on hers. “There is some time before I’m due to see our healers,” he noted. “Perhaps a private demonstration of just how young and healthy I feel right now is in order.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she murmured, blush tinging her ears now. She traced another scar, still reacquainting herself with his reset appearance.

“That isn’t a no,” he pointed out, slipping his hand under her shirt to touch her skin, fingertips finding a scar that she had earned in the First, that she got to keep, having been there in both body and soul, only five physical years between them now instead of six. It wasn’t much time at all really, and yet—

His thoughts came to a stop as she pulled away, clasping his hand to draw him after her. Her face was very red now, the ease with which her blush appeared ever endearing. “It wasn’t, and there is time,” she said.

Five of those years had been spent missing her. There had been an underlying fear of growing old—worse, growing old without her.

But only a handful of moons had passed in the Source, those years he spent in the First reset, only the memories good and bad remaining. And here she yet was, here they both were, finding what had changed and what remained the same for all those years that had passed in no time at all.

#final fantasy xiv #lyn writing #lyn edits #YOTP 2023 #Shadowbringers #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #wolcred #shippy nonsense #Aeryn Striker

[welcomingdisaster]

Many Sentences Monday!

i was tagged by @meadowlarkx & @thelordofgifs to share some fic! i'm super self indulgent, so here's the first scene of a "maglor comes to aman" fic with a twist.

1: The Pipe.

The little room is not decorated how he would expect. 

Though of course it is exactly as it should be. There are the many intricately woven banisters, hung along the walls, clearly Maedhros’ choices, his style. There are the gouache paintings of leaping long-legged horses, their features exaggerated by movement, so dynamic they seem almost birdlike, painted plainly by Fingon’s hand. There’s the huge padded armchair in a tasteful shade of forest-green—Maedhros—and the short coat of brilliant crimson slung over its back—Fingon—and the tangle of vines outside the windows and the short-legged hound on the duvet and the tabby cats outside and the ornate teal-and-lilac service set on the counter, certainly gifted because neither of them would pick it, and the open easternmost window and the smell of roasting garlic. 

It is the things which are not there, which he has come to expect. 

It is the outhouse, the lack of indoor plumbing, the candle-gems set into the walls, look of slight confusion on the face of the servant when he turns to feel for the light switch. It is the realization that he cannot call; cannot send a telegram; that is had not occurred to him to pack a typewriter and so all his correspondence and his writing will again be hand; that his poems, should they ever again be published in this land, will need to be painstakingly copied, word by word, onto the parchment. 

It ought to be easy to fall back into it. He had missed it, he tries to remember. He had thought the world noisy and overwhelming. He had wanted to run from it. He’d seen soot stains on trees that had once been virginal, had once been white, and his head had spun with it. He had watched the factory-smoke rise and thought it unlovely and unworthy of living for. He had stared at the monstrous bulk of a locomotive, had tasted its bitter smoke on his tongue, and felt the awfulness and sublimity of invention as he had at the gates of Angband. 

And yet he is happy that he has taken along his gramophone. 

No one had expected him. 

News of the boats do not come; gossip travels through word of mouth and webs of osanwë across the city and into the countryside, but his hosts are out hunting. There are two servants only in the house; a quiet young maiden, barely seventy, there to mind the horses and the goats, and a man who had clearly once been a soldier, watching the house in the owners’ absence. 

They speak to him in Sindarin, faintly accented with entirely different accents. The maiden, Cinnogil, lives there full-time, though mostly with the animals; she is responsible for the horses’ training and upkeep, and to this duty she dedicates herself with a fierce passion. He does not ask what brings her out of her house so young, as he would have asked in another life. 

The man, Singdan, is there only some of the time. He lives close by, he says. He comes and helps with the cooking and the cleaning, at times, in exchange for gems and for fresh cuts of hart and for legal work, now and again. 

But really it can barely be called an estate. 

“They keep a room for you, I think,” Singdan tells him, as he helps him unload his mule and stack his luggage in a jumbled heap in the mud room. The short-legged dog weaves around their ankles when make their way down the hall, lit by sparkling silver gems, the walls decorated with rugs far too warm and too heavy for the climate. “They have for as long as I have known them.” 

The room—his room—is at the end of the hall. His eyes trace the walls; the simpler, more elegant decorations in silver, the blue and white bedspread, the lyre and the flute, the inkwell, the bottle of aged rum with the books on the bookshelf, the ceramic horses on the writing table. Someone has hung a change of clothes for him in the corner closet. 

There is no dust, no trace of disuse. Only one thing out of place—the mahogany pipe on the windowsill. 

He crosses the room and picks it up, holding it up to the light. It is well-used. Warm from the sun streaming in through the glass, streaked slightly on the inside. 

Out of them three only Maedhros smokes. Likely he had sat here, and had the window open. 

(Why is there so much guilt, with that thought?) 

“Shall you come and dine,” Singdan asks, “while we wait?” 

Thank you. He is not hungry. 

---

tagging @eilinelsghost @outofangband @melestasflight @polutrope @grey-gazania @that-angry-noldo @searchingforserendipity25 & @polutrope @jouissants anyone else who hasn't done it yet and wants in!

#lena speaks #my fic

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Greensleeves Chapter Seven: The Horror And The Wild

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: Brief description of dead animal at the very end Wordcount: 4.1k

The party adjust to their newest member and set out on their journey to the goblin camp. They're interrupted by an old business partner of Xaph's

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Gale and Xaph return to their companions without further discussion. He shares what they have learnt from the goblin prisoner, about this Absolute. A god none of them have heard of. Xaph peers at the map and plots possible routes with Wyll and Shadowheart. Two black circles are on the parchment now: the goblin camp, and where Zorru had encountered the githyanki. One is much further west than the other. The goblin camp must be their priority. The githyanki can wait a few days. The tieflings can’t.

“Your kind prove compliant, Xaph. A useful trait.” Lae’zel tells Xaph as the group collect themselves and begin to move. The tone of her voice almost makes it sound like she’s trying to compliment rather than insult.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Shadowheart butts in, “You ought to reconsider keeping her around, before she causes real trouble.”

“Let’s not start a fight,” Wyll reasons, “Not here.” He’s right. She shouldn’t start a fight within the group, not after accepting Lae’zel and bickering with Shadowheart. Besides, to bring violence inside the grove would certainly have them tossed out by the druids, and they might take that as an opportunity to evict the refugees too.

“We’re not compliant. We’re survivors. These people are running for their lives.” Xaph informs Lae’zell, refusing to break her stride and let the githyanki goad her into an argument. That’s far too easily done with Shadowheart already.

“Cockroaches are survivors. Yet I do not congratulate them.” Lae’zel points out. Xaph’s tail twitches, but she still doesn’t stop. Astarion and Gale note the movement, and the latter mumbles,

“Steady. Remember she’s acting out of fear, like the rest of us.” He’s right too. She can’t pick a fight with every being they come across who has something against tieflings, but it’s always somehow worse being the butt of the joke in front of a group of people who aren’t.

“The teeth-ling was clear. If there are githyanki west of here, that must be our objective. Purification cannot wait.”

“We are tieflings. With an f.”

“I am unfamiliar with the - well, I shall not say culture. Custom, perhaps.” Lae’zel says, eyes rolling behind Xaph’s back. The tail twitches again, more violently this time, but Xaph’s jaw is set.

“Nor am I familiar with yours.” Is all she says.

It is decided through vote that Xaph is least likely to get them lost. As a ranger, she has a better grip on maps and traversing rough ground than the elf who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in a century and the self-proclaimed wizard of Waterdeep, and Shadowheart and Lae’zel both carry the prickly presence of lone wolves who are distinctly uncomfortable in a pack. Wyll is well-suited to keeping everyone on task, which Xaph thinks will work well to curb her habit of going off the beaten trail in pursuit of interesting tracks. When Shadowheart points out the impracticality of her armour for hiking, Lae’zel makes that noise between her teeth again, tchk. In loose formation, Wyll puts himself between the cleric and the githyanki. A fight between them seems inevitable, but hopefully the Blade of Frontiers can keep it verbal for the time being. It scratches a pleasant itch in Xaph’s brain, that from above they must look like an arrow. She, Astarion and Gale form the triangle of the point and Lae’zel, Wyll and Shadowheart the shaft.

She revels in being outside again. The sun is warm, but pleasantly so, and the wind moves enough to keep cool air circulating around them and prevent overexertion. The air carries only the occasional waft from the nautiloid, and is otherwise deliciously clear. No longer drowning in the stink of burning flesh, blood, and acrid smoke, she can dissect every delicate note of the grasses around her and the flowers they hold. When they pause so Wyll can shake a stone out of his boot, Xaph takes the opportunity to retie her hair so it’s all gathered up and she can feel the breeze on the back of her neck. Even the unevenness of the ground beneath her feet is a delight. It’s been a while since she’s travelled with others, and it takes her a while to correct her speed so Gale doesn’t lag behind, so Lae’zel doesn’t snap about them going too slow, so Wyll stops fretting about them burning through energy. Eventually, they settle into a rhythm and keep to it until the sun reaches its peak and several members of the party start flagging. Even those used to roughing it are struggling, weakened by the tadpole. They should endeavour to sweat no more than necessary to retain fluids.

Now several miles away from the grove, they’ve reached a bridge. Deciding to make a brief stop before crossing it, they find a good clump of trees that cast enough of a shadow to hold them all. Xaph slides down the trunk of a tree, lets her head fall back onto the bark, and reaches out blindly for her bow to unstring it and give it a break. Food, provided by Okta, is doled out and eaten in near silence. Lae’zel stays standing. Pacing, actually, questioning if there’s any real need to stop. No one answers her, too tired. Once they’ve eaten, Wyll and Shadowheart split from the group to investigate voices they can hear not far away. Gale tells the remainder of the group his Yawning Portal story with suitable dramatics, and Xaph resists the urge to correct his grip when he mimes holding a crossbow. Lae’zel shows no such restraint, but to look at Gale her words are no more than irritating flies, and his blasé attitude makes Astarion chuckle. It’s a neat little pocket where, for a moment, Xaph thinks this group might work. At least for the next few days. As long as none of them turns. Or dies. Or kills another member of the party. Alright, it’s a little complicated.

Wyll and Shadowheart bring disturbing news back to the shelter of the trees. A man has died nearby, leaving his siblings under the impression that the Wyll and Shadowheart were True Souls, beings chosen by this new god the Absolute as vessels of her word. Their brother had died after foolishly following an owlbear mother back to her nest, and after convincing the siblings not to avenge him they had run off into the woods. A tadpole had squeezed out of the dead man’s eye not long after. With more than mild concern at the third mention of this new god now coupled with a mind flayer worm, they end their break early and continue to move.

Their redoubled efforts do not last long. They don’t even get to cross the bridge. Halfway across, Xaph skids to a stop as bright red and gold sparks swirl in a vortex in front of her. She groans audibly as the sparks convalesce into the form of a man. He looks human, even if his skin carries a reddish undertone. Middle-aged. Not particularly remarkable.

“Don’t.” Xaph warns at the sound of multiple weapons being readied. She herself hikes her bow up her shoulder and waits.

“Xa-pha-ni-a,” he stretches each syllable far longer than necessary, until they’re transparent, “Well met, muzz.” Xaph’s companions have heard her use this word on the tiefling children when she wants their attention, when she demands their respect. He knows her name, this swirl of sparks that stinks of sulphur. Astarion can taste cherries in the air, unable to overwhelm the smell of the hells. Shadowheart can feel her hair prickling at the back of her neck at the untoward curl of his lip. Gale can judge the track of his eyes from Xaph’s boots to her hair before he appraises her friends. Wyll and Lae’zel know devils when they see them. Xaph closes her eyes as she breathes in through her nose and opens them as she heaves a world-weary sigh,

“Raphael,” worse, she knows him, this must-be-infernal, and she does not show him the respect he has ordered, “What. The everloving fuck are you doing here?”

“Mind your manners, little mephit. Speaking of, what manner of place is this that I find you in? The path to redemption?” his voice rumbles ever so slightly deeper than it should, “Or the road to damnation?” he leans forwards, into Xaph, and she leans back to maintain distance, “Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning. What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?” there’s whispering behind Xaph but she doesn’t listen closely enough to make out what her companions are saying. Raphael always did like delivering his riddles in song form, “The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then,” he drags a hand through the air, “Down came the claws, and that, love, was that. They know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they?”

Lots of lullabies and faiytales come from the Cormyr area. Wine, too. He’s been listening. Watching. The air around Xaph and Raphael shifts as something red-hot teases the bones of her spine. Gale shuffles his feet, uneasy at the mention of Cormyr, under the same suspicions as Xaph. This devil had heard their late-night conversation. Her tears.

“What’s brought you down here with all us worms, Raphael? Hardly your scene.”

“Quite right,” his eyes rove over the party again, “Too many pests, and decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.” Raphael offers Xaph his hand and, to Wyll’s dismay, she takes it. The entire group is engulfed in the same red-gold sparks that had brought the devil to them, sparks that turn to flames that flare white without burning and are snuffed out in an instant.

***

They are no longer on the bridge. They stand in a grand dining room. Dining room, because there’s a behemoth of a table in the centre, round and positively overflowing with food. Every good cooking smell in the world comes from this table. There are huge roaring fireplaces, huge black statues, huge everything. They are ants here. 

