#control burns

[bumblebeeappletree]

Fires are not going away. In fact, they're escalating, and we need to become more proactive about how we deal with them. But how?

The team at WIFIRE is betting that supercomputing AI and prescribed burns can prevent the next 'megafire.'

The idea is to use low-intensity fire to clean the environment, so when a high-intensity fire comes, it's not going to have as destructive of an effect.

[akanemnon]

It was super effective

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[bixels]

Posting a sneak-peak of this now because I'm about to be In The Shit school workload-wise, so this'll take me a while to finish.

Doing some character design exploration/expression sheets for Celestia and Luna. Figuring out Celestia's weird ass anatomy while I'm at it.

[thebrasspope]

[exhausted-undead]

they're about to analyse your freak

[mohntilyet]

about illario working with the venatori, we can't forget that elgar'nan gifted him blood magic, so I do think that he somewhat influenced him and that's why he's so much more vindictive and jealous in comparison to tevinter nights. I don't mean that he's being mind controlled, but it's a bit like cyrian, a god just amplifying those negative emotions in you and promising power and glory can push a person to that edge and to make stupid af decisions.

im also not forgetting that zara line in inner demons where she talks about an envy demon. like. why an envy demon in specific...there's THINGS between zara and illario that were not shown

no literally if you get me talking about illario + envy + the possibility of getting him possessed, you will have me here for fucking ever. a non mage doing blood magic (any magic at all) is really weird and interesting to me and i don’t remember an example of this happening before (feel free to correct me tho lol. i’m discounting possessions and dwarves)

i had started wildly theorising after bloodbath that he had been possessed and he was tapping into the fade using an envy demon. especially like you said, zara mentions it, AND because i swear there’s a codex in the ossuary where it mentions an envy demon whereas spite is obviously determination, right? so i thought it was a breadcrumb trail to a big “illario is being influenced and doesn’t even know” reveal— same as you anon like great minds am i right— but i’m not sure there is actually any evidence of that lol. like maybe if you squint but i do believe it was explained away by “oh yeah, and elgarnan let him do special blood magic”

it does also make sense to me that illario can only control lucanis, due to being part of the same family. a bloodline thing, and it is very poetic to me that their shared family connection in caterina is what allows him to control lucanis, even for a moment lol. spite being the extra magical boost that lucanis needs to block that out ALSO makes sense to me so i’m not too fussed abt these details lol🤔

the envyllario in my heart also gets spectral weapons for himself. lucanis gets wings, illario gets talons, PLUS green-purple are complementary colors so it would have been really fun to see them clash with their spirit/demon-powers. the talon thing is also a kind of reflection of his end-goal desire, how envy demons already have those freaky hands, and it manifests as claws and is a much more aggressive, strength-augmenting manifestation (as opposed to manoeuvrability and speed-augmenting that spite’s wings give lucanis.) anyways that's what the diagram above is supposed to be (this is extremely hot to me)

[honeybard]

if there's one thing about Lou Wilson it's that he goes above and beyond when given the option to sabotage himself and his party

[aventurineswife]

Anaxa with a reader who acts like a mitigation unit for whenever he says something blasphemous and leaves people wanting to punch him lmao

The reader is soft-spoken and gentler in disposition (much like castorice) and not exactly on par with him in terms of ingenuity, so some people wonder how they ended up together. But eh, who cares? Anaxa loves them anyways. Though, spending time with him is not good for their heart since whenever he states something outrageous, the reader will chime in with a "he doesn't mean that" and attempt to smoothen the tension, only for this dromas loving nerd to ruin the peace by spouting something like "no, actually, I meant every word I say" and the reader just stares up at the heavens, gaze resigned, and inwardly prays that they won't be stoned to death in that very moment

Bonus if they're taller than anaxa. I just think it would be cute if the reader has to constantly bend down whenever anaxa has something to say. Just the overall trope of the tall one being meek and withdrawn while the short one is feisty and outspoken

“He doesn’t mean that… I think”

Summary: You're the tall, soft-spoken partner of Anaxagoras—the infamous scholar with a talent for making blasphemous statements that nearly get you both stoned on a regular basis. While he fearlessly challenges gods and sages with wild theories and cutting wit, you're always close behind, offering polite smiles, calming words, and the occasional desperate "he doesn’t mean that." Despite your gentler nature and quieter intellect, Anaxa is fiercely devoted to you, pulling you into his chaotic orbit with unwavering affection. It’s loud, it’s intense, and your spine might just be made of divine patience.

Tags: Anaxagorus x Reader, Opposites Attract, Height Difference, Chaotic Genius x Soft-Tall Partner, Damage Control Partner, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Family Elements, Slow Burn (Implied), Philosophical Drama, “He Doesn’t Mean That” Energy, Protective Reader.

Warnings: Themes Of Death And Loss, Mentions Of Religious And Academic Conflict, Blasphemy (Fictional Context), Light Emotional Angst, Mild Language, Potential Reader Endangerment (Non-Graphic, Played For Irony/Humor), Anaxagorus being Anaxagorus.

A/N: I love this man, can you tell? 😋💚

It always starts with him saying something he absolutely shouldn’t.

The atmosphere in the courtyard of the Grove is as tense as a taut bowstring. A gathering of scholars and disciples encircle the infamous Anaxagoras, their faces twitching with barely concealed disdain, curiosity, or both. And there you are, standing right beside him like a loyal, bewildered lighthouse in the middle of an academic storm.

“…And that, my dear sages,” Anaxa declares, arms dramatically flared, coat swishing like some peacock possessed by hubris, “is why divine authority is nothing but an inherited illusion. If a god needs worship to maintain power, is it not merely a glorified parasite?”

Silence.

Not a respectful kind of silence. The "someone-is-about-to-throw-a-chair" kind of silence.

You blink. Smile nervously. And step in, gently placing a hand on Anaxa’s shoulder—he’s still mid-pose, soaking in the shocked silence like it’s validation—and clear your throat. You lean forward slightly, voice as gentle as spring rain.

“He doesn’t mean that.”

“I do,” Anaxa replies immediately, not even turning to look at you. “And if anyone disagrees, they’re welcome to explain how an all-powerful being managed to trip over the concept of mortality.”

You don't even sigh anymore. You just look up at the skies, lips silently mouthing the names of all the gods, hoping one of them has a sense of humor.

People often ask how the two of you ended up together.

You, the serene, quiet mitigation unit who wears soft colors and softer expressions. Him, the sharp-tongued philosopher whose idea of a romantic date involves reading banned texts and dismantling holy logic.

