#it looks more like he’s reaching out his paw from beneath a grave like a zombie

[bitfruity]

here have a real boop from my cat

[galacticgraffiti]

⋆☾⋆ Big Love Ahead ⋆☽⋆

!!! NSFW ⋆ 18+ ⋆ Minors DNI !!!

Summary: Halsin rescues you after you get hurt in a fight, and you get to spend some time with him during the spring and summer months as he nurses you back to health. And maybe, you start to wonder what it would be like if his hands touched you for different reasons than just to heal you…

Rating: Mature/Explicit (for horny nudity not smut) Wordcount: 4.5k Descriptors: The first two chapters are fairly genderneutral. Reader's physique is not really described aside from being quite a bit shorter and smaller than Halsin. CW: Fluff, softness, (physical) hurt/comfort, being nursed back to health by Halsin, pet names, this is achingly sweet, flirting, banter, oblivious pining, rated explicit for the eventual smut in chapters to come

✦⋆ Main Masterlist ⋆✦⋆ If you prefer AO3 ⋆✦

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Chapter 1: The Druid

He is the one who finds you.

Heavy footsteps make the earth vibrate beneath you, then soft fur presses against your bloodied cheek. You let it happen only because you can’t escape. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, if you are honest with yourself, and you are quite sure this is just a dream.

Surely, it must be a dream, right? To be lifted, not by paws but big, strong hands, to be carried out of that violent grove that nearly became your grave. To be placed upon the softest thing you have ever felt, and to see skin turn into fur once more as he lays beside you. Surely, a dream.

You close your eyes, and you drift off.

*****

When you wake up, you are disoriented beyond all hells, and alone.

Your entire body aches, but when you look down, you see that all your wounds have been mended and wrapped in neat bandages. Some of them smell of forest and herbs, others of things you have no words for describing.

Sitting up makes your head spin, so you decide to close your eyes again. Just… for a moment.

*****

It’s night when you wake up, though once you think about it, you are not sure how you know. Was it this dark the last time you woke up? You think there was some light - you saw the bandages, you could see the shape of your body beneath the sheets… But now, there is just darkness, so black it scares you, heavy like a blanket made from a thousand deaths.

Your heart starts to race, and you feel yourself breaking out in sweats as you think about your lost friends - all of them laying bloodied and broken on the battlefield like dolls, with slit throats and arrows in their hearts.

You groan in pain when you sit up, and the edges of your vision start to blur.

“Careful, now.”

The voice startles you. It comes from the opposite end of whatever room you are in, too far away for you to reach out and touch, and even with all your squinting, you can’t see anyone. Your fingers grip the sheets tightly.

“Who are you? Why did you bring me here?” Your voice is scratchy and raw, and your throat burns from the dryness. You cough, doubling over as you try to inhale some air to fill your desperate lungs.

“Shh, don’t die on me now, little flower.” 

The voice is much closer now, and out of habit, your hand slides down your thigh to where you usually keep your knife. It’s not there - of course it’s not, you are not wearing anything more than you’d need to guarantee the smallest amount of decency.

Panic rises in your chest, a sour taste coating your tongue.

“Who are you?” You repeat, out of breath from those few words.

“I saved you.” A flame is lit only a few feet away from you, and your eyes hurt from the sudden light. You squint, trying to get used to it. All you can see is the faint silhouette of a… man. A broad-backed man, taller than you have ever seen, with long hair and a gentle face. Pointed ears peek out from beneath soft curls, and you stare at him. 

An elf? With this… frame? Who the hells is this guy?

He looks at you calmly, patiently waiting for your reaction.

“Saved me?” The question makes you cough again. A hand appears in front of your face, offering you a waterskin. You accept it without much hesitation - what choice do you have? If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it by now.

The water hurts as much as it helps - cool and fresh as it runs down your dry throat. You take a few careful sips and damn near end up coughing your lungs out again. The hand takes the water away from you gently.

“That’s enough for now. Slow down, or you’ll make yourself sick.” His voice speaks more of concern than command. You let go, pressing back into your little corner.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you say finally. “Who are you?”

The man steps back into the shadows, his back turned to you. He is scarred and marked in ways only people from the wilds ever are, and that calms you a little. He is not a soldier.

“Rest for now,” he says. “We will talk when you wake again.”

You want to object, but large, warm hands press you down into your soft bedding again and pull the blanket up over your shoulders. Your eyes flutter closed - you are tired, so tired still. Distantly, you wonder how much time has passed since the grove.

“Wait,” you whisper, your hand finding his larger one in the dark. Your fingers curl weakly.

“What is it? Something you need?” Once again, his only feeling seems to be concern.

You slowly shake your head and regret the motion immediately when you taste blood on your tongue.

“No, I don’t- just… thank you.”

He stills in your weak grasp. Moments pass, then finally, his voice comes again, sounding oddly sad.

“You are welcome, little one.”

*****

You find a rhythm after that, sleeping and waking. Sometimes he’s around, sometimes he is not. You realise that the supposed room you are in is little more than a cave decked out in some essentials.

After a few days, you finally learn his name: Halsin.

Halsin looks after you, and you don’t question why. He does not talk much, but the look on his face never makes you doubt that the only thing he wants is for you to get better.

You drink more water, and after a few days, Halsin finally allows you to eat: Stew, not much, fed to you by his large hand holding a spoon that seems much too small for him.

When the food stays down, Halsin allows you to eat more and more, and you get some of your strength back. Your body still hurts, but all your bones seem to be in the right place - though some are definitely still broken, as you discover when you try to lay on your side.

Some days after you first remember waking up, you manage to sit up all by yourself and your fingers can hold the spoon for the first time. Halsin watches you carefully, whittling away as you eat a bowl of stew. And another. And another.

“Someone was hungry,” he smiles.

“Hungry as a bear,” you grin. He furrows his brow. You swear his eyes seem golden, but it’s probably just the light of the fire. He stares into the darkness for a moment, then puts his knife to the side. Before you can ask him what is wrong, he is gone.

****

Halsin returns the next day, back to his usual self. You wouldn’t quite call it ‘chipper’, but none of the worry that graced his features yesterday seems to remain. You decide it is wisest not to ask about it. If there is something you need to talk about, he will tell you in time.

When Halsin tucks you into bed that night as has become his habit, you notice - not for the first time - how good he smells: Of fresh grass and summer rain, of wood and smoked leather. You become acutely aware that you yourself have not had a bath in quite some time.

“Halsin?” You bite your tongue, feeling awkward about asking.

“What is it?”

“Do you… well. I think I should take a bath.”

Halsin cocks his head. You can see the cogs in his head turning, behind his soft, round features. He crosses his arms, and your heart flutters at the sheer swell of his biceps. You shake your head to shoo the unwelcome thought away.

“Well. there is a stream close to the cave…” he says slowly.

You nod excitedly.

“Perfect! I can-”

“You are still very injured, little flower,” he interrupts you - not rudely, but firmly. “You can barely stand up, let alone walk all the way there. The stream is dangerous, and I do not want you injuring yourself-”

“Carry me, then,” you propose hastily, more in jest than anything else. A small smile tugs on the corners of Halsin’s eyes.

“You can’t stand on your own either, and only one of your arms has healed enough for you to wash yourself.” He quirks a brow. “Have you got a solution for that too, little one?”

“You can wash me,” you suggest, this time fully certain he will recognise the joke.

Halsin chuckles to himself and shakes his head.

“All that effort- for what? Your wounds are clean, and you are getting better every day. Have I not taken care of you? Is there something I missed? If you tell me-”

“You smell good,” you say before you can think about your words. Halsin’s eyes widen by the smallest fraction, but he stays quiet, so you drone on. “You smell like forest and fresh pine, and meanwhile, I have been wasting away in this cave for weeks now. I want to… I don’t know. I want to feel like less of a burden, I suppose. I want to feel like myself again.”

“Oh.” Halsin takes your hand, very gently, like a doctor calming his patient. It still makes your heart race. “You are not a burden. Taking care of you has been my privilege.”

“You’re sweet,” you whisper. Halsin lets go of you.

“Do you… do you think a bath would help you feel better?” he asks, his voice serious. “I know I don’t provide much entertainment-”

“I like it when you are around,” you admit quietly. “I like watching you whittle. Your presence calms me.”

At that, Halsin lets out a roaring laugh that takes you totally by surprise - so much so that you simply fall into laughing with him. You cannot grasp what he could be laughing about, but seeing him so happy - knowing you are the one who made him laugh - it makes your heart stumble.

“Fine,” Halsin says when he can breathe again. “Alright, little one, if a bath is what you want, a bath is what you shall get.”

*****

When he returns the next day, for the first time, you notice that you have no idea where he sleeps. He laughs the questions off as he looks over your various wounds and ailments.

These inspections have become a ritual that both excites and frightens you: It excites you because it means Halsin’s big hands on your body, stroking, nearly caressing, touching (almost) every inch of you. It frightens you because you are scared he will notice how much you like it. And it scares you to think that one day, there might not be anything for him to look at - and when your wounds are healed, where will you go?

 You scoot to the front of your makeshift bed when Halsin asks you to, dangling your feet over the edge. When he kneels between your thighs to examine a particularly deep cut in your upper thigh, it takes all your strength not to cup his jaw and ask him to kiss you.

You daydream yourself away - dream of the way his hands look on you, of the way the light bounces off his irises and makes it seem like they are glowing. You dream of his lips and how soft they might be against yours, and you try to remember that feeling when he first found you - the softness of fur - might it have been his hair?

“Alright,” Halsin declares, interrupting your yearning thoughts. 

“Alright?” you ask, looking down at him. He stands, suddenly towering over you. You swallow thickly.

“I think… it’s time for my little patient to have a bath.” He smiles and offers you his hand. You feel like you have been punched in the stomach when he calls you his patient. Is that all you are to him? Just some… girl he needs to heal? Someone he found and took responsibility for? Still, you take his hand and slide off the bed.

Your legs give in nearly the second they touch the ground, but Halsin’s strong arms are there to catch you. He lifts you like you weigh no more than a feather. His arms feel familiar, and comfortable, and like you could fall asleep in them forever and ever. You sigh happily and snuggle against his broad chest.

When you realise what you are doing, your eyes snap open, terrified of your own actions.

“Sorry,” you mumble, your cheeks aflame with embarrassment. Halsin’s chest shakes against you.

“No need to apologise. I am happy you feel comfortable in my presence.”

“Mhhm.” You try to hide your face as best you can, lest he recognise the emotions that must be showing.

Halsin carries you carefully, stopping as you get closer to the light near the entrance of the cave.

“Close your eyes, little one. You haven’t been outside in quite a while, and the sun is bright today.”

You follow his instructions, pressing your eyes shut. The air smells fresh and sweet when he steps out of the cave, and the rays of sun that dance on your face warm you from the inside out. You blink carefully, lids still half closed as you take in your surroundings: The formation of rocks that makes up your cave, the meadow below you, the quiet gurgle of a stream behind a grove of trees.

“Oh.” The noise is barely more than a breath that escapes you, but when you look up at Halsin, a bright smile illuminates his features.

“Beautiful, is it not?”

“Yes!” you nod your head enthusiastically, too distracted by the beauty around you to notice the way Halsin’s eyes linger on your face.

“I am glad you think so.” His arms tighten around you for a moment as he adjusts his stance. “Are you feeling alright? The place I had in mind is not far.”

“I am wonderful,” you assure him, closing your eyes as you bask in the sun. You never noticed how much you missed all of this until now. Halsin’s company is the best you could imagine, but the cave gets lonely from time to time. You like being outside, hearing the birds sing again, watching the clouds that sail through the sky above.

“Right then,” Halsin nods. “Onwards we go.”

It really is not a long walk - it barely takes a minute. The quiet corner of the river is tucked between two bends, next to a big weeping willow. It’s warm outside, much warmer than you expected, and you dare to hope the water might not be ice cold.

Halsin stops right next to a small pool of water, set apart from the rest of the river by a few stones, carefully placed - much too neat to be a natural occurrence.

“I made a bath for you,” he says, sounding quite pleased with himself. “I knew you could never withstand the current, not in the shape you are in, and…”

You look up at him, awed by his care and affection.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Halsin smiles quietly.

“Whatever I can do to help, it’s my pleasure.” He points at the pool with his chin. “Do you think this will suffice?”

“Oh, it will more than suffice,” you nod, practically vibrating with excitement. Finally, after all this time, a bath. Feeling clean again. 

Halsin seems to consider something, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I did not think about… where to put you down.”

You look at him in confusion and he shrugs, your weight not even slowing his shoulders in the movement. Your heart leaps.

“I mean,” Halsin explains, averting his eyes from yours tactfully, “that you will have to undress before you get in. Now, as you may have noticed, I enjoy nature in all of her forms, but I know not everyone is so… inclined.”

You swear you see a blush creep into his cheeks. His eyes flashing golden in the sunlight. Your heart flutters when you finally understand what he is trying to tell you.

“Oh!” you exclaim then, wiggling in his arms. This could not go better if you had planned it. You didn’t even think of this when you asked for a bath, but oh dear, did fate give you a good hand today. “I don’t mind if you stay, Halsin.”

“I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” He sounds almost like he is trying to convince himself. “I made that pool of water quite deep so you could sit in it, though it is shallow enough the sun should have warmed it up a bit…”

“I would jump into the ice seas if only it meant a chance for a bath,” you chuckle. You tug at Halsin’s arm. “Put me down, please.”