“You’ve redecorated,” Xaph notes. “New portrait,” she flicks a hand towards a towering painting that hangs on the wall above the fireplace behind where Raphael now stands. Ten-foot tall canvas, easily, the frame itself adding another two feet around the perimeter. Xaph turns her back on the devil while her companions are still trying to process what had happened. It’s an illusion, Gale can tell that much, but such a strong one of the like he hasn’t seen in…well, in a while. Wyll’s eye darts nervously along the walls, looking desperately for the windows, for assurance they aren’t actually in the hells. “Liked the old one better.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as an aside to the devil. The devil. A devil is talking to them. A devil knows the tiefling. Maybe she isn’t as soft as Shadowheart had thought.

“The House of Hope,” the showmanship is for the benefit of the party rather than Xaph, who is nonchalant, surveying the table, “Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed. Lavishly,” He chews on that word for longer than necessary, making it more than it is, “Go on. Partake. Enjoy your supper.” Xaph picks up a loaf of bread. Tears it in half. Squeezes the halves into dough balls in her hands. Holds them up to her nose. Licks them. Listens to them.  She tosses another loaf of bread at Astarion and he catches it without a second thought. His eyes are everywhere, there’s just so much to take in, but he has enough wherewithal to catch it. 

“The food’s safe. Take what you can carry,” her words are light, but when she looks at her companions her eyes are dark and deadly serious. Her voice pushes into their skulls, Trust me. Please. Let me handle this. Astarion and Lae’zel begin to fill their packs as advised. Gale’s eyes are stuck on Xaph. He hadn’t considered that she too might have her own secrets. Wyll fidgets, entirely unable to stay still. His eye keeps going to the door, but it snaps back to Raphael as flames roar around him. A devil indeed. It’s confirmed, made official. He is showing them his true form. His skin fully red, his bone structure sharpened. Winged. Horned. A genuine product of the Hells, and one with power too.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” Raphael asks the room at large.

“A devil you do.” Xaph replies.

“You’re stepping on my lines, love.”

“Maybe you need a new script.” Wyll is in utter shock. As are several other members of the party. Xaph is treating this fiend as though he’s just another human, another elf, another githyanki even. Her surety worries Gale, but it fascinates Shadowheart. “What do you want?”

“Some respect would be a suitable start. On your knees, mephit. I am not known for my patience.”

“Or for your sta-” This, apparently, is too far. Stale air rushes over the party as Raphael’s wings open. He almost seems to grow taller. It’s not clear if Xaph kneels of her own volition or if she’s forced. The stillness of her tail indicates the latter. An apology flies from her lips, then, “Don’t hurt them. Your business is with me.” Her voice has taken on a strained tone. Pained.

“That heart of yours bleeds as much as ever, then. No matter. You won’t have use of it for much longer.”

“I’ve been lower than this. Why now?” A dozen questions burn in the minds of her companions but not one of them dares to move. The extra height Raphael had gained recedes, and he steps forward so as to more effectively look down on the tiefling. Her hands are behind her back, as though bound.

“Don’t play hard to get, not when you’re in so deep over your tadpoled head. One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all,” the devil snaps his fingers and a flame leaps up between them, “like that.”

“He spits lies. The only way to cleanse-” Wyll clamps a hand over Lae’zel’s mouth before she gets them all wiped off the mortal plane. She bites him, but doesn’t say anything else once he lets her go. 

“And you know I’ll never agree to your terms.” She sounds as though she’s running out of breath.

“Oh, never say never, love. But very well,” with a wave of his hand, Xaph is released. The ranger falls onto her hands, whipped out from behind her back to break her fall, and she coughs like a cat trying to bring up a hairball, “Try to cure yourselves. Shop around. Beg, borrow, steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair, that is when you’ll come knocking on my door.” He laughs, and they can feel it rumble in the floor beneath their feet.

“I’ll rip out your tongue first.” Xaph tells him, still out of breath.

“Ah, yes. The tongue. Yet another piece of pleasurable anatomy you’ll soon have to do without. All those pretty little symptoms - sundering skin, dissolving guts - they haven’t started to manifest yet, have they? You’re a paragon of luck, muzz. But luck always runs out eventually. I’ll be there when it does.”

With a thud that rattles their knees, the party are thrown back to earth. They’re standing in the same fashion they had been in the House of Hope, still arranged around a table that isn’t there anymore. Xaph is on the ground, crumpled, still trying to clear her throat. Wyll reaches her first, on his knees in front of her and lifting her head to see her eyes.

“What in all the hells was that?” Shadowheart’s next, and her voice is sharp and accusatory, but she deliberately stands so that she’s not in the way of the light Wyll needs to look Xaph over.

“Raphael,” Xaph’s words rasp, but she sounds less congested, “Mephistopheles’ heir and a fustilarian shitfire,” the words she shouts into the dirt path devolve into Infernal.

“More importantly, darling, how in the hells do you know him?” Astarion asks, though he keeps his distance. He and Lae’zel, packs bulging with food that has proven not to be illusory, stay a few feet away from the rest of the party as Shadowheart takes Xaph’s pack and Wyll and Gale slot their shoulders under her arms to get her to her feet.

“You don’t have a deal with him, do you?” Wyll asks. The group begins to move across the bridge they’d almost forgotten was there, all of them wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Raphael as possible.

“No, gods, no,” Xaph assures him, having to stop to cough again and her face pinches in a wince, “He came to me about ten years ago, when I was as close to starving as I ever will be. He preys on the hopeless, offers them a way out in exchange for their soul. Gets quite offended if you refuse.” That can’t be it, Gale thinks, the story’s too short, but she doesn’t say anything more.

“You shouldn’t have provoked him.”

“It’s the quickest way to get him out of your hair,” Xaph tells him, “If you’re a mark, that is. Looks like I’m still a prospective client.”

“Just when I think I’ve got a grasp on our dilemma, a bloody devil turns up.” Shadowheart exclaims, throwing her hands in the air.

“Cambion.” Wyll and Xaph correct her together.

“He claims he can help. How true can that be?” Shadowheart asks, addressing Xaph specifically.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“He flaunts his paltry wings as if he wants to impress us,” Lae’zel sneers, “You saw the red dragons slaying his infernal kin above Hell’s fires, did you not?” These questions are for the group at large, though they turn out to be rhetorical, “Next to a dragon, a devil’s a gnat. When I am kith’rak, I will take my Queen Vlaakith his head as a trophy.”

“Kith’rak?” Gale repeats, his pronunciation very close to Lae’zel’s.

“Githyanki knights. The riders that chased the nautiloid. They are the commissars and enforcers of my Queen Vlaakith’s will.”

“Forget the kith’rak,” Astarion cuts in, his pronunciation not as clear as Gale’s, “There’s a devil after us. Cambion!” he corrects himself before Xaph and Wyll can, “This just gets better and better. Shop around he said. He seems sure we won’t find anything.”

“That’s his angle, to grind hope down to bone meal.” Xaph tells him.

“Maybe, but all that take your time, I’ll wait nonsense. He’s playing with us. He reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone that liked to play with people. Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”

“We’re not his playthings, Astarion,” Wyll says, “We won’t be.”

“Besides, he can’t have a cure. Only the zaith’isk can remove the tadpole.” Lae’zel reminds them. She and Astarion descend into debate. Xaph turns her head to look at Gale, who’s hardly said anything. This close to him, still propped up by him and Wyll, she can see spidery lines of black that crawl out from the neck of his robes up to his eye. Curious.

“Rather flattering, to be invited to dine with a devil.” He says quietly when he sees Xaph is waiting for him to speak.

“For you, maybe. He’s got no patience for me anymore.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. He knows how far he can push.” She doesn’t want to go into it, how hands of hot air had pushed her to the floor and held her wrists, her tail. How motes of fire had burned beneath her skin. She’ll be left with the feeling of bugs creeping over her body for hours, until Raphael forgets or lets her go. Shadowheart presses a cooling, healing hand between her shoulder blades and she regains some strength in her legs, “But for the rest of you? That was roses and champagne.”

“He wants something from us. Badly…” Gale gets lost in his own thoughts and Xaph has to laugh at him.

“He wants our souls, Gale.” Wyll says.

“Let me play advocatus diaboli,” he borrows Wyll’s own phrase from the day before, “If there’s one quality all the denizens of the hells share, it’s ambition. A quality they share with many humans, come to think of it. He wants Xaph’s soul, yes, but why drag the rest of us tiddlers in with the catch of the day? Fact one,” he starts to count with the fingers of his free hand, “There’s something very strange and very powerful about our tadpoles. Fact two, a cambion offers to take it away. The infernal aren’t known to aid mortals out of simple kindness,” Wyll hums in agreement, encouraging Gale, “Whatever Raphael wants, we must be the key to getting it. Along with our tadpoles…”

***

They know they’re making proper progress when Shadowheart recognises a specific tree. A short detour brings them back to the place where she, Astarion, Gale and Xaph had made camp that first night. There’s a good few hours of light left, but Xaph is still wincing at odd intervals and they’re still weak from their time aboard the nautiloid, so Lae’zel’s protests are largely ignored when they decide to camp here again. Gale manages to talk her down, reminding her that no warrior can be at their best without rest, and that seems to calm her somewhat. The party, though larger than before, is as subdued as they had been that first night. The combination of hard travel and Raphael has tired them. Xaph fillets fish Lae’zel and Shadowheart had engaged in competition to spear from the nearby stream, and Gale peels potatoes Okta had given them. A look passes between the ranger and the wizard and they know they will not be able to have their discussion tonight. They have more than enough food to use foraging as an excuse between the tiefling’s donations and Raphael’s buffet. Astarion had suggested that the devil’s food might be poisoned, but Xaph had quickly quelled these concerns by shoving handfuls of the stuff in her mouth.

“Xaph?” Wyll’s voice rings out between the rocks. He’d gone exploring, and has apparently found something of interest. Xaph cleans the smell of fish off her hands and moves towards the sound of his voice, tailed by Astarion.

Wyll has found a boar. Full grown, stone dead. Xaph squats and runs a hand over the bristles of its stomach.

“The pig’s dead, my friends. Staring at it won’t bring it back.” Astarion tells them.

“I can’t figure out how it died,” Wyll says, ignoring Astarion and crouching beside Xaph, “He’s fairly young. Strong.”

“Must be five or six years old,” Xaph slides a hand under one of its front legs, “Not warm, but he’s still a little stiff. Can’t have been killed more than a day or so ago.”

“Can you eat it? Because otherwise, I don’t understand what the problem is.” Astarion says flippantly. Xaph reaches for the boar’s snout to see the length of its tusks, and that’s when she notices the puncture wounds. Small holes punched into the beast’s neck, less than a finger’s length apart. It’s the only wound on the boar’s body, as far as she can see. She twists to Astarion and holds out a hand,

“Knife?” he obliges, passing her a dagger, but he does ask,

“Shouldn’t you lug it back to camp before you start hacking away?”

“I want to see something.” Xaph tells him. She sets the point of the dagger in one of the puncture wounds and cuts.

“And? Is it dead enough for you?”

“It’s been completely drained of blood.” Xaph states, and this effectively shuts Astarion up. Wyll probes the incision Xaph has made, investigating further. He looks at her, the question in his eye forming on his lips in a whisper,

“A vampire?” he asks. Xaph nods. “So close to where you’d slept? Are we safe here?”

“We’ll be fine with the night watch, but we should keep a specific eye out.”

“So you can kill it, I suppose.” Astarion muses. Xaph stands and turns to him, and he recognises the look in her eye. Determined.

“No.”

“No?”

“They must be starving, to drain a boar of this size and still not be strong enough to dispose of it,” she glances at Wyll to confirm he feels the same and finds no resistance from him, so she locks eyes with Astarion again. His red eyes glow in the night, as her green ones do. They’re beginning to take on that nocturnal sheen as the sun sets. He’s watching her. Waiting. “And hunger makes beasts of us all.”

#rae's writing #greensleeves #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #rae's ocs #xaph [tav] #lae'zel #wyll ravengard #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #shadowheart #astarion #raphael #bg3 raphael

[coveredinsun]

i wrote 3 different winnix fics in december & january but i realized i NEVER posted them here. so behold, my series of winnix fics where i get further and further detached from canon, and where i also make lew a girldad for fun

1. darling, it’s grand, they just don’t understand

“Act upon what he finds within himself, and only himself,” said Dick, audibly pensive in a way he hadn’t been. “I quite like that.”

“Well, that’s the gist,” said Lew with a shrug. He wasn’t even in the top half of eloquent men. “Honestly, I really hated reading and analyzing Emerson’s essays. He found a way to talk and talk and talk about nothing at all, when he could’ve kept it perfectly concise.”

Like you, Lew almost said. The bullet got jammed. Still, he had a hunch that Dick could read his mind this one time.

Or: July, 1948. Blanche Nixon invites her brother, and his business partner slash lover, to… a baseball game?

6.5k words, fluffiest of the three; my weird band of brothers/a league of their own (2022) crossover fic??? whatever. blanche invites winnix to a baseball game to see her baseball player girlfriend-ish, all the way mae. stupid emily dickinson references because i’m lame and basic, sue me. gay jazz clubs :)

2. november 27th

“Kathy hates it when I call her Maggie, but I think it’s cute that she’s got a little nickname to grow out of.”

“Or maybe she’ll find someone who calls her Maggie,” replied Dick, totally without thinking. “And he’ll say it’s ‘cause it’s easier, sure. But more than anything he’ll like the way it sounds when he says it.”

When Nix looked at him, then, his eyes glittered. His lips were pursed like he needed to say something or he’d shrivel up and die.

There were many things Dick could conceptualize him saying. Luckily, they fell into two neat categories—the things Dick expected Nix to say, and the things Dick wanted him to.

Or: 1942, 1944, and 1946. A study on Lewis Nixon’s history with love, destructive vices, and fatherhood—as seen from the eyes of a wife and a lover.