“They're not even on the same wavelength,” someone once whispered, watching you gently tug Anaxa back from yet another oncoming theological brawl. “How does it even work?”

You weren’t sure either.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes soften when you’re the one holding the scalpel during a shared experiment. Or how he lets you tie his ponytail every morning, mumbling critiques about symmetry but never actually fixing it. Or how he always looks for you in a room before he speaks—to see if you're there to watch the world burn with him.

Maybe it’s just love. Bizarre, inexplicable love.

Even if that love occasionally comes with public threats of excommunication.

You’re taller than him, of course. He pretends not to notice. But when he speaks, you always instinctively lean down just slightly, hands politely folded, like you’re giving a particularly chaotic child your full attention.

“Listen,” he says one day, post-lecture, voice low and dramatic, “I’ve discovered a correlation between Titan souls and the latent fear gods have of mortality. My next paper will be titled ‘The Cowards in the Sky.’”

You stare at him. Then glance nervously at the passing sages.

“He doesn’t mean that,” you murmur.

��I do,” Anaxa snaps, tilting his head up at you with that familiar glint of mischief and defiance. “And if I vanish in the middle of the night, assume they finally sent divine assassins. You’ll avenge me, won’t you?”

You rub your temple. “I’ll try to negotiate.”

“And you call yourself devoted,” he mutters, smug.

Still, for all the chaos he invites, Anaxa clings to you like a man who has seen too much fire and finds comfort in quiet.

When the nights are cold and long, he curls against you like he’s hiding from ghosts, his left hand resting just above yours. Sometimes, in those fragile hours, he whispers the names of people who aren’t alive anymore. Sometimes, he whispers yours like it's the only name he trusts to stay.

You don’t always understand the depth of his genius. You don’t have to.

You’re there. That’s enough.

You ground him, and occasionally save both your lives from being pelted by rocks.

“I’ve concluded,” Anaxa says one day, while reclining on your lap beneath a half-dead tree, “that your spine must be made of divine patience.”

You smile faintly, brushing a strand of mint hair from his face.

“And I’ve concluded,” you reply, voice barely audible, “that your mouth is going to get us killed one day.”

He laughs.

“You love me, still?”

You lean down slowly, forehead resting against his.

“Unfortunately,” you whisper.

And he grins.

“Good. That makes two of us.”

[70sscifiart]

Today, on a very special Control Panel Saturday: Screens displaying the Earth.

"Pilot's Seat," by Philippe 'Manchu' Bouchet; Richard Hasenauer's Challenge magazine #33 cover; Bruce Pennington's cover to Cordwainer Smith's The Planet Buyer; and Joe Petagno's Star Trek Log Five cover.

[oxygen537art]

[batlovebites]

Wait, no one asked for Beast Rq yet??? I’ll do it then anyway! XD (no rush, take your time!) Reader x Burning spice Hc’s if please!

Oh, I love Burning Spice! The perfect first beast request for me! These are sort of non-specific general thoughts and might be a liitle ooc but I think in general its fair to expect the beasts would act a little different regarding people they actually care about as opposed to the situations we see them in in-game.

Burning Spice Cookie x Reader [Headcanons]

Burning Spice is... interesting. He will say that he expects you to have your own strength, to protect yourself; Present a very 'survival of the fittest' mentality. Part of him even believes it.

But the moment he sees you in any actual danger which you are unequipped to handle, which he know you are not strong enough to survive, it lights up some part of him he has long tried to bury; The part of him from eons ago, that was torn apart further bit by bit as each precious civilization he helped to create crumbled inevitably to the scorching sands of time, until only the smallest shred remains. He will say it will be the last and only time he will save you. He's lying to you about that as much as he is himself- how foolish of him, to let himself grow fond of another fragile, doomed thing again.

Usually is more inclined to want a partner that is strong, but can also oddly find himself smitten with someone he perceives as weak and vulnerable; He likes being challenged as much as he likes being made to feel that he's holding all the power in any given situation, so either works for him.

Always the big spoon when cuddling. Not much of a cuddler generally because he doesn't stop and stay still for long enough to do so very often but when going to bed he'll always hold you close. And tight. Once he falls asleep you are stuck in bed until he wakes up because he has an iron grip on you.

Also on that note he generates so much heat. You will not want to be sleeping with a blanket on when sharing a bed with him you will sweat to death within minutes. Its nice when its cold out, though.

He might let you you lean on him as you walk by his side when its cold out to help warm you up. If he's in the right mood, he might even just fully carry you; He does enjoy any excuse to show off his strength, even if something like carrying you is hardly anything compared to the feats he can accomplish.

He likes you to be watching any kind of fight he partakes in. Preferably tucked away somewhere away from the actual danger if you're someone unable to fight, but he's prideful and knows no boasting words can ever match you getting to see the full extent of what he's capable of.

His antenna are pretty sensitive to touch. You can use this to mess with him but watch out because you Will get whatever you give twofold in turn; For better or worse.

[amazon-reef]

anyone else thinking about how Kai knew that the rocks were able to heal Heatwave. Like... Like they seemed to help heal burns and larger wounds???? And the fact that the Wyldness wasn't (if I recall) a known realm by the Ninja. So how did he know that the inside of the rocks can help heal burns. Large burns as well. How did he know that melting the inside would work? How did he know? HOW DID HE KNOW LEGO.

[twifairy]

"Barok van Zieks is absolutely covered in scars from all his years being attacked" is like, pretty solidly in fanon at this point but I hope the other results of this constantly happening is that he fights dirty. No amount of being a respectable, well-trained gentleman who fights with honor is going to matter after a certain point.

I hope he bites people. I hope he spits blood onto the ground. I hope he has broken bones and left men bleeding in the street while he himself has to limp back to safety half alive. He may have never taken a life, but I hope he's come close.

[sarshles-cheescake-li]

My favourite analysis on Lu Guang's answer to the animal riddle is that he said detective, partly because he sees himself as guilty, by @curapicas (2025). (thanks muninnhuginn for finding the link!) However, I posit another answer: everyone.

You can set a forest aflame with a match, sure, but that doesn't cause devastation on the scale of lifeless charcoal. Where I live, our forest are born to be burned. Pockets of wildfire open up cracks in the canopy, letting sun shine on young trees; nutrients are released back into soil; the jack pine tree needs fire to reproduce (Natural Resources Canada, 2024). Wildfires have become an issue for us recently for one major reason: mismanagement.