He sets you down on the ground so gently as if you could break. You find your footing after a moment, holding on to his big arm until your head stops spinning, waving him off when he bends down to look at you with concerned eyes.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise.”

Halsin stares at you, but he doesn’t drag you back to the cave, so you take that as a sign of faith. You take a deep breath and start peeling out of the few layers of fabric you have on you. Reaching for your bandages, you hesitate.

“Should I leave those on?” you ask. Halsin’s eyes snap up to yours, and you nearly giggle at the look on his face. He has the expression of a bear caught with his paw in the honeypot.

“Oh… no,” he answers finally. “You can take those off, I’ll put fresh ones on after your bath.”

“Mhhm. You take such good care of me.”

You start peeling the bandages from your maltreated body, dedicating all your energy to staying upright. Halsin’s eyes never leave you, roaming up and down your naked body, but you are far too focused on the task at hand to notice.

This is the longest you have been on your legs in weeks, and your thighs are already starting to burn. Quickly, you finish unwrapping yourself. Before you can figure out a plan of how to best get into the water, strong hands slip beneath your arms and lift you up.

You squeal with joy as Halsin slowly lowers you down into the water.

It’s warmer than you expect, yet still cold as all hells. Goosebumps rise on your body and you shiver. Halsin stops moving, you, halfway submerged, hanging limp in his arms.

“Are you alright?”

Your teeth are not exactly chattering, but it takes some effort to keep it that way.

“‘M fine,” you say. “It’s just… a b-bit cold. But I’m okay. You know, I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d take the ice seas earlier.”

Laughter rumbles from Halsin’s chest like thunder. It makes you smile. He laughs so much more now than he used to.

“Fine. I’ll- just give me a moment.”

You are gently placed down in the pool, cold water up to your neck. Halsin makes a dissatisfied sound.

“Seems I overestimated your size, little flower.”

“Not hard to do when you’re this big,” you mumble, turning around to look up at him, gesturing at his silhouette that stands out against the sun- and stop. 

Your jaw nearly hangs open when you are faced with a nearly naked Halsin. You blink and shake your head, ready to believe that the cold may be causing hallucinations. Maybe you never woke up from your sickbed - maybe this is a dream. Maybe you died on the battlefield and this is Celestia.

Halsin sheds the last layers of clothing covering himself, and it’s all you can do not to say fuck me quite loudly. You bite your lip, but before you can even process the situation, Halsin has slipped into the self-made pool with you.

The water seems to heat up the second he is in there with you, his body so close to yours you could barely fit a leaf between the two of you. His eyes are bright gold in the sunshine, and he takes a deep breath, his chest expanding.

You stare and stare and hope you are not being all too obvious about it. Carefully, you take a step back only to slip on the muddy ground.

Halsin catches you easily, your body pressed against his, and you think that the water might start to boil any second now.

“Thanks,” you murmur, straightening up. His hand lets go of you as he takes a step back himself - the furthest he can go, even though there is stll barely space between you.

“Are you warm enough now?” he rumbles, sounding amused. There is a note of something else in his voice - a strain; not impatience, but something close to it. You press your hands to your sides awkwardly.

“Yeah… yeah, this is better. Thank-”

“No need to thank me.” Halsin interrupts you, abruptly turning around, away from you. The water that is up to your neck barely reaches halfway up his back. “I shall stay here so you don’t get sick on top of all your other injuries. Take all the time you need.”

You wish the water wasn’t so clear that you can see every detail of his backside. You wish his hair was not so soft, shining in the sun. You wish you could not see the muscles of his back ripple when he shifts, and that his shoulders would not look so perfectly round and juicy it makes your mouth water. You wish it was not so hard to avert your eyes.

A golden glitter in the water catches your eye. It travels up Halsin’s calf, his thigh. He shakes his head like he is swatting away flies, and the spark in the water fades.

What the hells was that?

You frown; but the water is winning you over. Your legs already hurt from standing, though the water makes the weight more bearable, and as much as you wish to stay here forever, tucked closely into your little corner of the world, feeling Halsin’s body next to yours, you have to admit you are feeling a little tired.

So, you get to work, scrubbing yourself down, dunking your head into the water and trying to extrapolate the filth from your hair. You are fairly certain Halsin must have at least wiped you down with a washcloth after rescuing you, since your body is not still covered entirely in guts and blood and dirt, but you have not had a proper bath in so long.

You sigh quietly as you wash your hair, your shoulders, your thighs, scrubbing and scrubbing until you feel raw in the best way. One of your arms hangs uselessly by your side, the bone on the mend but not healed, and soon, your other arm burns with exhaustion.

Halsin has not turned around to face you, though from his relaxed stance you are guessing he is probably basking in the sun with his eyes closed. You try and push through the pain and exhaustion, but eventually, you have to admit defeat.

“Halsin?” You tap his shoulder blade. A flash of light appears in the water, gone as soon as it came. His neck turns slightly.

“Yes?”

“Can you… help me?” you ask shyly. Finally, he turns around, his expression soft and controlled.

“What do you need help with, my angel?”

You shiver at the gravel in his voice, at the way he looks at you - with eyes burning, though you don’t dare to hope it may be desire. Maybe he is just getting impatient.

“I can’t reach,” you explain and point to your back. “Not with this arm, and-”

Large hands roam across your body, careful to avoid all the sore spots and healing wounds.

“Of course,” he grumbles. “Turn around.”

You blink up at him, then carefully spin around - you have learned your lesson from last time - holding onto the edge of the pool.

Halsin’s fingers are rough, but not in an uncomfortable way. His palms are soft when he slowly rubs small circles into your back, washing away dirt and grime, showering you in his attention and his care. You catch the golden sparkle in the water again, but when you twist to see, it is already gone again. It must be the sun.

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into the feeling of Halsin so close to you.

Something tightens in your belly at the way he touches you - the gentleness his large hands are capable of more than you can handle. The way his hands could so easily wrap around your waist makes your heart stumble.

Halsin’s hands glide up your back easily, up to your hairline, roaming across your shoulder blades, and back down, stopping just shy of the small of your back. A quiet moan escapes from your throat at the touch, and you stiffen. Halsin carries on as if nothing has happened.

Fine. If he can ignore it, then so can you.

You are fairly certain that you are clean at this point, but Halsin is not stopping on his own, and who would you be to tell him to stop? You close your eyes and relax into his touch, into the soft pads of his fingers that dig into your shoulders in just the right way, the warmth of his body that you can feel even through the water.

“Good,” he mumbles eventually, his hands vanishing from your back.. “I know you must be tired. Are you satisfied?”

With you? Never, you want to say. What comes out instead is a vague,

“Mmhhm.”

Halsin chuckles quietly.

“Oh, you are exhausted, my love. Come on, I will take you to bed.”

Your eyes are falling shut when he heaves himself out of the water, and you can’t even open your mouth to make a silly joke about being taken to bed by him. You could slap yourself for not being able to keep your eyes open - oh, to see him one more time, to take him in in all his glory in the fading light of the day. 

Halsin lifts you out of the water easily. A shiver runs through him that makes you crack your eyes open. His irises glow golden in the sinking sun, and you smile at the sight. He smiles back at you, wrapping you in cloth, and carries you back to your cave, and back to your bed.

You are half-asleep when your head hits the pillow, so you can’t even blame yourself when your voice asks sleepily:

“Will you stay here with me tonight?”

Halsin gently pulls his hand from your grasp.

“Not tonight, my angel,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek so softly you wonder if you imagined it. “But I’ll be right outside should you need me.”

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Hello my darlings! I have been consumed whole by BG3 and the big bear man, so I hope you enjoy! (Lmk if you want to not be tagged in this little series, I'm just going to tag my usuals)

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[neonpaperlanterns]

Hi! I hope you're having a good time of day!

I was curious if you would be open for a more angsty story with the bestest boy DogDay? Like, they have an encounter with CatNap where Angel gets an open wound that they need to stitch up later. And DogDay can't do anything about it with his hands being too big, so all he can do is comfort his Angel and encourage them? Just him being as supportive as he can be and amazed with his Angel's determination?

It's okay if you dont want to write something like this though! Thank you for your time! Your stories are really good with their captivating nature!

[A/n: So I hope you like this anon. I think I went deeply into the angst.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If only

It all happened so fast. One moment you were next to DogDay and the next you were gone. Flung across the rubble as if you were an unloved toy.

And standing in your place was Catnap with his mouth hung open and red smoke spilling everywhere. After years of exposure DogDay had grown unaffected by the worming hallucinations. He knew what was real and at first he assumed what he was seeing wasn’t. 

It couldn't be. 

No matter what you always got back up. You were their shining light, their hope, their Angel. You always got back up. So the fact that you weren’t moving just had to be fake. The slowly pooling puddle of red he was seeing? Trick of the smoke. It had to be. You were fine. He was sure of it. 

His Angel always got back up. 

Always.

But then why did it feel so real? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. It was the smoke playing tricks on him. Peeling back the layers of his frazzled mind to poke and prod at something new he could be taunted with.

A wheezing laugh made his head snap up. The cat was looking at him. That horrible smile he saw in his nightmares and every fractured mirror was turned towards him. Malice and a sick sense of satisfaction dripped from that grinning face. 

“Is something wrong?” DogDay felt something hot and acidic pool in the back of his throat. 

“Is it them?” His hands are trembling as Catnap moves his gaze over to you. He can’t move his arms as the former Smiling Critter sways towards you. His gait slow and with purpose as those eyes that only held deranged devotion glanced back at him.

“Oh, must not be.” It was said with a gravely snicker a single dirty purple paw rose into the air. It was done so slowly, as if Catnap wanted him to see every minute movement. Even through the dim light and thick smoke he can see the twitching claws that hover over you. 

And you still haven’t moved. Still lying limp as that monster loomed over you. He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest at this clear taunt. 

“Are- AAAHHHHHHHH!” A horrendous screech filled the air. Blips of orange were beacons in the crimson fog. DogDay felt himself lurch forward, arms still shaking, as he watched Catnap rear back. A bright flare sizzled in his throat as he stumbled away. 

“Let's go.” Your body slams into his as you shuffle him along. Your grip on him is tight as you take the majority of his weight. He’s reeling as joy sears through him. It was a trick. You hadn’t actually been crumbled beneath that cat. You were fine. He had just been seeing things. Tears pricked along his eyes. He was just so happy. His Angel was okay and had been the entire time. 

And he didn’t want to let go when you stumbled into a supply closet. He wanted to stay in your arms but as you sagged to the floor he noticed something. Pulling away he thought he was still under the effects of the red smoke. 

He had to be. 

Under the flickering lights he saw how your side was soaked with blood. Gnarled slashes marred your skin. 

“What…” Shakily he reached out. He was so sure you had been alright. So sure that it had all been a hallucination. That it had just been Catnap messing with him because he found a new weakness to exploit. But it hadn’t been. 

DogDay doesn’t know what to do. He is just as useless right now as he was when you had been lying there. 

“We shouldn’t stay here too long. I’m sure Catnap is going to be very upset when he recovers.” You're fumbling around the closet, pushing and moving things around. He wants to help you but he can’t. 

“Hey, are you still with me?” A hand is placed on his shoulder. It startles him and he lists backwards. But you don’t let him fall. Your arms wrap around him, steadying him.

“DogDay are you okay?” You sound so concerned but you shouldn’t. He’s fine, you’re the one that got hurt! He should be asking you these questions. He should be helping you!

“Angel I..” His voice came out hoarse and warbled. He can’t even speak properly! What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he help you? Why couldn’t he be there for you? You asked for nothing and he couldn’t even do that! You did everything, all the time. It was always you and he loved you for that. But God he just wanted to do something for you. If only he was a bit more like you. 

Why couldn’t he be more like you? 

Why did he have to be him?

[pixies-and-poets]

SO!!!! Recently @bowletta sent me an ask about vamp!Phantom taking care of Woodrow while he was sick, and my brain went "yeah but what if Phantom was sick instead, WHAT ABOUT THAT HUH??? How do vampires even get sick?"

And then... this entire story exploded into my head almost instantly. Apparently that ask was just two days ago but it feels like longer because this fic has been clawing at my brain incessantly the whole time. It is BY FAR the longest Phanpire thing I have written and makes me all squishy inside!! These bunnies SO are not done with me yet! I hope you enjoy my Phandrow vampire AU hurt/comfort fic ty ty

One Paw in the Grave

It was the middle of the night, and the poet found himself wandering the castle.

By any measure, its rooms and hallways were oppressive. Dimly lit by torches, if they were lit at all; windows closed by default so that no one would forget to close them and let any sunlight in during the day; barely-visible portraits and suits of armor and tapestries haunting the imagination at the corners of one's eyes. It led to a feeling of claustrophobia- and yet, this was his home now, and there was comfort and familiarity in it.

The poet felt the alternating textures of cold stone and ancient carpet beneath his footpads as he went onwards, with no particular destination in mind. He had written well in the past few hours, and thought he deserved a break. It was still a long time before the dawn, before his Lord would return. Perhaps he would visit the castle's plentiful library, and find a new book for inspiration-

And then a noise peirced him to his core. It was a plaintive howl, from far up above, echoing as if it came from within the castle itself. Even worse: the howl terminated suddenly into a series of sharp yips. Then the howling started again for a few seconds, and then more barking- the distressing cycle began to repeat. Like an alarm.