8.2k words, perhaps the most densely packed with angst of the three. examines lew and his relationships with love and fatherhood, both alongside kathy and alongside dick. ann winters introduction <3 and classic new jersey angst

3. the likes of me abide

“Well, I feel compelled to be a little more brave now,” replied Dick, holding up his gaze like Atlas held the heavens. “I ought to give you an answer that’s more honest.”

But not fully. It was sort of bitingly ironic, the way Lew always put up Dick as the more honest of them. He didn’t find that to be true. Not when there still existed so many selfish desires in his mind, like the one that practically clawed and scratched like an animal just to fit somewhere into this part of Lew’s life. He might never put that desperation into words.

Or: Summertime, 1951. Lew gets back in touch with Kathy.

10.3k words, angsty but less intensely as last time. i go reallyyyyy ham with kathy’s character in this, so take that as a treat. i also actually make lew and kathy’s daughter into a character <3

#just in case people still check this tag #ship of theseus-ing winnix one fic at a time! call that the winnix of theseus #aka the saga of girldad lew🫶 #<- he deserves it. take that statement however you want #band of brothers #winnix #lewis nixon #dick winters #<- i HATEEEEEE tagging their names sm😭😭😭😭 #band of brothers fic #my writing

[theflyingfeeling]

Fifth Day of Gift-Giving: Fights (and Reconciliations)

Prompt(s): It had all just been a big misunderstanding and after finding that out, all they could do was laugh or... something else 😏

Today's piece is a standalone unrelated to the previous parts (because, being a hopeless conflict-avoider myself, I just couldn't make the Olli and Allu in that story have a fight of any sort; all the pining is plenty enough suffering for them, don't you agree? 🤧). Even this one is less about the fight and more about the reconciliation, I hope you enjoy (rated M for you pleasure) 😌💞

~

Olli stared at the empty bag. Where there used to be a perfectly balanced, hand-picked selection of the finest Finnish pick & mix candy that were supposed to last him the whole tour, there was now but a sad pile of sugar left. He closed his eyes and attempted to counted to ten, but reaching eleven, his blood was still boiling, so he decided to keep going until he'd stop clenching his fists and maybe come up with at least some level of adult reaction to this unfortunate event – in the end, it was just candy. It's not like he had suffered great economical loss or profoundly traumatic, unforgivable abuse; that being said, he was still pretty damn bitter about having spent the whole day looking forward to keeping his brain buzzing with some sugar in between the soundcheck and the show, only to peek in his bunk and find his secret stash exceptionally candyless.

He had only one suspect: the only other person in their midst who knew of the secret stash.

Olli supposed he had only himself to blame, however; he was famililar with Aleksi's sweet tooth. Yet, in his moment of weakness (that is, lost in the man's blue eyes and the magic his hand was perfoming on Olli's cock the other night), he had revealed the nook of his bunk bed in which he kept the goodies hidden from sight. Even during their afternoon nap the day before, they had hid the small plastic bag in between them, popping a piece of salmiak or a chocolate button in their (or each other's) mouths every now and then in between cuddles and giggles. Now, Olli realised letting Aleksi that close had been an evident mistake.

"Ale?"

"Hmmmmh?" the man replied from the lounge.

"Come here for a sec."

"What for?"

"Just...," Olli inhaled and exhaled, still trying to find the words that wouldn't completely blow the whole incident out of proportion, "just come here. There's something I want to ask you."

A subtle groan sounded from the lounge (the audacity), and with lazy, dragging steps, hair mishevelled, hands in his pockets, and mouth stretched in a yawn, Aleksi appeared next to him.

"What?" Aleksi mumbled.

You're lucky you're so fucking cute, Olli thought at the sight of him. A bastard, but a cute one.

Olli steered his gaze back to the crime scene, determined to not let Aleksi's endearing appearance distract him.

"It's empty," he growled instead.

"Häh?"

"You ate my fucking candy!" Olli spat out his words.

"The fuck are you on about, dude?"

"The fuck am I–" Olli had to pause to take inhale again, failing at keeping his cool. "The fuck are you about, eating other people's food like an animal?!"

"Someone's eaten your candy?"

"Yes, YOU DID!"

"What? No I fucking didn't! Why do you think it was me?"

"Because no one else knows about the candy but you!"

"Are you sure though? It's not easy to keep secrets around here, you know, all packed up in this bus like herrings in a barrel. Eventually someone else was ought to–"

"Oh my god, Aleksi, why can't you just admit it was you?"

"BECAUSE IT WASN'T!"

"The hell are you two squabbling about down there? I'm trying to have a nap!"

The two of them were startled by Niko's head appearing from a bunk above them. Until then, it didn't occur to Olli that others may have caught up on their argument, let alone that someone may have been trying to sleep through it.

"Oh, fuck, sorry. Olli's just a bit wound up over his–"

"Ooh, yeah, I'm so unreasonably wound up alright, because Aleksi's gobbled down all my fucking–"

"Jesus, Olli, get hold of yourself, it was me!"

Olli was already prepared for another string of accusations against Aleksi when Niko's words hit him and he was left with his mouth gaping open at the unexpected twist.

"Yeah, sorry bro. Saw the bag on your bed, must have fallen there from somewhere. Couldn't really help myself, got a terrible headache and I was desperate for some sugar. I'll make it up to you, so can you please stop shouting now?"

"Uhhhmm," Olli scratced the back of his own ear, suddenly embarrassed for quite a few reasons, "yeah, sorry. It's... it's cool, don't worry about it."

He was too ashamed to look at Aleksi directly, but from the corner of his eye he could see the man raising his eyebrows at him before he stomped away to the lounge area of the bus. Olli took a moment to rub his face and let out a long sigh before walking after him.

Aleksi was already slumped on the couch, his nose as if glued to his phone screen when Olli sat next to him.

"I'm sorry, Aleksi."

Aleksi kept his eyes on his device as he spoke in an icy voice that spooked Olli to the bone.

"Oh yeah? What for? For yelling at me for no reason? For accusing me of something I hadn't even done without letting me explain myself? Or perhaps for being such an uptight control freak about your candy? Because if I had a gigantic bag of sweets on tour, I'd totally let you have–"

"Yes, yes, all of that!" Olli wailed, bonking his forehead on Aleksi's shoulder. "I was just...really looking forward to eating some today."

"Yes, that became very clear."

"Alluuuuuuuuu, I'm sorryyyyyyyy," Olli whined against the man's sweater.

"Don't you 'Allu' me, I'm still upset," Aleksi muttered, although Olli could already feel him soften.

"Is there anything I could do to stop you being upset with me? I really am so sorry." To maximise the effect of his (at least partly innocent) plea, Olli stick out his bottom lip in a pout and put on his best puppy-eyes act. He almost struggled keeping his frown from turning into a victorious grin when Aleksi side-eyed him, lips twitching.

"Guess we can think of... something."

Olli was already loving the sound of that.

~*~*~

Olli wasn't exactly sure how 'trying to keep as quiet as possible while having your dick sucked by your bandmate in a moving tourbus in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep' was an apology rather than a punishment, but he wasn't complaining, quite the contrary; Aleksi's restrained moans were honey to his ears, his soft thighs felt heavenly under his palms, and the twitch of Aleksi's cock between his lips made blood rush to his own hardening member.

"Ahh, fuck, Olli, feels so good," Aleksi whispered breathlessly. Olli could tell he was close to finishing from the way his hips kept jerking, thrusting his erection deeper in Olli's greedy mouth, and the way his hands were grasping the cushions of the lounge sofa. Determined to catch Aleksi at his climax, Olli kept his eyes nailed to Aleksi's fluttering ones as he removed one hand from Aleksi's hip bone and wrapped his fingers around Aleksi's glistening cock, with just the tip remaining in his mouth.

Aleksi's soft whines then turned into surprised gasps when Olli's hand began working on his cock, pumping it while his tongue flicked around the sensitive head over and over until he could feel hot spurts of Aleksi's cum on his tongue and lips. He kept stroking the now pulsating erection, his lips grazing the tip just lightly enough to know it was driving Aleksi insane, not stopping until Aleksi's heavy panting turned into sobs from how sensitive he was becoming.

Having cleaned them both up, Olli sat next to blissful Aleksi and began palming the bulge on the front of his own trousers.

"So. Was that alright for you? Are we even now?"

"Oh, for sure, that was... that was nice. Thanks," Aleksi slurred, still trying to calm down his breathing. "Although... it's... not the whole truth, maybe. What Niko told you."

Olli furrowed his brows.

"What's that's supposed to mean?"

"I mean... yes, Niko ate the candy, but he didn't eat all of it. I had also been to your stash earlier today, but I swear I had put it back where I took it! I guess it really had rolled out, like Niko said, and... well."

Olli weighed Aleksi's words in his mind, still casually massaging his own erection through his pants.

"I see," he nodded.

"Please don't be mad. I promise I'll never eat your candy without asking ever again."

"Oh, you better," Olli snorted, "but, ummmm. Obviously I can't let this go unpunished."

"I'll do anything, as long as you won't start screaming at me like that again."

Honey to his ears.

"You would, huh?" Olli leaned in closer to whisper his command in Aleksi's ear, his nose brushing the soft hair on Aleksi's temple. "Better get on your knees, then."

#blind channel fanfiction #blind channel rpf #ollixallu #24 days of gift-giving by theflyingfeeling #have a spicy tuesday evening y'all 🥰 #back to the ''main'' story tomorrow! 💖

[writeforfandoms]

Well, I was just thinking, shifters heal super fast right? And historically mink coats were for wealthy people and even now, even though it's illegal, people still want them. So don't think about mink!shifter reader getting caught and how handy it would be to have someone who's coat could be harvested over and over.. and what their pack would do to the people who did something so horrible. Don't think about them refusing to shift or have their back exposed after they get rescued, or how jumpy they are around others. Or about what kind of scarring it would leave behind even with their fast turnaround. to soften up the horror of that idea, I imagine neither of their pack would leave them alone even for a second. They'd be extra extra protective and deliberately watchful. I can just imagine the first time they shift after they recover, they curl up under one of the boys' heads, too spooked to be exposed to the air and comforted by the thought of their pack using their own body to shield them. -🦐

Oh. Oh you are so so right for this.

Tw animal cruelty/shifter cruelty

See that would take months. Yes shifters heal fast but regrowing the skin and fur? That takes time. So they would have to be caught for weeks at least.

But even having it happen once would be enough to make them scared and leave them scarred.

That would not be something they'd survive easily. But their pack would make sure they survived it. König would break open the cage, blood still dripping from his teeth and claws, and get the mink out so carefully. Horangi would be playing guard, similarly bloodied.

Nothing would be left alive behind them. They would probably figure out a way to burn everything, too.

And it would be a long recovery. I think you're absolutely right that mink would not want to shift back to being a mink for a long time. They'd be too scared, even sheltered with their pack. They can't stand to look at their back, at the layers of scars there.

They're in good company for that, at least. König and Horangi have their own scars.

Those two don't leave mink alone unless mink specifically asks. Sleeping happens in the pack room now. Meals are all taken together.

The one time anyone suggests that maybe mink ought to retire sends mink into a panic attack, and her pack are highly tempted to kill the idiot.

But mink does recover. Slowly. It's not until they're fully healed that they finally shift again, immediately hiding between their two packmates.

Horangi considers it his biggest success when mink falls asleep still shifted under his chin.

He and König exchange looks and settle down to watch for nightmares. Yeah, it'll take a while to recover. But they'll be there the entire time

#🦐 anon #shifter au

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

and i'm forced to deal with what i feel (forgive, morinel ft maglor)

morinel has. a lot of feelings about this actually (10 pages worth, actually). this whole situation is a goddamn mess help. also, your honor that is morinel's emotional support mithril thread spool and one day i will write a fic about how she Aquires it and Why it's her emotional support mithril thread spool.

Mithlond is somehow even emptier than Morinel remembers it being nearly a year ago, silent save for the song of the waves crashing against the shore.

She returns to the palace, standing in the deserted foyer, though she is too lost in thought to really realize who Elrond is talking to, tucked away in a corner.

She pays them no mind and goes to pass them so she can return to her room and start packing–

The hooded figure looks up – looks at her – and there is a moment of terrible realization that makes Morinel feel sick with conflicting feelings.

“Maglor.”  There’s ice in her voice, and she clenches her hands at her side so tightly that her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. 

Her uncle’s– Maglor’s eyes are foggy like sea-glass and there’s barely any Treelight left in them.  

“Isfin–”

“Don’t call me that,” Morinel snaps, sharp like iron, sharp like the crackle of lightning in her runes, or the sharp burn of her fire, sharper than she means. 

Elrond’s brows crinkle and she exhales, trying to calm herself – at least a little. 

“I haven’t gone by that name since…” Since before the War of Wrath, since before the breaking of Beleriand, since before everything changed, since before– 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says stiffly.

Morinel cannot help but glance to the stairway that leads to the hallway that leads to her room. For a few tantalizing seconds, she wonders if she could extricate herself from the conversation and make it up the stairs but–

“What ought I call you then?” There’s that faint bite of not-quite-sarcasm that she remembers all too well from Amon Ereb and Belegost and Taur-im-Duinath. 

“Morinel.”

Maglor says nothing at first but his brow quirks upward for a half-second, which she knows all too well for surprise (she'd disliked that name when she was little, after all) before it smoothly crosses into approval.

“It suits you.”

“Thank you.” 

(She nearly laughs at how bizarre this is – the two of them exchanging polite pleasantries as if they met by chance in the marketplace.)

The wind rustles outside, and raindrops splatter against the roof, and in the distance, lightning flashes. He pushes his hood away from his face and for a half-second, she sees his hand, burnt and blistered, and she wonders what could've made such a mark–

The Silmaril. 

