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the-whispers-of-death · 5 months

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The Stars and the Moon

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male!Reader Summary: You are outside the base, just staring up at the night sky and enjoying the peace the sight evokes. Ghost joins you. Content: Fluff, so much fluff, Ghost so soft he's most likely ooc, Closed off!Reader, desi!Reader, Reader has been in the military for a while, a tiny bit of cursing (like one bad word). Word Count: 990 words Author's Note: Simon currently has the hold on my brain rot, RIP my love John Price. I'd think he'd love to star-gaze, so I wrote this with him in mind and then he was like "What if I just loved Reader more than the stars and the moon?". He took over my brain to write for me and I just couldn't stop him.

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You stood outside the base, a few steps to the left of the entrance to the base. It was a chilly night tonight, a soft breeze ruffling your clothes and your short-cropped black hair.

Your eyes were on the starry night sky, taking every detail of the twinkling stars and the bright full moon. It was peaceful, a respite from all of the chaos of war.

There was no bloodshed here. No screams of pain that permeated the air. Just you and the stars.

Until you heard the door to the base open and a pair of heavy footsteps walk over to you, interrupting the peaceful silence.

“What are you doing out here, lad?” Ghost asked as he settled right next to you. His honey-brown eyes that were the only features of his that were showing beneath his balaclava and white skull mask went to the night sky, as if he too wanted to find the peace in it that you did.

You sighed, sitting down on the concrete ground, no care that there were chairs that you could’ve sat on. “Just looking at the stars, needed a reminder that not everything is drenched with blood,” you murmured.

Ghost was silent for a few seconds before he grunted and sat down on the concrete, joining you. “Guess the stars, they are pretty.”

That was the last thing he said before silence washed over you two, a familiar occurrence. Both of you had at least ten years in the military, having seen your fair share of traumatic things. So you two often gravitated towards each other, two broken soldiers seeking each other out in hopes you’ll bring out the light in each other.

“Though, you know, you’re more peaceful than the stars ever could be,” Ghost said after a few minutes, his gruff voice so soft that it was barely a whisper. He turned his head to look at you, his piercing brown eyes boring into you, taking in your brown skin that had a few old battle scars on it, your brown eyes which twinkled in the moonlight. “Lad, you know that, don’t you?”

You turned to look at him, raising a brow. “I’m just a soldier, Ghost.”

“Simon.”

No one on the Task Force ever called him “Simon”, except for Price, but even then Price didn’t call him by it that much. And most of the time when others tried to call him by first name, he’d correct them with his call sign. But you… You got to call him “Simon” now.

“Simon,” you said, memorizing the way it rolled off your tongue like it belonged there. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m surely not more peaceful than the stars. They’re breathtaking and a symbol of all that’s left to explore, a symbol of a vast universe. They’ve been written about in poems for centuries to evoke feelings of content and beauty.”

Ghost scooted closer on the concrete to you, his warm gloved hand resting on your thigh. “You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “The way you move, the way you laugh, the way you don’t take any bullshit. It’s breathtaking, absolutely mesmerizing. Sure, the stars are evidence of a vast universe, but who needs a vast universe to explore when there’s you?”

His hand on your thigh tightened and he pulled you closer, so close you were almost sitting on his lap. It was enough to get your heart racing.

“What good are the stars and the moon if they’re not you? They can’t make me feel safe like you can, they can’t make me laugh. They can’t complete me.” His other hand languidly moved along your side, up your neck and jaw until it cupped your cheek, so gentle and tender. “The stars are beautiful, but there’s nothing more beautiful than a good man, a man who knows of war and bloodshed and still fights for the greater good. And that’s you. You could’ve retired by now, settled down, but you’re here. You’re here with me, along side all of us, getting your hands dirty with blood and ashes so that those back home can sleep well at night.”

Your eyes fluttered at his words, your body melting against his touch. “Simon, I’m not all you make me up to be. I’m not some perfect human being.”

Ghost nodded, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. “I know. And that what makes me love you.”

His confession took the breath out of your lungs, your eyes wide as you stared into his.

“These past few months that we have grown closer have only made me fall in love with you,” he whispered, his lips so close but so far away due to his balaclava and mask. “And I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, please tell me to stop, to go away, and I will.”

“Don’t,” you replied, shaking your head when he wanted to pull away, your hand reaching for his, which still cupped your cheek. “Don’t leave, don’t go. I’ve fallen in love with you too.”

Your heart ached for him, your mind never strayed from thoughts of him. Of his laugh, his corny jokes, the way his presence filled up a room. On the surface, you thought your want—need—for him to be by your side was because he was your friend, the only one who took one look at your broken, closed off soul and said he’d stay by your side, but you knew that it was deeper than that. You were just as entranced by him as he was by you.

“Stay with me,” you begged softly.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Ghost said, no longer trying to pull away from you. His eyes closed as he pressed his forehead against yours just the tiniest bit harder. “As long as you'll have me, I’m yours.”

“Then let me be your stars and the moon.”

“Be my universe.”

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost cod #call of duty #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #my writing #fanfic #fluff #ghost x male reader #cod x male reader #cod modern warefare 2 #cod #cod x reader #desi!reader #:)

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daydreaming-jessi · 2 months

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Time may not heal all wounds, but they can at least scar over.

Future headcanons of the bishops! Just some fun ideas about change and visible trauma, as well as playing around with bodies. Once again they’re all based against the Lamb’s height. Yes, they’re giant freaks, Shamura most especially, they’re the tallest in the whole damn cult, Kallamar close behind. Headcanons are under the cut!

When nari first came to the cult, he was skin and bones, more bone than skin. His vision was badly affected as well, no longer being able to stand bright lights without searing pain and headaches. Eventually he was able to heal up thanks to a certain god’s determination, and quickly bulked up back to a healthier weight. (It’s kind of based off my own cat gatsby, who is now a handsome chunky boi) He still has pretty warped wrist bones though, and he can’t overwork his magic or else his arm skin will fall off again and the process of regrowing them has to be started again, something the Lamb is not happy to do. There’s nothing to be done about his vision, he has to wear a veil in bright lights.

The rest of the bishops were basically rotting in Purgatory, and did not leave their imprisonment unscathed, some more noticeably than others. The body shows the state of the soul, after all.

Leshy seems the least affected, until you realize his leaves are constantly wilted and flaking off, and he has zero energy compared to his old self. Eventually he regains his health, and shoots up like a damn weed, and doesn’t constantly need to sop up the leakage from his eye socket, leaving it to air out at times.

Heket seems normal at a glance, until you realize she’s in the bloated stage of decay, barely able to move about. Eventually her body deals with the mess, and she’s functional once more, however her throat is still a mass of scar tissue, so she still can’t really talk or turn her head very well, and has to go through a lot of pt to work out her neck muscles.

Kallamar and Shamura are the most obvious, emaciated bodies with hardly any muscle mass left, both traumatized shells of their former selves. Eventually they’re able to regain their physique, though they’ll never achieve their old glory days. Shamura is eventually able to regrow a skull so their brain isn’t constantly exposed, but the upper eyes are essentially functionless and their mind is by no means healed, and it’s a constant battle to keep on top of their failing memory.

Kallamar regains no hearing, his eardrums are fucked beyond repair, but being such a diva, he essentially performs plastic surgery on himself so his ears are at least no longer a tattered mess and capable of some decor. If you ask about any of his scars, he’ll gladly regale the epic tales of battle he earned them from, until Shamura is like ‘I have more, it’s just hidden by my fur, see?’ and then it becomes a measuring contest between the two and they’ll have forgotten you existed.

Heket and Nari are just bemoaning the fact their baby Leshy isn’t a baby anymore, and now they’re the shortest of the five.

#jessi doodles #cotl #cult of the lamb #bishops of the old faith #narilamb #catnip #leshycat #true devotion #follower leshy #follower heket #follower kallamar #follower shamura #they’re just a bunch of freaks and nothing can change that #cotl leshy #cotl heket #cotl shamura #cotl kallamar #gee I wonder where nari got that scar :)

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huramuna · 5 months

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wine red, tears gold - chapter 7, end.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

this is the end! i know i said 2 more chapters after the last, but i really couldn't stretch this into two without losing -- it is hopefully a good ending and does justice for both lyanna and aegon. only one song choice for this chapter as i feel like it encapsulates their relationship to a tee and i've been waiting to use it. even if it isn't you type of music, i'd really recommend reading the lyrics to see what i mean! thank you for following along on this journey with me, this was my first time writing aegon and again, i hope i've done him justice. i enjoyed exploring his complex character immensely and i hope you all enjoyed reading him. enjoy. ❤️ please feel free to leave any aegon requests in my inbox, this won't be the last time i write him, i promise!

word count: 2.7k

please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics for my fic postings.

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity, child loss

one day the only butterflies left will be in your chest as you march towards your death - bring me the horizon & amy lee

warnings: p in v

There were few things Lyanna really preferred about King’s Landing over Storm’s End– it smelled of shit and was riddled with vipers, whereas Storm’s End was full of boarish, thick skulled men with blades in place of their brains, less akin to use diplomacy to settle matters but rather their axes.

King’s Landing diplomacy was the same in a way, except without axes and with barbed tongues, dripping venom behind each carefully placed word. It was a task in itself to keep sane with the amount of people who tried to get something from her– kissing her hands, sending her beautiful dresses, exotic fruits and honeyed words.

‘Sign this, your grace.’

‘May I possibly have this, your grace.’

‘In exchange, your grace, please, provide us this.’

It was tiring. Soul suckingly so. Some days she felt akin to a lemon with its juices sucked out, nothing left but the skin and seeds and pulp, rotting in the sun. But, she supposed, there was one thing she did like about King’s Landing.

The sun.

It was resplendent here, unyielding in its warmth and caress over the gentle waves of the bay, orange and yellow tinge lighting up the horizon. She awoke in the morn, scantily clad, walking to her open balcony– but not quite walking out onto the landing– and basking in the sun like a fat cat, moving with the sun as it made its journey over the sky.

Sometimes Aegon was there, too, following along at her heels like a lost puppy. It was the norm nowadays, over eleven moons since her miscarriage, since Aegon’s confession, since his will to turn over a new leaf. Where Lyanna went, Aegon followed. She held him like a child each night, and they would curl into one another– but they had yet to couple since the miscarriage, both of them maintaining a dry spell for the better part of a year.