Just as the writer was recovering from his shock and beginning to move again, a blur passed him. It was one of the castle's servants, a Depleter, traveling somewhere in a hurry. He turned and blinked after the newcomer, only to hear a scrabbling- a Lone Wolf skittered and scrambled past him, going the same direction, down the hallway and dashing up a set of stairs. The howling had not stopped. In terror, but at least able to move, Woodrow pulled his coat close around himself and dashed after them.

"Excuse me," he said with trembling voice as another wolf came up beside him, "what's going-" ...but the canine rabbid had overtaken him and disappeared to join the others without saying a word in response.

Woodrow followed the noise of the howl, and the flow of what seemed like every servant in the castle, up and up, along further hallways and stairwells, until he arrived at what he knew to be the castle's tallest tower. He climbed up the stairs, panting and out of breath - he was never a very energetic creature at the best of times, and especially not lately. Indeed, he seemed to be the last person to arrive on the scene. So frightened was he, that he just now registered that the howling siren had stopped at some point.

As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he saw the wooden door that led to the small garret observatory was ajar. A multitude of the castle's residents were inside, crowded around something, whereas even more were on the landing as they could not fit inside. In front of the door, looking angry and out-of-sorts, was a Spooky Buckler whom Woodrow recognized as the captain of Lord Phan's guard.

"What's- going on?" the poet asked again, this time his ragged breath choking out the words. "Has something- happened?"

The Buckler looked at him furiously, the pinpricks of light in his black eyes glowing extra-bright. "Of COURSE something's happened, idiot mortal. Get out of here. You should not be here."

Woodrow's heart leapt into his throat. "W-why?!" he stammered. "What's wrong? Is- where's Tom-"

"Get OUT of here, little prey," snarled the Buckler ferociously. "You will only trouble us."

"No! I want to see him-"

"You shall not," said the guardsman, now closing the door behind him. "It will break you." He slammed the bottom of his shield onto the ground in front of the poet. "Now GO. To your chambers."

----

Woodrow stared down at his paws in the candlelight. He was too riddled with anxiety and terror to care that he had sprinted through the castle and exhausted himself for nothing. He sat now in his room, as he had been ordered.

But for how long had he been here? Twenty minutes, an hour? It was impossible to say. Of course he could not read, or write, or do anything- he had only stared at his paws, or lain in bed and stared at the top of the canopy. He tried to fall asleep, but of course he could not do that either. He had found himself staring at the bloodstains on blankets and pillows, stains that it was as pointless as it was futile to try and remove. Stains of his own blood, to which more were added every single day, at the border between darkness and sun.

Every second seemed eternal. What was going on? What was the emergency? Surely Tom could not be in trouble... that was impossible. He was, after all, himself- the great beast of the night, unchanging and ever wonderful. And yet- vampires WERE vulnerable. Mortals had figured out so many ways to kill them, had pinpointed their weaknesses. What could have happened-

The poet jolted as if electrified, and nearly screamed as the heard the door to his room slam open. Then, when he looked up- he DID scream, and jumped out of his chair.

In the doorway, several Depleters and Ghostly Walkers were supporting a large, ghostly body that was unrecognizably Tom. Only- he was naked, and he was not well. Splotches and speckles of livid red covered his chest, his neck, his arms, and even parts of his face - in some places smooth, others swollen into a welt or rash - they were burns. Half of his fur had been burned away. No blood swirled in his belly, only a gramophone that itself now looked old and tarnished. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and with the other, he looked up weakly. "Tristan..."

The poet dashed over, reaching out a hand to gingerly touch the side of the vampire's face where there appeared to be no injuries. "Oh, Tom!" he cried in anguish. "What- what happened-"

"Get him into the bed," came a gruff voice, and Woodrow saw the captain of the guard again, in the hallway. The ghosts supporting Phantom did so, laying him down in the bed that he and his beloved prey so often shared. They lifted the blankets and covered up his lower half.

"Begone now," said the vampire, weakly but firmly, looking out at his servants. "Prepare the ritual for the next sunset. I shall summon you if I need more attention."

"But my Lord-" the Captain began.

"I shall be FINE," said Tom Phan, and the others all bowed and left, closing the door. No one remained in the room but the vampire and his beloved.

Woodrow had been standing at the bedside in shock, and now clambered onto the bed, sitting up next to the vampire. Tom's eyes were closed, and he was propped up on some pillows. Once his servants were all gone, he let out a tremendous cough, a bit of darkened old blood dribbling from his mouth.

"Oh, Tom," the poet said again, his voice shaken with grief, taking up one of the vampire's large paws in both of his own. "Who did such a thing to you? How could this happen??"

Phantom opened the less-injured eye, and smiled weakly at the poet. "My darling," he said with a quiet laugh. "Surely you must have realized that I have enemies?"

"Well..." said the poet, stroking the velvet softness of the vampire's paw-pad and looking down at the claws that extended above them. "I suppose so, yes. Creatures of darkness usually do. I know you have rivals. I just, I never thought-"

"You never thought anyone could best me, eh?" The vampire smiled wider. "You are as sweet as your blood, mon cœur. If charmingly naive."

"Before you tell me what happened, tell me- will you be alright?"

Tom nodded. "Yes. I am stable for now, and I will recover. But I will not do it on my own. I am not mortal, and I will not heal naturally. There must to be rituals, although it is too late to perform them tonight. Until then, I desired to rest here throughout the day. I am stable for now."

"Rituals?" asked the poet.

"Yes," said the vampire. "And I will need plenty of fresh blood, too- Ah! Stop it!" Woodrow's hand had gone immediately to his own collar, ready to unbutton his coat. "Do not be silly. I need far, far more than you could give. Even at your fullest."

"Still- can I at least help? Please, Tom, let me."

"Mmm..." murmured the vampire. "I do not think it will be nearly enough to matter. Still, I suppose it couldn't hurt, either."

And before the ghost could say more, Woodrow had taken off his coat and thrown it aside, as quick as he had ever done anything in his life, nestling down under the blankets next to his Lord. Slowly, weakly, but eagerly and deliberately, Phantom slid his arm underneath his beloved's neck and lifted him, pulling him close to his side. He closed his eyes and bit into the usual spot, but without the usual panache or passion, and drank and swallowed at a steady pace. Woodrow felt no pain; not today. Only that familiar, curious sensation: as if every vein and artery and cell in his body was being pulled towards the wound as his blood was taken from him. He released a heavy sigh laden with worry and agony and love, and ran his hand through his darling's hair as he tenderly fed.

It was not long this time before Phantom left off, letting go, licking his lips and his fangs. Woodrow got up silently to clean and treat his wound- it was something Tom usually did for him, but he could manage it for himself today. As quick as he could, he returned to sit on the bedside.

"Do tell me you feel at least a little better now," he said, putting his glasses back on, and Phantom nodded, seeming contented indeed.

"Now..." the poet continued. "Will you tell me what happened?"

Lord Phan sighed. His swelling had gone down somewhat, and he looked at his beloved with both of his eyes. "Tristan," he said, "there are worse things out there than other creatures of the night. I have enemies. Mortal enemies who wish me great harm. And the worst of them all are the Brothers."

"The Brothers?" said the writer curiously. "Go on."

"Yes. There are two of them, twins, although everyone thinks of them in terms of the firstborn and the young one. The firstborn, the Red Warrior- he is a vampire hunter. Well, a hunter of vampires and werewolves and all manner of physical beasts. And the secondborn, the Green Mage, is a ghost hunter. Now, do you see? I am their perfect target- a vampire, but also a spirit. With me they can collaborate. I coalesce into being their perfect rival- and oh, how I hate them both."

"Are they Rabbids like us?"

"No. They are humans."

"Humans!" cried Woodrow.

Phantom laughed wryly. "Indeed, I do not blame you for being surprised. They are hardly intimidating creatures, normally. And yet- when they are powerful, they are astonishingly so. Take the Princess of this very kingdom, for example. She wields power that keeps us creatures of the night isolated here on the outskirts - places like Spooky Trails, the Darklands, Forever Forest. But she is busy, and more of a protector than a fighter- and so she sends the despicable Brothers into the places her magic does not touch, to do her dirty work. Still, I am smarter than them- usually."

"I see," said Woodrow quietly. "So you encountered the Brothers tonight?"

"Indeed," Phantom continued. "It was... I was a fool. I thought them above using such dirty tricks. But they lured me into a trap, like a feral and careless animal. I was ambushed." He shook his head, his face contorted with disappointment at himself. "An injured Toad, in a clearing- I could not resist, you know. Pathetic creatures, but their blood tastes like mushrooms- one of the few times I can get a taste of old food, that I remember from centuries past. Mushroom soup! Ha-" another violent cough- "Ah- but 'twas not an injured Toad at all. Merely one in cahoots with the vile Hunters, playing along. As I got ready to attack, he sprang up, gave the call, and out jumped Red and Green, and-" he closed his eyes again for a moment, then opened them, and lifted his arms to stare at the burns and patches of missing fur.

Woodrow did not speak, only stroked a non-injured patch of his shoulder, methodically, repeatedly, lovingly.

"And, well, they attacked me," said the vampire finally. "They had brought everything in their arsenal. Holy water from the springs of Star Road. And they had Power Stars- vile, holy things, each one of them a miniature sun. They used them on themselves, all glowing like the agonizing sunlight, and being in their mere presence was enough to injure me. They hardly needed to lay hands on me at all. I struggled, but they got the best of me, I-"

"Tom," whimpered the poet, tears dripping down from behind his glasses, as he held the vampire's paw to his cheek.

"I shall spare you the gory detail. Just now that- I actually looked far worse than you see me now. I really believe they meant to kill me, tonight. It was all I could do to retreat in the end. I turned into a bat, and with all of my strength flew home, to my tallest tower. The powers of my servants and of the castle itself stabilized me, and restored me somewhat. But I will need further rituals to heal."

"And you will heal?" the poet asked softly.

"Yes. I will be my old self again, in time. Although how much time, I cannot say."

They were quiet for a long time. Woodrow let Tom rest from his long speech, and from reliving those memories. As the vampire closed his eyes, his prey gently stroked his hair, his cheeks, anywhere he could find a spot with no burns.

Then the writer suddenly spoke, after some time. "My Lord," he said, softly but with determination. "These brothers... where can I find them?"

The Phantom opened his eyes, meeting those of his partner, and let out a laugh. "Oh! What shall you do, my lamb, my dove? Do you wish to avenge me? You, gentle artist?"

"I.... I must do something. Perhaps I can spy on them, and make sure they do not repeat such a plan as tonight."

The vampire's smile became tender, and he reached up to touch the other's face. "Very well," he said. "c'est une bonne idée, mon amour. We can speak of such things later, perhaps. They do not know you, and they do not know your relation to me. But for now- you must keep yourself safe and whole. That is the best you can do for me."

"But how can I help you? How can I help you right now, besides giving of my blood?" He swallowed, trying to fight the lump in his throat. "I... I am frightened, Tom. I- I did not know you had such enemies."

The vampire was quiet for a moment. He took his companion's small, delicate paw into his own, and stared at the flickering candle on the bedside table.

"Mon poète," he said. "Have you never considered the power you have? You know a mortal can kill a vampire. It is not even difficult. The hardest part is access."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm taking about you, chéri. You could so easily snap your umbrella in half, and with its broken shaft, pierce my heart. You could go out and procure a bulb of garlic and slip the whole thing into my mouth when I am in my death-rest. There are so many, many ways you could harm me."

"Tom-" Woodrow said, his voice trembling. "I... suppose you are correct, but it has honestly never occurred to me. Why would I ever do such things? Such horrible things? Not even when I first came here did I consider it, and now... to drive a stake through your heart would be to drive a stake through mine own. As you live or perish, so goes my soul. Oh, surely you understand that I love you with every drop of blood in my body, all of which I would gladly give, if it were the only way to save you-"

"Shhh! Calm down, mon cœur!" The vampire squeezed his companion's hand; the poet had grown extremely passionate indeed. "You do not need to explain. I know you would never do such things. And therein lies the beauty. You are not my thrall; your loyalty to me is of your own will. And yet... I trust you, as I have never trusted a mortal creature of the daylight, in all my years of undeath. At first when I brought you here, I had fearful day-dreams of your betrayal... but I soon saw that I could share your bed, that I could pass into torpor by your side, and that you would not harm me. My sweet dove of the dawn... I can assure you that I love you, as you love me."

Woodrow felt himself melt; in an almost involuntary movement, he was under the blankets again, nestling into his beloved's body, ever so tenderly, careful of the welts and rashes, his eyes closed, his glasses off, his face buried in the crook of his neck.

...It took him a moment to realize.

"But Tom," he said softly. "You never answered my question. How can I help you now?"

"By being with me," was the answer. "Because, when you have existed for as long as I... in darkness and cold and an endless cycle of hunger... well, sometimes when faced with the prospect of your own annihilation, you want to take it. Well, what would be so bad about letting their holy light burn me away to nothing? Finally, rest..."

Tom felt the warmth of tears on his neck as Woodrow reacted to the thought. But he continued: "And yet, I refused to take that rest. Because I wanted to get home. I needed to make it home. I have a reason to exist. To get home and hear the poems you wrote tonight. To get home and see your face."