So it did burn him.

(She remembers that night, after the Host of the West had wrested the Silmarilli from Morgoth’s crown, when they stole through the camp and cut down the guards, eyes burning like wild animals, not Eldar, blood on their sword even to the last–)

“I had thought you drowned in the wreck of Beleriand.” It’s with concentrated effort that she keeps her voice level and disinterested. “Were you here this whole time?”  

He nods and something twists within her like a coil that’s been wound far too tightly. 

She closes her eyes and bites her tongue and tries, for Elrond’s sake, to ground herself and keep from lashing out.   “Where?” 

Morinel’s pendant feels heavier than the entire weight of Arda at the moment and her cloak – meant to keep out the chill – feels like it’s made of lead. 

She hopes, desperately, that the answer isn't what she thinks it is.

He shrugs, palms upward, and the light catches on the angry-looking burn. “Here. East of Himring – mostly – as I always have been.” 

As if to emphasize his words, lightning strikes the sky and she can see the lonely island out in the distance.

Arinya flickers and shines in the candlelight and suddenly all she can see is hands dipped in silver and crowns of holly and she can only taste the burning char of stone that sticks in her throat and – 

“This whole time?”

His face twists with pain and his eyes are shadowed when he answers as lightning cracks in the distance. There is sorrow in his voice when he speaks. 

“If this is about Ty–”

Thunder rumbles. 

“Of course this is about Celebrimbor!”

Heat scalds her throat, as if she'd used one of her runes, and she takes a breath before she continues, focusing on the texture of the soft mithril thread between her fingers.  

“Do you know what Sauron did to him?” Her voice is dangerously low, and she knows that this is unfair, but she can’t be bothered caring. “He cast his hands in liquid silver, and made him into a banner, beaten and bloody and barely recognizable.”

Maglor winces and Elrond’s face twists into disapproval. 

She cannot stop now but, by all the Valar, she wants to, she does not want to have this outburst here, in front of Elrond, she does not want to have it at all, she does not want to be emotional when she is already stressed from travel, she does not want to be vulnerable. 

But it would be easier to stop the sun from shining, or to stop the ebbing of the tides, because the words are already bubbling up into her throat, and pouring from her mouth the way the Gelion flowed into the Helevorn.

“Where were you? Hiding on the coast when you could have helped.” Lightning cracks again, bright and throws the room into sharp relief. The words feel like they burn her, and Morinel exhales, and the ill-made pendant rises with her breathing. “We needed you too, you know, but you ran, like you always do.” 

She regrets the words the minute she says them.

Uneasy silence lies between them all, and she stops to listen – the rain has slowed, and the thunder stopped.

She takes advantage of the moment to flee, taking the stairs nearly two at a time, and shutting her door behind her.

Morinel tosses her sketchbook none too gently onto her well-worn chest of drawers, and locks the door behind her. 

She takes a seat at her desk and pushes The Coming Into Eldamar away, and pulls out her letterbox again, carefully paging through each one – half-heartedly, she knows she doesn’t have the heart to throw any of them away. 

When she’s done, she places it on her bed, and turns to her bookshelf.

Her thoughts spiral and twist as she works, mostly to the tune of that was uncalled for, even if you were angry or how are you going to fix that or dark hair isn’t the only thing you inherited from your father –

An hour goes by, and the anger has passed — or, more accurately: turned to a dull simmering — when someone knocks, softly, at her door when she is nearly through organizing her books.

Morinel freezes, then unfreezes to pick the last book off the shelf. More likely than not, it’s probably Elrond and she sighs.

She is not looking forward to her talking to, but it must be gotten over with sooner or later, mustn't it?

Morinel unlocks the door but waits until she’s back to the books before she calls over her shoulder: “It’s unlocked.”

The door creaks on its hinges. 

“May I?”

Blood drains from her face.

Not Elrond. 

“If you wish.” Morinel’s voice is icily polite. 

(She hides the strain very well, if she must say so herself.)

Contrary to his request, Maglor stays on the threshold and she spreads the books out on her bed and begins to sort them into piles: keep, unsure, and give away. 

Ainulindale: A Translation – illustrated by Lorindol of Gondolin – is placed into the Keep Forever pile, while A Treatise On Stone by Arelleth is placed in the Give Away pile – after all, why would she need a book to help with the planning of cities and great buildings when they must be a mirian a dozen in Aman?

Moments tick past.

Morinel cannot stand silence.

(She never has, and she never will be able to. Maglor knows this, and she knows Maglor knows this, and Maglor knows she knows he knows this.)

She exhales.

“Are you going to stand there or come in?” She still is not facing him as she sorts through her books, though in truth, she is barely even really looking at them. “This room gets cold, and I would like the door shut before I freeze, either way.”

There is the shuffle of fabric and the door creaks again. Then the floorboards creak too, as footsteps come closer – though they stop a few feet away from her.

Maglor is still not just yet in her peripheral.

“You were never so affected by the cold before,” Maglor’s voice holds a hint of something… she doesn’t quite know what it is. “That sounds like something that would affect those who crossed the Ice.” 

Morinel feels she’s allowed to be a little petty about the whole thing.

“Yes,” she says succinctly, stacking the books with a little more force than necessary, “But being in a coma due to the dark arts of Sauron for three thousand and twenty-five years causes many changes in one’s hröa, most of which I am still coming to terms with.” 

Her shoulder throbs as if agreeing with her as she watches her words land with a sort of sickening pleasure, and she hates herself for taking satisfaction in the way discomfort flickers across Maglor's face.

“I suppose so. I might've known."

Morinel laughs, but there is no humor in it, only bitterness. “How could you? You weren't here.”

She glances up then, to see how his lips purse into a thin line, like how it did in Belegost or Amon Ereb before telling her and the twins something he knew they wouldn’t like. 

Her eyes narrow, and her hands still.

“That is–” Maglor pauses, taking a step toward her. When he seems convinced that she isn’t going to commit violence to preserve her personal space, he continues, “– not entirely true.”

Morinel goes very, very still.

“What do you mean?” Her voice is low, and her hands have stilled, clutching the spine of one of her older books. 

“I was not as good at hiding as I thought,” he says, with a rueful shrug, and her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. “Elrond found me, not long after Tyelperinquar…”

His voice fades into a soft silence, and the sound of the waves shushing through the windows fills the room. 

At this moment, Morinel doesn't know whether she is more angry at Elrond, for keeping Maglor’s existence a secret from her — of all people! — or at Maglor, for staying away so long. 

But Maglor is not finished speaking. 

“After that… I was in Imladris,” he says, softly, so softly she almost can’t hear him, but she can, if only just barely, and that’s almost worse.  “Occasionally. And I was there when…” He pauses, no doubt trying to figure out how to phrase his next words diplomatically. “...you came back.”

Morinel blinks very slowly. 

The knot of emotions in her chest gets tangled even more, like when she was first learning embroidery and left herself too much thread.  Suddenly, she remembers first waking from the coma, the harp song in the background when she mumbled to Harthalín and—

“That was you, wasn’t it?” The words are accusing, even if the tone isn’t. 

He blinks.

“When I woke up,” she says, frowning. “You were the one at the harp, weren’t you?”

He bows his head – whether from shame or acknowledgement, she cannot tell.

“So–” Heat scalds at her throat again. “So…” She hates this, she hates stammering, she hates not being able to articulate her point. “Why? Why did it take you two ages?”

“The Silmarils burned us,” Maglor says, as if that were the only explanation needed. 

“Do you think that matters to me?” She snaps, finally able to look Maglor in the eyes, to see pain reflected there. “Maybe that line worked on… on the Morinel in your head– but–”  

She takes a deep breath and rises from her bed to pluck half-heartedly at her loom – carefully avoiding Maglor's eyes as she fidgets with her shuttle. 

“Oh, Morinel,” Maglor says, his voice soft and tired and despairing. “You didn’t want me around, not really. You say that now but you don’t understand.”

“Do not tell me how I felt then,” she says, more fiercely than she meant to. The spool of mithril thread grounds her as she reminds herself to breathe.

“I didn’t want people whispering about you,” Maglor says quietly, “Or Celebrimbor. I know they would have, if you had received visits from your kinslaying-uncle.”

She laughs despairingly, turning to face him again. 

“They already did whisper about us! A Fëanorian who works with thread –” and she lifts the basket full of spools as if to demonstrate her point, “– in weaving and embroidery both…” 

Morinel smiles bitterly then, tucking a braid out of her face. 

“You can imagine, I’m sure, the rumors that started and Celebrimbor always had it worse – as a smith, as the eldest of the two of us, for his resemblance to his father and to Grandfather.”

She takes a breath.

“We looked. I looked.” 

The words come out like she is carving them into marble, torturously slow but the tangle of knots in her chest unravels the tiniest bit. He makes a sound of surprise, and she smiles, though it comes out like a grimace. 

“Those first decades after the war were hard,” she says. “I had questions, and I’m sure he did too.”

She feels very young again, a child amidst the days of the War of Wrath. 

“I– We– thought you were dead.”  Then, so quiet, she’s not sure if he even hears: “And we thought that if you were not dead that you must have been angry with us.”

Silence again. 

Maglor isn’t looking at her this time, and she tightens her grip on the mithril spool in her hand for reassurance.

“I was—I was trying to protect you both.” 

The words sound as difficult to say as Morinel’s own admission. “I know how difficult it was to love Feanorians in those days.”

“Not as difficult as it was to be one.”  

(This time her response is easy, because it is true.)

They stand in an impasse, in silence. 

Finally, she manages to say what she’d been wondering (and fearing) the response to. “Why… Why did you show yourself to Elrond, and not us, then?”

A pause, and she watches the tossing waves in the harbor. 

“There was very little choice in the matter.”

Maglor’s lips quirk.

“It happened by chance. He saw the smoke of my campfire.” The words sting a little, and she knows that they should not. “And I think, part of it, is I was scared of your reactions.” He shrugs. “I was running.”

She winces as she takes a seat at her loom, and gestures for Maglor to sit at her desk. 

“I am sorry,” she says, after a long, long moment of anxiously passing her shuttle from hand to hand. “About what I said.”

Maglor gives her a crooked half-smile. 

“I deserved most of it, if it makes you feel better.”

She shakes her head and rises – almost as soon as she sits down, because she had never been one for sitting still – to start taking down the tapestry she’d finished on her last visit to Mithlond. 

“It doesn’t,” she says, digging through her basket before finding her favorite tapestry needle. 

With deft and skilled movement – she’s done this often enough it’s almost second nature – she weaves the loose threads at the top back into the weave.

“I hold myself to higher standards than that, and what I said was…” she pauses, frowning as she paused, looking for words. “Not kind. I am very sorry.”

She bends to do the same for the lower part of the frame before deciding to just sit cross-legged on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Maglor looks like he is going to say something, but decides otherwise at the last moment. 

She looks up to meet his eyes, halfway through the bottom half of the tapestry. “If you have something to say, I would prefer you say it, you know. I have been a little too honest, and it is only fair that you are offered the same.”

Another crooked smile. 

“I was only going to say that thinking before you spoke has never been your strong suit, but I was not sure if that would be too familiar of a thing to say after… everything.”

To Morinel’s surprise, she actually laughs as she goes back to weaving her loose ends back into the tapestry. 

“You aren’t wrong,” she says, shaking her head. “Though, I like to imagine that over the years as a councilor that I learned to be a little diplomatic. Clearly, I was too hopeful.”

She cuts through the looped warp threads holding the tapestry at the bottom and she stands to cut the loops at the top. 

The tapestry comes loose once she pulls it free, and she’d forgotten how heavy they could get as she staggers backward before she regains her balance, and drops it onto her bed. 

Morinel comes back to the loom and with the tapestry gone it looks forlornly empty – throughout the years she has always been working on something, though she could go months or years taking breaks from her current project. 

The only time she can truly remember it being empty was in the first few weeks after she’d commissioned it – those weeks were her trying to bring herself to actually use without feeling like she was tempting fate. 

This loom has been her companion throughout the ages and she knows its quirks and oddities better than any other she’d practiced on, and Cirdan had said, when she asked, that she could bring it with her if she wished. 

She’d been uncertain before, but her mind is made up now.

“Would you like some help, or would you prefer to handle it yourself?”

The request is made casually, making Morinel free to accept or decline, and she appreciates the choice.

“I think help would be nice,” she says softly, and her uncle rises to come stand by the loom.

Things may not be entirely mended between them yet, but they were getting there. 

#me bapping this fic with a stick: you! are! not! expanding! into a long fic worth of background context!!!! #i feel like maglor is. ooc to like. my particular hcs here but also like i've never Actually written a fic with him in it literally ever #my fic #oc-tober 2023 #og post #the forgiving is happening in the background but #it's happening! just. v slowly

[fiirecracker]

they tried to warn him.

(“now, tevis, you must understand— he isn’t the same.” ikora shifting fretfully, so unlike the normally stoic warlock, as she and zavala exchange glances. “no, we don’t know— the doctors are doing everything they can, but—”)

they tried to stop him.

(“maybe we should give it a couple more days?” cayde, nodding back towards the office the pack just left, “you heard ‘kora. he could respond better to the therapies if we give him time.”)

but they did not warn him.