Forest fires are bound to happen. Delay it endlessly, leave thousand of acres of standing, old wood, and that's when a forest fire becomes truly ravenous. Was it any one creature's fault? The fault of the elephant for dutifully putting out small sparks whenever they were seen? The fox for watching the forest grow thick and overcrowded without speaking up? The rabbits for planting the grasses that they adore as food? No one could have seen it coming, yet, everyone could. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was everyone's fault. It was a tragedy. It was an inevitability. Lu Guang would know: he's been fighting that inevitable fire for years.

A forest fire, and a death node. Never any one singular person to blame, one single factor that caused the fire: always a collision of dozens of entangled threads. Cheng Xiaoshi's death was never caused by one singular person, and the fire was never set by any one creature. The animals of the forest, in their attempts to make the forest a better home for themselves, set the stage for it to burn. The people who love and are loved by Cheng Xiaoshi, in their actions to protect him, attract the attention of executioners. 引火上身。*

Fundamentally, it's the same as Cheng Xiaoshi's answer -- that sometimes lightning strikes your life, and that's that. Only, Cheng Xiaoshi says 'it wasn't anyone's fault, no one did anything to start it'. Lu Guang, and maybe Vein, too, say 'they were all at fault, no one did anything to prevent it'. Lu Guang answers everyone, because he has come to see disasters as not the result of a singular person's actions, but rather a product of everyone's decisions. Even though Vein may not be a time traveler well-versed in the crowdfunded nature of tragedies, he still may well be cynical enough to write off the idea of innocent victims.

Lastly, consider that Lu Guang doesn't plot Vein's death because it would prevent him from killing Cheng Xiaoshi. He does it because it creates a new node; a new fire. Controlled burning**.

*Meaning "to attract fire onto one's own body." An idiom for when you cause your own problems, especially by attracting the attention or ire of others.

**An actual forest management technique where you set small, controlled fires, which clear out the dead wood and fulfill the same purposes as a big fire without it getting out of hand. Many Indigenous peoples have been doing it since forever. (BC Wildfire Service, 2022)

BC Wildfire Service. (2022, May 5). How cultural burning enhances landscapes and lives. Government of British Columbia. https://blog.gov.bc.ca/bcwildfire/how-cultural-burning-enhances-landscapes-and-lives/

Curapicas. (2025, February 5). Why I think Lu Guang's answer to the riddle was the detective:. Tumblr. https://www.tumblr.com/curapicas/774647863305256960/why-i-think-lu-guangs-answer-to-the-riddle-was

Natural Resources Canada. (2024, August 1). Why forests need fires, insects and diseases. Government of Canada. https://natural-resources.canada.ca/our-natural-resources/forests/insects-disturbances/why-forests-need-fires-insects-and-diseases/13081

[wickedwitchofthegalaxy]

☞︎𝑅𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈☜︎

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝑮𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒕𝑿𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: NSFW, Angst, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, Size Difference, Trust Issues, Power Imbalance

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6K

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: The woods are no place for a dancer, but when you’re forced to flee a life that isn’t your own, the only option is to follow the whispers of a bard and the promise of a Witcher’s protection.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I’m so excited to share this with yall, as it might be one of my last fanfics for a while because I want to shift towards OC’s and fleshing out a few ideas for potential books. Anywho, hope you guys like it. Banners by @cafekitsune !

𝐸𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 🖤

There’s something about the silence in the woods that’s wrong, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to slip. The woods are thick with mist, the air damp and heavy, clinging to your skin like a warning.

You should have stayed at the inn; you should’ve kept your head down. But you didn’t. Not this time. And now you’re in a place you don’t belong, looking for a man who’s more myth than man.

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.

You don’t know what you’re expecting to find when you locate him. In the stories, he stands out in every room; he shouldn’t be hard to find, which were your exact thoughts when you left the inn and headed into the forest that Jaskier said the Witcher would be riding in from. It was only a 20-minute walk, and you had been waiting on this supposed White Wolf since the break of dawn. Every step forward is a gamble and the moment you step into a clearing, you realize you’ve lost the bet.

The clearing is not empty. It’s filled with the noise of metal on bone, of vicious growls and heavy breathing. You freeze. A figure cloaked in battle-worn leather is in full swing against… what is that thing?

He’s fighting—fighting something—someone. It’s not the first time you’ve walked into danger without meaning to, but this time, it’s different. This isn’t the same as a drunken noble’s leering hands or a back-alley brawl. No, this is life or death.

You should leave. You know you should. But you don’t.

You step forward, not thinking, not planning.

“Geralt!” You call out, way too loudly.

He doesn’t even flinch in your direction.

The sword in his hand moves with terrifying ease, slicing through the air. It’s the creature, that thing, some twisted shape of beast and man, that’s the focus of his ire. You’re invisible to him.

The creature, too quick, too feral, lashes out. Its clawed hand strikes, barely missing Geralt but connects with a nearby tree, shredding the side of it.

The world seems to stop as Geralt’s focus shifts. His eyes snap to you, and a single syllable leaves his lips.

“Run.”

You don’t.

Instead, you take a step forward, propelled by some stupid instinct to survive, or it’s something else. Maybe it’s the gnawing knowledge that waiting any longer will leave you trapped in a life that isn’t yours. And right now, even this forest, this creature, this man, feels safer than the suffocating pull of the noose tightening back home.

“Geralt, I—”

The words choke in your throat as the creature turns its attention to you. It’s fast, rabid, and it’s snapping at anything in its reach. Geralt curses under his breath, his shoulders tensing as his blow slices into the leg of the creature. The monster’s blood splatters across his face, and he doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. But when he steps toward you, when his movements are a blur of motion, you feel the urgency, the danger.

There’s a flash of light, the sickening crack of bone, and the creature drops. Silence.

The thing lies crumpled at Geralt’s feet, its twisted form unnervingly still. The quiet that follows is asphyxiating, pressing in on your ears as though the forest itself has collapsed inward. Your fists tremble, but you keep them closed at your hips, forcing yourself to hold steady. The fear claws at the edges of your resolve, but you push it down, shove it deep where it can’t stop you. You’ve survived worse, or at least you tell yourself that you have.

Geralt straightens, his blade dripping with something too dark to be blood. His gaze is on the corpse, but you know, you can feel, that he’s aware of every breath you take. He wipes the blood from his blade with a cloth you don’t remember him pulling out, his movements methodical and swift. The weight of his attention shifts to you slowly, like a hunter debating whether the effort of pursuit is worth it.

“What,” he begins, his voice low, “are you doing here?”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, one that cuts deeper than you thought it would. His eyes, yellow, and cold as winter’s wrath, meet yours, and it’s as if the forest stops breathing again.

You can’t find your voice immediately. The scene, what’s left of the creature, the way the Witcher’s chest heaves, the still-damp blood streaked across his face, pins you in place. Your words stumble out before you’ve fully caught them.