It was a test, in a way, for Aegon. He had denounced spirits and whores and all manner of sinful things, hardly gracing his own chambers anymore, preferring Lyanna’s. But, Aegon was a creature of habit, and always needed something to have, to obsess over as his own. Lyanna was part of that thing, but she kept him at an arm’s length emotionally, partaking in only the need for closeness with him in their bed, skin to skin– but never anything beyond it. Soft caresses, arms held together, one tucked into the other. They didn’t exchange many words during these times, only gentle sighs and hums of contentment, or nudges of discomfort if one’s elbow was poking into the other’s ribs.

The other thing Aegon had succumbed to was food– he replaced his daily intake of alcohol with food, and filled out quite nicely in turn. Before, he’d been a scrawny thing, the bulk of his daily caloric intake being just alcohol, and the calories burned off in succession with his rigorous trips to the brothel. But now, he ate three meals, each of them with Lyanna, except for breakfast. Breakfast was still reserved only for Alicent, Lyanna and Jaehaera– Aegon would eat in solitude quickly and wait outside of Alicent’s solar, waiting for Lyanna. Where he had shown ribs before, he had gained some mass, filling in his clothes.

Lyanna quite liked him this way, soft and plush– he was nice to lay upon.

She knew that he still had needs, as a man, and the time he’d gone without a woman, only using his own fist for pleasure, was certainly long. She was proud of him, in a way, that he overcame his baser instincts to try and better himself.

But, she felt guilty as well. He would try to make advances, of course, a gentle touch to her bare thigh, a kiss to her neck, an accidental brush to her nipple– all ways that were increasingly enticing for her. She just wasn’t ready, and she made him know that and respect it.

This usually ended in him sulking to the privy with his tail between his legs, more likely than not to take himself in his fist.

And so it was, for those months. But a whole year passed since Aeron’s passing– the winds were changing.

–

“The council meeting is adjourned, unless anyone has anything to say otherwise.” Lyanna spoke, adjusting her rings absentmindedly.

Otto Hightower spoke up, clearing his throat. His hair had gone gray in the year’s time, and he was getting on in age– the war in previous years had taken its toll on every surviving member of the family in their own ways, and Otto had been the most adept at hiding it, until it became too much to hide. The previous week, he had been walking the corridors at an ungodly hour, looking for Helaena. His mind was turning against him. “The matter… of succession, your grace. The king should name his heir sooner than later, little Jaehaerys is nearing ten years of age, and is unbetrothed. Mayhaps… we should propose a betrothal to Rhaenyra’s daughter, Visenya.”

The council looked at Otto, their eyes wide. No one breathed, nor said a word; they didn’t know how to deal with such a thing, as Otto was usually the one who dealt with it– his mind, once as sharp as a whip, was now a dulled leather belt.

Lyanna glanced at Aegon nervously, who sat up in his chair at the mention of Jaehaerys. “Grandsire,” he began, “That is… a splendid idea. I shall send a raven on the morrow to Rhaenyra upon Dragonstone.”

Otto, in his addled wits, had become fond of Aegon. The old man smiled, nodding. “Good, my boy. Very good. I have no more contestment– I do believe it’s high noon, Aemond and Ser Cole will be in the training yard, so I must depart.”

Lyanna frowned, watching as Otto left. In a way, she felt him losing his mind was a fitting punishment for his culpability in the war. And yet, it pained her to see him so… lost. Like a kite with no strings, floating upon the breeze until it inevitably hits the ground.

As Otto left, one of the other lords spoke up. “The Hand… does bring a good point, your grace. The matter of succession is still undecided. The… tragedy of the first babe leaves the realm waiting.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to speak, but Aegon cut her off, leaning forward in his chair. His hair had grown much longer now, past his shoulders in white curls, moving with him as he steepled his hands on the table. “The first babe has a name, Lord Wylde. Aeron, is his name, and you shall address my son as such when speaking of him,” he snapped. “The queen is still recovering from the traumatic ordeal of his birth, and we shall give her the time that she needs. Anyone who speaks a word more of succession shall lose their tongue. My patience for this council’s schemes has ran out. Consider this the only warning.” Aegon pushed off from his chair, snatching his Sunfyre colored ball and stashing it in his pocket. “Council dismissed.”

Lyanna watched as the lords rushed out of the room hurriedly, each one bowing their head in subservience to the King and Queen. Soon enough, it was just the two of them left. She didn’t speak a word, watching as Aegon paced, his hand twitching. He glanced at Lyanna a few times before walking to her and pulling out her chair. “My lady,” he muttered, his voice somewhat faraway.

She straightened out her dress, standing up. “Thank you,” she responded, looking up at him. His face was much clearer now, not addled by dark circles under his eyes, nor the constant blush of intoxication. But his eyes themselves were still tired, still haunted. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, reaching out her hand to grasp his. “For dispatching Lord Wylde.”

Aegon huffed, squeezing his wife’s hand. “I wish they would give it up– as if this whole situation wasn’t the cause of the war in the first place. Blind fucking idiots,” he grumbled, a calloused thumb wafting over her palm. In lieu of going to the brothels, he often would take out Sunfyre for flights, sometimes up to three or four times a day, his hands calloused and blistered from climbing up and down the saddle.

Lyanna inspected his hand, delicate finger tracing over the blisters– some fresh. “You must wear gloves, Aegon,” she chastised softly, “Your hands have become so rough.”

“I don’t like gloves, you know that,” he snorted. “They ruin the experience, can’t reach out and touch my boy’s scales, really feel them, with gloves on, now can I?”

Rolling her eyes, she dropped Aegon’s hand from her own. “I suppose not,” she contended, leaning back against the council table. She looked him up and down, her heart still feeling a bit tender from how gallantly he came to Aeron’s defense. The sun shined from the open balcony windows, illuminating his longer curls, and the rubies upon the Conqueror’s crown. His figure was solid, casting a shadow that could only be described as kingly. Lyanna blinked profusely, feeling a long locked away sensation bubble in her stomach, a heat coming to her face.

“What?” he asked, staring right at her. He had become so attuned to her, as they practically were fused to the hip at every waking moment.

“N-nothing,” she murmured, looking away. If he looked into her eyes, he would see exactly what she was feeling. Desire.

He stepped forward, a hand under her chin as he tipped her head up to face him. Their gazes locked and it only took a moment for him to flash her that dazzling, aggravating, lovely smile. “Do you like my hands soft?”

“... yes.”

His calloused palm rested completely under her jaw now, thumb and forefinger encapsulating her as he tried to eke out the secret she was hiding. “Why is that?”

“Aegon– don’t tease me.” she mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but upon his face.

“I’m not teasing, merely asking,” he got closer, the smug aura bleeding off of him like a sickly perfume. “Why so bashful, my queen?”

She felt her heart in her throat at their close proximity. They were close at night, even closer than this, but the energy charged around them was… different. It was something that they hadn’t experienced in a long time. Her mind went to how rough their last time had been together, how he fucked her like he hated her, like he hated himself– she didn’t want that now. She wanted… something different. She had to take control now and reel him in, if this was truly going to happen. “You’re teasing,” Lyanna hummed, the mood shifting as she leaned forward, grasping him by the collar of his doublet and pulling him to her. Her knee rested upon his clothed crotch in a testing manner. “Or, am I?”

His entire demeanor changed then, his hand falling from her jaw to rest on her arm. His hunched shoulders slumped as he pressed into her knee, his arousal becoming quite clear. “Y-you are,” he whispered, “my queen.” Aegon’s lip pouted slightly.

Pulling him downward then, their lips met for the first time in almost a year. It wasn’t aggressive or dominant like before– it was slow and meticulous, as if they were getting used to one another again. He tasted like orange, which he had been snacking on before the meeting. She tasted like lavender tea… it was all so familiar, yet distant. Lyanna’s idea of control slowly faded as they both surrendered to one another, tongues tasting and dancing as if they had all of the time in the world. They were both at each other’s mercy, both gentle as they undressed each other– as much as they could in the council room, anyhow. Lyanna unbuckled his trousers, sliding them down and grabbing a handful of his bottom, which was fleshy and pert now. His hands pulled down her bodice and squeezed at her breasts softly, rolling a nipple between his middle and forefinger.

It didn’t take much time for Aegon to ruck up her skirts and sink himself into her, slowly. Their mouths parted, still ghosting over one another as they drank in moans and whimpers as he bottomed out. It was still a tight squeeze and a wonderfully intense stretch. They didn’t need to speak, they didn’t want to– both were enjoying one another’s noises; Aegon’s heavy panting, coupled with Lyanna’s breathy moans into his ear.

They found solace and comfort, truly, for the first time in their marriage. It wasn’t fucking out of duty, nor jealousy, nor hatred. It was… love. It was because they wanted to, because they both wanted one another.

Because they both loved each other.

They’d never said it before, but the inkling of it had begun a few months before. Lyanna’s heart clenched as she stared into Aegon’s eyes, wide and violet, so full of devotion as he thrusted into her. It was on the precipice of both of their tongues– something that would change everything.

“I love you,” Lyanna whispered.

“I love you,” Aegon responded.

It wasn’t a perfect relationship by any means, and was difficult at best. They could never fix each other’s scars, never mend the broken, never resurrect the dead– but, in that moment, as they truly made love for the first time, it became more bearable.

Isn’t that all that anyone could ask for?

–

Another two years in Westeros passed. The sun was still shining brightly over the horizon, pouring through the glass windows atop the throne room. Hundreds were gathered in the masses from all over the continent.

Otto had stepped down as Hand and taken a backseat to politics– he wasn’t in the present at all any longer, muttering of the past and beyond, and stayed near his daughter in a wheeled chair, blanket over his legs.

Alicent had trimmed her hair short and stopped wearing green, rather, matching Lyanna’s choices of gold and white.

Jaehaera stood next to her father, dressed in blue and white, like her mother always wore.

Aegon didn’t sit on the throne, but stood in front of it, hand on the small of Lyanna’s back.

Lyanna pressed close to Aegon and Jaehaera, holding a babbling one year old upon her hip with one arm. A son– named Rhaenor, who had a head of white curls, and deep brown eyes. Her other hand was caressed on her stomach, which was swollen once again with child.