"Oh, my Lord-"

"Shh. None of this My Lord, anymore." The vampire nuzzled into his beloved's head, his chin on his wispy hair, and spoke softly into his ear. "You are my partner, the sustainer of both my body and soul. You may not be vampire, but you shall be Lord in this castle just as much as myself. I declare it. I heard my Captain refusing to let you see me, although I was too weak to argue at the time. But I wanted nothing more than to see you, to touch your face, for I thought I might still perish in that moment. From now on, none in this place shall refuse your desires. I am yours, and you are mine, and we are Lord Tom Phan and Lord Tristan Woodrow. ...Now, doesn't that sound nice?"

"Dearest Tom! Why, it's almost like a fairy tale... the strangest and most macabre one to still have a happy ending." He pulled away and looked the other in the eyes. "...Is this a proposal? Are we getting married?"

Tom laughed again, weak but jolly, his large body shaking under the blankets. "I do not think there is such need for the rituals of the living," he said. "I have enough rituals to worry about at the moment. ...But when I am recovered, we can discuss it." He smiled. "Now... I do believe the sun must be coming up, for I feel myself sink ever more into exhaustion. Will you read me your new poems, while I fall into my rest?"

"Of course, my dear," said the writer. "I do not need to retrieve my notes, for they are still fresh in my head."

And so while the injured vampire closed his eyes, his fellow-Lord purred verses into his ears, words that only the two of them would ever know. The vampire's powers kept the poet safe from his own misfortune - and though he be but mortal, and weak, he would do anything to protect his darling in turn.

[aquietwritingcorner]

Suffering In Silence

Title: Suffering in Silence Day: Febuwhump 2024, Day 7 Prompt: Suffering in Silence  Fandom:  TMNT 2003 Word Count: 1051  Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating:  T Characters: Donatello Warning: Summary: The Ninja Tribunal’s vision was shocking to everyone—but perhaps more so to one turtle than the others. After all, for someone who has seen the death of his family once, seeing it again is more than a little traumatizing.    Notes:     ff.net || AO3

________________________________

Suffering in Silence

Don followed his brothers and father back to the quarters that the Ninja Tribunal had prepared for them in a daze. They were all uneasy and quiet after the vision that the Ninja Tribunal had put in their heads. A vision of death and destruction that they could do nothing about, no matter how hard they fought within it.

Don shivered, but he barely paid it any mind. He hadn’t paid attention to a lot as they walked back, most of it slipping right past him. He hadn’t noticed when the other acolytes broke off to go to their quarters. He hadn’t noticed when the Ancient One decided to come along with them. He hadn’t noticed when the decision had been made to return to their room. He hadn’t even noticed the conversation that happened after the vision had ended. He’d barely paid attention to anything. Even now, as they entered their room and settled down on their pallets, Don barely paid attention to what was going on, still in a daze.

All he could see was his family, dead.

And it wasn’t the first time he had seen that.

This was just like before, even if it was different.

Don shuddered again and pulled his blanket around him, pulling it up over his head. He stared at the floor, wide-eyed, the world around him fading out as the vision still pulsed in his mind’s eye.

Splinter, crushed beneath debris from the ceiling, and a grave marker in a park.

Mikey, crushed and buried beneath the falling columns, and lying in a pool of his own blood after being sliced to ribbons.

Raph, slammed into a crater in the ground, not moving, and collapsed beside Leo, blood leaking from the sword wound.

Leo, burned, smoking, lying on the ground, dying, and laying on his back, the blood from his shell spreading beneath him.

And himself, lying smashed and crushed beneath the monster’s tail, and standing, looking at the bodies of his family.

Dead. All over again. All of them dead. And he remembers. He remembers. He can see it, he knows what happened and he could have saved them, if he’d gotten the information about chi out to Leo faster, if he’d not insisted that they take the Shedder out—

“Hey! Hey, Purple One! Are you listening to me?”

Don blinked, focusing on the face in front of him, realizing that the little fat man—the Ancient One—was standing uncomfortably close to him, right up in his face.

“Hey, kumquat! I think this one is broken. You need to fix him.”

Don heard Raph choke on a drink, and Mikey’s “I’m sorry, what?” but it was as if they were distant. He heard Leo sigh, but the footsteps of his oldest brother coming closer.

“Don? What’s up? Are you—Oh, Don.”

Leo knelt in front of him, and then reached out, putting his hands on Don’s shoulders. Don slowly raised his head, staring at Leo. He could hear his other family approaching, but all he could do at the moment was stare at Leo.

“I’m sorry, Donnie,” Leo said, his eyes full of compassion. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Think about what?” Mikey said, also kneeling down next to Don and taking his hand. “What’s wrong with Donnie?”

“The Tribunal’s vision,” Leo said, his voice firm. “It showed all of us dying.”

“Aw, shell,” Raph said, also coming to rest beside Don. “No wonder he’s shaking like a leaf.”

“Well, I wonder!” the Ancient One said. “Why is he shaking? Why is he silent and not responding?”

No one said anything, but Splinter came up beside Don, and laid a paw on his head. Don leaned into it, into the reminder that his father was here and alive and whole. He shuddered, still not able to rid his mind of the other images, and let his gaze fall again.

“Two years ago,” Splinter said. “An enemy flung Donatello into a future where the Utrom Shredder had taken over, where I had died, and where his brothers had been injured and were no longer together. He made a plan to take down the Shredder, and they agreed to it. However, the plan cost those three brothers their lives, and he saw them killed and their bodies afterward. This vison has reminded him of that.”

The Ancient One made a startled noise. “And you did not send this kumquat to me?”

Splinter began rubbing Don’s head. “I was not aware. He hid it from us for several months. Or, rather, from what the Utroms told us, he was not able to tell us.” Don could feel Splinter cupping the back of his head, trying to bring comfort. “They called it a trauma response. He was not able to speak of it. His body went silent.”

“Could you help him with that?” Leo asked, even as he kept a steady pressure on Don’s shoulder. Don appreciated it. It helped to keep him grounded, as did Raph pressing close to him from behind, and Mikey massaging his hand with both of his.

Don could hear the Ancient One hum. “Perhaps. I will see. For the moment, I can see that he is in good hands.” There was little bit of shuffling, and then the Ancient One appeared in Don’s sight again. “You. I see you. I see what you would do. Let your family attend to you. Do not suffer in silence. That is foolish! Even if you can’t speak, they are there. Let them help you tonight, and tomorrow we will talk.”

Don’s eyes finally tracked over to land on the old man’s, and he felt a bit of the fog that was around his brain lift, just a bit. He nodded, just slightly. The Ancient One, seemingly satisfied with that, moved away, letting his family take up the space again.

Don shuddered and struggled with the memories and differentiating between reality and memory for the rest of the night. He never said a word, but his family understood nonetheless, gathering around him, his brothers sleeping piled with him. If he had to suffer in silence, then they weren’t going to leave him alone to do it.

And that meant more to Don than he could express, even when he could talk again.

[vacantgodling]

i want what you want

wip: the graves we dug

character(s): graves, dove, mentions of tomb

a walk down memory lane, an anger, a reveal. but a fantasy long missed takes precedent over caution. just for once.

warnings: eh suggestive but barely.

“Why the fuck are we here, Dove?”

Dove turned their back to him, thoroughly dismissing him, the conversation, everything, to stare out at the shining bright lights beneath the penthouse below. This was all so fucked up, and Graves was tired of trying to fix this. He wanted to go back to a time where Dove was just a distant, bittersweet memory that left another acrid taste in his mouth akin to day old coffee. Graves put his head in his hands. Damn them, for bringing him back to this place. The memories were still unbearably fresh.

—

“So what does…” Graves searched for words. It was hard to find any, with Dove pressed into his side like this. “…This make us?”

“Oh, darling!” Dove laughed aloud, bubbly and infectious, and Graves felt a knot of emotion that was tangled in his chest loosen ever so slightly. Dove stretched a leg out from underneath the covers, long and lean, in the artificial moonlight. It peered through a slit in the curtain that hid a majority of the window’s full view, and the dim light in the dark room made it easier for Graves to slide an arm down from behind his head to paw at the flesh of Dove’s bare side. Dove sighed contentedly, stealing the kiseru from between Graves’s fingers to steal a puff for himself.

“This doesn’t have to change anything.”

“… We fucked.”

“How elegant.” Dove rolled his eyes. They set the pipe on the nightstand and rolled onto their side to get a good look at him. Under his half-lidded stare, Graves felt pinned.

“We fucked.” Dove repeated. “I enjoyed it. You enjoyed it. That’s all it has to be, if you want that.” Graves wet his lips, turning the idea over in his mind. “… Do you want that?” His voice came out like a whisper. It mirrored the whisper of a forlorn grin on Dove’s face that tightened the knot in Graves’s chest once more, strangling the rattler in its basket.

“I want whatever you want.”

—

“I want whatever you want.” Dove’s voice was hardly as sweet as it was then. Graves felt it’s sting and he burrowed into himself further. He heard when Dove spun back around to face him. Could feel how he rolled his eyes from the sheer force of it. Soft clicks of the heels of Dove’s boots and spurs trailed back the worn path to where Graves sat, hunched and paralyzed on the bed. Dove’s knees appeared in his vision from where he’d hidden his head against his hands like a coward.

“Look at me.” Dove’s voice was on the precipice of breaking and damn it all, Graves looked. Back into piercing green eyes and a pretty face he was so used to smiling twisted up into a snarl. “Do you think me so naive to say something like that again?”

“No, I—“

“You have been running from me, Graves.” His silence was telling. Dove went on. “You’re lucky I don’t want you dead.”

“You didn’t have to go and choose the same goddamn room!” His raised voice echoed in the sparse room and Dove’s scoff of irritation sparked something in him like a lighter wheel.

“Tomb is looking for you.” Dove spat. There was another beat, then, “He’s hunting you.”

“Of course he is.” Graves finally sat up straight, looming over Dove who was still squatting. He rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck by tilting his head left, then right. Finally he managed to bring his gaze back down to Dove.

“Did you bring me here just for that?”

“Of course not.” Dove stood, brushing his knees. For once, he didn’t meet Graves’s eyes. “Can’t I just want a walk down memory lane?” With that, he stepped back into Graves’s space, spreading one white gloved hand across his broad, barrel chest, pushing until he was lounging back against the cushioned heaven that was the bed. He straddled Graves’s lap, tracing that gloved hand down until it reached the first button of his shirt. Before he could pop it, Graves’s hand covered his own. “I know you’re lying.” He didn’t mean for his voice to come out like that, this… soft amid the tension. It did something to Dove, he could tell. The angry lines on his soft face smoothed, until that cherry lipped smile was the only thing left tugging at Graves’s heartstrings, until he was suddenly tasting it.

As with everything, Graves let him do what he wanted. He popped the first button open.

“Let me pretend.” Dove sighed against his lips. Graves raised an eyebrow. “That you’re not lying?”

“That I want what you want.” Another button popped. “Just for now.”

[r3d1ke]

mother of times just somethimh ig.

The calling wasn’t far nor found near by , the call from another time another false hope.

A field that serviced peace that was long lived but ever short lasted,longevity that was, now bk standing in between the petals of nelumbos as they hummed along the melody of life dancing to each swing that the wind took, off and on, before bk there it was

The branch and behind it if the eye didn’t play tricks were many bricks or so does bk call them 

The graves of each traveler ,bk called them bricks  for it to be easier on her soul when mew was far younger, out of touch of the reality of the situation that slipped through the mistakes of time itself, all hopes for those souls to rest easy as the lotus grown within them filling them with its delightful scent

Bk set one foot down upon the bench as in a sense of a warrior looking at the graves as a battle field after war truly astonishing peace of mind handing euphoria in view, bk sure knew she needed a remark a place to start, living a dream wasn’t going to scratch it, as a cat scratching a surface it will ruin it to tiny bits and small atoms are hardly felt beneath cat paws but still leave a spark , even the greatest people were small till growing, meeting those with greater knowledge and learnt

Just like how bk was taught under cavum’s vision, mew should be far more than thankful to be able to question even to the useless bits as she sees them as important through mew’s violet eyes, having answers to most is better than having none at all, a blessing truly 

Harshly biting her tongue to get a hold, a sense of reality, maybe the lack of sleep was biting mew’s “tail”, bk rested her head on the bench, who cares if it’s clean or not ,if it fits then mew Rests bk curled up as sleep poised her, crumbling from mew’s brain to her entirety hiding the sun piece in the suffocating pocket for no eye to fall witness for such item mew took one last glimpse of the “hidden garden” that she surrounded mewself in, she sighed and eyes shut accepting the defeat of the smallest death

                                                       ————————-

> for now this stays as a draft due o the fact it’s doesn’t capture the vibe I want..