“I—Jaskier—he said—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s lips press into a thin, humorless line. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked earth. He towers over you now, his expression carved from stone.

“Do you have a death wish?”

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you room to breathe, the question hanging there like a snare waiting to snap shut. His lips tighten, and for a moment, he looks as though he might simply turn and leave you standing there. But he doesn’t. Instead, his hand lingers near his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

“You shouldn’t be here, much less yelling my name in the middle of the forest. Jaskier told me to meet a woman by the name of—“

He takes a deep breath and exhales dramatically, making his distaste for his next words. “The Court Swan, at the inn. I’m assuming that’s you?” His words are laced with disbelief, as if Jaskier has played one of his infamous jokes on him about your nickname.

You hesitate before nodding. “Yes. That’s me.” You take a step forward, ignoring the shake in your knees. It’s a dance, you tell yourself. Every movement calculated, every breath measured.

Geralt studies you with a scrutiny that feels more invasive than any gaze should, like he’s peeling back every layer of pretense with those sharp, wolfish eyes. You’ve felt the prestige of a royal audience before, the way their eyes skim over your form with detached judgment, but this is something else. This is dangerous. He’s dangerous.

“You’re a dancer.” It’s not a question, but you hear the skepticism in his tone. He casts a wary glance around the forest as he continues. “Why is a dancer running errands for a poet?”

“I’m not—” Bile rises into your throat, and you swallow hard. You shift your weight, your boots sinking into the damp mud as your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m not running errands. I’m here because… because I saved his life.”

Geralt’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes, and a dry smirk etches across his lips. “And that turned into my problem how?” His voice remains flat, cutting.

The weight of his gaze, his questions, presses down on you, and suddenly you’re spilling the truth before you can stop yourself.

“The royals I dance for—danced for—found out. They didn’t like that I helped him.” You pause, swallowing hard. Geralt’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the sting of it, like a blade poised just above your skin.

“So they decided to punish me for it.”

He wipes his blade again, the motion deliberate, and sheathes it with a muted click. The admission hangs in the clearing, and for a moment, Geralt says nothing; neither of you moves, the world around you held at bay.

“I saved his life,” you repeat, your voice stronger now, gaining resolve. “Jaskier has these friends; they—” You pause, searching your pockets for the letter Jaskier sent with you to give Geralt. Finding the small envelope, you hold it up to him. “They’re victims of… one of the royals… habits.”

Geralt shifts slightly, his shoulders still tense, his eyes narrowing. “And what do you expect from me, exactly?” He grabs the envelope, it growing smaller the instant it leaves your hands and enters his. The forest presses in around you, the trees whispering secrets in the breeze, as if the woods themselves are listening and waiting for you to shatter under all this pressure while he opens the letter and reads it.

“Help,” you say, almost pleading. “I don’t know where to go or what to do. Jaskier said you might—that you know things I don’t.”

Geralt exhales sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than a sigh. “Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his damp, blood-matted hair. “And what exactly does he think I’m supposed to do? Take you in? Fight off your enemies? Play bodyguard for a dancer who thought it was a good idea to get involved in politics?”

“I didn’t ‘get involved,’” you bite back, heat rising in your cheeks. “I—” The words catch in your throat, shame and anger tangling together. “I didn’t have a choice. What do you know about me? What did Jaskier tell you?”

His eyes narrow further, the yellow of his irises growing colder, more assessing as he studies you. His staring is almost rude; you would have called him on it in any other situation. But you guess this is a situation where you too would be cautious of the strange girl coming to you for help. Especially in the middle of the woods. “Jaskier wasn’t being entirely honest when he mentioned my ‘help’,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate. “Damien—Damien…?”

“Damien Clyde.” You clarify quickly, before the monster’s name can burn your tongue.

“Clyde,” Geralt repeats, testing the name as his eyes unfocus slightly. He shifts again, his gaze returning to the shadows of the trees around you. “I know Damien Clyde well—well enough to know that he’s ruthless.”

Geralt’s gaze returns to you, sharp and penetrating. “He’s got a lot of enemies,” he continues, his voice lower, almost a whisper. “But he also has a lot of loyal followers—people who will do anything to protect him. Even if that means hunting down a pretty little dancer.”

“Which is why I need your help,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I’m not asking for much. Just a place to hide, a way to keep ahead of his hunters—”

“You’re asking for a miracle,” Geralt cuts in, his voice sharper now, a low exclamation that seems more a reaction than an accusation. “And that’s not something I can provide.”

You feel the strike of his words like they were physical, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what else to do,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need something—someone—who knows the way Damien thinks, knows how he operates.”

Geralt looks at you then, really looks, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find some hidden truth there. “And what makes you think I can help with that?” he ventures, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “What do you think I know about Damien Clyde that you don’t?”

You hesitate for a moment, considering his question. “You’ve faced monsters like him before,” you finally say, your voice firm, though the anxiety still ripples through you. “You know what makes them tick. Damien is a monster in his own right, just… different. I think you’ve seen enough to understand,” you insist, your voice holding onto that firmness despite the doubt that claws at you. “More than most.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch out between you while he contemplates your words. When he does reply, it’s with a shake of his head and a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice low and laced with frustration as he crumbles the letter in his hand. “But I can’t leave you to fend for yourself either.”

“Then what can you do?” You countered, desperation edging into your tone. You take a quick step, closing in on his personal space. His whole body tenses, and if you thought he was scary before, getting closer only tripled his effect. Regardless of his enhanced presence, you keep his gaze, your head tilting up as you add, “If it’s not a miracle, what’s left?”

Geralt takes a deep breath, his jaw flexing as he peers down at you. “I can give you a head start,” he states, his arms crossing while he rolls his shoulders. “I know some places, some people… ways to get you out of sight for a while, to keep you safe. But Damien’s going to keep coming after you.”

You shake your head, your eyebrows furrowing before you speak up, your voice rising slightly. “No, I’m not leaving your side. You know how to evade him; you know everything I need to know in order for me to live. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Geralt’s eyes slim, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his options, before letting out a slow breath. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, as if cursing the situation more than you.

“You’re asking for more than I can give,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But for now… I guess it’s enough.”

“Then let’s go,” you cut in, determination in your voice as you turn and start walking deeper into the woods. Geralt doesn’t move immediately, watching you with a mix of frustration and something darker; resignation, perhaps. Finally, he sighs and shouts, “Where do you think you’re going?”

You stop, confused, and turn back to him. “What? I thought—”

“Wrong way,” Geralt interrupts, his tone sharper than you expected. He glares at you, and his eyes flick around the woods as if he’s checking for threats.