“I’d like to thank you all for gathering here today,” Aegon started, his voice booming through the throne room, silencing any chatter. “There has been some speculation on when the queen and I would formally name our heir. I won’t keep the realm waiting any longer. I, Aegon of House Targaryen, second of my name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm– formally name my heir,” he paused for a moment, ever basking in the moment. “Jaehaera Targaryen will succeed me as the ruler of the realm.”

There were whispers in the crowd but they were once again silenced. “We shall not repeat the errors of the past. My word and decree now is just and binding, not to be rescinded. My son, Rhaenor, will not succeed me, nor any other sons or children of mine. Jaehaera Targaryen is my heir.”

–

Jaehaera Targaryen succeeded Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, after he abdicated the crown at age sixty-two, focusing on helping dragons make a return after the near decimation of them from the Dance. He, with the help of his son Rhaenor, hatched five dragon eggs upon the Dragonmount, saving them from near extinction.

Aegon passed in his sleep at age eighty-five, surrounded by his five children and dozen grandchildren, as well as his fiercely loyal wife, Lyanna.

Lyanna passed one moon after Aegon.

Her dreams became real– she was young again, toes dipped in the pond with Aeron next to her, and Aegon next to him.

A few more figures approached from the darkness near the edges of the pond, white haired and violet eyed.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon ii targaryen angst #aegon ii targaryen fluff #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #my writing #wine red tears gold

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jacksprostate · 1 month

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(Part 5, previous)

I end up in the cafeteria, staring at nothing. Mastication is the first step of eating. After getting food. After bringing it to your mouth. After the food has leapt into your hands, you can bring it up to your teeth full of cracks and holes, and you can fill them with pulverized chicken and rice and assorted steamed vegetables. And you swallow. And you’ll do this until you die, whether that’s in three, five weeks, or when you’re seventy-eight. Four days or so, if you don’t drink water. I wonder if Tyler has water, locked in the cage of my mind. I wonder if hallucinations need food, or if there’s some other sort of nourishment he needs. That I haven’t been managing to give him. I know he’d like to chew.

Maybe Tyler was onto something, walking around feeling like a bigger dick than God himself.

That night, I sleep like the dead, and I dream of it, too. The movie set of Paper Street yawns above us. I’ve got Tyler in my hands, his hair tight between my fingers as I fuck his throat. I’m curled over him. I’m giving something up. I’m more powerful than I’ve ever been. Tyler Durden has tears in his eyes and my cock in his mouth, and he’s not biting down. Not yet. There’s a heat to the world, and maybe it’s not ever. I feel drunk. He’s quiet.

We’re at fight club, a crowd of howling monkeys around us, and I won. Tyler’s on the ground, looking at me with pride over his shoulder. I’m pulling him apart and sinking inside. I’m fucking my best friend into the concrete. He’s not making a sound.

We’re in my cubicle. I have a large knife, and I’m gutting Tyler like a fish. And I’m burying my dick in him, and he smiles at me. His intestines writhe as I pull on them, hauling his body to me with each thrust. They want back in. I want back in. He’s warm to the core and cooling.

On top of the Parker-Morris building, I’m fucking a hole through Tyler’s shaved head. A cock is your gun, your gun is a cock, an explosion in one direction and I’ve blown mine though his skull. Pulling the trigger, over and over and over. His brain droops out of the hole. Twitching as cum and blood oozes out. Little bits of bone stick to his fried neutered testicle scalp. Rocky mountain oysters. I can see the head of my cock poking out when I fuck in. Out. In. His eyes are empty on me as I move my hands from his jaw to his temples and dig my fingers in. His brain is like plush velvet. It’s better than his throat. Better than his ass. Better than his guts.

Tyler could not cut a hole in himself better than the one I made for him.

I wake up with a rash on my dick from the pillow jammed under my crotch. They don’t bother with high thread counts, here. Might as well be steel wool.

I eat.

I take my pills.

I’m led to the visitation room.

Marla calls me, her voice floats to me through the aether to come out tinny on the telephone.

“Have you heard from Tyler recently?”

Out of the grave enough for speech and she already wants to butt back in.

I want to tell her, I don’t have any words for her. No messages. I’m sorry. My jaw could have rotted off, for all the use it is, and I stay silent.

“I found this new support group. You’d like it. Tyler could be your boyfriend.”

I’m the only one who’s left. Only Marla and I would know the truth if I smeared it like that.

I want to tell her that I hope she’s having a good time, in the real afterlife. That she’s not stuck some place like I was. I don’t want to ask about it. I don’t think we’ll be going to the same place. Marla might not be a good person, but I’m worse.

Regret and remorse don’t mean shit when you can barely even feel them. It’s cruel, how I’m keeping her ghost around. I was haunting her until death and I can’t even stop after.

#fight club #my writing #se7en #se7en (1995)#a little shorter but making headway #i feel like this has to be a strange read getting it all distantly from each other. it tempts me to rush it but finishing it early would be #super lame. oh also my first day went gr8!#anyway this fic keeps getting longer....#i cant wait to share some of my own thoughts on this too once its done #ive got my own idea of things of course. i love hearing others tho so i cant share until its all done...

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dulcewrites · 9 months

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Seek and Destroy

Summary: Alicent swears she is not naturally a cruel person. Any semblances of cunning or coldness has been taught, slowly and surely. A gift bestowed to her from the age of ten and five. Something she was weened onto like a babe that suckles for milk from its mother. She has learned at the feet at the best - or maybe the worst. King’s Landing has fallen to Rhaenyra. Her children are scattered around the realm. Lives have been lost already. Alicent’s heart has finally callused. Nothing left but a shell and the venom that seeps out of it.

A/N: This is just something I have been working on. It is not finished obvi. I don’t know if I will expand on it. If I do I will probably post it to ao3

Her father’s blood had splattered into her mouth when she cried out. At first, Alicent did not want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her body shake in worry. Bones rattling together under neath sheathed of silk. Green silks. Or let them take glee in seeing fear in her eyes. She wanted to stand tall as the execution begun. Her father being first to go was for a reason.

Even in his doom, Otto Hightower managed to make his presence looming.

Alicent wanted not to shed a single tear. But then she felt ten and eight again. Just a girl with two children, and burden pressed firmly on her chest to the point where it was hard to breathe. He was unruly and fickle but without him, she would be alone… again.

Her brain settled between ‘This is all his fault. His debt comes due, as it should’ and ‘Daddy, please look me. Tell me you love me, that I made you proud despite of how it ends for us’.

But all her father told her was to look away. As if to shield her from a terror that had already came. A terror he brought. The horror was on their doorstep now. She was rutted in each night against her wishes; she bore four children - ones she could not save. They bore her grandchildren that she loved in a way she was not able to love her own children. Maybe if she could not help her own, she could do better with the littlest ones.

Jaehaerys. Oh, my poor Jaehaerys.

Everyone is gone. If not in person, in spirit.

Gwayne is gone. Her brother dragged into this mess. When he had arrived in King’s Landing, she has almost missed him amongst the other Oldtown knights. Her heart had sunk lower that she thought it could at the thought of not even recognizing her own kin. His face was one that was no longer burned in her brain.

Helaena’s mind and heart has been rotted from the inside out. On a good day, Alicent can force her to eat and drink. She bathes her daughter as if she still a babe. There is no light in Helaena’s eyes.

Alicent’s mouth feels as if a pile of sand has been dumped in her mouth if she thinks too long about how cold she was when Aemond left for the Riverlands. He gave her a kiss a cheek and muttered a pitiful sorry.

It was all he had said since coming back from Storm’s End. Different variations of the same thing. He never begged for forgiveness from the Gods but from her.

Sorry, mother. I’m so sorry mother.

If she could crush skulls with her bare hands, Alicent would. Not off strength, she’s always been a slip of a woman. But off the hatred that seemed into her bones.

She was prepared to die. She thinks she has been from the moment Viserys said he would marry her. From the moment the maester congratulated her on being pregnant with Aegon. Death had been a thing she even welcomed at times. When the lonliness felt too deep, when she could not stomach being called to Viserys chambers at night, when she had to look at her children for too long. She eyed Criston’s sword one too many times to admit. So, when Daemon leers over her with that cruel, ugly smile of his, she straightens her back and sniffs away her tears. He, of course, got the honors to kill her father; a task Alicent is sure he has wanted to do for decades.

It was Daemon who pushed her hair to the side with such gentleness it made her a bit sick. The coolness of Dark Sister pressed softly against her neck.

Alicent says a quick prayer to the Mother for her children. She knows it is to no veil; they were doomed the moment they came out of her. Mayhaps, this is her punishment for bearing them.

She does not sob over herself. Her lot in life has been well accepted. But Alicent wants to claw at her own face, peel back her own flesh so she is frayed out, when she thinks of her kids.

Let the Mother keep them safe as they do what is only imaginable in their wildest nightmares. May the horrors committed not leave them too soiled.

“Wait,” Rhaenyra’s voice calls out in the Grand Hall. It echoes so loud that Alicent flinches, the blade swiping gently against her neck. She still shivers from head to toe.

Daemon huffs, before removing the blade cautiously.

Alicent peers up at the stairs that lead to the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra gestures softly to her husband to come up the stairs. Daemon does not fully sheathe Dark Sister but complies anyway. A piece of Alicent’s hair obstructs her view, but through it, her eyes stay trained on Rhaenyra. Or whoever the person wearing the crown is.

The woman looks like the Rhaenyra. The same long silvery blonde hair styled elaborately on top of her head with the rest hanging in a braid. Her long riding dress is a deep black with red stitching and a red dragon collar. Red and purple dragons snaking their way up her sleeves. The woman has Rhaenyra’s eyes and nose, but Alicent has never felt more confused about who stands at the feet of the Iron Throne. The woman’s mouth pinches the way a young Rhaenyra’s would when she was distressed.

Rhaenyra’s look makes Alicent think of the stories of warrior queen Visenya. Rhaenyra would often laud the might and cunning of her ancestor. After the pain, humiliation, and anger post Aemond’s losing his eye, Alicent had chucked softly to herself, in the privacy of her chambers. at the thought her son riding the Conqueror Queen’s beloved dragon. Because of course it would be one of her kids to claim the old bitch.

But despite the styling callback, a warrior Rhaenyra is not.

And based on the look of disgust settling on Daemon’s face, he thinks the same of his wife.

He will never see you as an equal, she wants to call out. It does not matter how many crowns you put on your head, how many dragons you claim - you always just be his little niece… a silly woman. The means to his end.