Echoing conversations..one stays grounding

“Mew furmally whole heartily believe that this is the way the unifurse works?”  The child questioned the shadow who sat next to her “why yes., creation existed far more than destruction, but the more creation to exist” “ the more clustered the universe will be” the shadow looked at the child that he’ve always considered his own.. his very own student 

Reality and irreality collide and break the barriers of what is true and what not , after all that was the show for the conscious mind ,a story from the unconscious part of the brain to tell as a reminder or a warning 

Could be a reminder of what some may once had, could be a warning of what to come 

Those were dreams for mew, cats usually dream about their owners, she would usually dream about mew’s teacher someone whom she considered a guardian for the longest 

The shadow placed a book on the child’s head in a playful manner “now the information will transport to you!” He chuckled, the child tried rubbing the book against mew’s head to test the shadow’s words the shadow couldn’t help but laugh as he put the book away from the child’s reach, the child looked at him confused “ no no bk, if that is the way information is learnt then we wouldn’t need comparisons nor challenges” the shadow gave a pat on the child’s head, the child was leaning to curiosity about what he meant 

“But mr cavu-“ “please refer me as cavum or if you’d wish you can call me father since I do see of you as a dear daughter of mine.” The shadow reminded the child he may say it a thousand times and somehow will need to repeat it again but he never minded that, after all she was a young soul he must be gentle with such Fragile being

The memory became blurry once again as bk saw mew’s younger self as small paw prints of what she once was but still, The laughs, the tough and the rough realities and times may hunt mew but she’ll always remember simpler times.. those usually bring mew a since of comfort  , almost as faded paws on the snow still leading to somewhere , something, someone

As a petal descended from the high winds till the reach of bk’s nose, a soft sneeze due to the strong smell woke the light sleeper whom is also the keeper of the sun piece, bk got up from the bench and started to wonder around, the place didn’t have much to offer all these bricks.. or should be called for better wording graves and these lotus flowers leaning to whitish-pink in the light, bk sighed as mew looked at the sun piece 

It glows and shines and gives a sense of warmth, although somehow it doesn’t burn her pockets which she found amusing in the long run

“Hm?” The sound of a void sucking the peaceful air all the sudden caught mew’s attention as she turned mew’s head only for a portal to fill the vision bk couldn’t care where it leads 

She might take one big step for cavum but the small onwards goes to mew’s honors , confidently walking towards the portal as if she knew what awaits mew .

“ one for you? “ he asked playfully “ONE FOR ME” she cheered.

Nostalgic

[princetorn]

⋆  @enreality // cont.

To be dead was to drift somewhere between memory and the waking world.

It had been the sheer weight and presence Sandra’s heartache that roused him, that dredged him out of that sleepless, shapeless, soundless plane. Hers was a sorrow that clawed at the walls, that wailed across dimensions even as she stifled the sound of her sobs, muting her grief in the manner of one who wished she could deny or override or explain it away.

Royce had never been one to express himself through tears. To weep would have been to be dubbed a sissy, or to have invited the lick of his father’s belt. For boys like him, feelings were best bottled in glass, only examined in an abstract, stoic way – to not care was to be invincible, to be cool. But he did care, he always had, and he never failed to be moved by a woman’s suffering. Shrouded in melancholy as oppressive as Sandra’s was now, his mother had retreated to her bed, often leaving spots of blood in her wake, blooming on the bathroom floor like red carnations. From beneath her blanket she whispered domestic instructions in bleak, tear-ripe monotone. There was no need for his father to know it was his son who had polished the tiles clean, who set out the cutlery, who saw dinner on the table that night. Mothers and their sons were built to bear the burden of secrets.

Caged no longer, Royce tethered himself to Sandra, anchored in a way he found strangely comforting. She was what was familiar to him now, in this place far from home, far from the glass-walled mansion that had brought them together. He haunted her, gently.

Manifesting at the foot of her bed, he flickered in an out of paltry existence. His voice had that faraway quality, as if spoken from the bottom of a well – or from beneath the fresh-tilled soil of a half-filled grave. Sandra wasn’t okay, even if she said so, even if she pawed at her face, quick to wipe away tears.

“Sure will, toots.”

Mustering his strength, threading together the tenuous fibres of his essence, Royce made a concentrated effort to materialise more solidly before making his approach, sitting weightlessly on the edge of Sandra’s bed. Time meant little to him, but given that the night pressed its dark, jealous face to her window, he guessed that it was late. Whatever constellations hung in the sky could not compare to those stars that stippled the flood of darling blue eyes. A terrible thing, to be unspeakably beautiful while heartsore and despairing.

Slumber might help, but Sandra was coiled tight, a whale-eyed hare held in a hound’s jaws. Royce reached for her, stroking skeletal fingers through her hair, tracing the helix of her ear with bony tips, in a gesture intended to soothe.

“What’re ya workin’ on?”

Industrious, restless, clever creature. Sandra devoured the printed word, always expanding the borders of her mind, always learning, always chasing the next story. Her appetite had been what brought her under that strange collector’s roof – and brought them together. An uncanny tilt of his head allowed Royce to skim the piles of paper, to catch a glimpse of his own obituary. It gave him pause. If only for a moment, if only because he saw himself intact and whole and alive. A young man with everything to play for, both on and off the baseball field.

He wished he could give her that now. Warm, intact flesh. The promise of a future, of a life well-lived. A complexion flush with blood that remained on the inside. A body to love, a body that would age. Arms that could hold her and would never waver. Ruined though he was, a shade of what he had been, fondness still radiated from Sandra, her adoration undiluted. That was enough for him. It was enough that she could look at the horror of his road-wrecked face and not flinch. It was enough that she did not recoil from the corpse-cold touch of his fingers.

[autolovecraft]

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Why did you do it, Birch? Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

Why did you do it, Birch? That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Great heavens, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. Great heavens, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

Birch still toiling.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

[dear-galileo]

a dream is a wish the heart makes

read on ao3

geraskier, cinderella au, rated t

12.4k words

the last thing geralt had expected to do was meet a prince in the woods. no- the last thing that geralt expected to do was fall in love with the prince, and make a deal with a witch to see him again.

The stepmother said, "It's no use. You are not coming with us, for you have no clothes, and you don't know how to dance. We would be ashamed of you." With this she turned her back on Cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters.

Now that no one else was at home, Cinderella went to her mother's grave beneath the hazel tree, and cried out:

Shake and quiver, little tree,

Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw a gold and silver dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver. She quickly put on the dress and went to the festival.

Grimm’s Fairy Tales - 1812    

            

Manticores - generally easier to slay when there wasn’t a prince running around like his head had been cut off. 

Geralt reached out and snagged the cuff of the prince’s tunic. “Stay down.”

The prince, wide-eyed and fiercely beautiful , nodded, before going to duck behind a tree stump. Where the prince’s guards were, Geralt had no idea. It was unfortunate that a Witcher had to come to the rescue of the crown prince, but Geralt wasn’t just going to leave him to die. 

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, when he had heard a scream, followed shortly by a manticore’s roar. The first thought that had crossed his mind was damn. The second one was to run in the direction of the roar. 

Geralt had spent the better part of a week tracking this manticore, and of course, the prince, the fucking heir to the throne, stumbled upon it on a jaunt through the forest without his guards. 

Geralt hadn’t even had the time to down a potion before tackling the prince out of the way.

He huffed as a dodge forced him to drop his sword. Daggers it would be then- no Witcher went anywhere without silver daggers tucked into their boot. 

“Look out!” The prince shouted. Geralt whirled around just in time to avoid being hit by the manticore’s barbed tail. He snatched one of the daggers from his boot, and charged. If he had had more time to prepare, perhaps to even sneak up on the beast, he would have been able to smash the manticore’s tail – eliminating some of the danger – but there was no time for planning now. 

The beast roared as Geralt leapt into the air, but still, the dagger went cleanly into the manticore’s eye. It whipped its head back and forth, pawing frantically at the blade. 

Geralt wasted no time in grabbing his sword once again, before rushing up to the beast’s chest and stabbing it. He attempted to dodge out of the way as the manticore’s claws swiped at him, but still got caught across the chest.

The manticore gave one last powerful screech as Geralt withdrew the sword, and then stabbed it again, only a few inches away from the first wound. Once more, Geralt had struck his sword through the manticore’s third and final heart.

He didn’t necessarily have to pierce the third heart, but that was more of a precautionary step. 

Geralt took a step back, working hard to regulate his breathing. 

“Gods above,” a hushed voice said. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat, but he did not startle – he had already forgotten about the prince. “You saved my life!” 

Geralt turned to face the prince, who was now coming out from his hiding spot. He appeared to be unharmed, albeit red in the face. And Melitele, he was beautiful. His eyes were bright and blue, and his lips were curved up into a smile – near death experience apparently already forgotten. 

The prince scrambled over a tree stump to get to Geralt, either not hearing or not caring for Geralt’s dismissive grunt. Geralt glanced at him once more before wiping his blade in the grass, trying to get as much of the blood off of it as possible. 

“Kind sir, you must grant me your name, you saved my life, I owe you my-” The prince cut himself off as Geralt raised back to his full height, which while being only a few inches taller, certainly made the prince look smaller. Instead of cowering, like Geralt expected him to, the prince’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “Hi.” 

Maybe he had hit his head. Geralt looked, but saw no obvious head wound. Perhaps he was simply dropped on the head as a child. 

“I am afraid I became separated from my guards while walking, but they were just in that-” the prince vaguely gestured to the area behind him. “Direction, so-”

“The closest main road is the other way.” Geralt said. The prince faltered, looking in the direction that Geralt was pointing in. 

“Aw, Gods. Alright. Don’t suppose you have any idea how far of a walk it is, do you? I was lost for a bit, but then when I caught sight of the beast, I started running, as any sensible person would-”

“Running only aggravates them. It enjoys a chase.” 

“Oh. Well then. My point still stands, how long of a walk is it?” 

Geralt looked at the prince for a moment longer – Witchers didn’t have much business in the ways of the kingdom. Actually, Geralt was certain that the kingdom would pay him and his brothers in coin to stay out of the kingdom entirely. 

But he still knew a thing or two.

Like, for instance, he knew immediately that the prince in front of him was Prince Julian, perhaps one of the people in the kingdom that Geralt would be slain on sight just for standing near. 

Triss, the mage in a village nearby had told Geralt of the prince’s charm, and penchant for colorful clothing, but she had severely undersold his beauty. 

“Half a day.” Geralt finally said, once he realized he had been silent for too long. Prince Julian heaved a sigh.

“Alright, I suppose. Once again, I must ask for your name- to save a life is no simple favor.” 

Geralt grunted, and strapped his sword to his back once again. The prince continued to ramble as Geralt turned to inspect the manticore, only to break off into a shriek. That did make the Witcher startle, but when he turned back, the prince was staring at Geralt’s side.

When Geralt looked down, there was blood weeping through the scratches in his armor. Right.

“You are injured! Are you in terrible pain? Oh Gods, I do not carry any cloth or herbs on me-” Geralt grabbed the dagger that was still stuck in the manticore’s eye. Prince Julian stopped his rambling to gag softly at the sight, but recovered as Geralt was wiping the dagger against his pant leg. He would have to come back for the beast’s head.

“Come.” Geralt said. Prince Julian squeaked, but followed. 

“Are you- are you just going to leave that there? Are you going to lead me back to the road? Good sir, I truly do owe you many thanks,” 

“Hm.”

“You could start, perhaps, by giving me your name?” The prince was steadily keeping pace with Geralt, alternating between looking at Geralt and the ground. He narrowly avoided tripping and falling directly onto his face on multiple occasions, if because of skill or sheer luck Geralt wasn’t sure. 

There was no way that the man didn’t know he was a Witcher- could the prince truly be that sheltered? Geralt dared a glance out of the corner of his eye, to see the prince still smiling at him. Geralt had to reach out and grab him by the collar of his shirt before he stumbled over a raised tree root. 

“Well, my name is Jaskier. Actually, it’s Julian, but most call me Jaskier. Julian’s the family name, you know?” Prince Julian- apparently Jaskier, continued. “You do not seem to be the chatty type, which is fine. Gods above know that I have enough chatter for the both of us.” 

He laughed out loud at the look Geralt gave him. 

“I know, I know! I don’t get out a lot- hazards of being-” this time, when Jaskier fumbled, it was his words and not his feet. “Being… being as handsome and charming as I am!” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. So he was withholding his status – fair, as Geralt wasn’t planning on offering any information in return. 

“What were you doing out in this neck of the woods, anyway? I hadn’t thought anyone lived this far off of the path.” Jaskier continued. Geralt kept his eyes on the path ahead of them. It would be a short walk to guide them back to the main road, and from there the prince should be capable of taking care of himself. 

“Hunting.”

“Ooh, hunting! For deer, or-”

“The manticore.” Geralt cut him off. Jaskier’s eyes widened even more, a feat that Geralt hadn’t thought was possible. 

“The manticore- that beast you just killed? Gods above.” For once, Jaskier seemed like he was stunned into silence.

Briefly, anyways. 

“How did you track it?” Geralt shrugged. 

“Footprints, scent. Get to know its feeding pattern, and follow along.” Geralt paused for a moment as Jaskier digested the information. “Plus, your screams helped.” 

Jaskier snorted, jabbing an elbow into Geralt’s side.

“I wasn’t screaming that loudly,” he protested. Geralt nodded, in faux agreement. 

“Right, because if you were screaming that loudly, your guards wouldn’t have to worry about being total shit at their jobs.” Geralt half expected the prince to take offense to the statement, but Jaskier continued to smile.

“True. Who knows what we are paying them for- I’m quite certain that they all would have shat themselves the moment they saw the manti- mantis- mantricorn?”

“Manticore.” Geralt corrected.

“Manticore, yeah. But you seemed quite unruffled, hmm?” Jaskier continued. “But, being unable to surprise is a good trait in a savior, I presume.”

“Savior.” Geralt repeated dryly. Jaskier shot him a cheeky smile. 