(“i think you ought to see for yourself.” a nervous doctor, pushing open the door separating the main hospital from the privacy wing. “if you’re really that determined—”)

they could not.

nothing could prepare anyone for what awaits behind that guarded hospital doors. (“security,” zavala had explained, “for as much his protection as ours.”) though there are hints— the sound of struggling, muffled yelling, one loud, sudden clang!— not even the faces of the titans posted outside give any ground. they simply look down, see the badge on tevis’ shirt, and step aside.

the room inside is unremarkable; another hospital room to rival all others, except perhaps a little bigger than those in the main wing. there is a tv hooked to the wall, a large window (reinforced plastic, to prevent titan moments) to grant a view of the outside, a couch and two chairs for visitors, and against the back wall, a bed.

and in that bed, struggling against the light-dampening cuff that binds his right wrist, is the still-living form of andal brask. his beard and hair have been trimmed since he was brought to the hospital; his torn clothing changed for a location-appropriate gown and pajama bottoms. his ghost sits, watching, on a nest next to the bed. she turns her eye when tevis enters, and chirps.

andal turns to look, too, except his gaze is not so friendly. there is fear behind those dark eyes; the wide gaze of a prey animal caught in the trap. he freezes when tevis enters. his breath comes out in quick, frightened gasps. and then he begins again, tugging at the cuff.

“tell them to let me go. i have to go. he’s going to find me. he’s—” it spills out, quickly; tumbling through trembling lips. arrow chirps her concerns. he pays them no mind. “—you don’t understand what he’ll do to them.”

@gaygxnslinger | Andal

#gaygxnslinger ; tevis #gaygxnslinger #one foot in front of the other ( andal ic.) #please ignore the length I was setting the scene

[fangirleaconmigo]

Hello lovely! I don't know if you did this already but is it true that Geralt eats raw meat/rats/whatever in the books? And any other canon animalistic traits he has ...

Hello my dear! <3 <3 *waves*

Ah yes, the cutagens. The animal traits. Very popular (and whole lot of fun) in fanon.

As far as the books, I can't think of any examples of animal-like behaviors as a result of the mutagens off the top of my head. But to be fair, my brain is very selective about what it notices. So it's very possible there are things like that. I'll throw it out to the folks in tumblrland. Does anyone else know of any examples?

The only thing that really sticks out for me right now regarding the animal names and why they call themselves wolves is the passage with the cat witcher Brehen in Season of Storms.

Brehen mocks the way the Kaer Morhen wolves behave, following Vesemir's moral leadership, and working together as a group for mutual survival.

"Ought I to give you priority, bow to you and apologise? As in a wolf pack, step back from the quarry and wait, wagging my tail until the pack leader has eaten his fill? Until he graciously condescends to leave some scraps?"

(Brehen has just complained that Vesemir does not approve of them killing humans and complained that he isn't allowed to winter in Kaer Morhen.)

So, in that passage at least, it's less animalistic in a literal sense due to mutations, and more just their social behavior and values being compared to their respective animals.

By the same token, in that same chapter, Dandelion says the cats called themselves cats because their social behavior is feline.

"They nicknamed themselves Cats, because they really are like cats: aggressive, cruel, unpredictable and impulsive."

I can hear the cat lovers rightfully boo-ing Dandelion right now. haha

So, from what I can remember, the animal identifications has more to do with a statement about the kind of social arrangements they value.

But of course, like I say, it is very possible (probable even) that I could have missed something. So anyone who remembers something relevant, do let me know and I'll rb with that additional info.

OH ETA: Brehen's eyes. He has

"yellow green eyes with vertical pupils."

and

"As he walked through the chamber his eyes changed. His pupils filled his entire irises."

Is that anything? Is that a cat thing? XD

#the witcher #asks #the witcher books #canon or fanon

[ohwynne]

Penny for your past // Leviathan & Wynne

PARTIES: Chuck/Leviathan @faustianbroker & Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: Mephisto's Repository TIMING: Early April CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of animal cruelty, SUMMARY: In search of a rabbit's foot, Wynne ends up in Chuck's store where they encounter not one but two demons. Leviathan is quick to show an interest in their past, after Gab spills the tea on Wynne's unfulfilled destiny.

They weren’t sure why this urge had risen in them, to return to previous ways. It had risen with the settling down, the quietness that came from starting to develop a routine and having their own room rather than a musty, dusky motel one. Wynne had missed a fair amount of rituals and celebrations, and while they didn’t know if there was any point in continuing to make offerings (what with refusing to be one) it still felt strange to separate themself from it entirely. 

That was why they were in need of a rabbit’s foot. Lucky or not, it hardly mattered — luck wasn’t part of the teachings, anyway, and superstition was considered sacrilegious. It was more so about the sacrifice of the creature, the circle of life ended early, and Wynne was selfishly enough unable to undertake a murder themself. (Too reminiscent of fates escaped, and all that.) A rabbit’s foot, though, that was purchasable, especially in this strange town, and it would come close enough. And luckily the internet came with kind enough recommendations.

So Wynne had a mission. They entered Mephisto's Repository with a bit of trepidation, but walked up to the counter instead of letting their already-frazzled mind get distracted by all that’s in stock. Their chin was somewhat high when they looked at the person behind the counter, though, eyes trained. “I’m looking for a rabbit’s foot, and heard you might have one. Can you point me in the right direction?” 

—

The young man sitting by the register, leaning back precariously in his chair with his combat boots propped up on the counter, didn’t move a muscle as the customer stepped into the shop. There were a few other people milling around, poking at this and that and commenting in hushed tones, but he seemed wholly unbothered by the idea that he ought to maintain a professional demeanor. Though to be fair, the aura of the place didn’t seem like one that demanded its employees to button up their shirts and straighten their bowties, so to speak. 

Glancing up from his phone as they spoke, he raised a brow. “Oh, uh… yeah, I think we got those.” Clicking the screen off as he pulled his feet off the counter, he rocked forward to lean against it and point to a far-off corner of the shop. “Back there,” He casually sniffed, giving them a once over and a shrug before settling back in the chair. Something caught his attention though and he cupped a hand to his mouth, giving a sort of half-shout to someone who was coming up behind the customer. “Hey, Mr. Jones, we still got them rabbit feets, yeah?”

The person coming up behind her audibly laughed. “Yes, Orville. Glad I could do your job for you.” The younger man gave a snort and went back to looking at his phone, while Chuck gave the customer a knowing smile. “Had a feeling I’d see you in here some time soon! Come on, I’ll show you where they’re at.” The vague directions Orville had provided would likely lead to a fifteen minute search, with how packed this place was. Walking them over to a section that was dedicated entirely to animal remains, Chuck made a sweeping motion with his arm. “We’ve got a few in stock right now, so you’ll get your pick of color, too.” A beat. “... you’re in need of some luck, then, huh? If you don’t mind my asking.”

—

Wynne had little intention to stay in the store for long. Something about it put them off, but then that was the case with most things these days. It was the feeling of living on borrowed time, that tendency to look over their shoulder expecting something there — an elder, a mentor, a creature their mind was too small to picture, their father or mother or worst of all, their brother. This place was obscure, strange, called itself filled to the brim with cursed things. Wynne couldn’t help but think about how they were considered blessed once, and what a curse that had been.

Still, they have something they want. They look over their shoulder in the direction the employee points them in, giving a small nod. “Thanks.” While Wynne does their best to not look out of their depth or jumpy, there is still an unplanned movement of their shoulders as a voice booms. Another figure appears, considerably larger and more impressive in stature. “I said I’d come.” And while they were not always a person of their word (considering the fact they were at present alive, and all), they had been in this case. 

They’re quick to follow, eyes falling on different bits of animal. A sad display, Wynne thought — whenever they had made an offering of living things, they treated them with respect. An altar. Flowers and fruits and something burning. If they had ever handled it like this – killing not for the sake of the entity or community, but for profit – perhaps the Protherians would have ceased to exist much earlier. They swallowed their thoughts. It wasn’t like they understood this economy enough to comment on it in a smart way. “That’s a fair amount.” Their eyes moved from the different colours of fur, trailing up. “Isn’t everyone, always?” It was a trained response. “But yes, I suppose. The seasons are changing, it always requires a certain …” Shoulders lifted. “I don’t know, something extra.” They tried really hard to tell themself that this would be fine: that this could serve its purpose. If there was any at all. To the rabbit feet. To life, even. “Which one is freshest?”

—

It wasn’t quite the question Chuck expected, brows raising in thought. “Freshest? Well…” All he could really say was which had been acquired most recently, but that wouldn’t exactly say much about the foot’s age, itself. The demon narrowed his eyes at the customer, digesting the rest of what they’d said. Changing seasons. It was nothing, probably, but—no. It was nothing. He let an easy smile stretch over his features once more as he reached into the pile and plucked out a black foot, handing it to them. “This one, I’d say.” The rest of the display, composed mostly of bones and tails and pelts, seemed to bother them a bit, but that was hardly new. For every trapper in this town, there was a pacifist. “Lucky as they come. Might help your spring come in a little easier, eh?” 

Something bumped against his leg and Chuck glanced down. Oh. A curious looking badalisc had wandered out of the back room (which was against the rules) to inspect whoever it was that Leviathan was speaking to, toddling over on all fours and angling his massive head up and slightly to the side to get a good look. Chuck tried to swipe the creature back behind his legs with his foot, but the lesser demon was having none of it. 

“Oi!” it wheezed, clambering up Chuck’s legs to settle in his arms. The owner gave a glance around the shop and was relieved to see that in the time they’d been talking, everyone else had left. That was less to explain, or… deal with. 

“This one smells funny,” the badalisc grumbled, leaning out to get a better whiff of the customer. Chuck’s brow furrowed and he hoisted the creature onto one hip, scolding him. 

“Gab, that is not a nice thing to say to someone.”

“The fuck you care about nice?” the badalisc cackled.

—

For a moment, Wynne considered changing their mind, excusing themself and turning around, heading right out of the store. What use was there, in any of this? There was nothing to keep at bay any more. No one to share these holidays with. Maybe it was all the talk of Easter, the longing for something familiar in this unfamiliar place — but it would be a poor version of a ritual, anyway. And still, they remained, took the black rabbit’s food in their hands, and turned it over. “So none of this is cursed?” Eyes glanced over the inventory, before turning to the other. They opened their mouth to confirm that this was supposed to help make the spring a little smoother, though they were interrupted by a strange sight.

“Oh!” The exclamation was close to a yelp, Wynne clutching the rabbit’s foot as they jumped back a few inches as the creature made its way into the shop owner’s arms. Eyebrows shot up, an expression of surprise and something close to terror washing over their features. From all the strange things they had seen since their running away, this seemed to stir something most. As it reached towards them, they moved back further. It’s nothing, they told themselves, it’s different from the pictures they had back home.

Forcing a breath in and out, they tried very hard not to stare and jump to conclusions. But there was a tenseness spreading from the base of their spine, dread pooling in their stomach. As the demonesque thing grumbled, their eyebrows lowered to a frown. Another shaky breath, “Can you ring me up?” They really wanted to get out of here now. Wynne attempted to focus on the fur under their fingers, but their eyes kept being pulled to that thing. “Without that, maybe?”

—

Orville came scrambling over from the register, hoisting the badalisc out of Chuck’s arms. “Sorry sir, I’ll—sorry, sir,” he wheezed, waddling toward the back room door with the creature in his arms. Chuck shot his customer an apologetic look, but seemed altogether unbothered by the display of the unnatural. So it went, in this shop, and most folks were too afraid to tell anyone else about it, lest they be ridiculed.

“My apologies. Gabagool is something of a menace, sometimes, I assure you he meant you no harm.” The reaction was interesting. Different. Chuck had a feeling that anyone else that had been in the store when this customer walked in would have run off screaming. Curious… curious indeed. 

“Tell you what. For your understanding, I’ll let you have that, free of charge.” He smiled. “And I hope I can be of more help to you someday, should your rabbit foot not quite do the trick.” There was something in his tone that suggested an unspoken offer, but the demon wouldn’t elaborate. Not here, not now. All he would do was pull out his business card and pass it to them. It had his name, Chuck Jones, and the names of his two businesses on the front. On the back, a phone number, superimposed over a faint symbol that looked something like a dressed-up pentagram.

“As the need arises.”

—

They missed the apologetic look, eyes glued to the strange creature. Their mind echoed something distant, that this was demonic, that this town kept proving that there might be answers here but that those answers might be threats. Wynne felt a tingling in their legs, as if they were to give in from under them.

There was a dryness gathering in their mouth, no words leaving it as they were offered the rabbit’s foot for free. It didn’t seem particularly lucky now, but Wynne wasn’t fond of being rude. Their fingers wrapped around the business card, eyes taking in the pentagram. They’d never used such gaudy iconography, back home — but even Wynne knew what pentagrams were.

“Thank you.” Their eyes redirected to Chuck Jones. Wynne swallowed, taken aback by his general attitude: the extended business card, the charity, the hint of helpfulness that went unspoken. The discrepancy between it and the creature. They really did feel as if their legs weighed nothing at all, a tightness forming in their chest. They opened their mouth again, “What was that?” They made a quick correction: “He, I mean.” 

Before Chuck Jones could answer, Gabagool piped up again as it scuttled through the store again, “Better question, what are you?” Gaze rested on the red-eyed demon, Wynne finding themself speechless once more. But Gabagool wasn’t looking at them: rather at the store-owner, “Outran their destiny, this one.”

—

Orville, who was standing back in the shadows looking mortified, straightened up as he was addressed directly once more. 

“Orville,” Chuck said slowly, his gaze fixed on the customer. “Go take your lunch break.” Without question, the employee nodded and hurried from the room, going out the back to leave those three to their business. 

Gabagool huffed, pacing in circles around the stranger. “It reeks of ritual, Leviathan. Ritual unfulfilled.” With a satisfied sigh, the child-sized beast sat at Wynne’s feet, staring quizzically up at them. 