Their conversation reaches a cacophony and Alicent desperately wants to know what it being said. Is Rhaenyra asking him to make it as gruesome as possible? Maybe they will drag her body out in front of the castle for all the small folk to see. A warning for what can happen if they defy their queen. Alicent already knows the heads of those that helped Aegon and his kids escape will be next once they catch them.

Rhaenyra reaches out to grab Daemon’s arm, but he is already down the stairs muttering expletives out his mouth. Alicent hears the word whore, and scoffs internally. She fights back a sad smile that almost forces itself on her face. Not the first time she has heard that, and surely will not be the last. Poor Daemon has never been clever with his insults. They are as simple as he is. She is the nasty deceitful, whore that seduced Viserys and ruined everything. Used her wily, womanly magic, her cunt, to lure the King of the Fucking Seven Kingdoms into submission. She always noticed how Daemon always acted like she stole Viserys from him.

The same way the maidens whose virtue Daemon stole must be whores too. The same way Queen Aemma must have been inadequate since she did not give Viserys what he wanted. Something must have been wrong with Rhea and Laena too. Maybe even Daemon’s own daughters are not enough. Surely, something is wrong with Rhaenyra. Something that makes Daemon’s stomach curdle. Such is the way with men like him.

Viserys will be remembered as a peaceful king, and a gentle man. A king who was so averse to conflict that he raped Alicent for children he then neglected once they came. He was so kind he made sure his first wife died in a pool of blood with nothing but screams of agony and pleas of mercy dying in her lips.

She wonders if Rhaenyra knows that charming story. Would she still have felt safe under the patronage of Viserys if she knew such? Imagine the horror that Alicent felt when she overheard maesters whispering of such when she was pregnant with Aegon.

Alicent is sure Daemon will die being known as a ‘true’ and ‘honest’ warrior. Apparently, there are those that think there is some sort of honor in being upfront about ones rotting heart. As if his cavalier attitude negates the atrocities on his hands. The world has taught Alicent that type of ruthlessness is only tolerated at the hands of a man.

And Alicent, in all her attempts to do right, to keep her head above water, to appease and break herself down into a small enough package that all can accept her, will be known as a whore. A seducer, a scheming bitch that stole the agency of a grown man. She will die being blamed and accused.

It only seemed right she supposed.

Viserys the Peaceful. Daemon the Honest. Alicent… the Whore.

Her confusion mounts when Daemon does not come back to her to finish the job. Instead, he continues walking, right past and leaving the hall in a fit of anger and rage. Alicent knees have begun to ache from being crouched. Rhaenyra clears her throat, and Alicent eyes slowly go back to her. Dark bags rimmed Rhaenyra’s eyes, only drawing more attention to the extremely dark limbal ring that surrounded deep amethyst. When Alicent heard about Lucerys’ death, it had shaken her to her core. Frankly more for Aemond’s sake than for Rhaenyra’s or the boy’s. The thought of peace still naively in her mind. Alicent always seemed to the last one to arrive at the right conclusions. A fatal flaw of hers unfortunately.

You were already ill-fated, you foolish boy! Why make yourself accursed as well!

But when Alicent heard of Jacaerys’ death, she knew what was to come.

There are few things a parent loves more than their first born.

…. Alicent had never known what the smell of burning flesh was like till Aegon.

“I have decided to spare your life,” the few people that stood in the hall, her council, begin to whisper to each other. Rhaenyra shifts uncomfortably at the eyes on her. “For the sake of my father, who loved you once.”

Alicent blinks once, then twice, then three times. She is almost a bit disappointed. Rhaenyra has taken so much and now she has taken death off the table too.

And is that what they are calling what Viserys did to her? Love? Rhaenyra could not possibly believe that. Not now after everything. After the way Rhaenyra would so seamlessly twist the knife when she had the chance, when she was backed in a corner. Rhaenyra knew there was no love there. Not for Alicent and definitely not for her children.

The words crawl up her throat before she can stop them. She must know. “And what of my girl? What of Queen Helaena?”

The queen part slips out truly on accident, a panicked slip of the tongue, but Rhaenyra’s mouth curls a bit in a sneer.

If her Helaena is to die at the hands of one of Rhaenyra’s butchers, to meet the same evil fate Jaehaerys did, then Alicent might beg for the sword. Or a rope and one of the high ceilings of the Red Keep.

Something cold and numb flashes behind Rhaenyra’s already hallow eyes. As if she is just now remembering that she had a sister that still occupied the castle.

“The princess will be spared as well.”

Rhaenyra waves a ringed hand at the guard to have Alicent taken away. Before she can even register was has happened, she is dragged away by the arms.

“Let her be bound in a manner fitting of her new station,” Rhaenyra sits in the Irone Throne elegantly as Alicent goes.

Alicent’s frantic eyes look at her father’s limp body one last time. His blood spilled on the ground. His head separated from the rest of him. It is the first and only time Alicent has ever seen her father so… small.

If Otto was alive now, and they were alone, he would tell her that he was right. He said as much after Jaehaerys was killed. Right before Aegon snatched the hand pin off his grandsire’s jacket and screamed at him that all that cunning had gone to waste by Otto being a ‘bastard that was too thick in the head for his own good’. Otto would say they should have had mercenaries go to Dragonstone and do the deed while they had the chance. He would still be alive. As would Gwayne and Jaehaerys. Helaena would not be in a fugue state beyond repair. Alicent’s boys would be home, and well. Daeron could have come back to King’s Landing for a coronation that was not rushed nor interrupted. Aemond would not have blood on his ledger.

Aegon would be king with no one in his path.

You know it. You're no fool and yet you choose not to see it. The time is coming, Alicent. Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.

She stumbles all the way back to the Holdfast with thoughts swirling in her head.

Alicent did not prepare Aegon, the way she should have. But she was not prepared for such things; so how did anyone expect her to know better. How can a child help a child. How does the blind lead the blind. She may not have done what she needed for Aegon, not in that moment. But she refuses to cleave now. Mercy is not a luxury she has been granted for some time.

Have you ever imagined yourself on the Iron Throne?

No, of course not. Alicent can be naive, but never stupid. Never foolish or too hot on herself. Her veins have turned ice cold. She does not have her children the way she would want to. Alicent has never had a dragon to threaten others with. The army at her disposal is elsewhere fighting a futile battle. Not even Criston is here.

She just has herself, and right now that has to be enough. It must be enough.

#im very interesting in her queen in chains era #I don’t even know the ending part of this #it would be mixing book lore and hotd tho #there might be rhaenicent… maybe idk #but it will maybe be from Alicent and Helaena’s pov #pro alicent hightower #alicent hightower #alicent hightower fanfic #alicent hightower imagine #pro team green #hotd imagine #queen alicent #I am writing a different Alicent thing but that one is almost done I think #Alicent imagine

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romeulusroy · 1 year

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Heed (Roman Roy x Mencken!Reader)

Chatacter/s: Roman, Mencken, Logan mention

Word Count: 1,413

Inspired By: Nothing's New by Rio Romeo

Requested: hihi! ahh i loved your newest roman fic! i also have severe roman brain rot & would love a fic that is super fluffy & hurt/comfort where he is super soft with the reader (either his s/o or situationship or friend or lil sibling i don’t mind & hope that isn’t to vague) & treats them like he does with kerry in ep4 at logans wake.thank you so so so much xx - anon

A/N: Are you ready for the hurt/comfort my love???? Because I don't think you are!!! :P This was so cute, he was literally so cute in that moment like god please let him be soft!!! Thank you for requesting my love!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Succession Masterlist

You scream his name, but it’s too late. They recognize you. They’re grabbing at you, pulling at your clothes, tearing them from your body. You’ve fallen to the ground, on your hands and knees, begging for them to stop. Crying out to him. There’s too many of them, they’ve made a wall around you, a bubble he can’t pop. They’re kicking you, punching you, pulling at your hair. The road burns under your skin, your palms being torn to shreds. You taste blood in your mouth, choking on it, unable to cry out any longer. He’s calling your name, crying out to you, but you can’t move. You can’t fight. There’s too many. You can feel it in your stomach, in your sides, your chest: their anger. They won’t stop. All of them are so angry, so full of rage, taking it out on you. Your shirt is torn open, torn off, discarded in the crowd, one of your shoes gone. Your left eye has swollen completely shut and there’s a terrible, pulsing ache on the side of your head. It vibrates through your skull, making you nauseous, terribly aware of the iron taste in your mouth. Something wet and hot drips down your face, your chin. It feels like forever, hands groping you, touching you. They spit their words. Words meant for your brother, your family, not you. You had nothing to do with his campaign, his supposed win. Nothing. You shared a single last name, that was all. That was all. Eternity passes before they’ve grown tired, bored, before you’ve gone limp, crying quietly to yourself, your arms wrapped around you, protecting you from the cold of night. They’ve moved on, leaving you shaking, whimpering. Someone touches you, but you pull away, screaming at them to get away from you, get away. He just shushes you. It’s me, he says as gently as possible, It’s just me. You open your good eye, staring up at him. He’s bleeding. One of his eyes has gone completely red. He looks frantic, disheveled. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, all he can see is the crowd swarming around you, hurting you, you calling out for him and he’s unable to help. He’d never felt so helpless. Steadily, holding out his hands, he reaches for his jacket. He slips it off, putting it around your bare shoulders, making sure you see his every action. Despite yourself, you flinch. Despite yourself, you fall into him, shuddering, shaking, crying. He doesn’t think about it, instead instinctively putting his arms around you, holding you tight. It’s okay, he whispers, everything is going to be okay.

He never meant for this to happen.