“Of course! You saved my life, thus, you are my savior. Do you not like the title?”

“Hm.” 

“You really won’t tell me your name?” Jaskier huffed when Geralt once again refused to answer. “Fine, alright. But tell me- do you like music?” 

The conversation, as one sided as it was, went on. Jaskier chattered about seemingly every thing to pop in his head, content with Geralt’s one-worded answers. 

Geralt was finding himself having to repress a smile on more than one occasion. The prince was surprising him- he was witty, and had a preference for fruit tarts, unless they were apricots, which he utterly detested. 

Jaskier told him about his affinity for music. Geralt told him about the last time he was in town, how he had heard a song that sounded like what his childhood was like, just through the mournful twangs and hymns. Instead of laughing him off, Jaskier listened, and asked gentle questions. 

Jaskier didn’t ask about Geralt being a Witcher, so Geralt didn’t ask about Jaskier actually being Prince Julian. 

They had fallen into a comfortable silence when Geralt heard a snapping of a branch in the distance, followed by the crunching of multiple footsteps. Geralt already had one of his daggers out, an arm pushing Jaskier behind him.

“Wha-” Jaskier started to squeak, but cut off the noise when Geralt hushed him. 

A group of people came walking in their direction- quieter than a common villager would know how to be, but not quiet enough to get past a Witcher. 

“What is it?” Jaskier hissed. Geralt caught a glimmer of silver through the trees, in the distance. 

“How many people were escorting you through the forest?” Geralt asked, just as softly. Jaskier scrunched up his face in thought before responding.

“Four. No- five. Five. Why? Do you see them?” 

Geralt dropped his defensive stance, nodding. 

“Right through those trees. They haven’t noticed us yet.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier said. Geralt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye – did he sound disappointed? Geralt would have assumed that he was thrilled to be back with his guards, on the way back to his home in the castle. “Well then.”

“Go.” Geralt instructed, taking a step back. Or, he tried to take a step back, but Jaskier moved with him, frowning.

“What do you mean? Come with me.”

Geralt immediately felt his defenses rise. He shook his head, and once again turned to leave. 

“Wait, no,” Jaskier said, his hand finding Geralt’s wrist. Geralt was still holding the dagger. He couldn’t pull away without risking cutting the prince. “Come with me.”

Geralt looked into the prince’s eyes, trying to understand. Come with him? To where, the castle? Witchers weren’t allowed on castle grounds, especially Witchers who showed up uninvited with manticore blood still smeared on them. 

“Prince Julian!” 

The guards were getting closer. Jaskier had a desperate look on his face. Why was he so set on getting to know Geralt? He was a mutant, a murderer, a horrid creature. Only slightly better than the manticore, but not at all human. 

Geralt did the only thing that he could think of to do. 

He dropped the knife on the forest’s floor, before breaking out of Jaskier’s grasp.

Then, Geralt ran. 

read the rest on ao3!

[oh-no-a-whovian]

Two more lonely people Part 19

NSFW 18+

Summary: “no matter what happens, I love you”

Pairing: Bruno Madrigal x fem werewolf! reader

Warnings: age gap (Y/N is 25 and Bruno is 50) swearing, panic attack, injury, mentions of death.   any others let me know please.

Word count: 2887

Masterlist PT1 Next

Rumours of the truth about you have been circling Encanto since your father’s death and Evaline and Matt’s unannounced departure. Some have been claiming they saw two more wolves at the jungle’s edge during the full moon, a young couple even saying they found the tufts of fur and splattered blood by the river. Some people have even been going straight to Alma, questioning the truth and though she’s tried not to say much, she’s uneasy. She knows that if her son is now like you then she’ll have to reveal the truth, she could hide one werewolf with the lie but two? Her own son at that? No. you just hope the people of Encanto will understand.

You didn’t grieve your father for even a second after Isa had launched a vine through his chest, didn’t even watch as the church lowered him into a grave, the stone only having his name and dates of birth and death. There was no one left in the US to claim his body and no way to really transfer him out of Encanto if there was. So in the ground he went, not a single person to care.

You were glad when you noticed the other wolves’ scents fading from your home and territory. They truly left. You were worried that maybe they were just hiding out, planning something new and horrible. But once their scent was gone, you knew they were gone… you never have to deal with them again.

The month-long wait is almost over. Tonight, Bruno may or may not shift into a wolf with you and he may or may not be completely insane if he does. If what Evaline said is true, you guessed it will be because of the pain of shifting, the sheer agony that accompanies being a werewolf. The first shift was the worst for you, and it will be for him. your theory is because a child is unformed it’s not as much of a problem and can be adjusted to easy. But an adult, fully matured with their bones and muscles set, it would be worse than death.

When the full moon comes, casita is going to remove Bruno’s door, leaving you both trapped inside, surrounded by sand until the sun rises.

“How much further?” Bruno asks even though he knows you can’t answer, not only because you’re in wolf form but also because you have a basket handle in your mouth. He’s clinging to the fur on your shoulder blades, holding on for dear life as you race through the jungle and up the mountain toward your destination.

The sweet smell of flowers fills the air as you carry him up the steep surface, picking each step and stone carefully.

Even though his plan was to spend the last month like normal, he couldn’t do it. he spent several hours one day pacing back and forth in his vision cave, trying to decide if he wanted to look, rambling to himself. He’d check the moon each night as it waned, freaking out as it started to fill out once more. No matter how much you tried to remind him if his intentions for this month, he just couldn’t pull himself from the dark mindset.

You knew you needed to get him out, distract him for at least a little while. You spent all of yesterday collecting fruit, chocolate coated treats, cheeses and so many other things from the markets, filling your favourite basket to the brim and covering it with a blanket to keep it all safe. The hard part was persuading him to actually come out of his room and leave casita for a few hours.

You pant as you finally reach the level expanse of green overlooking the whole of Encanto. The midday sun sits warm and proud in the sky above, its rays undiminished by ominous clouds. The grass beneath your paws is soft and warm as you make your way into the centre of the clearing. The field is surrounded by beautiful flowers of different colours, filling the air with their sweet aroma. A large tree sits at the furthest edge, a cherry blossom, tall and seemingly ancient though it was only introduced to the area a few years ago.

You place the basket on the ground, releasing it from your mouth and flexing your jaws and tongue to ease the discomfort of holding it for so long. You huff in amusement as Bruno falls on his ass with an oof as he tries to get off your back without waiting for you to let him off.

“Good job” you laugh as you shift back, standing over him with an amused smirk, your hand outstretched to help him up. “we’re sitting over there though.” You tell him, gesturing to the tree with your lips as you help him up and pick up the basket.

“The full moon is tonight. Are you sure we should be sitting down and, and having a-a picnic?” he asks, fiddling with his fingers as he walks with you.

“We have plenty of time, mi vida” smiling you place the basket down and take his hands, holding your palms up to his. “You need some time to relax and breathe. Trust me, no matter what happens I’ll be with you.” You kiss his scruffy cheek, loving the way he looks at you with such adoration. “Now we’re gonna relax, eat all the treats I bought, drink both bottles of wine and we’re not gonna think about the potential results of tonight’s full moon.”

“That does sound nice” he smiles, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I also brought a few books” you tell him as you step away and grab the blanket, laying it out beneath the tree. “Though I’m not expecting much reading to happen” you wink, making him stutter.

“Here?” he asks wide eyed at your smirk. “What if someone comes up here or, or Dolores can hear?”

“we’re out of range and as you saw it’s not exactly easy getting up here. It’ll be fine. Besides!” you grin, flicking some hair from your face. “The view up here is amazing”

“It really is” he says back quietly, not taking his eyes from you for a second.

“Eres adorables” you tease. He’s such a sap, so full of love for you, for his family. He’s willing to do anything to make you happy, to make you safe. He was beyond horrified when you’d shown up after your attack, an arepa in your hand and Camilo by your side to tell Bruno what happened. “Now sit so we can make good use of our time.”

Plopping down on the blanket, you rifle through the basket of goods, placing them neatly in front of you.

“How’d you find this spot?” Bruno asks staring up at the pink flowers of the tree that doesn’t belong here.

“I’ve pretty much seen everything within the mountain range. Spent heaps of time just exploring, finding every little hidden location and admiring their beauty. Even brought Isa up here once, she’s why this tree is here” you gesture up before shoving a berry in his mouth, giggling as his eyes go wide.

“Amor” Bruno gasps, feigning horror at your sudden action.

“Hmmm?” you smile innocently, popping one in your own mouth.

“Te quiero” he huffs, shaking his head at your antics.

For while you both just lay there, enjoying each other’s company and the amazing array of food you brought. You spoke of everything except what the full moon may entail. You played with his hair, rubbing his head and tugging at the curls, making him moan in pleasure.

You eased his mind for a few hours, distracting him by reminding him how much you care. You kissed him all over and left him a moaning needy mess as you drooled all over his cock. You sucked marks onto his neck as you rode him and giggled in delight when he flipped you over.

The fun had to end eventually though and with two hours left until the full moon reaches the right point, you took him back down the mountain.

~~~~~

Bruno’s POV

“Joder, estoy aterrorizado.” He admits as the door to his room disappears before him, leaving a blank wall in its place. It’s just him and her now, waiting for the moon to decide his fate. He really is scared and he’s genuinely not sure if knowing tonight’s outcome in advance would have made a difference to the sheer terror he feels now.

“I know.” She whispers as she wraps her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck. He was truly grateful for her distractions through the day, for a little while he had actually managed to forget his anxieties, think only about his love for her. He wished he could spend forever in that moment, high up the mountain, just her and the view.

His revelry and bliss were shattered when she said it was time to go back, that she could feel the moon beginning its rise. Apparently, she never had to look up to know when the full moon is coming, her very bones telling her it’s close. She described it as a buzz in her blood and excitement in her mind, like being called for by a loved one. Like comfort and love. All he feels right now is dread.

“I didn’t know I was going to shift the first time. Scared the shit out of my parents… especially my father” she sneers, hating that she even mentioned the man. “I shifted in the lounge room right in front of them.” She explains as he walks with her to the platform. “I made a mess of everything as I freaked out.”

“I don’t know if I can do this…” he admits rubbing his hand on his forehead and brushing back his curls. “h-how long un-until…?” he tries to ask as the stone hands take them to the top.

“Not long now” you sigh “I’ll turn first and fast. I hope… I truly hope you don’t have to go through it. I hope Julieta’s food fixed it.”

He nods at her words. He’s grateful that she’s trying to avoid mentioning how much pain he’s gonna be in, that his bones are going to crack, and his muscles are going to tear. Going mad during that much pain is probably the sane result.

He glances into the vision cave as he sits on the lounge just outside it, the picnic blanket from the trip up the mountain now laying atop the sand with several plates of Julieta’s healing food, mostly meat based.

“I want you to know that no matter what happens tonight…” she kneels before him, her eyes filled with love as she looks up at him. He never thought he’d have someone caring for him as genuine as her, beautiful and loving. He’s still not sure he deserves her, especially after how he ruined her birthday, almost getting her killed. “No matter what happens, I love you. I will never leave your side, not even for a second.”

“I know” as he says the words her eyes glow cyan and her body shifts. Even as a wolf her eyes are filled with her worry for him.

She sits before him, looking down as she watches him intently, her body now much taller than him. As minutes go by with nothing happening, hope sparks. Julieta’s food must have worked, curing him as soon as he was bitten. He breathes out a shaky sigh, trying to stop his wavering hands. it worked! He’s not gonna shift.

Just as he relaxes his body and mind, believing he’s fine and safe, everything goes black.

He feels like he’s trapped inside a dark as pitch room, oppressive and heavy. He can’t see anything as he spins on the spot, no light or features to the space. The worst has happened. He’s blacked out and his body is shifting into a wolf as he stands trapped in his own mind.

He feels his chest tighten his breathing becoming rapid and difficult. He feels like he’s being crushed, like he’s suffocating. His mind is running in circles, worried about all the horrible things that will happen now. He won’t be able to control his body, his actions. He’ll lose time each month for the rest of his life. He could hurt someone.

He falls to his knees, crying into his hands as defeat washes over him. she’ll know right away, right? She’ll be able to tell that it’s not him in control?

He doesn’t notice the pale glow forming behind him, covering him in warm light.

“Do not give in to despair” a voice sounds out behind him, startling him. He spins toward the glow, falling on his ass and backing away. Its voice has a deep but feminine tone, but its form seems to have no gender, nothing defining it. It kneels before him as he stares up at it, wide eyed and unsure. “You will regain control soon.”

“I thought I’d lost control completely? That I’ve become a monster.” He admits to the being, though he’s unsure of its intent. “We were told because of my age that I’d lose control. Is that not true?”

“No, it’s true… at least normally it would be” it looks down at him curiously. At least he thinks it does, it doesn’t have any features to tell, he can just feel it. “What did you do differently?” it tilts its head leaning in too close for comfort.

“I-I d-don’t know” he stutters. “Mi familia… we have a gift…”

“Magic?” it asks, and he nods in response.

“My sister can heal w-with food… I ate some just after I was bitten…” it leans back on its heels, humming in response to his words.

“Thank you for telling me.” It seems to smile.

“What are you?”

Before it can answer him, the real world comes back to him. his body aches and his head feel like it’s splitting in two. The world seems a little brighter and the smells of the food in the vision cave seems a little stronger. Well, a lot stronger actually.

[Y/N] is lying beside him, her fur covered face buried in his neck… in his own fur…

He feels his tail and his massive paws. He feels his snout as he places one on his new paws over it. he can feel his ears flick about at the squeaks of his rats in the walls. He runs his tongue across the new razor-sharp teeth. He wishes he could look in a mirror right now.

He moves his head up so he can look at the woman, wolf, beside him. she smells amazing. Before she smelt like any other dog in this form, a clean one but still dog. Now she smells of lavender and pastries, the dew that falls onto the grass in the evening, sage and cedarwood.

She looks up at him, worry and sadness in her eyes. She witnessed all that he missed of his transformation, the pain that now only feels like a dull ache in his muscles.

I’m ok he tells her pressing his snout to hers, admiring the way her tail starts to wag frantically, reminding him of the day she first found him outside casita all those months ago.

You’re still you! She pounces on him, licking and nipping at him playfully. He submits to her affection, enjoying every moment.