“Rule one: always follow me.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the sudden correction. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think,” he cuts in, his voice tinged with frustration. “Keep close and do as I say. No more running off, no more going your own way. No more thinking, just listen.”

You swallow, nodding quickly as you step back to where he stands, his judging eyes never leaving you. “Got it,” you say, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “Lead on.”

Geralt grunts, but there’s a hint of reluctant approval in his eyes as he turns and starts walking again, this time in the right direction.

“Let’s move,” he mutters, not looking back to see if you’re following. “And keep your head down.”

 

 

One Month Later…

 

The forest and a small, tucked-away hut have become a sanctuary for the two of you, away from prying eyes and the ever-watchful hunters sent by Damien. The rules that Geralt laid down, the ones you initially dismissed with an eye roll or two, are now second nature. Rule one: always follow him. Rule two: don’t ask questions unless he allows it. Rule three: never assume you’re safe. They’re becoming etched into your memory as much as the steps you now take in combat.

You haven’t felt this alive in years. Every day is a test, a dance of a sort. Although you did miss just dancing. It’s grueling, Geralt’s training regime, but it’s given you purpose.

Today, the clearing outside the tiny hut is quiet, the only sound being the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Geralt is off to the side, sharpening his sword with deliberate strokes. You approach him, your own blade feeling unfamiliar in your hands. It’s a strange sensation, not just the weight of the sword but the unfamiliarity with its use.

“Come on,” Geralt says without looking up, his voice rough from disuse. “You’re better than this. Focus.”

You take a deep breath, gripping the hilt tightly. He watches you from beneath his tousled white hair, his eyes sharp as always. It feels as if he can see right through you, to the fear and doubt lurking beneath your surface.

“Show me,” he instructs, his eyes never leaving yours and his tone even. “What you’ve learned.”

You move forward slowly, cautious. The blade feels like a stranger’s hand in yours, and you thrust forward with a hesitant jab. It’s clumsy and weak, nothing like the smooth, deadly movements you’ve seen him perform. Geralt barely reacts, just steps back and shakes his head.

“Again,” he orders, his voice low. “But faster this time. You’re thinking too much.”

You nod, trying to ignore the way his gaze follows your every move. There’s an intensity to his focus that makes you want to prove yourself, to show him that you’re not just a dancer who stumbled into his world by accident. You gather your courage and lunge again, more confidently this time.

Geralt blocks the strike effortlessly, his own blade moving in a blur as he counters with a series of rapid jabs. You dodge, your heart pounding in your chest as you scramble to keep up. Each strike feels like it could be the last, and the sweat on your skin isn’t just from exertion, it’s fear.

“You need to relax,” he says, lowering his sword and stepping closer. “Focus on your breathing. You’re too tense.”

You try to listen, but the pressure of the situation—of Damien, of everything you’ve left behind—makes it hard. “It’s not that easy,” you admit, your voice shaky with toil as you lower your own blade. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Why did you agree to this?”

Geralt’s cheek twitches slightly as he looks at you, his eyes keeping yours for a moment too long. “You’re not the only one who needs to survive,” he says, his voice low. “I took on your burdens the moment you screamed my name in those woods. Your end will be mine; that’s assured.”

You swallow hard, feeling something tighten in your chest. “So this is just about survival?”

He hesitates, then steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly against the blade in your hand. “Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But it’s more than that. You’re not just some dancer to me anymore, are you?”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice on the edge of silence.

Geralt hesitates again, then steps back, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Later,” he says, his tone clipped. “Let’s just finish for today.”

Disappointment floods through you, and you don’t bother to hide it. Your hand gripping the hilt of your blade harder. “Fine,” you mutter, squaring up to him. “Later.”

Geralt watches you for a long moment before raising his blade, stretching it out between you two, his hand steady and practiced.

“Rule one,” he says, his gaze locked in on your eyes, “always follow me.”

You fight with a ferocity you didn’t know you had, pushing yourself to keep up with his quick movements. Every thrust and parry brings you closer to frustration. Your arms ache, the weapon in your hands feeling heavier with each swing. It’s a cruel reminder of your mortality, how little separates you from failure.

Geralt’s moves are sharp as he counteracts each of yours with ease. “Focus,” he snaps after one particularly errant swing. Another parry, another twist of his wrist, and your strike falters… Again.

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way.”

Of course I am, you bastard. I’m not a machine.

“I don’t have time for this!” You bark, your anger bubbling over. Your vision blurs; whether from sweat or tears, you can’t tell. “I don’t have time for you and your rules, Geralt! I need to find a way out!”

His face darkens, the pale skin stretched tight over a grimace as he steps back, and you hate the way your stomach twists at the sight.

Why does his silence feel like a punishment? Like I failed some mysterious test?

“Then leave,” he says, his voice calm and flat, dangerous in its restraint. “Go somewhere else. I’m not stopping you.”

You freeze; your sword dips, the blade scraping the dirt. “You know I can’t,” you mutter, teeth clenched against the truth as you abandon your blade. Your eyes are barely able to lift from the ground to meet his as you continue, ”he’ll find me. And if I go alone—“

“Then you’ll end up dead,” he growls, finishing for you, his eyes hardening. “And Damien will still win.”

I know that. I know that, but do you think I want to hear it? Do you think I haven’t imagined my own corpse lying in his shadow?

The thoughts press down on you, but your voice cuts through them, bloody and breaking. “Then help me!” you yell, your voice cracking. “Don’t just stand there, judging me and shit! Fight for me!”

An unmistakable glow overtakes his eyes, fire behind the gold. His tone lowers, softer now but somehow more threatening. “Is that what you want?” He’s in front of you in seconds, his long legs carrying him quickly and placing him inches away from you. “You want me to fight for you?” He whispers, his head leaning down.

You take a shuddering breath, your heart pounding as you look up at him, his expression more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s testing me. Always testing.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the admission drags itself out of your chest. “Yes, I do.”

Geralt’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though his jaw remains tight. He reaches out and takes your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face up to meet his. “Then you need to fight for yourself too,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “I can’t do it alone.”

Haven’t I been doing that?

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as you meet his eyes. “I’m trying,” you plea, your words shaking as they exit your mouth. “I just… I don’t know how.”

“Let me show you,” he states, his voice low and steady. “But you have to listen, and you have to trust me.”

Do I even know how to trust anymore? When was the last time someone asked me to? When was the last time I didn’t regret it?

Tears well up in your eyes as you nod, feeling smaller than you ever have.

How did I let it come to this? When did I become so helpless?

Your voice shakes as it leaves you, and your hand comes up to clutch your stomach. “I want to.”