Your brother never should have said what he did. You knew, under that faux laugh and eye roll was someone hurting, mourning, grieving. You tried to apologize later on, but by then the damage had been done. By Jeryd, by Kendall, by that stupid video going around. From the moment you met him you liked him. You didn’t care about the friendship between him and your brother, or that he was a Roy. He was funny, and kind when no one was looking. You’d only talked a few times, but you got the sense that he liked you, too. He went to seek you out at the election party, the two of you conversing in your own private corner for over an hour. He made you laugh easily, hysterically, until you were crying. Nothing was off limits. You spoke of your brother's political career, how it had made an impact on your life. It could be worse, you shrugged, trying not to sound inconsiderate. Roman was, after all, a huge help. He’d been with him from the beginning, most of the family had, too. You’d told him how sorry you were about his father, hugging him tight, and you noticed he didn’t resist or try to side-step you like he had others. His shoulders slumped a little. He was taking it in, really taking it in, grateful you weren’t made of plastic like everyone else. It could also be better, he objected. You just nodded, unsure of what to say. It could always be better. True. You’d lost a lot of friends because of Jeryd, a lot of people in your life. It felt like, sometimes, you only had Roman. He’d asked for your number, for anything about the campaign he’d said quickly after, but you understood. You texted, you called. Sometimes about your brother. Mostly about life. How you were doing, how he was doing. He wasn’t all defensive and witty over text. He dropped the exhausting act. It was nice. You were seeing the real him. When he took off you chased after him. You couldn’t let him do what he was going to do, whatever it was, fearing the worst. He walked down the street, past his car, towards the protesters. Your stomach dropped. You watched him get hit, once twice, before going down. You called to him, trying to save him from himself, climbing over the barrier. You shouldn’t have. It was stupid. But you couldn’t let him get hurt. That’s when they recognized you, that’s when they came after you.

You stay like that for a long time. He rubs your back, hushing your cries. It’ll be okay, we’ll get you some help. Head pounding, sides aching, everything hurt. It hurts to breathe. Slowly you make your way to the other side of the barriers where he sits you down on the sidewalk, trying to access your wounds. You’ll need stitches, he thinks dreadfully, a lot of them. As carefully as possible, he wipes the blood away, red soaking into the sleeve of his white button up. Your head is pretty banged up and you might be missing a few back teeth. He can see the bruises forming in the opening of his jacket and your palms are bright red. You’d stopped crying, now embarrassed. I’m okay, really, you protested, fighting him, but the look in his eyes was scared and stern: stay put. You couldn’t stop yourself from apologizing. If you’d been smarter, if you thought for just one second, he wouldn’t have to be doing this. Roman was quite a moment, getting to your level on the ground. This is my fault, not yours. You were, you were just being a good person. You shake your head, going on and on about what an idiot you are, but he’s not listening. He tips your chin up, making you look in those big brown eyes. So sad, you think, so hurt. Listen to me, his voice soft, shaking. This wasn’t- it’s not- none of this was your fault, okay? You just shrugged, defeated. He calls a car that should be there soon. In the meantime he sits beside you, every so often dabbing your forehead. Is it as bad as it feels? You’re quiet now. How would you explain this to your brother? How could you explain your lack of thought? You just moved, you just acted, following him because you were worried, because you were petrified about what would happen to him if you didn’t. He’d never understand. You and Roman, you weren’t anything, but you cared about him and he cared about you. It didn’t have to have a name. It didn’t have to exist to everyone else. He shakes his head, dabbing the blood. You kinda pull it off. You smile, nudging him. Really, this could be the new look. You roll your eyes. You let your head rest on his shoulder, exhausted, the adrenaline wearing off. Everything hurts, everything aches. You reach with your tongue in two empty sockets. Your teeth must be over there, on the sidewalk. He puts his arm around you, letting it hover just above your skin, not wanting to cause anymore harm. He knows you’re tender, that the booze and emotions will wear off and you’ll be in a world of pain. The car pulls up just as he’s about to call. Slowly he guides you in, climbing in beside you. They start to drive quickly, towards the nearest hospital, every so often glaring up at you two. What a sight. Your poor eye, you whisper, touching the side of his bruised face. He holds your hands, knowing how they must burn. He didn’t care the least about himself, you were his only concern. You should see the other guy.

#writing #requested #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #succession #succession imagine #succession x reader #jeryd mencken #jeryd mencken imagine #jeryd mencken x reader

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craacked-splatters · 4 months

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"I know"

"Do u want to see what I added today?"

"Sure buddy"

(insane rambling below!)

Scrapbooks! Scrapbooks! Hell yeah!!

Hello to the 5 ppl seeing this👋 Ima be real Im running on 7 hours of sleep after 5day grind brain mushy rn and I scribbled everything maniacally by memory at 3am after having one of those revelation moments so I have no idea what I'm missing lmao. This is actually the first time drawing them like this 2. Really proud of it

and B4 u ask anything hear me out.

So like tmnt2012 mutant apocalypse am I right?

Yeah it's flawed and pacings off and stuff BUT! The implications it left behind are haunting and it has been stuck in my brain for years. One of the things that stuck with me was the fact that Raph and Don had stuff like April's tessen, Mikey's stuffed bear head, The Creeps containment jar, and Casey's skull(horrifying btw) with them and that it's like :((

I fully believe it was Donnie who collected and carried them everywhere in their car. Not only for Raph(to help with this memory)but also for himself.

Why? Well maybe I'm reading 2 much into it and it's also partly a HC of mine but also bc canonically Donnie has a bit of a hoarding habit collecting trinkets and pictures and stuff. He likes to keep things around that hold a lot of significant value to him.

We see this in The Creeping Doom during the intro

AND I swear he's got a literal wall of family photos in his lab somewhere I can't for the life of me find it but I know he did! He even took some to the farmhouse with him when they escaped during the invasion.

They're memories yk? Reminders..

Ok im having difficulty expressing this shit rn words r failing so like give me ur brain 4 a sec.

Imagine ur donbot.

You're stuck in a cold metal limbo for the rest of ur last remaining family members life. Everything and everyone you knew and cared about is dead and gone. Over thousands of species and ecosystems that made ur world unique wiped out. No more animals no more wild things no more blue clear skys. Death can't come for you. Not in a way that matters anymore.

And no matter where u go you are haunted by shadows of what once was. There are so many echoes and ghosts and cultures and stories and lives that were buried & left to rot by the gaping maws of fear & the desperate need to survive. No one cares for the past and the only other person around you can't remember it. Time will claim its domain again and there will be nothing left except empty metal husks to show sentience even existed in the first place.

Like holy shit he was just a kid bro and he never got the chance to even reach full adulthood!!! I can't possibly imagine the grief and guilt he must've carried with him all those years. He lost EVERYTHING

His family. His home. His world.

Did Donnie even get the chance to mourn??? Do u think his new body allowed it? Do u think he even ALLOWED himself to mourn? He had a hurt amnesiac brother who still needed to eat, who could still starve and bleed and die if they weren't careful enough.

So between his habits and the ✨Angst✨ and human pollution, him hoarding random ass things Wall-E style and making these shitty little scrapbooks or keepsakes didn't seem so far fetched to me. I also highly doubt there was enough time or resources to build shrines or graves in the middle of apocalypse. But yk honoring/preserving the memories of the things and ppl we love is natural for us so like SORRY if its a bit cringe of me wanting him to have SOMETHING to comfort him during the really bad days.

Even if its more bitter than sweet

Bonus doodads cuz I was indecisive:

The 1st was purple tinted cuz of donbot vision get it hehehe

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dani-the-mark · 21 days

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I WATCH THE "hello." STREAM SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO! Part 1

So, as some of you may know, we got a new QR code tonight. This one led to a 55-minute stream. I know not everyone has time for that, but we all deserve to be a part of this family. So, I wrote a play-by-play to the best of my ability. Because it is so long, part one will be the first 30 minutes and part two will be the last 25. So, hopefully, my brain doesn't explode before this is over. Uncle Howdy, I miss you.

It opens with Vickie Guerrero Introducing Kane on Raw. It cuts to a room with a chair, bookshelf, and a mirror. There are background noises: mostly wind/AC, occasional shuffling and maybe footsteps.

A few images flash on screen intermittently: a crescent moon, blurry silhouette (could've been Bray or Bo), skull(?), Sister Abigail(?), and House of Horrors room(?). Then, in quick succession - same crescent moon again, lion, bones. Lastly, a close up on mirror before we hear the sound of knocking, and a woman enters the room. It seems like therapy. From this point on “she” will be referring specifically to the therapist character unless otherwise stated. She sounds very familiar, like maybe from one of Bray’s phone calls?

She asks questions and flips through a notebook, but we don't hear any response. We do hear the turning of pages that are independent from hers. More flashing images: the same bird and aly chemical-type symbol we've been seeing. From this point, I will just call it a/the symbol. Then a figure in a sheet a la Sister Abigail. Close up of an eye, then a front porch that definitely reminds me of the House of Horrors.

Woman asks about feelings and if “anything has changed”. The last few words are repeated, but distorted. A flash of the figure again, and it's almost DEFINITELY Abigail. Then a hand reaching around a door and dripping thorns, both in black and white. She asks about sleep. Image turns yellow, then flashes of many pieces of paper with the symbol drawn on. They are identical to the one's in the first video we received tonight (WWE.com/22423).

She asks about dreams. The word “dreams” is also repeated and distorted. WWE logo flashes with the words “LEFT IN CAVE TO ROT” overlaying it. Then the words “TO BE FORGOTTEN”. The same door from before flashes again. More flashing of the symbol, a rotting animal corpse (I think a rabbit), scarecrow-like figures, the road from inside a vehicle, the porch, and Abigail. Abigail is pointing at the viewer. The last image is very unclear. It looked like hay or fur. We also see some of the previous images included in the last few QR codes (the man looking at the bird).

She asks about eating. A bird in flight and a fly in distress flash. Symbol and ANOTHER QR CODE. It's an old one that leads to wwe.com/qrisme. It stays on screen for an extended amount of time.

She asks about getting out and socializing. The road flashes again, and we hear a quiet “he is waiting for you”. Then Sister Abigail again, from the same angle we saw in the “We Be(o)lieved” video. We see the porch again, and a paper that reads “remember who you are” is thrown in front of the door.

She mentions social media. The words “I DIDN'T FIX THEM” appear, then “I ACCEPTED THEM”. Lines from the poem The New Colossus (from the plaque on The Statue of Liberty) appear: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”. Then we see an eye again and a face with a triangle of negative space in the center. “THEY WERE BROKEN” flashes after she asks how the things on social media “made you feel”.

We are about 10 minutes in.

“I ACCEPTED THEM” appears again. We hear shuffling, pages turning, and pages ripping. A new (?) QR code appears leading to https://www.wwe.com/ysnsy51s. It's a very unnerving. The file name is “imagehttps://www.wwe.com/f/all/2024/04/strabizo--47c610e3e7c872be6561bb243c69dd2f.jpg”. The bird and symbol flash again.