~~~~~

[Y/N]’s POV

You could do nothing as he screamed, every bone in his body cracking and reshaping. Tears poured down his cheeks as he sobbed. All you could do was whine and press your head against him, trying to offer what little comfort you could.

When his screaming stopped, and his body was fully shifted you settled down beside him as he panted, trying to ease away the pain. You never left his side, just as you promised, staying with him for the near hour he was shifting. It will take time, but it will become faster and easier, especially if he does it outside of full moons. Practice makes perfect.

His fur is dark with flecks of white mixed in along his hackles, around his muzzle and eyes. His hooded eyes are the familiar bright green that glows when he’s doing a vision. His soft fur lays in ripples down his back, wavy like his hair.

As he finally moved to look at you, your Bruno still behind his eyes, you were overjoyed. After all that he was still himself, the man you love.

You spent the whole night playing with him, chasing each other in the sand. After he ate nearly all of the food of course.

When the door back to the world reopened and you both stepped outside, massive smiles on your faces and arms locked together. Relief washed over all the Madrigal’s faces, although it shifted a little when you told them he did in fact shift, he just didn’t go mad or lose control.

As you look at him in the morning sun, his beautiful green eyes glinting in the light, you realise this is a new beginning and the true start to the rest of your life with him.

A/N: sorry this one is late! Was a busy week. Remember! Like and reblog to share the love!!!

two more lonely people tags:

@pink-hufflepuff @kyriekurokami @goblinenby @fraujar @ducks118 @lemonbaby @sylum @life-hater39 @abelbai000 @sarashitposts @sweatyroadcowboyjudge @mother-dragon-and-her-hatchlings @elysiadjarin @multifandombtch @insanitybyanothername @inthewindsomehow @gloryekaterina @anactualvelociraptor @originalsoulcollector @hlxoos @tangerine-kitten @psychomanias @nectamburne @mary-wolf @wo1fwitch @jesuisravenclaw @shaddow-darkcloud @ryou-cosmos @puck-the-puppy @totofranken @butchcupid @mintymonicalei @azeret-mirror @a-gay-cryptid @cl0vr @tigreost @kenzi-woycehoski @acdassenza @coffee-cupps @krazyk99 @small-town-wayward-daughter @unstableyetloveable @nikt-wazny-y @animeluver23 @fuxkyoshizz @slytherinxhunter @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

[gobblewanker]

So, uh, I've been pretty busy these last few days so I'm sorry for the lack of posts. But I decided to finally finish up an old one shot drabble I've had sitting in my phone since January. So, ye.

Hope you like Werewolf Stan.

Stanley was absolutely massive. Ford didn't have a good estimate as he was far less cooperative with him in this state than he was with the children, but he felt heavier than either of them in human form. That was only the most noticeable difference Ford could distinguish between him and a regular wolf though. His teeth were larger, seeming almost too big for his mouth, and the claws reminded him or sickles. His frame was sturdier, more front heavy, characteristic of a lone hunter rather than a pack based predator.

Yet despite all of that, there he was now. Lying stretched out on the floor in front of the TV and letting the two children poke and prod at him without as much as a warning growl. Like a very polite golden retriever.

Ford had expected tonight's excursion to end with him returning home to finish compiling his research on the effects of the full moon on wendigo migration patterns, comparing his new data with whatever remained of his notes from thirty years ago, and - if his paranoia allowed it - maybe even get some proper sleep in. He had expected observing the solitary and very territorial beasts without being detected to be the dangerous part. The one during which he might risk being attacked. He had not expected to be thrown onto the floor and pinned by a large creature covered in scraggly grey fur the second he entered the house.

He had deduced that it was a werewolf the second he looked into its far too human eyes. But hadn't spared a single thought as to who the person beneath the fur might have been. He'd been to busy trying to push against it's broad neck to keep the furiously snarling maw out of range of his own throat. Too busy cursing his own curiosity for compelling him to leave his family unguarded with a full moon high in the sky, and fighting against the raw terror that clawed up his back and whispered in his ear that this creature - this monster - had surely already killed Stanley and the kids when Ford should have been there to protect them.

In the end though, by the mercy of whatever good there was out in the multiverse, there would be no graves to dig and no next of kin to inform because appearing out of nowhere as if herself sent by some form of divine intervention was Mabel. Alive, uninjured, Mabel.

She cried out in alarm and rapidly descended the remainder of the stairs despite Ford's breathlessly shouted demands that she return to the attic and barricade herself along with her brother. Mabel did no such thing. With the foolish fearlessness only a child could posesses, she threw herself at the head of the werewolf, grabbed two small fistfuls of it's fur, and yanked. Shockingly, the beast did allow itself to be pulled back. If only the slightest bit.

"No! Bad!" She admonished firmly, as if she was handling a rowdy pet, rather than a monster the size of a small car made out of muscles and teeth.

Before Ford could move to put a stop to her suicidal overconfidence, she had somehow managed to plant herself firmly between her still prone great uncle and the werewolf. The large unkempt animal lunged at Mabel. Maw open and snapping at her neck. For a second, Ford could have sworn he actually felt his heart stop. But there was no blood or screaming. Instead, jagged yellow fangs caught the fabric on the back of her sweater collar. Tugging her back like a mother wolf grabbing a disobedient pup by the scruff of it's neck. She yelped as her backside connected with the floorboards, but showed no further signs of distress. In fact, as the animal worriedly shoved it's snout in her face with such force and hurry it nearly knocked her over, she giggled. Tiny hands pushing it away with little regard for how close her fingers were to it's teeth.

"Ew, your nose is all wet!" Mabel laughed.

Again, it was Mabel who broke the stalemate. Quietly pressing a hand to the werewolf's side and slowly stepping closer to Ford again. She didn't remove her hand from it's fur, letting it trail along with her as she carefully moved. As if the only thing keeping the creature restrained was her small hand resting reassuringly in its pelt. Ford was half convinced it was.

Ford was absolutely dumbfounded, but despite his fight or flight instincts practically screaming at him to get Mabel away from the creature now, it showed no signs of hostility at all. At least not aimed at the child. The second Ford attempted to push himself back up off of the ground a deep rumble tore from the werewolf's throat. It whipped it's head around, instantly alert again. Eyes blown wide and assessing, ears pressed flat against it's head. It took one markedly distrusting step to the side, very deliberately placing itself between Mabel and Ford this time. Never letting the man out of eyesight. Ford glared back, hoping against hope that rising to the challenge wouldn't escalate things. Faltering gave animals the confidence to attack: A painful lesson permanently etched into his skin.

The creature let out another rumbling growl as Mabel apparently stepped closer to Ford than it was comfortable letting her, but this time all it took was another firm but gentle reprimand for the growl to break into a low whine. It's eyes flitting worriedly between Ford and Mabel.

"It's okay." She spoke carefully, reaching out to take one of Ford's hands in her unoccupied one. The growl flared up again, even if just for a moment. "No. It's okay, Grunkle Stan. It's just Ford."

She pressed Ford's palm to the werewolf's head, between it's - too human, too sharp, deep brown - eyes. His fingers sunk into the fur, Mabel's small hand still splayed on top of his. His fur was thinning, missing in patches over gnarled scar tissue, and almost the exact same shade of grey as...

"Stanley?"

Recognition finally flickered in those familiar brown eyes. Only to almost immediately be replaced by horror. Stan pulled his head back swiftly and pressed himself low against the floor. He covered his face with two enormous paws, and let out a low, guilty, whine. Ford just watched in stunned silence.

Ultimately, Mabel had convinced both her grunkles to move back into the tv room, gone to wake up her brother, and insisted on settling down to watch a late night movie. No doubt all in a valiant effort to lift the tense atmosphere. So there they were now: Mabel was doing her best to braid the longer fur around Stan's neck, cramming every hair clip she owned into his wild mane, while Dipper lifted, squeezed, and turned one of his massive paws over in his hands, trying to make an accurate sketch of it. All while both children were half-laying on him like a scraggly pillow. Mabel had even brought her pet pig down from the attic, and despite what Ford had expected and feared might happen, even in wolf form Stan showed absolutely no inclination to harm what logically speaking should be a very natural prey animal. All he did was grumble, and shove the pig away with a padded foot when it began to nibble at his ear.

He was the very picture of self control.

And yet he'd attacked Ford.

His own brother hadn't recognized him. Had categorised him as a threat.

As Ford watched from the doorway as his small family settled down into the comfortably tired haze of domesticity, he wondered how he could have ever let something like this happen.

[howlingday]

first arc au) there was only one arc in the far distant annals of history. jaune arc... and also all his sisters but he was techiqually the first and thanks to his semblance he's immortal and never aging.

he's been quietly living in the forrests of vale for a few thousand years until he saved a woman named summer rose from being a grimm. now he is honor bound to see her home and back to her family

just how will the world react to this immortal knight well outside his time?

Knight

How long was he asleep this time? Two hours? Three?

When he fell asleep, the sun was setting. Waking now, the sky was dark with no stars above to shine down.

His throat was dry, so he wandered to the river, where he kneeled to the flowing water and scooped a handful to his mouth. The cool water chilled his throat, satisfying his thirst.

A piercing scream echoed through the forest. He stood up immediately, grasping Crocea Mors and heran, keeping the sword steady as he barreled through the thicket, snapping branches and scaring the inhabitants of the forests he passed.

As the screaming continued, he unsheathed the blade from its scabbard. It hissed as it scraped free.

He soon reached the source of the screaming, a young woman being mauled by a large, black creature. It had the sobbing woman in it's jaws as it tossed her to and fro. She wailed and screamed, interrupted only when her body was struck against the trees and rocks.

It released her, and pinned itself atop her body, it's massive paw cracking her ribs as it landed hard. A breathless gasp escaped her, ending the screaming. She wheezed as she looked into the eyeless terror illuminated only by the hovering moon. It lowered it's fanged maw to her head...

...Then touched it's forehead to hers, before tipping over to her side. The black and white of the beast's body scattered like ash in the wind, leaving behind only a decapitated corpse.

"Hm, that's new." The woman looked to a new figure in the moonlight. It was a tall, handsome young man, about half her age. He sheathed his sword, slick with blood, and knelt to the woman's side. "Can you speak?" She wheezed, but couldn't speak. He hummed in thought, then slipped his arms beneath her form. He carried her through the forest, taking care not to exacerbate her wounds any further.

He reached a road, then followed it until he saw the lights of a nearby town's street lamps. He reached the medical clinic and kicked the door hard.

"It's four in the morning," the doctor shouted from inside, "what could be so important that-"

"Her." The man answered. The doctor gulped, gesturing the man to enter swiftly. As she examined her patient, she asked him questions.

"What happened to her?"

"Grimm attack."

"When did this happen?"

"Hour ago."

"Do you know her?"

"No."

"Can you help me?"

Jaune thought for a moment. He wanted to go back to forest. He wanted to sleep a little more before he had to hunt for breakfast. But he knew the right answer. The same answer his mentor gave him when he was asked the same question.

"Yes."

The woman awoke hours later. She groaned in pain. She opened her eyes and saw she was in bed in a hospital, or some type of medical clinic. She grunted as she tried to lift herself up.

"I wouldn't." She stopped, looking to her right, where the young man from earlier sat. He was blonde with blue eyes, and a beard hiding his mouth and jaw. "You were gravely injured. The doctor said you were lucky."

"Thank you," she smiled softly, "but I have to hurry home. My daughters-"

"Can wait a little longer. Just one day of rest rest won't be enough."

"But my girls-"

"Will understand, I'm sure."

She sighed. Until this man allowed her to leave, she was stuck in bed. Normally, she would be reading to Yang or Ruby a bedtime story. Now, she had neither of her children, nor her books to read.

"Have you seen my scroll?" She asked.

"No." He answered. "I assume that monster tore up any papers you were carrying."

She blinked. "Papers?"

"Yes, papers. Unless your scroll was made of stone."

"Oh, no." She chuckled. "My scroll. It's my personal electronic communication device. I just open it up, and I can talk to whoever I want."

"How?" He asked, leaning close. "Magic?"

She laughed. He was right for her to stay in bed. Her body ached from laughing! She rubbed her side with a light moan before continuing. "No, not magic. I think it's electricity, and radio waves, and... You know what? It's better if I show you. Could you hand me find a metal tube that the doctor took from me?"