Finally, Chuck reacted. Sucking in a short, sudden breath, he smiled. “Gabagool is a badalisc. A lesser demon, if you will. Harmless for the most part, but very nosy. And very good at digging up people’s secrets.” 

“You know I don’t like it when you call me lesser,” the beast complained flippantly, twisting its stout body around to narrow those little eyes at the shop owner. Chuck shrugged. 

“Well you are, sweetheart, sorry to say.” His attention returned to the customer— “Of course I’m curious to know what Gab is talking about, but first… how about a name for my new special interest?” He was waiting, expectantly, for them to offer up their name. 

—

Panic spread through their body as the creature opened its mouth and Chuck opted to respond in a calm yet determined manner. He suddenly seemed much too tall and imposing to be at all helpful. Wynne felt their body take a step back, eyes casting a glance over their shoulder to the door before meeting the other’s fixed gaze.

Leviathan — there was distant recognition, a term from scripture, from lessons they were hardwired not to forget. Their mouth felt dry as the truth came to them: this was a demon, of sorts. Not the one from the pictures, not one as threatening as gythraul. Still, this thing at their feet was cut from the same cloth from the thing that had demanded their life and not received it.

They took another step back, hit a shelf with their shoulder and halted. “Wynne.” Instinct told them to turn away, but then there was the harmless for the most part demon at their feet and a tightness in their muscles. “I’m Wynne.” 

The rabbit's foot was still in their hand. They weren’t sure if the feeling of being backed into a corner was accurate or fair, but it mattered little. What Wynne did know was that the other’s response was eerily calm and curious, and that wasn’t something they knew how to deal with. So they didn’t: instead they asked, “What do you want?” 

—

Leviathan beamed, but there was an unfriendliness in the arch of its brows. “What is it that the angels always say? Ah, yes… be not afraid.” The demon chuckled, then snapped its fingers at Gabagool. “Come on, back off, you’re frightening the poor thing.” The flash of malice that had lived in its expression for a fleeting moment was almost forgotten in the warm, inviting smile that followed it now. “Want? Oh, nothing that would be an imposition to you, my dear.” 

The badalisc wandered back toward Leviathan, giving itself a good scratch behind the ear before piping up. “It wants your story, marked one,” the ungainly lesser demon explained, to which Leviathan simply nodded.

“He’s right. That’s all. It sounds to me, at least from what Gab is saying, that you were supposed to be… a sacrifice?” It was a rhetorical question, of course that’s what they’d been intended to be. “I’ve never much cared for sacrifice. I always found it so… oh, what’s the word…” 

“Gaudy? Tasteless? Lacking imagination?” Gabagool offered. Leviathan nodded and shook a finger at its small companion.

“Those are the ones. Lacking. In. Imagination.” It leaned a bit closer to Wynne, pleased with itself. “I’ve never been so full of myself to demand human sacrifice, I’ll have you know. Happy as a clam just living among the people and striking a deal here and there. Helping people. And I’d like to help you, if I can. So… tell me your story.”

—

They had seen worse things than this, had they not? Wynne wondered sometimes where their resilience had gone, since they had run away. It only took so little to unsettle them, to make their heart climb in their throat. Back on the commune, they had been more tranquil, even in the face of terrifying things. 

But it was hard to fight, the nervousness and fear that came with being in the presence of one confirmed demon and another mysterious yet lanky character. They let Chuck speak, let it lay out its motivations. They let their mind run with the words they receive, falling into assumptions before they could stop themself from doing so. Wynne saw dots to connect in the most innocuous of things, and this was hardly an innocuous situation.

Was there use in denying the rhetorical question? There was a corner, yes, they were backed into its metaphorical borders. But it seemed that what they were backing away from wasn’t deeply malicious. Their eyes shifted, landed on Chuck. “Are you one too?” 

Wynne breathed in, fingers pressing down on the fur of the rabbit’s foot. Its bones gave way. There were the phalanges, which they’d sown in pillowcases back home. So small you hardly felt them. “I ran. The night before I was supposed to die. They had it all ready, the altar, the –” It was hard to find the right words, to find the start, the context. The courage, perhaps. “I’m not supposed to speak of it.” No, the rules had been clear: only certain Protherian ways were to be shared with outsiders. Definitely not the sacrifice bits. 

“Why should I trust you? If you’re like It, then —” Their head shook. Wynne swallowed thickly. “There’s always tricks and deals. How could you help? What would you want? Just a story?” That couldn’t be.

—

The brown eyes that belonged to the human face it wore, the ones that glowed a sweet honeyed shade in the right light, looked ravenous. For what, one couldn’t be certain. 

Leviathan was not like other greater demons. For one thing, it generally had far more contact with humans than any of its brothers and sisters. Many of them liked to impose themselves on the creatures of this dimension as a god to be worshipped, but that had never been an attractive life to the Leviathan. It entangled itself with them across hundreds of cultures and centuries of time, rather than controlling a pocket of people here or there. Even the name it went by, Leviathan, was given by the humans. Its true name, one that would not be spoken aloud, was an identity that it had almost completely forsaken. And the other demons, well, they looked down on Leviathan for it. All of that was to say that the demon had a bit of a chip on its shoulder. 

“Yes,” it answered simply, “I am. Though… I am not like them. I don’t have the same goals.” It listened while they told their story, nodding in understanding. The secrets were nothing new, anyway. “I see,” was all it said, straightening up. “As for the tricks… don’t insult me. There’s nothing tricky about my deals. It’s all written right there for people to read.” It wasn’t Leviathan’s problem if people chose not to pour over the whole contract like they ought to. And even the ones that did still thought they could handle the cost, which was usually not the case. 

The demon smirked. 

“I’m not asking you to trust me, Wynne. And I don’t know how I can help, not yet. I’d need more information. But that’s up to you to give, so…” It shrugged, silencing Gabagool with a motion of its hand as it noticed the lesser demon about to pipe up. “As for what I want? That changes by the day. I’m not asking you to make any deals with me right now, sweetheart. You’re free to sleep on it.” 

—

There was no beating around any bushes. The demon met their question with a simple, forthright honesty Wynne was wholly unfamiliar with. Should these things not be clouded in more mystery? Hidden away, covered in some level of mythology? But then this demon was nothing like the creature they had spoken of. It looked like a man, albeit tall and imposing, and did not speak in tongues or ways only a select few understood. It ran a store with objectively strange objects but it was still just that. A store. 

There was no demand for blood or offerings, no claws reaching from the darkness like the paintings depicted. There was honesty. And yet Wynne was afraid, as if it was the only emotion they were able to tap into. They stared at it, letting out a shaky breath. “How are you not? What are your goals?” The questions came almost automatically. Wynne had always been curious in their nature, but they had not met many people willing to satiate it.

Then their gaze cast down, fingers pushing the phalange bones aside once more. “I didn’t mean to insult, I’m sorry. That’s not fair of me.” Corwyn Prothero’s deal with a demon some three hundred years ago may have had lasting impacts on Wynne and their commune, but that wasn’t to say all demons demanded to be paid in the blood of future generations.

Their eyes remained wide as they processed what was laid in front of them. They couldn’t recognise it yet, unsure if it was a helping hand or one wanting to be shook for something macabre. There were things they wanted, things they thought to request — but their trepidation remained. If there was one thing they had learned over these past months, it was to not to trust people immediately. “Can we talk about it another day? Somewhere else, maybe — I need to think. Process.” It felt strange, to voice their needs: but it felt distantly mature. If it wasn’t for their nervous glances, that was. And part of them yearned for it, to lay everything out that had occurred and have someone look at it without asking too many questions. But whether it was the person to look for, Wynne was wholly unsure of. “I’ll take you up on that offer, to sleep on it.”

—

Leviathan’s goals were not ones to be shared with strangers. Hell, they weren’t even shared with the one person they involved: so for now, a half-truth would do.

“There is someone that I care for whose life is at risk. I am looking to put a stop to that… uncertainty. Beyond that? I’m just here to have a good time.” With a smirk, the man dragged an index finger over his chest in the shape of an ‘x’. “Cross my heart.” 

The apology was like a balm for its riled ego and it visibly relaxed, though it said nothing else on the matter. A nod was all that was offered before the conversation moved elsewhere. “Of course, Wynne. Take as much time as you need, and really think about what it is that you might want from me, hm?” It grinned. “You know where to find me, and of course, you’ve got my number with you now. Just don’t call Sunday evenings, that’s when I hold my bible study.” A beat. “I’m kidding,” it chuckled.

—

The answer lacked detail, but Wynne was hardly one to press in situations like these. It was enough, to not hear him say that its goal wasn’t to be worshipped or feared, anyway. So they nodded their head, just once. “Alright.”

Their mind was already moving, already passed through the door and ruminating on all the things they could ask for and what they might have to offer in return. It took restraint, not to ask the questions that burst under the surface, but Wynne was certain that they’d shown enough desperation. 

A nervous burst of laughter slipped from their lips at the joke, which was a good one. “Okay. Bible study, got it.” There was another nod of their head, which was more a tuck of their chin. “I guess until the next time.” If there was to be one. They held up the rabbit’s foot before tucking it in their jacket. “And thank you.” With that, they turned and headed out of the store.

#threads. #chuck. #penny for your past. #ty for writing this w me elliot 🥺😈

[sandovalboswell2]

Electrolux El6984a: How To Make Your Finest Buy And Remain Pals With Your Pets

This is the song you'll see your kids dancing to for months and potentially years to come! You may even capture the parents dancing to The Crazy Dance! This is likewise from the 2012 album. Most of the time, numerous pet owners will just know that their animal is obese when their vet tells them about it. The truth is, you do not have to go to a veterinarian to know this. All you require to do is to keep an eye out for the typical indications that your cat is packing on the extra pounds. For one, you'll observe that your animal will likely become less active as he or she gets heavier. Another inform tale indication that you need to look out for is the quantity of bulge that's covering the ribs if you're going to attempt to feel for it. Likewise try to observe your cat's personality. If it seems like your feline is indifferent to do anything else howeverrest, then there's absolutely fish toy cats a problem. PLAY MAT: A play mat is an excellent location for tummy-time. Tummy-time helps strengthen back and neck muscles and establishes coordination. Lots of play mats today are made with bright colors and varying materials to assist capture your child's eye. Some have different textures, attachable toys, and even swimming fish! Do not simply let your angel have her belly time on dull old carpet. Choose inviting soft fabrics and primary colors. Plus, the convenience and portability of play mats are an added perk! Family pets dancing fish toy for cats and canines need fresh drinking water at least three times a day, more if the weather condition is hot. Bouncing boats may not be the most practical location for a dog bowl. An option is a dog sports bottle, which is less messy and you can spray water right into the dog's mouth. Don't hesitate to require your canine to consume water. A boat for a pet can become sweltering. Watercraft surface areas, such as fiberglass, can get extremely hot in the sun. Dogs take in heat through the pads on their feet so be sure to safeguard them. Felines and pet dogs do not sweat, and panting is the main means to rid excess heat for dogs. So if your cat has actually been vomiting or you 'd like to take preventative steps to ensure this does not take place, I highly recommend you follow the following 5 natural remedies to prevent cat vomiting. More than happy, Morris is eating. Right? After all, we all understand how finicky cats can be. Well I'm extremely thinking about what our felines' ancestors consumed and using the lesson to our domestic feline pets.and so ought to you. As the stating goes, you are what you eat, and nutritional experts agree. More than ever, they believe that the ingredients animals and individuals consume have a substantial impact on health. Our own forefathers, for example, consumed more plants, fruit and nuts than meat. Today, however, we eat more meat and processed grain, than fruit and vegetables. This change in consuming habits quite probably is adding to our current healthcare crisis of obesity, heart diabetes, disease and cancer. Our quick food culture has made half of all Americans obese, and is seriously affecting the health of our youths. Itis very important that you choose the bestblend of nutrients and vitamins for your feline. Some of Science Diet plan's meals are perfect for establishingkittens, and a few of it is ideal for older fish cat toy felines. Ask your vet what type ofvitamins and nutrients your catneeds more of. Fishing in Cabo is far more than catching the fish. You can unwind on a lovely yacht, sipping beer, while waiting on the fish to take the bait. While on your excursion, you might find whales, dolphins, manta rays and sea turtles.

#flopping fish cat toy #floppy fish cat toy

[moemoemammon]

MC is Sick?!

(Feat. GN!MC and the Demon Bros)

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Lucifer

A little late to notice that you’re sick. He’s been so busy lately that he can’t watch you as carefully as he’d like to, so he apologizes for not catching on sooner.

But now that it’s been brought to his attention, Lucifer is all over it. You’re excused from your classes and sent to your room for bedrest while he tends to everything else. He’s rarely the one to bring you your medicine or meals, to his dismay, but his busy schedule just won’t allow it. 

If he were able he’d let you stay in his room until you felt better. But for the time being, he’ll have to squeeze in little visits to your room, where he’ll pop in and sit on the edge of your bed, pressing his hand against your forehead and letting it linger on your cheek.

He’ll often come to your room with a record for you to listen to, and he loves talking about the history of the music and the life of the composure. His boring talks put you right to sleep.

“This piece is one of my favorites. The composer went into an illness induced madness when he created the sheet music, and wouldn't eat or sleep for two weeks until it’d been completed. Why, I often listen to it when- Ah, have you fallen asleep?"

Mammon

The first to notice the change in your health. You don’t look so good.. Are you okay? MC?!

Good luck trying to get any rest, because your first man is gonna be popping in and out of your room every five minutes. He’s constantly checking in on you, making sure you’re not too hot or too cold, that you’ve got something to drink, that you ate the soup he left-

Actually, Mammon’s not that bad of a caretaker! He’s a little too attentive, but he clearly knows what he’s doing. Also insists on being the only one that takes care of you until you’re better.