She asks about distinguishing between reality and imagination. The “REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE NOT” reappears, as well as the blurry silhouette, the symbol, and Abigail. The silhouette is not any clearer. She asks about the effects of “episodes” on day-to-day life, and the porch and silhouette flash again. She gets up and begins to walk towards the camera, picking up a piece of paper or note card and slipping into her notebook before sitting back down.

It's a picture of some sort, but it's not immediately visible. She turns it towards the camera, but it's drowned out by light. She asks “what this means to you”. The image then appears, and it's a crudely drawn bird similar to the one that has been appearing in various hints and throughout the stream. Then there's another quick suggestion of images: the symbol, the bird, and the words “BECAUSE WE BELIEVED”.

She asks what emotions the bird represents/elicits. We hear more paper ripping. Once again we see the symbol and bird, followed by a single frame of white text over a red background that reads “ALL_WE_EVER_WANTED_WAS_A_CHANCE.”. Then the outline of the bird is cut into the wall of text.

She says “you're quite the artist” before the drawing, symbol, and bird appear once more. She asks “how long have you been drawing pictures like this?”, then the crescent moon reappears. Next is a new silhouette: black with its arm raised over a textured light gray background. Another QR code leads to https://www.wwe.com/kintsugi. This one was also new to me. It includes a video with many of the images from the stream, as well as the words “LAGRANGE POINT”. The code also stays on screen for a significant amount of time, before the bird covers it and it disappears.

She asks about a deeper meaning to the drawing. The symbol, bird in flight, and black and white silhouette reappear. She retrieves another piece of paper, and reads out “can you keep a secret? I set them free”. The paper flashes. What is written is only “I SET THEM FREE”, and is once again followed by the bird. Following this is the text “I ACCEPTED THEM” and “THEY WERE BROKEN”. She asks if the picture and note are connected, and we hear more paper ripping. She asks “who did you set free?” which is repeated and distorted. The symbols and the “REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE” note flash again. A clip from the video in the kintsugi link plays before the text “YOU WILL UNDERSTAND”.

She attempts to encourage an answer to the question, then we see the symbol, poem, “I DIDN'T FIX THEM”, and “I ACCEPTED THEM”. Then the screen is filled with “THEY OPENED THE DOOR” repeatedly. At the bottom is “WE CAN BE A FAMILY”. This is also identical to a previous video. Admittedly at this point they have all run together so I can't remember which one.

Another QR links to https://www.wwe.com/derisive, also new to me. Warning: there is a jump scare at the end of the video. This page also includs the words “years in metonic cycle” and some sort of letter/word puzzle at https://www.wwe.com/f/2024/05/evkairia.pdf. I am very openly bad at these, so I will leave that for one of you if you’d like. This code also says on screen before the bird appears to remove it. She attempts to encourage more openness, and there's the sound of paper shuffling. She gets up again and grabs another paper. She says “you want me to understand”, and the words “YOU WILL UNDERSTAND” flash.

The paper appears to read “THEY WERE TRAPPED. I SHOWED THEM HOW TO OPEN THE DOOR”. She reads the note aloud, and the last sentence is once again repeated and distorted. She asks who the note is referring to, and the image of the note flashes again before the “WE CAN BE A FAMILY” screen reappears.

There is the sound of shuffling. She asks more questions, trying to understand the note. After a moment of silence, she takes another paper. The note appears “DO YOU SEE? AM ALREADY FREE :)” after she reads this aloud as well. Flipping it over, the other side appears “I AM ALL OF US”, which she also reads. There's another paper rip. She asks for help understanding, and “YOU WILL UNDERSTAND” flashes again.

Another QR code, this one is familiar and leads to https://www.wwe.com/404 (the Be(o)lieved video).This code disappears with the bird as well, but is on screen for less time than the others. She asks about childhood and early memories. Two images flash: a sonogram and baby sleeping. After another moment and more ripping paper, an artistic image (maybe a painting) of a man in a complicated cave system flashes.

22 minutes.

A close up of an eye flashes, followed by the bird, “WHILE YOU DID NOTHING”, the symbol, and the baby picture. There's another long silence. Then, another QR code leads to https://www.wwe.com/RRMBHPAW. This is another new video to me, but it's quite simple. VERY interesting, however. This code disappears on its own.

She gets another note, which flashes “I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN”. She also reads this aloud. She asks a few more questions about the note potentially being connected to childhood or triggered by something while the ripping noises start once more. There's an especially long silence before another code. This once takes us to https://www.wwe.com/121212 and it's…it's a lot. There are a series of photos, the first few being either notes we’ve seen during the stream or notes that appear to be related. There are also a few photographs and a newspaper clipping describing the woman in the video, who’s name is redacted, as missing. This code also disappears on its own.

She retrieves another note, which is included in the last link. It appears on screen occasionally as she reads it. It says “I REMINDED HIM OF WHO HE WAS. I SHOWED HIM HIS LIES. NOW HE SHOWS ME HIS VISION. IT IS BEAUTIFUL”. The text “EVEN NOW” appears with a new clip of birds flying over a forest.

She asks for elaboration on who the note is referring to, with the “HE” written in the note appearing. She asks if there is someone the patient is trying to protect, and the “THEY WERE TRAPPED” note flashes again, as well as more of the symbol. There is the sound of ripping again, and a repeat of the WE CAN BE A FAMILY screen.

After another silence, which seems to be longer now each time, she picks up another note. The note flashes “THEY WERE LEFT ALL ALONE. I OPENED THE DOOR. NOW THEY ARE NOT ALONE ANYMORE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”. As she is reading it, a video of a door opening plays and the last two sentences are repeated and distorted.

30 minutes. End of part one.

#wwe #wwe smackdown #smackdown lb #uncle howdy #bray wyatt

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thunderwavesolveseverything · 9 months

Text

The Being in the Dank Crypt

[Astarion x Named Tav]

The Nautiloid had been unlike anything Phayelynn had ever seen. It was more than she’d ever wanted to see. Hells, she was only a bard, after all. She was trained to regale the tales of those strapping brave adventurers of Faerûn. To write and sing praises of their heroic conquests. She wasn’t supposed to be the subject of her songs. She wasn’t strong and wasn't near dauntless enough to stare danger in the eye without cowering. She wasn’t made of the right stuff for this kind of life. A fact that quickly became apparent to her newfound companions not far into their campaign to find a cure for the parasites taking up residency in their skulls.

-- The Baldur's Gate brain rot is alive and well, and I'm obsessed, and want to novelize my playthrough <3

(word count: 4,092)

Read on AO3 or here :)

The Being in the Dank Crypt

The Nautiloid had been unlike anything Phayelynn had ever seen. It was more than she’d ever wanted to see. Hells, she was only a bard, after all. She was trained to regale the tales of those strapping brave adventurers of Faerûn. To write and sing praises of their heroic conquests. She wasn’t supposed to be the subject of her songs. She wasn’t strong and wasn’t near dauntless enough to stare danger in the eye without cowering. She wasn’t made of the right stuff for this kind of life. A fact that quickly became apparent to her newfound companions .

“Chk.” Lae’zel clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes narrowed as she slid her sword back into its sheath in one swift swing. “Has the tadpole ravaged your senses, or do your kind always have the compulsion to touch things without knowing their purpose?”

Phayelynn had to look away, holstering her crossbow behind her, trying to hide the tremble in her hands as she attempted to adjust it alongside her lute. It was an honest but unsuccessful attempt. She hadn’t even owned a crossbow this morning, she huffed to herself.

“Come now, Lae’zel, we all get a little overzealous sometimes.” Gale cut in. His voice was the lightest among the five of them. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t itching to crack every tombstone open and unlock every door. It’s not every day you find a ruin like this.” He shuffled over to her, leaning his staff against the stone wall to their left to free up his hands to help her fix her crossbow and lute so they sat comfortably on her back. “I would’ve pressed it too.” He whispered in her ear, his face getting a little too close to her for her liking.

She scowled for a moment at his attempt to make her feel better. Less stupid.

She let out a sigh. She shouldn’t be so harsh on him. She gave him a sheepish smile to show her appreciation. They’d only known each other for a few hours, and he was only trying to be nice. They didn’t know each other, and he didn’t have to stick up for her. Especially with the trouble she had already caused them all. Although, technically, Phayelynn could shift the blame onto Shadowheart as it was her idea to come into this old, caving-in, dank crypt in the first place.

After the Nautiloid crash, after narrowly escaping with the help of Shadowheart and Lae’zel, Phayelynn was sure she was done for. She was lost and still in a haze over what had transpired when she found Shadowheart in the wreckage near her. She had expressed her gratitude to Shadowheart for wanting to stick together, as Phayelynn would’ve been completely clueless about what to do next without the cleric’s help. Soon, their party of survivors grew from two to five, reuniting with Lae’zel last, finding her being held in a cage by a pair of Tieflings. Shadowheart hadn’t cared to stay to help, hearing voices nearby, deciding to investigate, but it felt wrong leaving Lae’zel. She had been a crucial part of their survival on the Nautiloid. Phayelynn couldn’t leave her and was proud to put her way with words to good use, tricking the two Tieflings to flee in fear of more ‘approaching’ Githyankis, allowing herself and Gale to free Lae’zel once they were alone. Phayelynn should’ve stopped there, but that was one of her flaws. She never knew when to stop when she was ahead.

When the three caught up to Shadowheart, she stood with the white-haired elf, Astarion, whom they had also picked up on the way, surveying two tomb raiders arguing about whether they should go inside. Shadowheart had been the one to suggest checking it out, explaining how they could sell whatever they found at the nearest settlement for supplies for their journey back to Baldur’s Gate and finding a cure for the parasite taking residence in their skulls now.

Wanting to continue impressing her new party, the young bard marched forward and, somehow, managed to persuade the two thieves that the crypt was riddled with monsters and not worth the take. She had a glimmer of pride as her party was impressed by her success, each having prepared to fight their way in.

Whether they had wanted one or not, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t long before they had gotten into one. As soon as they entered, from a hole in the ground above, they landed into one. It wasn’t a difficult fight, but Phayelynn wasn’t one to properly judge. She only had tavern brawls to compare it to. She did what she usually did in those situations. She stood in the back, shouting words of inspiration and the occasional mockery towards the raiders inside. It was clear that none of the five knew how to work together as a team, but they still somehow managed to slash, stab, shock, and smite down the raiders, clearing a path to the rest of the crypt.