His bright amber eyes search yours, as if looking for some kind of answer to this mess. “Good,” he finally replies, his tone soft and deep. “Then show me.”

He closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as his mouth captures yours in a kiss that’s both angry and gentle.

Angry and gentle. How is that even possible? How is he pulling me closer while it feels like he’s punishing me?

“Show me you can fight,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands tracing the curve of your neck, gliding down to your shoulders, urging you closer. “Show me you’re not afraid.”

Afraid?

You kiss him back, your movements clumsy, desperate, as if to prove something; to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, your fingers trembling as they work to undo them. “I’m not,” you mumble, the words quaking. “I can handle this.” 

A low sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a hum, as he shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way.“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He breathes, his voice rough.

His hands move slowly as he peels your shirt from your body, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s his mouth you feel most. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth reconnects with yours, then moves, trailing along your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin as his hands roam down your back. His calloused fingers mix with the cool breeze, leaving goosebumps to emerge along your body.

He lowers his kisses down to your collarbone, hands slipping under your waistband to touch your skin. You gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive curve. His hands are everywhere, on your waist, your back, your face, his lips never leaving your flesh, which causes your words to fly out with little thought. “Show me how to fight; I’ll listen this time.”

Is this what surrender feels like?

“I’ll show you, but first,” he promises as he leans down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you. You cling to him as your heart hammers in your chest. “you have to let go.” He murmurs against your lips, the words less a challenge and more a demand.

Let go? Of all the things Damien has done? Of all those poor women? Or is he meaning let go of my old life, the one I worked so hard to achieve? Maybe he means all of it, and if he does, how am I supposed to just… let that go?

Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you search his expression. His wet lips, his golden gaze, they’re too much, too honest. You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes tightly. “I don’t know how. I—I can’t.” You admit, your voice a fractured whisper.

“Yes, you can,” he says, the conviction in his voice stronger than your doubts. His eyes remain on yours as he carries you toward the hut, taking large steps while keeping a tight hold on you. “You’re stronger than you think.”

He doesn’t bother with closing the door as he maneuvers you inside, the hut’s worn frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. You barely register the dim interior, your focus consumed entirely by him, his grip, his heat, the way he sets you down on the makeshift straw bed with a care that feels at odds with his rough edges.

His hands find your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks in a way that sends warmth spiraling through you. His lips crash into yours, this kiss deeper, hungrier.

“Just trust me,” he mutters against your mouth again, his breath warm as it mingles with yours. His hands are already at your waistband, his fingers deftly unfastening the fabric. “Trust me.”

How does he make it feel like he’s taking something from me and giving it back at the same time?

The words linger in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, before spilling from your lips. “I trust you.” You whisper as the faint rasp of fabric fills the space, his hands pushing your pants past your ankles.

You let out a soft whimper as his fingers graze your skin. His hands, steady and searching, make their way down your body, his touch a mixture of need and tenderness. His mouth finds your neck again, lingering at the tender spot beneath your ear.

“What’s my third rule?” He questions, his voice a low growl while his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

The words come to you like a reflex.

“Never assume you’re safe.” You reply, your voice barely a breath as his fingers brush against the sensitive skin between your legs. “Good girl,” he praises, the depth in his tone making the two single words vibrate through you.

I’m not safe. Not from Damien. Not from myself. Not from him.

“Don’t assume anything right now.” He commands, his hands starting a slow, deliberate tease against your clit.

“This is about trust,” he murmurs, his voice softening as his fingers find their way inside you, the sensation tame yet overwhelming. “Show me you trust me.”

You can’t hold back the moan that escapes you, your hands tangling in his hair. His thumb finds your clit, brushing it before circling the swollen nub with an infuriatingly slow pace.

“I trust you,” you gasp, clutching at him, desperate to pull him closer. “Please, Geralt.”

Please what? Please stop? Please keep going? Please make me forget everything but this?

His lips return to your neck, trailing a line of heat down to your collarbone, where he pauses, his breath fanning. "You keep saying it," he mumbles against you as two fingers curl inside you, his thumb stopping its circles as he shifts his focus to finding that sweet spot inside of you. "but trust is more than words." His teeth graze your shoulder, each edge marking your flesh with a maddeningly gentle scratch.

A choked gasp leaves you as his fingers find it, and he presses again, firm and deliberate, sending a jolt through you that makes your body arch into him. His lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder, his breath warm as he shifts his angle; his fingers press and release in rapid succession, as though he’s flicking a switch that ignites something molten inside you.

"Trust is letting go."

Letting go. The words land heavily, like a challenge. Your thoughts spin out of control, colliding with the steady rhythm of his touch. His fingers move deeper, his pace increasing ever so slightly, causing the most beautiful, juicy noises to leave your soaking heat.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Your control splinters under the sensation, the rest of the world dissolving into nothing but the relentless pace of his touch and the way your body reacts to him. His thumb resumes its place over your clit, pressing firmly, circling, teasing, in perfect counterpoint to the rapid release and maddening pressure of his fingers inside you. It’s as if he’s playing you like an instrument, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you could make.

“Like that?” he murmurs, his voice low and knowing. The meticulous motion of his fingers quickens, not frantic but punishing, each thrust landing with perfect accuracy to help prove his point.

Your answer comes as a broken moan, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his toned muscles. “Come on beautiful,” he growls, his voice slicing through the haze, grounding you and yet setting you further adrift. “Don’t hold back.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command; an answer.

You can’t even think of resisting, not when his lips find the edge of your jaw, his teeth grazing the delicate curve with just enough pressure to make you shiver. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice a low mix of admiration and darkness. “That’s my good little dancer.”

His hand never falters, fingers thrumming inside you with care, his thumb rubbing your clit with a focus that borders on cruel. You’re unraveling, thread by thread, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but raw nerve endings responding to him.

This is surrender; you’re sure of it now.

“Geralt—” His name is a plea, a prayer you didn’t know you had in you.

“Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking on yours while his free hand grasps the inside of your thigh, spreading it open further. The calluses on his palm feel rough against the tender skin, a downright opposition to the soft, devastating rhythm of his other hand. “Don’t fight it.”

You don’t even know what it is anymore. The trust he keeps demanding? The fear you’ve been holding onto like a lifeline? Or this—a brutal, undeniable pleasure that’s tearing you into eight million different pieces?

Your hips buck against his hand, chasing every stroke, every press, every flick of his fingers as if they’re the only thing keeping you alive. And maybe they are.

He leans in, his lips brushing over yours. Just a breath, a glimpse of contact that steals the air from your lungs. “You’re close,” he says, his voice so deep it almost sends you over. “I can feel it.”