The young man nodded, and passed the tube to her from the personal storage at the foot of her bed. She pressed the center button, unlocking and expanding the scroll in her hands. He stared in awe, hand on his bushy chin, at the technological marvel. She dialed her home number, and the device rang twice before a sunny-blonde answered.

"Mommy!"

"Hi, Yang!" It was so good to see her smiling face again. "Have you been a good girl for Daddy?"

"Mhm!" She nodded. "Ruby and I have been eating our veggies, and brushing our teeth, and and sitting quietly, and and-"

Summer chuckled. "Okay, I believe you. Is Daddy there?"

"Daddy's still sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

Yang nodded. "Mhm!" She moved the camera from her face to show Tai passed out on the couch. "We stayed up late watching Pumpkin Pete!"

"Really? That sounds wonderful! I wish I was there."

"Mommy?" The camera returned to the girl's face, whose eyes seemed to shine. "When are you coming home?"

Summer gave a soft smile. "Soon. In about a few days, I'd say. So keep being good girls for Daddy, okay?"

Her smiled returned. "Okay!"

"Oh, before I go, I want you to meet someone." She looked to the young man and gestured him to get closer. "Yang, this is my new friend. He helped me out of a bad spot."

Jaune leaned closer to her side. He tilted his head with interest, both at the scroll's screen, and the girl within. Her eyes shined with curiosity. "Wow! Who are you, mister?"

"I'm Jaune." He replied. "Jaune Arc."

"Jaune," Summer repeated, smiling "thank you for helping me. I'm Summer Rose, and this is-"

"Mommy!" The girl whined. "I wanna say it!"

Summer chuckled. "Okay, okay!"

"I'm Yang Xiao Long! Nice to meetcha!"

"It's nice to meet you, too." Jaune smiled, for what felt like the first time in forever.

[parlideldiavolo]

A ghost out of his grave.

It was time.

Vic had spent so much time preparing for this that beginning the ritual felt like a weight lifting. It was either relief or the steady creep of exhaustion slipping in after a month or more of being shrugged away, and if it was the latter then Vic knew it was about to get much worse. He didn’t have the time to feel tired, especially not now.

Now was showtime.

He’d used his ritual athame to draw warding glyphs along all the walls of his home. It was fully charged by virtue of his spending so much time with it, so the energy it directed emerged as vibrant peels of light across the paint of his walls that faded into smoked and precise scorch marks. Once he was sure his living room was ritually sealed from any outside supernatural interference, Vic shoved his couch and table back to create a clear area of the floor.

The sigils he drew there were just as careful: spirals upon spirals, runes upon runes, all creating a weave of occult ley lines interspersed with drips of resin. They radiated from a central position on the floor and interwove a hellish pentagram. You couldn’t get much more typical than this, though Vic’s work was the real thing and not someone’s approximation. Fuck, it’d take hours to clean this up after. He didn’t want to think about it. (Maybe Vic wouldn’t have to worry about it. Aah. Funny...)

The magic circle on the floor had specific spots where Vic put specific things; chalices, incense, a lock of hair, a wrapped tooth, woven bands of marigolds, etc. The ley lines that connected each element evoked an intent that only devils could read.

It took a while. When he had everything in place and the candles and incense were all set and burning, Vic picked up Mephistopheles (who had been watching all of this with huge eyes from the top of his cat tower,) kissed his whiskered cheeks and deposited the cat in his (Vic’s) new bedroom (which had previously been his work room. It was still his work room. He just slept on the lounge now.)

“Sorry, buddy.”

Vic set him inside and closed the door. The devil was accosted by immediate wailed meows of protest. A single black paw shoved itself beneath the door and swiped pathetically as though it belonged to a prisoner. As much as Mephistopheles could turn into smoke and breeze free from his cage if he wanted, Vic knew Meph would listen to him and stay where he was. Vic couldn’t risk anything upsetting the spell and—well, he didn’t want anything to happen to his cat if something went wrong.

“You go to Pepper if this all goes tits up, yeah?” This was a gentle, whispered sentiment uttered when Vic squatted and tucked a finger into the outstretched paw. Meph’s claws curled to grasp his fingertip and the devil smiled. After several seconds he pulled away and (with a deep, extended exhale) returned to the living room.

The atmosphere had changed. The candles and incense had kicked up their output, becoming thick and heavy as they mixed to create a faint fog that began to drift across the floor. The runic ley lines he’d put down flickered with each step he took when Vic approached.

Time. It was time to give someone more time.

He stood in the middle of the circle with his feet paced apart and concentrated. A rapid heat began to form in the room. The seared scorch marks littering the wood began to glow; he murmured a number of phrases in Infernal, which drifted from his mouth and layered over themselves in whispers until they, too, seemed to fill the space.

The lines flickered. Conjured flame began to climb from them. Between his hands Vic drew and clutched an ornate black mirror. Its glassy surface was reflectionless and its gothic-style frame unmarked except for what looked like fresh carvings. Vic murmured again and drew his focus in… in, further, farther…

Show me. Smoke uncurled from his hands and kissed the mirror’s surface. The dark glass grew hot. Hotter.

Vic had expected to have more trouble with his scrying mirror. He’d thought he’d have to work much harder to find and pull what he was looking for, or worse, had worried he might find it in rough shape that would require more time than he might have to make this work with the absence of a body.

But what he sought was perfect. Its shape was clear. It was also close, much closer than it had reason to be, flickering, responsive and trailing attachment even through the veil that separated life and death (and dimensions, and other such vast, slip-through spaces—and so Vic had a guess, even if it was only a guess, as to a reason why this might be.)

Yes. Soul. It was a beautiful one by the estimation of devils. Vic rarely got to spend such time with raw souls that wasn’t fraught or violent. He’d enjoyed this work. It was something new.

Runes flared across the crystalline surface. The unseen slip of paper with a name on it that Vic had tucked between glass and backing erupted with brilliant green fire that had the entire mirror flaring to life. The markings on his arms echoed the sudden eruption and inked like embers melting across his skin.

A wind picked up. Vic’s eyes shifted from steel to ruby as he tensed, and through the mirror, he reached.

Now.

He reached through runes of calling, runes of recognition, sigils of binding. In his mind, deep within himself through all the fire that raged as his devil-given power roared in this suspension of being, through the unfelt hollow where some part of him lay hidden still, he reached.

The glassy surface shifted and echoed a ghostly image that became sharper. It was a face--one both unknown and familiar. And through the mirror, into a kind of purgatorial in-between that its surface reflected, Vic grasped a name… and touched a soul.

Release.

The mirror shattered. It split down the middle by the runic marks that had been imprinted into its surface and became nothing (farewell, Vic thought.) Its demise was much like a gate blowing open and into a shower of shards that reflected the phantom light of bright green eyes. And, as it did, the soul Vic had summoned surged into himself.

This absorption wasn’t met with resistance. Lightning-strike sparks smoked up the ley line threads of the tattoos on his hands, arms and body as the soul filled him. Power ruptured at his feet; beneath him, something whispered into life by the raging winds and Infernal scrawls and ritual components melded together, swelled and took shape. Limbs. Face.

The soul phased into him in the blink of a second, and Vic was—

—was feeling. Fingers stretched within his own; he could feel the phantom touch of them like a memory, could feel the ghost of another’s breath in his lungs, the ache of a laugh, a sensation of…

… something so light and airy that he almost swore his wings could catch it and it’d be perfect. Then, something else familiar:

Euphoria.

Sense and memory overlapped. Vic held fast.

[asweetprologue]

resurge infra terra

Octoberfest 4: Buried Alive (whumptober #4)

Jaskier woke in the dark.

The smell of earth was so intense it made him gag. There was a pressure all around him, crushing down on his chest and forcing him to take tiny, gasping breaths. His hands were over his face, and he pushed them away slightly, making a tiny pocket where he could pant into the damp air. Was he dead? Jaskier’s mind swirled with hazy memories - sharp fangs piercing into his shoulder, his muscles seizing, watching Geralt wave shortly as he went off in search of the local monster. Waiting at the edge of town when it started getting late. He wasn’t sure if that was all in the right order, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had a more pressing issue, namely that it seemed the alderman had been wrong when he said that the creature’s bite killed instantly. 

The cloth of the shroud - his actual burial shroud, fuck - stuck to his face, and Jaskier could feel the weight of the dirt above him, pressing down heavily. The sense of claustrophobia was so immediate and intense that he wanted to retch, but he found he didn’t have the room or the air to do so. The only reason he wasn’t dead yet, he assumed, was because whatever coma-like state the aracas had put him in must not have demanded much air. He must have woken only just in time - any longer and he might have suffocated. 

He still might. His lungs burned for air. What little was left under the thick shroud with him wasn’t enough. Jaskier needed to move now, or he was going to die - actually, this time. 

At least they already went through the trouble of burying me, he thought, head spinning. He was so dizzy. He hoped they’d given him a nice headstone. 

His hands pushed up against the shroud, and he could have cried when it easily parted. Northern custom dictated that the deceased be buried with their hands covering their eyes - an old elven tradition, he thought vaguely. It had protected his mouth and nose from the pressure of the dirt above, and now he used one hand to hold the shroud in place while he pawed at the ground. The dirt above him was loose, only just dumped in place, and he shoved it aside as quickly as he could. More dirt fell back in its place, but he kept going, wriggling against the pressure and using his elbow to shove as much as he could towards his toes. With each movement the earth gave a little more, but Jaskier could feel himself growing weaker. His lungs were spasming in his chest, as if he’d been underwater for too long, bathing with Geralt by the riverside. The dark, wet dirt pressed in all around him, and he was never going to get out, never, he was going to die here - 

His fingers broke through the surface. 

He must have looked like something out of a ghost tale, clawing his way up out of the ground and ripping the shroud from his face. Crisp night air flooded his chest, and Jaskier found himself choking and retching up dirt and muck. He was still half in the grave, his legs stuck at an odd angle. Slowly Jaskier pulled himself out of the ground and flung himself to the side, breathing hard as he stared up at the starry sky. There was no headstone. What an insult.

Figuring out how to get up and go find Geralt seemed like a truly insurmountable task, so Jaskier did the only sensible thing he could think of: he fainted again. 

*

When he came to again, it was to large, warm hands shaking him. Someone was saying his name rather loudly.

“Oi,” he muttered, batting at the fingers clutching his shirt. “Leave me alone, I’m dead.”

It was then that he remembered that he wasn’t, actually, so he opened his eyes experimentally. He was met by a very shaken looking Geralt, who was the one clutching his lapels. Jaskier reached up and pat his hand weakly. 

“Only joking,” he rasped, voice rough from coughing. “What’s got you all worked up?”

The witcher looked harrowed, hair falling into his face and eyes wild. Now that he wasn’t so worried about drowning on dirt, Jaskier’s shoulder pulsed with a throbbing pain where he’d been bitten by the giant arachnid that Geralt had been hired to kill. Jaskier had been explicitly told not to come along, and he’d still run into trouble. Geralt was probably pissed. 

“They said they’d buried you,” Geralt said. His fingers moved to cradle the back of Jaskier’s head, which was very nice. Maybe Geralt wasn’t angry. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that this happened, so he really shouldn’t be anyways, now that Jaskier thought of it. He was going to voice this, but he was very tired, and Geralt’s other hand was warm on his chest. “I thought - Arachas venom is a paralyzing agent, they said you were hit,” Geralt continued. His face was haunted, an expression Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. “I thought I was too late.”

Jaskier grunted, using Geralt’s arm as an anchor to pull himself into a sitting position. The world swam around him for a moment, but finally settled. Geralt’s hand shifted down to help keep him upright, and Jaskier was grateful for it. “Well, as you can see I did a fine job of managing that crisis on my own,” he said, giving Geralt the best grin he could manage. It probably came off all wrong, stained as his teeth were with dirt, both of them sitting beside Jaskier’s self-desecrated grave. “Sorry you couldn’t be the hero this time.”

Geralt let out a shaky breath, and then Jaskier was being tugged forward into a crushing embrace. It hurt his shoulder frightfully, but Jaskier wasn’t about to protest. “I’m just glad you’re alright,” Geralt said in his ear, soft and vulnerable. Jaskier thought about how close he’d come to not being alright - thought about what it would have been like, to suffocate beneath the earth, Geralt standing over his body knowing he could have stopped it. 

Thank the gods for shallow graves. 

“I hope you didn’t kill the alderman,” he said, still pressed against Geralt’s neck. The witcher smelled like sharp metal and the sour-sweet smell of his potions. “Though I do expect several people met an unnecessary end by his hands.”

There was a growl against his temple. “I was going to deal with him later,” and the dark tone shouldn’t have made Jaskier feel so fuzzy inside, but it did anyways. 

Eventually Geralt pulled away, brushing a bit of dirt from Jaskier’s hair. He spent a long moment just looking over Jaskier’s face, as if double checking that he was still all there. Jaskier gave him a tired smile in response, free of his usual bravado. “If you can stand to hold off the mutilation until morning,” he said wryly, “I’d love a bath.”

Finally Geralt gave him a dry smile, one that said, The situation is much too dire for you to be making jokes, but I’ll allow it. A true act of love, in Jaskier’s opinion. He was nothing without his humor to cope. 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s hands shift, and suddenly he was being lifted, bridal style, into Geralt’s arms. Curling into the warmth of his witcher’s chest, Jaskier let himself doze on the way back to the inn. It didn’t necessarily make up for being buried alive, but he could definitely get used to this.