Phayelyyn looked down at the skeleton at her feet. Moments ago, it had been so filled with life. It had also been so filled with anger as it dashed towards her. Her words had held no stock there. She looked back up as Astarion stood on the other side of the skeleton, in front of her, putting his daggers away. If it weren’t for him, she’d be dead. Or, well, maybe that was an exaggeration. She wouldn’t be dead, but she sure as hells wouldn’t be standing without the need of Shadowheart’s healing, and she didn’t know the woman nearly well enough to trust her to want to waste a spell on her, not after being the cause of this fight.

Astarion caught her staring, his red eyes glinting with mischief.

“Careful, I bite.” He smirked.

The blush spread across her cheeks against her will. As soon as she felt it, she averted her gaze back towards the button she had pushed mindlessly that had started this mess.

“Your kind gets overly excited to die? Chk. I will never understand, nor do I want to understand your kind’s ways.” Lae’zel hissed as she cast another hard look at Phayelynn.

“Haha,” Astarion’s loud laugh caught everyone’s attention. “I found it quite entertaining.” He shrugged his shoulders loosely, studying his nails. “I was getting quite bored.” He put a hand on his hip, using the other to point out the fallen skeletons. He brought it up, waving it, almost in a shooing motion at Phayelynn. “Now that that’s over, I say we go find out what that button opened up for us. Shall we?”

He raised an eyebrow, looking to Phayelynn to be his accomplice. She had been rather curious as to what the button was for. That was why she had pushed it in the first place. Even during the peak of the battle against its protectors, her curiosity grew when she heard the sound of rock moving, leaving her only to assume it was some mysterious secret door.

Astarion cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her reply. She gave him a broad smile and nodded enthusiastically, almost greedily, as she turned on her heel to go back and investigate. Astarion didn’t hesitate to follow, applauding her eagerness, “Oh, darling, I can tell we are going to be fast friends.”

Gale raised a hand, wanting to stop them.

“Maybe we should wait-,”

“Don’t waste your breath.” Shadowheart appeared by his side, rolling her eyes. “Let them go first. If they die, we at least know what traps to avoid.”

Phayelynn entered the hidden room first, unaware of Astarion purposely lingering back. She scanned around as if she knew what she was looking for. Her excitement overtook common sense. She pulled up the edge of her lip, somewhat disappointed at what she found. A couple of broken vases, some cobwebs, more broken vases, and-

Oh, she gasped.

She eyed the sarcophagus to her left, up near a wall. The others had old dusty books and a handful of spare gold pieces. This one must have so much gold and jewels inside to be hidden so carefully away and protected by those undead. She’d heard enough songs her uncle sang about these kinds of things to be sure.

Without thinking, without clearly learning her lesson, she reached forward and started pushing the lid of the sarcophagus back, slowly prying it open.

A hand jutted forward, gripping her wrist, digging well-kept nails into her alabaster skin. Her soul nearly jumped out of her body. With wide eyes, she looked to her left. It was Astarion. And he looked at her flabbergasted.

“You are quite literally the definition of fuck around and find out, aren’t you, love?” He pulled her back and away from the sarcophagus like a child about to touch an open flame. He flared his nostrils, huffing at her. Even if he found her apparent inexperience rather amusing, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was purposely acting this stupid or was just inherently so. “You’ve never done this type of thing before, have you?”

Before she could respond or form a proper defense, the candles around the room that had gone unnoticed lit their own volition to a haunting hue of ghostly green. Astarion backed away instantly, forcing Phayelynn to take a few steps if she didn’t want him to back right into her. Her eyes grew wider. She vaguely made out Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel standing in the doorway from her peripheral vision. Lae’zel and Shadowheart stood, reaching to retrieve their weapons, simmering at Astarion and Phayelynn. At the same time, Gale looked curiously inside, flames flickering against the palm of his hand, just in case the need arose.

Phayelynn kept her attention on the lid as it started to move back on its own. An old, decaying hand snaked up from within its depths to help peel it open. All five jumped as the hand, with a shockingly strong force, threw the lid off. A loud bang echoed off the walls.

“Shit.” She heard Astarion mutter. His hands twitched, hovering over his daggers.

A corpse, flesh tightened and wrinkled over old bone, arose. He wore a long, dusty dark robe covering most of the body with bandages wrapped around what was exposed, hiding most of the rot. His body outwardly creaked and groaned as he stretched himself out. An intricate golden-crowned mask shined in the candlelight, the metals trailing down his neck and chest in thin swirls. His facial features were still visible, the skin of his nose flap causing Phayelynn to grimace and shutter. His feet touched against the floor, never breaking eye contact with her for a moment. He stood silent as he took in those who stood before him, disturbing what had been supposed to be his eternal slumber.

Phayelynn gulped.

Astarion took a step around her, taking cover behind her.

Phayelynn gulped harder.

Dick, she uttered under her breath.

The being floated up, then down towards them, making Phayelynn and Astarion step further back to save some space between them and him. He finally looked away from Phayelynn, sparing Astarion a look, then craning his head over to the other three before settling back on the bard.

“What a curious way to awaken.” He said, his voice deep and eerie. He towered over Phayelynn not much by height but by presence, holding the room in a quiet uncertainty. He seemed unbothered by the effect he cast, not allowing time for anyone else to speak or react, “Now, I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

Phayelynn’s brow twitched.

She rapidly tried to think of the correct response, seeing how the question was directed at her. She had to find a way to talk herself out of this. The other skeletons, who’d protected this crypt, were sentient, but not to this degree. She had to choose her words carefully.

Or she could toss up Astarion like he so cowardly offered her up moments prior. She grumbled, taking another step back, her back hitting his chest. Her eyes narrowed with determination. She’d show him.

“What are you?” she straightened herself up, covering her quivering with a newfound but bogus confidence.

The being tilted his head at her as if not expecting her to ask him a question in return. He didn’t look indignant or insulted; instead, he looked pleased. “I am not the same as those thou hast slain if that is what thou askest.”

Phayelynn wrinkled her nose at his way of speech. No one talked like that anymore unless they were those pompous, wealthy socialites who hired bards like her for fancy parties. Whoever this was wasn’t like one of those. “That is what I askest? I suppose-” She hesitated, adding, “-est?”

She heard Astarion let out a deep sigh behind her, feeling him stifle a chuckle in his chest at her lack of cool. Her cheeks flushed.

The being nodded before raising a hand, putting everyone on edge for a split second. He asked again, “Wilt thou answer my question?”

Phayelynn had always loved the spotlight. She relished it. Dreamed of nothing but performing in front of groups of hundreds. For all the years she’d traveled with her uncle and his motley troupe, training under him and practicing until her fingers bled and throat grew sore, she longed for it. But now, with all sets of eyes on her, she wanted nothing more than to hide behind the stage curtain.

“Just answer the damned question so we can be on with it,” Astarion said through gritted teeth.

She shot him a helpless look over her shoulder before looking back at the being before her. Keep your eyes on him, Phay, she warned herself, show no fear.

“Uh-,” she winced at the shakiness of her voice. She coughed into her fist, clearing her throat. Once again, she straightened herself up. “Yes, of course-er. What was the question again?”

Smooth, Phay, smooth, she cursed herself.

“I ask again: What is the worth of a single mortal life?” He said with a hint of tiredness.

It was either from having to repeat himself or just having to exist. Phayelynn couldn’t tell, but she paid attention fully this time. She took a second, only a slight breath of a moment to think. She was sure her life was worth much more than most, not caring if or how bad that sounded.

With a shrug, this time, she confidently answered, “I mean, I guess that depends on what the person did during their life. If they were an absolute dick,” she paused, once again sparing a gaze over her shoulder before facing the being, “I think they wouldn’t be worth much.” She wore a smirk, hearing Astarion’s appalled gasp. She put her hands on her hips, satisfied. “Their worth depends on their actions.”

“Hmm.” The being hummed with a nod. “I am sure thou believest as such.” He said, causing Phayelynn to falter for a moment.

Did she answer wrong? Oh gods, what’s going to happen now- she started to panic, her eyes darting to those in the doorway for help. They offered none as they watched and waited for the being’s next move.

“Very well.” He said after another painfully long moment, having seemingly contemplated her answer. “I am satisfied. We have met, and I know thy face.” He stepped back, heading towards the door, causing Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel to scatter, disbursing in different directions to get out of his way as he didn’t appear to be attacking them. “We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

Phayelynn blinked a few times, processing, or more so trying to process everything that had just happened. Her mouth fell open as she watched him walk past Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel without a second glance and out into the main room, muttering under his breath about the state of the crypt and how long he’d been asleep.

“Keep your mouth open like that, and you’ll catch flies.” Astarion snapped her out of it.

She ignored his taunt, although leaving him behind. She moved through the doorway to follow the being, wanting more answers. “Hey! Wait! What do you mean you know thy face? Excuse me!” She called out when he ignored her, “Bony man! I’m talking to you—proper time and place. I’m right here-” A hand pulled her to a stop. “Hey!”

She looked up to see who stopped her. It had been Gale. She shot him a fiery look.

“How about we show some decorum? We don’t know who or what that is, but he seems to mean no harm. We should keep it that way.” He tried to discourage her, wanting to show her reason. Mostly, he didn’t want this to end up in another fight. He started to question his quick trust in her.

“He wasn’t being all creepy with you! Did you hear him? I know thy face. Who even talks like that anymore!” Phayelynn crossed her arms against her chest, pouting her lip in frustration.

Astarion let out another hearty laugh, having moved to the doorway, finding the entire thing utterly hilarious. “I say we let her have another go. I’d love to see how that would play out.”

Phayelynn was about to snap at him but was cut off by Shadowheart, who exhaled deeply. Lae’zel wasn’t shy about her disapproval either as she glared daggers Phayelynn’s way.

“Istik” the Gith muttered under her breath, crossing her arms against her chest. She started to move forward, done with them all. “Let us go.” her sharp tone leaving no room for disagreement.

“Okay, but if that had happened to any of you,” Phayelynn raised her hands in defeat, looking at them accusatory as they all started to follow Lae’zel, “You’d want answers.”

“As much as it displeases me to agree with the Gith, I do.” Shadowheart gives Phayelynn a lazy once over. Her nose pointed at her, “Let’s just get out of here. I saw a few more rooms we can check on the way out.”