You shake your head, a wordless denial, though you don’t know who it’s meant for.

“You are,” he insists, his fingers quickening, pushing deeper, as if to prove it. In seconds he’s replaced his thumb with his free hand, that thumb taking over and having a better angle to rub your swollen clit with more ferocity as his other fingers continue their assault against your sweet spot. Your body betrays you, the denial caught in your throat unraveling as your thighs quiver against his hands.

Your eyes shoot open, locking with his as his voice rings out, “And you’ll take it,” he says, his voice a low snarl. His eyes bore into yours, molten gold burning through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind. “You’ll take it because I’m giving it to you.”

“Geralt,” you manage to yelp, the name cracking on your lips as your nails dig into him.

“Don’t fight me,” he growls again, but there’s something different now; a hint of frustration, a flash of unapologetic desire. His pace quickens and he adds a third finger, thrusting harder, each motion a declaration of his lesson.

Your head tips back, your lips parting as you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob, the pleasure climbing higher, threatening to crest.

“Yes, yes, baby,” he purrs, his voice softening but no less commanding. He leans in, his lips retaking their place by your ear. “Don’t you dare hold back now.”

You don’t. You can’t. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling every part of you, dragging you down until there’s nothing left but the electric pulse of your own climax.

“There she is,” he grunts, a harsh whisper against the shell of your ear. “Don’t stop now. I want all of it.”

The tension inside you coils tighter, until it pulls taut, stretching to the breaking point, then fractures, an eruption that floods your veins with unbridled energy and a rush of power. Cries tear from your throat, and your body convulses around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you shaking, gasping, unraveling completely in his hands.

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. And the sounds spilling from your lips are unrestrained, a language you don’t recognize but can’t suppress.

He watches you like he’s orchestrated the entire thing, some maestro of chaos and submission. “There,” he rasps, his voice dragging across your skin like gravel. “That’s what I wanted.” His lips trail and hover at the edge of your jaw, close enough that you feel every syllable. “No masks. No more dancing. Just you. ”

Your hands tremble against his shoulders, searching for some way to anchor yourself as the tremors pulse through you. He shifts, his movements slowing, fingers easing their pace but never truly stopping.

He’s still there, still consuming, like a river that flows faintly beneath a hidden surface.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and there’s no question in his tone. It makes your eyes flutter up to his, barely able to keep them focused on his face.

“Did you feel it?” he asks, his voice lowered, yet holding the same harsh charge. His fingers remain inside you, his other hand stills on your sensitive clit while his fingers inside rub small circular motions against your bulging g-spot. “That breaking point? That moment when you let it all go?”

You can only nod, your throat too raw for words.

“Good,” he says, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth, not a kiss, but enough to make your heart skip. “Remember it. Because that’s trust.”

[hearts4werka]

NNN day 3 | Skin Deep Scars

summary: you’ve been born into a rich controlling family, always having to stay on top and never cross the line. You tried to please your mother but never could be enough for your mother’s standards, your father was mostly at work and away at business trips so both of you hardly ever interacted with each other. That’s until you got into an argument about your new friend chris who was the polar opposite of you, what do you think will happen next?

warnings: ANGST, !parental abuse!, arguing (again ik), family issues, swearing, manipulation, controlling mother figure, !burning skin!, slight fighting, crying, !mentions of childhood trauma! And this contains sensitive topics for many (even me) so please I advice to read this with caution and knowingly what you’re consuming.

authors note: day 3 is behind us now, thank yall so much for all of the love on the past fics I seriously rlly appreciate it. Yall can drop some ideas for future days and fics outside of this in my inbox and I’ll be happy to write them, I don’t have my computer with me rn so I’ll make the gradient text when I’m at my computer again, hope y’all enjoy this one

no nut november | masterlist | guestlist

Escalated screams and yells fill the large space of the room, making my ears want to fall off as foul words continue to fall from my mother’s mouth. It’s not the first time my mother has yelled at me for the most stupidest bullshit ever known to mankind and this is one of them, somehow it never turned psychical between us which could be a shocker for some of the others considering how loud she is screaming and shouting that you would think she’d hit me by now or at least threaten to.

“You are bringing such shame to this family! It’s unacceptable!” She shouts, her face contoured with pure anger. I might as well see smoke coming out of her ears by now, rolling my eyes as I feel my own anger rise inside of me at how ridiculous she is being right now. “I bring shame? What about you sleeping around behind dad’s back, huh?” I argue back, not letting her bring me down and standing my ground. She gasps dramatically as if I insulted her whole bloodline, pressing her hand to her chest to make her seem more like a victim.

“Don’t you dare speak of that! This isn’t about my mistakes, it’s about yours!” She attempts to defend her name but fails miserably, thinking if she raises her voice higher than me she’ll have the high ground and take the upper hand in this argument. “You’re the one that’s hanging out with that street rat and even dare to invite him to this house!” My blood boils to high temperatures at her insult targeted towards Chris, well she isn’t very fond of him and his lifestyle or he of how she treats me from all of the stories I’ve previously told him.

Summarizing that thought, their hatred is mutual towards themselves. “Don’t bring him into this, he has nothing to do with this! It was one lower grade, mom!” I yell defensively, the level of my irritation rising with each second of just breathing in the tense air in the room. “That he caused by the influence he has on you! I just want the best for you, honey.” She tries to twist her tone into a softer one but I can feel the fakeness radiating off it the minute it comes past her lips, how pathetic.

“You aren’t convincing anyone with that fake tone, that’s for sure.” I state annoyingly as she attempts to move closer to me but when she sees me backing away she just gives up with trying to convince me into doing anything she wants with the same old method and decides on a newly invented one. “Fine, maybe I wont convince you at least but your father is pretty gullible and he’ll do anything I ask him to do. Even if i feed him a couple lies involving you and that little skank.”

I narrow my eyes at her, not believing her words at first until she shoots me a specific look which informs me she isn’t playing around, raising her eyebrow and slightly dipping her chin just always has her whole bitchy personality written all over her face in that moment. My face normally would drop in color but at this point I didn’t care, she brought Chris into this who has nothing to do with this and shouldn’t be assumed as the cause of my lower grade. It was one of the hardest exams this semester and even when I studied harder than ever and got the highest grade in my class, she still doesn’t appreciate my hard work.

My head decides its the perfect time to bring up the first time I got a lower grade, being only at the age as young as seven she was already pressuring me into being perfect and didn’t even allow me to have a normal childhood only filling me with more work and mental pressure I often was too tired to do anything the next morning after studying all night in hopes to attempt to please my mother but no matter what I did, she never fully appreciated it and always found something bad to point out.