Polices everything you do. You wanna get out of bed? Nope, wait for Mammon. You’re bored? He’ll bring you something to do. Know what, he’s just gonna move into your room for the time being-

“Who told ya to go and get sick? Makin' me worry like this... I'm gonna make sure ya get better in no time, so you'd better be grateful, ya hear? I don't do this for just anybody..."

Levi

No way... You’re sick?! But you guys had plans to watch Magical Ruri Hana together...

Yeah, he’s not the best at caretaking despite watching Cells at Work, but he does know the basics! It kills him to leave his room so frequently, so.. why don’t you just stay in his room? He’ll take care of you there, and the healing waves of Ruri-chan will wash over you and get rid of your illness!

He definitely can’t be your primary caregiver, unless you want to be sick forever. Anime doesn't really imitate real life. Who would've thought?

 But he’s as attentive as he can be, at least! He brings you new DVDs to watch, manga to read, and delicious stacks to try whenever he can! Even if this is all he can do, he wants to make sure you know he’s thinking about you. May or may not also be spam texting you and keeping you awake-

“I brought the audio drama for you to listen to! It's from the TSL live series, where they act out the scenes! You won't have to worry about reading or watching anything, so you can listen to it to sleep. Oh, but I want to hear your opinion on everything! And then you- huh? When will you be able to sleep? Uh..."

Satan

The most knowledgeable when it comes to taking care of human illnesses, but he still fumbles a little. Insists on making an accurate diagnosis of your symptoms, and that takes way longer than the actual treatement,

But once he’s deduced what’s going on, Satan goes all in. You might feel like a guinea pig because of all the weird methods he’s trying on you (may or may not have read a medieval medicine book first), so uhhhhh be patient with him. Now hold still while he puts this onion in your sock-

Not as attentive as the others, but very thorough when he tends to you. And despite all the unorthodox healing methods, you actually recover quickly, by some miracle.

In the quieter moments when all you need is rest, Satan will sit by and quietly read to you until you lull off to sleep, brushing the hair from your face before he leaves.

“Hm... I was sure St. John's Wart would do the trick, but your fever hasn't broken at all? Maybe I ought to try minced garlic and honey next? Or maybe..- Eh? Just normal medicine is fine?"

Asmo

SICK?! No no, this won’t do at all! Asmo doesn’t want to see his darling MC looking so pale and unsightly! It’s off to bed with you now. No, not his bed he loves you but you’ve gotta understand-

Gentle affection is one of Asmo’s selling points, but that doesn’t mean the king of aftercare knows how to treat illnesses. He does however make you extremely comfortable. I’m talking extra fluffy pillows, cold and hot packs where you need them most, careful sponge baths (if you’ll let him), and everything else he can offer to make sure you’re okay.

May or may not show up in a hazmat suit, but don’t worry. The mask is clear so you get a view of his beautiful face! And when he isn’t around to take care of you, he sends pictures of himself to speed up the healing process.

Most likely to ask for help in your care. He tends to forget that you need more than affection and selfies to help you recover-

“Make sure you get better quickly, okay? I'll keep gracing your with my gorgeous face, and that ought to heal you in no time! Oh, maybe an herbal bath will help, too? I'll join you~!"

Beel

Extremely worried the moment you sneeze twice in a row. And when that escalates into a full blown cold, he immediately takes you to your room and cocoons you in every spare blanket he can find.

His care is sloppy, but full of affection. Your bed is a fluffy mess of soft blankets and pillows, and he lingers in your room nearly all day. And naturally, Beel knows you need to eat in order to heal.

You’re never without any food. This man will bring you an entire rotisserie chicken and a quart of orange juice for breakfast do not underestimate him. And if you can’t stomach anything, he’s try for things that’re easier to eat. like soups and broths. Also insists on feeding you himself.

Might also need some help in caring for you. He has good intentions and he’s being as careful with you as can be, but it can’t help to have another set of hands on the job. He wants to make sure you get the best care he can offer.

“Mm... you're not eating a lot today. Hm? You're full? But you only had a shadow hog roast, three sandwiches, and a gallon of juice. Are you sure that's enough? ...Well, maybe you're right. I'll eat what you can't finish, then. Hm? You're worried I'll get sick? It's fine. A human cold wont affect me."

Belphie

He knew something was up when you didn’t get out of bed that morning. Sleeping until 2pm is HIS thing, got it? Just kidding-

Tries not to show it, but this man is so worried that he can’t even sleep. BELPHEGOR, the Avatar of Sloth, is suffering from insomnia. 

He isn’t really the best at taking care of other people, but he knows that plenty of rest can only do you good. Belphie climbs into your bed and resigns himself to staying there until you heal. Somehow, having him around makes your sleep even deeper, so you always wake up feeling a little more rested than before.

Not so great at remembering when to bring you medicine and stuff, so the help of the others is a given. But despite that, you find yourself comfortable in every position you shift into. Belphie knows a thing or two about resting peacefully, so he’s got an eye for helping you with that.

“Are you feeling a little better today? ...Good. You were tossing and turning in your sleep, so I got you that ice pack. It look like your fever finally broke, so that means I can rest easy now.. goodnight......"

#I wrote this because I am ill and I wanna indulge #obey me shall we date #obey me! #obey me #obey me! shall we date? #shall we date? obey me! #shall we date obey me #obey me writing #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me belphie

[write-ur-wrongs]

The Death of Me

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Word count: almost 4K - big whoops!

A/N: This was totally meant to be a drabble / blurb, but the story got away from me! A huge thanks to the sweet anon who submitted this prompt - I was beyond inspired and chuckled warmly throughout the entire writing process. This baby isn’t proofread so thread lightly!! I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this one :’) 

Prompt:  Heya! I saw your post about wanting to practice writing short stories so I have a small prompt for Geralt! What about: the reader and Geralt have always had a difficult relationship, always running into each other at the most inconvenient moments and hence disliking each other. However, while Geralt is passing through a village the reader comes barging into his room bloody and near death, only getting a chance to say “I didn’t know where else to go” before collapsing. I would be honoured if the idea inspired you :3

____________________________________________________

You’d never considered yourself unlucky but lately life had a funny way of throwing you for a loop, or rather, throwing you to the wolves. One wolf, actually. A damn, irritating, and arrogant white wolf.

At first, it was all business. You’d arrive in a village itching for a contract, only to find that a “legendary witcher” had already come through and taken care of every monster within a two-days ride. Furious, hungry, and broke, you set out determined to get as far as you could and as quickly as possible. Your determination got you far enough that you’d managed a full three months of contract work, but not far enough it seemed.

You’d been on your way to collect payment from your latest contractor when you’d heard the buzz on the street; a witcher had come through asking about work, and had been told to wait and see as someone else (a woman! A human woman!) had already committed to the case. Apparently, he was either incensed or bemused at the idea – the brute was very hard to read, so say the town gossips – but it didn’t matter to you. You beat him to it and now you get to eat. When you finally met with the contractor to collect your coin, you couldn’t help but swell with pride as they thanked you, eyes wide, for taking care of a monster no human ought to be able to handle. You could have sworn your pride had given you wings as you floated out of the inn.

That is, until you heard them mumble under their breath, “Thank Gods that lass was able to handle it! Had it been the witcher, I would have had to pay triple!”

“Thank heavens for cheap labour!” whispered their partner, raising their glass to cheers their big victory.

Suddenly whatever weightlessness you felt transferred onto your coin purse. Biting hard on your cheek you pushed up your chin, determined to remain dignified. But then you saw him.

Impossibly broad chested, rippling muscles evident beneath his leather armour, with golden eyes that reflected back to you with a cruel playful nature that made bile rise in the back of your throat. He held your gaze and raised his own tankard to you as you walked past him. His deep voice rumbled through you as you pushed the door open.

“Cheers to cheap labour,” you heard him say, and swore you could hear the smirk on his full lips.

Groaning furiously, you pushed the door so hard it swung back and slammed shut behind you with such force a flock of birds took off somewhere in town. Undeterred, you stomped off towards your horse and set off at a gallop.

I’m going to make sure I never cross his fucking path ever again, you thought searingly.

You were wrong it turned out, but how were you supposed to know that?

You’d gone years without actually seeing him again, but that didn’t mean you were free of him. You’d alternated winning and losing contracts to each other, and the pressure of beating him to the next one stressed you so fiercely you developed ulcers. That alone would have been enough to push you to murder had you not heard from another witcher that their brother, the great white wolf, was losing sleep trying to keep up with you. Knowledge of this fact spurred you on; after all, if you couldn’t beat him, it’s best to be even, no?

The next time fate brought you two together, though, you could not have been farther from on top. What made matters worse, is that you weren’t even in battle when your paths crossed. Your literal paths just simply… crossed.

You’d been riding east for many days and just as many nights. You were tired, sore, and somehow still soaked to the bone despite the fact that the rain had stopped at least a day ago. You were so tired, your muscles seemed heavy in your limbs, and you had to keep blinking hard to bring the spinning world around you back to its axis. As you rode through an intersection on the trail, the sun peaked out from behind the thick curtain of clouds just long enough to pull you fully into sleep, and right off your still-moving-horse’s saddle.  

You honestly didn’t remember falling asleep, or off the saddle. You also had no memory of the moment another traveler, who was riding towards the intersection on the other trail, leapt off his mare just as you started your descent and caught you before you could split your skull open on one of the many rocks sprinkled throughout the street. You had no memory of the way he’d pulled you off the path, leading both horses behind him as he’d carried you over his shoulder. Zero recollection of him laying you down on a bed grass, tying your horse to a nearby tree, lighting you a campfire, or filling your pack with some bread and meat.

What you did remember, was the arrogant look on his face when you finally woke up. The condescending tone he took as he reminded you that you were ‘only human’ and had to take care of yourself accordingly was also seared into the annals of your memory.

You hated that he’d saved you almost as much as you hated the fact that you’d been asleep around him. Completely vulnerable for God knows how long and he’d been there to witness it all. Whenever the memory of the look on his face or the way he’d crossed his arms and tilted his stupid head as he condescended your humanity came to you, you couldn’t help but cringe even months after the fact.

***

Your saving grace came a full six months after your damned damsel in distress moment on the trail.

Well fed, well worked, and well travelled, you were taking your time enjoying the market in your town of the week. The work you did wasn’t glamourous, but it did allow you the means to afford a few luxuries every now and then. This time, it just so happened that your coin could buy you the sweetest gift of all: revenge.

The market was busy as ever, you could barely hear yourself think over the cacophony of voices and animal bleats bouncing around the square. Had it been anyone else, the conversation would have been lost among the noise around you, but when that voice came rumbling through the mess of shrieks and shouts, you couldn’t help but seek out the source. You didn’t know why you cared or why you were so surprised to find that the voice’s owner was none other than the White Wolf himself.

“You good?” you asked, making sure to tilt your head, hands on your hips, the same way he’d done the last time you’d met.

“Fine.” He practically barked, not even turning his head fully to address you directly.

The merchant, none-too-concerned with your arrival on the scene, continued as if uninterrupted. “I’m sorry Mr. Witcher, sir, but I can’t go any lower. This is the best I can offer.”

“I can’t pay that much,” he grumbled, hands closed into tight fists.

“I’m sorry-”

“Is this enough?” you interjected, knowingly offering forward far too many ducats.

“Y-yes!” breathed the merchant, looking quizzically at Geralt before picking three coins from your open palm, “thank you, madam...”

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself with a warm smile and a nod.

“Y/N!” Geralt hissed, at the same time, reaching out to push away your hand a fraction too late; the vendor was paid, and you’d won this round.

“What is it, Witcher?” you teased, as the vendor took his sword back for repairs, “been on vacation? Why so skint?”

“Been low on work lately,” he replied coolly, cat-like eyes boring into yours, “not as many contracts as there use to be.”

“Well, I’ll be,” you said, cocking your head to the side and pursing your lips in mock contemplation, “I can’t imagine why that’d be the case! Seems I keep running into monsters to kill.”

“Mmhm.” He hummed, narrowing his eyes at you.

Refusing to let him have the last word, you quickly turned on your heels and high-tailed it out of the market, shouting over your shoulder to the blacksmith to give any change back to Geralt before disappearing back into the crowd.

***

Being even should have brought peace between the two of you but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Your last interaction only fanned the flames of your rivalry. As the months turned to years without coming upon each other again, you still found yourself filled with unreasonable anger whenever you saw a mop of white hair cross you on your travels.

And not that you’d know it, but it turned out that Geralt wasn’t faring any better; finding himself frustrated and acting recklessly whenever he’d come upon anything that reminded him of you.

You were both completely obsessed with one another. Thoughts of the other constantly on the mind. Whether in waking or in dreams, you were both equally afflicted by an intense need to outperform, out run, and also, inexplicably, to impress the other.  

*

It was that need to impress each other that led you to accept a contract you should have never even considered taking. You honestly wouldn’t have even considered it had the circumstances been any different but you’d been hearing about this monster for weeks on your travels. Tales of the mighty griffin tearing people to shreds had been circulating far and wide on this side of the Yaruga, and honestly, with every retelling you’d expected to hear that a witcher had handled it, but that never happened. You’d somehow managed to arrive at the village at the source of these stories before him and had an opportunity to literally rob him of this victory.

Granted, you were the only one who’d been attributing him with this win, but that didn’t matter, not to you. The only thing you cared about when accepting this particular contract was the knowledge that by taking it, you were preventing him from having it, and that was more than enough.