Start of Flashback

I excitedly run into the living room with my test clutched in my head, my dress flowing in the slight breeze coming from the window. A proud smile spread on my face as I reach the living room where mommy resided in sitting on the couch, holding up my paper for her vision to see the teachers red mark saying ‘79/100’ in the corner of the paper. “Look mommy, my teacher said I got the highest grade in my class on the test!” I exclaim proudly, waiting for my applause but was met with silence. Tilting my head to the side to glance at my mommy confused on why she is quiet but she had only a disgusted and an unimpressed look shadowing her face.

She notices my confused expression and finally speaks, turning her head away from me and back at the tv “Honey, that’s not good enough for this family. Study harder next time.” She states without any sympathy in her voice as she goes back to her activity like nothing happened, my eyes slightly start to water. Why am I not good enough for mommy? Why isn’t mommy proud of me and saying nice words like my teacher was? My arms drop down to my sides with the paper still clutched in my small arms.

“What do you mean, mommy?” I ask curiously, my voice becoming slight wobbly as shaky breaths enter an exit past my lips. “My teacher said I did great and even gave me a lollipop!” I add, now my sadness being evident and that’s when mommy looked at me and sees me upset. “Oh baby, you know what I told you about eating too much sweets. And a 76 isn’t high enough for the reputation our family has.” She says in a reassuring voice, seeming as if she wanted the best for me and me being the gullible and innocent child, not realizing she’s manipulating me into doing whatever her heart desired and shaping me into a perfect little toy to play in her game.

“I just want the best for you honey and you know that, I would never do anything to hurt you, ever.” She calmly assured in a soft tone, she walks over to me and wipes my tear-stained cheek with her thumb and looks at me with fake sympathy mixed with fake remorse. “Now go to your room and study for the next test, mommy has to go attend to some things, okay?” I nod my head yes and ran off into my room, the paper flying out of my hand and landing in the floor. My body immediately jumping onto my bed and bury my face into the nearby pillow as I clutch my favorite stuffed animal to my chest…

End of Flashback

I remember crying the rest of the night and thought it was normal and everyone’s mother was pressuring them into being better than every other kid and always perfect to upkeep the family’s ‘perfect’ reputation. Now that I’ve grown up and caught onto my mother’s manipulative acts, letting me have the upper hand in some regards. “You’re pure goddamn evil, I can’t believe you’re trying to scare me with dad out of all people.” I huff, feeling my body become more tense by the second before adding. “Better than one of the guys you cheated on dad with.” After the words leave my mouth, she immediately darts towards me and gets impossibly closer to my face. Glaring at me as if she wanted to strangle the shit out of me.

“I said, don’t you dare bring that into this situation, young lady!” She warns, her voice completely shifting from fake sympathy to rage and evilness. One of her hands raises and she sticks out her finger, getting it in my face as if to try and scare me further but I only laugh in her face. “One more word out of your mouth and I make one call to your father, singing like a bird to him about all of the things you’ve said to your own mother.” She wipes imaginary tears off from under her eyes, pretending to be upset and hurt as if she’s the victim here. “You’re such an ungrateful brat, I’m surprised we haven’t kicked you out the house yet. You always disappoint us and bring total shame to the family.”

An evil laugh rumbles in her throat, I don’t see her as a loving mother I thought I had. No, I see her as the worst and most controlling mother ever known to mankind and I feel ashamed being in the proximity of her and letting her walk all over me like a doormat. She takes a few steps back and finally puts some distance between our bodies, I sharply inhale the tense air surrounding us as the following words fall from her mouth that I was just waiting for her to speak.

“I regret you were even born, more with every passing minute. Me and your father never wanted a girl, but a boy and at one point were debating to put you in an orphanage or give you away, another decision I regret making.”

Before my mother could say another word, I deliver a slap across her face and throw the words out of her mouth. She looks up at me, completely livid and fet up with this little cat fight between us. “That’s it, you’re getting punished hardly this time.” She angrily exclaims and roughly grasps my arm, dragging me into the kitchen by pure mad force. I try to escape her vice grip but it only makes it tighter, the feeling of pain and a bruise coming in spreads across my whole body as I see her walking towards the stove.

I start to get more desperate to escape, almost beginning to scream for her to stop and don’t do what I know she’s about to do. She did it before when I talked back to her ever and looks like today her strings popped too much, we get to the stove and she ticks it on, the flame blooming to life as she forces my arm above it. “Please, mom dont do this…” I weakly plead as the burning sensation starts to hit my skin, spreading across my whole arm. I cry out in pain and pleads for her to stop, quiet curses falling from my lips as she only glances at me sternly. Tears prick my eyes and burn down my cheeks, she continues to hold my arm over the flames and brings it closer.

My body starts squiring around, my pleads getting more and more desperate as more tears fall from my eyes. “Stop! Please, mom I’m begging you stop!” Shaky breaths fill the air and accompany the growing cries and pleads to my mother. “Stop moving around, you brat! Are you going to still be disobedient towards me now?” She asks mockingly as I think she’s going to burn my skin off, someone pushes her off me and I immediately fall to the ground in pure agony. The uncontrollable cries continuing to fall from my mouth, my eyes landing on the severe burn mark left behind on my arm, my eyes start to burn themselves from the amount of tears filling them at once

“What in the actual fuck is happening here?” I hear a familiar voice yell out as I don’t think about who it could be until they kneel down next to me and I realize it’s Chris, I forgot I invited him over today. I can’t believe he’s seeing me in this state right now, he glances at my arm and immediately grasps it gently into his hands. “Jesus Christ, we need to get you some serious help, cmon we gotta go to the hospital.” He calls out and helps me get up and stand on my feet, rushing me out of the house and looking around for something to quickly get me where I severely need to be right now. “You got a private driver here somewhere?” He questions and I nod negatively, there aren’t any available unless you ask for one beforehand.

‘Fuck, umm- okay then let’s just take.. your car!” He exclaims nervously, pointing towards one of the cars in the driveway. Quickly running over to it and rushing me inside of it, getting into the drivers seat and trying to start the car. When he finally gets a hang of the functioning of the car he quickly presses down on the gas and speeds out of the driveway and towards the hospital…

Guestlist!

| - @sturnioloblues - @sturnsxplr-25 - @strnzzvsp - @luvvs4chriss - @sturniolosweetheart33 - @pussypie456 - @choclatestarfishwithahat - @venusxsturnio - @bagsbyclair0 - @sturnstvs - @dykes4chris - @hoe4matt - @cayleeuhithinknot - @strnilolover - @marrykisskilled - |