The shock on the villagers faces when they saw you accept the contract only added to your already inflated confidence. The sheer size of the griffin’s wingspan humbled you a little, though, and whatever grand illusions of an easy victory you’d carried into the forest were squashed along with a couple rib bones only moments after engaging the beast. In short, you were fucked.

Some might say that coming out of it alive was enough of a win. Those people would be morons, you thought as you stumbled clumsily back towards the lights of the village, clutching your split abdomen with both hands and blinking back blood dripping from your forehead. Every step you took came with the stabbing pain of additional tearing around your wound. You could barely think, your ears were blocked and caked with dried blood and dirt, your tears stung as they fell across the gashes on your cheeks, and every breath in felt like it could be your last. You’d never admit this out loud, but a part of you wished the creature had finished the job.

Perhaps the only saving grace here was that in your condition, you couldn’t hear the villagers as they pointed and gossiped. You didn’t hear the “told you so’s” or the lewd shouts coming from the drunk men as you stumbled into the tavern. You could barely hear the disappointment in the inn owner’s voice as they reprimanded you for accepting a contract, they knew you couldn’t complete. Rolling your eyes, you pushed your way towards the stairs as quickly as possible – which, as it turned out, was not so quick, praying that someone would call you a healer.

“… and to think a witcher arrived only hours after she went off to kill herself! Tsk-tsk!”

You stopped dead in your tracks, drops of blood falling across your brow as you interrupted the momentum you’d been building. “W-what?” you croaked, turning towards them as much as possible to make sure you’d hear them correctly.

“Yeah! And not just any witcher, lass, the Butcher of Blaviken no less! Checked in with us just as you head out. Had you waited half a day you could have saved yourself a world of – ‘ey! Now where’s she off to?”

As you registered this news, something inside you snapped. Before you knew what was happening, you’d made your way upstairs and started pushing your full weight onto every door you passed. The great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was certainly arrogant enough to leave his door unlocked. You might have been wrong about the griffin, but you’d be damned if you were wrong about this.

Fortunate or not, you weren’t wrong about this. As you pushed your shoulder against the last door with whatever strength you had left, the door swung open with very little resistance. The heavy wooden door slammed loudly against the wall at the exact moment that your limp body crashed onto the floor.

“WHAT the fuck!” Geralt howled, leaping off the bed and onto his feet. His wild eyes assessed the situation in an instant, and he bound to you in barely two strides. “What the fuck did you do? What happened?” he asked as he flipped you over, so gently you were sure you’d already passed out and were now dreaming. Or maybe the blood loss was finally catching up to you and you were full-on hallucinating.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, before losing consciousness in his arms.

*

Regaining consciousness was a slow, painful process. You’d come in and out of it a handful of times throughout the night, and flashes of what you’d seen before you lost it were coming to you in an almost dreamlike haze; terrifying images of the furious griffin, its blood-soaked talon shining in the setting sun as it reared back to strike you again, and warmer visions of Geralt, shirtless, running towards you with – could it be? – genuine concern in his eyes.

Now as the rising sun cast its glow across the room, you squinted painfully against the light. Your head felt as though it was full of cotton; heavy, and scratchy, and unnatural on top of your shoulders. Hesitantly, you ran your tongue over your teeth and were equal parts relieved to find them all there and disgusted at the acrid, mineral taste the blood left behind. Blinking slowly, you tried to bring up your hand to rub at your eyes, but stopped short as you felt the large bandage draped across your forehead.

Slowly, you started to register the other bandages, on your arms, your cheek, across your abdomen. Your eyes grew wide as you finally registered the man facing away from you in the far corner of the room. Geralt’s broad strong back was hunched away from you as he rifled through herbs and small glass vials looking for something. Inexplicably, you found yourself disappointed to see he’d put his thick black tunic back on. Horrified by that realization, you literally gagged, startling Geralt and pulling his attention squarely onto you.

His big dumb beautiful face was all hard lines as he looked you over, stern eyes flashing to meet yours before dropping back down to the vial in his hands. You couldn’t help be notice the way the muscles in in jaw rippled and tensed as he sighed. He was oozing disappointment and anger, and that infuriated you.

“Am I dead?” you ask, squinting at him a little theatrically as you squirmed and winced in your bed.

“No.” he practically growled, his body tense as he made his way towards you slowly.

“Oh,” you breathed, bringing your eyes up to his before adding, “this isn’t hell?”

To your immense satisfaction, his stern eyes widened into shock, but then something unrecognizable flashed across his features – wait, was he hurt?

“Why, because I’m here?” he shouted, as if in confirmation of your hunch, and slammed the damp cloth he’d been holding back into the basin.

“No, jackass,” you retorted, pleased that despite the position you were in, you still had some semblance of an upper-hand, “because a griffin fucking fileted me like a fish and some poor drunk is probably downstairs slipping in a pool of my blood right now.”

You’d kind of hoped that he’d laugh, or at least have a comeback geared up for you, but Geralt just stood there staring at you, his mouth in a tight line, nostrils flaring.

Uncomfortable by the intensity of his stare and the silence accompanying it, you decide to continue to poke the bear.

“Come on, what’s with the face, Geralt? Pissed I’m still alive? You know you could have just closed the door over my body, let nature finish the bloody job.”

“Fuck, no! Y/n!” he screamed, startling you out of the attitude you’d put on, “I’m pissed because you’re an impossibly difficult woman hellbent on killing herself! I’m pissed because you don’t seem to fucking care about what happens to you! You can’t keep doing this Y/N! Because one of these days you’re going to get hurt and you’ll be too far away from me and I won’t be able to fucking save you, again! I am pissed because I am losing my mind spending every god-awful day wondering if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed! Fucking hell, woman! If you didn’t find me – I-if I wasn’t here, with these herbs – Damnit Y/N!”

You just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You couldn’t believe it. You didn’t know what to say. This man, your nemesis, was in front of you pacing back and forth, breathing heavily, looking like a maniac. His nostrils were flaring more than the monster that almost killed you just yesterday. Part of you wanted to correct him and demand he never address you as ‘woman’ again, but his wild earnest eyes kept you quiet. My god… was he crying?

Before you could say anything, Geralt sighed gruffly, ran his large hand over his face and stormed out, mumbling something about needing to get you more water.

Left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop yourself from spiralling. You’d expected him to be angry – hell, you wanted him to be angry! You’d humiliated yourself twice over, enraging him would ease the blow – but this was… different. He seemed genuinely concerned about you. And what was with his whole speech? He spent every day thinking about you? Worrying about you? There’s no way.

Sure, you thought about him daily, but that was out of spite! You hated the man! Why else would your heart race whenever you thought you spotted him in a crowd? Why else would you actively seek out the most dangerous contracts? What, like you were hoping these contracts would draw him out, and therefore, closer to you? As if!

Your ridiculous inner monologue was interrupted by Geralt’s return. The horrible brute knocked gently on the door before stepping inside, and your heart had the audacity to skip a beat.

Oh, you thought, fuck.

“I need to change the dressing on your wounds,” he grumbled, not meeting your eyes. You nodded wordlessly as he settled onto the chair next to you. You watched him work in silence, praying he would attribute your insane heartrate and flushed skin to a pain response from his work.

“Geralt?” you tried, chewing nervously on your cheek, as was just finished up with the last of your dressing.

“Hm?” he hummed, keeping his eyes cast down as he fussed with the bandage on the gash across your abdomen.

“Thank you… for saving me.”

He finally brought his gaze up to meet yours, but said nothing in return. He merely grunted in acknowledgment. You didn’t know why, but his silence in combination with his inscrutable gaze encouraged you to keep talking.

“I honestly only took this contract because I didn’t want you to have it,” you admitted bashfully.

“What the fuck? No one was taking it because they weren’t paying nearly enough! Hell, and you’re just a human,” he fumed, throwing up air-quotes as he said it, “so what – they offered you a third of nothing?”

Laughing lightly, you shoved him with your elbow, “they offered me three whole ducats!”

“Oh, wow,” he laughed, low and rumbling, “so a big pay day for you, eh?”

“Shut up,” you gasped as pain rippled through you with each peal of laughter, “knowing I could screw you over was payment enough!”

“Well congratulations are in order, you did manage to screw someone over,” he chided.

“Me,” you stated dryly, gesturing widely at your busted up body.

“You,” he echoed with a sigh that seemed to deflate him.

He suddenly looked so small, sitting there next to you. You watched him as clenched and unclenched his jaw, rubbing his large hands up and down his thighs – was he anxious? You mind raced as you felt his eyes travel slowly up your body. You held your breath as he worked up the nerve to finally bring his eyes up to yours.

The moment his eyes landed on yours, something shifted. Whatever had been lodged uncomfortably between the two of you all these years had finally clicked into place. This change, albeit small, was palpable. His eyes dropped to your lips and lingered there. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like he was afraid he might never see you again.

Without speaking, Geralt inched himself closer to you and reached a tender hand to tuck your hair behind your ears before cradling your face.

“You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?” he whispered, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You gave him a quick nod and brought your hand up to his, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm before giving his hand a quick kiss.

“I need to hear you say it,” he begged, bringing himself even closer to you.

“I do,” you breathed, trying to sit up to bring your face closer to his. “I’m not going to die, not on your watch, but I’m also not quitting.”

“Y/N –”

“No! If I quit, you’d get lazy. Who’d push you? What would be your driving force?”

“Wow,” he scoffed, looking at you incredulously but fondly, “you’re so fucking arrogant.”

“And yet…” you said, quirking a brow flirtatiously as you pulled him closer by the collar.

“… and yet?” he murmured, letting himself be pulled closer to you. His eyes half-closed and his lips slightly parted.

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

And then he kissed you. His mouth claimed yours urgently but his hands were ever gentle, ghosting over your bandages and caressing your skin with a feather-light tenderness that would have brought you to your knees had you not already been bedridden. Any hesitation or doubt melted away under the heat of his touch as all those years of tension sprung apart catastrophically. The knot you had carried in your stomach unfurled into flittering fireflies, their heat traveling up your stomach to your chest as his hands worked their way into your hair.

You didn’t know when they’d fallen, but you let out a shaky laugh as Geralt kissed away the tears on your cheeks, his thumb swiping at the tears his soft lips failed to catch. Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against yours; his hands cupping your face as yours captured his.

Gods – this man was going to be the death of you.  

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #witcher geralt #Geralt #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #the witcher series #the witcher fandom #the witcher x reader #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #geralt x oc #the witcher netflix #Witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #anonymous #anon <3 #fic prompts #fanfiction requests #fanfic #fanfiction

[xzho-writes]

drunken shenanigans

pairings: zhongli x gn!reader

genre: fluff, a crackfic me thinks??

summary: zhongli knew he shouldn’t have left you alone with childe unsupervised. he also knew you could handle yourself, but snezhnayan fire water could test even the greatest of alcohol tolerances

wc: 543

warnings: mentions of alcohol, drunk reader

extra notes: it’s midnight and i’m delirious from sleep deprivation so pls forgive me for this brainrot. enjoy my word vomit-

you can find my masterlist here

“un… unhand me, you weird o-old geezer! i pack a nasty punch, i’ll have you... have you… know!”

“i’m afraid i can’t do that, my dear.”

a gasp escaped your burning throat. “don’t you dare call me ‘my deer’! can’t you see that i’m… what am i again… oh! perfectly human? is this how you treat… s-strangers? you’re so mean!” you’re wailing and throwing pitiful punches to his chest at this point, tears leaving glossy streaks in their wake. “it’s rude to call people animals!”

the poor man who currently had you in his arms could only sigh and shake his head in disbelief. zhongli hoisted you slightly higher to gain a better grip on your body and you gripped his tailcoat weakly for stability.

he ought to call you by a different pet name.

“who are you, anyway?”

“your beloved,” he muttered the next part under his breath, “and currently very concerned,” before clearing his throat. “husband.”

as if he had revealed that the world was about to end tomorrow you yanked your head back and away from its current position on his shoulder. zhongli had to readjust his arms so that you wouldn’t tumble out of them.

“my… husband?” you gawked. “we’re married? you and me? me and you?”

your genuine reaction made it difficult to keep the amused grin from spreading across his lips. “yes, my love.”

uncoordinated hands flew to your mouth dramatically before an exaggerated gasp left your lips. you were silent for a while so zhongli tilted his head down to look at you, not expecting the silence after you had been rambling at him for the past fifteen minutes.

when he saw you he found that you were already staring up at him with fascination glimmering in your eyes. he flashed you another of his signature smiles.

“you know what… you’re really pretty.”

“thank you, beloved. you’ve told me so multiple times.”

as much as you’d love to continue ranting your nonsense at him, a sudden wave of drowsiness hit you like a truck. content that he had accepted your compliment you let your heavy head fall back onto its previous home on zhongli’s shoulder. a soft thump echoed from your action.

zhongli let out a sigh of relief this time, glad that you had finally calmed down from your rampage. he affectionately nuzzled his nose into your hair and proceeded to nose against your soft cheek.

you reeked of alcohol, he noted. it was best to run you a bath as soon as the both of you got home. under his supervision, of course.

light puffs of breath fanning across zhongli’s neck told him that you had instantly passed out. as you snoozed comfortably, you subconsciously huddled yourself closer to his body- your face finding comfort in the junction where his shoulder met his neck.

the ex-archon chuckled to himself, happy that you sought him out even in sleep- and all was well.

until you woke up, that is.

“aren’t you that guy with the big, fat ass?”

…is that what you usually thought about?

zhongli was glad that nobody was out on the harbour that night to hear what came out of your drunken mouth, or see the flash of red staining his cheeks.

a cold glass of water would do you some good.

published on 04/03/22

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli #genshin zhongli #genshin fluff #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fic #zhongli my beloved