Phayelynn kept towards the back of the party, shooting the being one last glare before they exited the room. She glared down at her feet, still feeling petty. She wasn’t paying attention, not noticing Astarion slinking his way next to her, hands tucked behind his back, leaning down so they could speak hushed while they walked.

“He was rather quite repugnant.”

“Exactly!” She exclaimed as she looked up at him in agreement. “Did you see his nose?”

“I wish I hadn’t.” Astarion suppressed a gag, grimacing.

A collective sigh was heard from the three in front of the party as the pair went on about the many features they found disturbing and grotesque about the being in the crypt.

It wasn’t until later, after narrowly escaping and figuring out one more deathtrap involving another sarcophagus and fire, lots and lots of fire shooting out at them, that they exited the crypt, arms full of loot.

Phayelynn held open a bag they had snatched off one of the tomb raider’s bodies, sorting through the pile they had dumped onto the ground. She sat beside Astarion, who kneeled, dumping everything he could into his own. Shadowheart and Gale had been close doing the same while Lae’zel scouted for a good place to camp for the night, as the sun had set by the time they exited the crypt.

“I really wish I had a bag of holding.” She picked up a ruby necklace and some bracers that looked like they’d fit her. She fascinated on all the things she could fit inside. “Fancy jewelry, clothes, gold, more gold, maybe a new lute, even.”

She didn’t care if Astarion was listening to her. She was too giddy to stop. The parasite and events of the Nautiloid were tossed in the furthest backs of her thoughts. She could only focus on the treasure before them.

Astarion stopped for a moment, looking at her knavishly. Maybe an alliance with her wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Her rashness in the crypt did give him cause to question her as a potential ally, but she seemed to have her priorities straight, at least. He chuckled, clueing her in that he had been listening to her babble. He reached for a chalice but quickly pulled his hand back.

Silver.

“Not one for wine?” Her voice snapped him out of it.

He quickly put himself together before she could pick up on him losing himself, even for a moment. He didn’t move to touch it. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to take that chance just yet. His eyes caught something else, just as shiny.

“Oh, quite the opposite.” He said, picking up a golden cup. It wasn’t as grand or polished as the chalice, but gold was better than silver anyway. “I’m just a connoisseur of the finer things. I only drink from the best.” He nodded toward what was left of their pile, the chalice included.

“Silver’s still worth something, and that’s good enough for me.” Phayelynn shrugged, swiping it up and throwing it carelessly into her bag, the sound it made leaving Astarion to pull a face.

“That’ll be worth less all dented up and scratched.” He poked, moving to stand. He looked around, seeing Lae’zel walking back out of the tree line. He turned back to Phayelynn. “But who am I? You’re the expert on what things are worth.” He glowered at her.

She joined him, buttoning the backpack closed, holding it awkwardly due to its weight. She rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand in a docile way. She picked up his jab at her about what she had said back in the crypt to Bony Man.

“I didn’t mean what I said-” she started, but something told her she wouldn’t get away with lying to him. “No, I did. You were being a dick.”

“And you were touching things you shouldn’t.” He countered.

Phayelynn opened her mouth, intent on fighting back, already pulling together something snappy to say, but something told her to stop. The voice was telling her to quit while she was ahead. Usually, she would ignore it. She’d keep pushing. Keep antagonizing. But for once, something compelled her to listen to it.

The parasite and the Nautiloid became ever present as she looked over his face, hearing Gale calling out to them, saying that Lae’zel had found a suitable place for them to camp for the night. She had no idea how long she’d be traveling with these people. She had no idea how long it would take to get these damned cursed worms out of their skulls. She had to get back to Baldur’s Gate, but she knew she couldn’t get back alone.

She outreached her hand, offering it to Astarion. He looked at it with a scrunched-up nose. She stretched her fingers for emphasis, urging him to take the hint. He still didn’t budge. She groaned, rolling her eyes. Using her other hand, she grabbed his, placing it too roughly into the one she’d offered him, and shook it firmly. He took a moment to react before pulling himself free.

“What on earth are you doing?” He demanded, taking a step back.

“I was offering a truce. And friendship.” She shrugged as they followed the others. “You said earlier that you thought we’d be good friends, so let’s. We’ll need all the friends we can get to figure out how to get these things out of our heads.”

“Hmm.” he pretended to think about her truce, truly considering her offer.

She rolled her eyes at him, knowing he was trying to put her on edge, to make her feel guilty.

She may not be so easily fooled, Astarion thought to himself. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, sighing, “Well, alright,” He dragged out. “I supposed I can accept your oh-so-generous offer if I decide you’re worth my companionship.”

“Really? I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?” She huffed.

“Oh darling, no.” He confirmed, laughing madly.

Phayelynn groaned loudly, marching away from him as she tried to catch up to the others. Astarion laughed once more, though this time to himself. A broad, curved, guileful grin spread across his features as he watched her walk away, a plan forming in his mind.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #tav bg3 #bard oc

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solaneceae · 5 months

Text

shall we look at the moon, my little loon?

People didn’t get sick on Quesadilla island. Maybe because they always had potions and gapples on hand. Or maybe the Federation’s Rules simply didn’t allow it, another restrictive function shoved into server code to keep its residents happy. This Server, though… read on ao3

Red pebbles shriek under his step, rolling down the hill to reveal the sun-bleached bones of a long-dead tiger. The air feels sweltering even though the sun is setting, bathing Purgatory in long shadows. His backpack’s strap feels frayed between his fingers, against his shoulder. The friction hurts. Cellbit heaves his body up the last rocky steps, a bout of dizziness almost making him sway and fall off the cliff. But he catches himself, crouches down for a moment, breathes his way out of the creeping darkness.

His head is pounding, his brain cooking inside his fever-heated skull. But it’s nothing he can’t push through. He knows how to survive in the worst places, it’s what he’s good at. He raises his head, stares at the entrance of the hole he calls home. His eyes are always red these days, throat always raw from breathing in this tainted, sulphuric air.

(He remembers anger. Rage. Now he barely knows how it felt, bloodlust long since turned to regret and apathy. He has nothing left. Nothing to fight for, to kill for.)

(Except for one thing, maybe.)

“Baghs,” Cellbit calls out with a soft whisper as he crosses the mouth of the cave, steps deeper into the mercifully cooler air and dim lights of improvised lamps. He rips his gas mask off his face and lets it fall with a dull thud, rubs at the indents it left behind on his face. Kneels down, winces when his wounds sting and throb with pain under dirty bandages. “I’m back, patinha. Can you wake up for me?”

Baghera does not respond, quiet and still, curled onto her side on their poor excuse of a bedroll — more of a pile of hay at this point. He drops a damaged backpack onto the dusty floor, rummages through it in search of something. “I found water,” he produces a full bucket from his pack, sets it down and scrolls through his hotbar until a glass vial appears in his hand. He coughs as he fills it up — it hurts, acid and fire in his trachea. “Good water.” Even the water goes bad now, after a while. Sitting nauseatingly in their stomachs and making them hurl out whatever they had managed to eat that day.

“You need to drink something,” he pushes, shakes the other’s shoulder carefully. Baghera doesn’t stir.

The Watcher made the rules here. And as server Host, it too had extended its protection upon them as they went at his beck and call, doing his bidding. They had done well as its bloodhounds, seeking and maiming, raining hell onto hidden bases and sinners alike. But ever since they had refused its last order, their privileges had seemingly expired. (‘kill the sinners’, it said. kill each other, it had meant. And they hadn’t, because above being loyal to the Watcher, they were loyal to each other.)

Their ‘benefactor’ had gone silent after that day. No more orders, but also no more protection, no more supplies appearing in their chests to keep them fed and geared up. Injuries that should’ve healed over in minutes now lingered, their armors no longer mending, their supply of food now rotting. Even their meagre wheat farm had decayed, the dirt too toxic for anything to grow. Which meant that they were back to square one, scrounging for scraps of food and hurting and hiding from disasters that they were no longer immune to. And in a place like this, it hadn’t been long before it all started to take its toll on them — too many disasters, too many wounds left to fester, and a mockery of a caretaker who no longer cared enough to keep them alive.

The sickness had creeped up on them — from drinking that lukewarm and unclean water, from wounds wrapped in haste with no disinfectant. Cuts on their arms and legs growing red and swollen with infection, poisoning their bloodstream. Baghera had fallen to it first, eyes growing less and less focused as the days went on and nothing changed, red skies and sulphur and complete isolation. She could no longer hunt, too weak to run — so Cellbit left more often in search of the odd patch of wheat, as much as he loathed to leave her alone. “Baghera,” he tries again, shaking a little harder when the other doesn’t react beyond a vague twitch of her eyelids. She’s so warm, too warm, the fever just isn’t breaking despite all the damp rags (now dry and falling off of her as Cellbit shakes her limp form), and her feathers aren’t helping. “Please…”

(“Please don’t leave,” Baghera had pleaded the first time he had to go out there alone. “Please.” He had gone anyway, despite the aches in his limbs and the fever making the world too warm and fuzzy, because he had to. Came back with a lackluster haul of three dead rats and some sugarcane only to find his packmate curled into a tight ball against the wall of their cave, broken chirps and quacks tumbling from her bill endlessly. where, where, flock, scared, help, he recognized. Pale yellow and white softness littered the floor around her, some of it stained red, as she smoothed over her wings with her bill and plucked feather after feather until Cellbit cupped her face to make her stop. He started to plan around her after that, waiting for her to slip into restless, sticky sleep to leave.)

Cellbit sighs. Wipes the beads of burning sweat off his forehead, glares at the way his hand shakes from the fever. At least he can sweat it out — Baghera can’t, her breath coming up in short little puffs of too-hot air as she pants in her sleep, her body struggling to cool itself down. She looks awful — they both do to be fair, so much so that he barely dares to glance at his reflection in the water these days. He can’t even remember the last time he took a bath, and he doesn’t have enough ocelot in his code for grooming to be an option. But days of unconsciousness and delirium have left his packmate dreadfully thin, her feathers dull — she hasn’t preened them in weeks, water no longer rolling off of them without the oil. Her face is pinched in discomfort, her eyes swollen and bruised by weeks and weeks of restless nights spent tossing and being jolted awake by nightmares.

(He knows them all by now. White cloaks and needles, the few memories she regained of her childhood. Pomme dying. Cellbit, dying or leaving, her being alone. He holds her when she wakes, too weak to cry, because his own dreams taste of blood and flesh he knows a bit too well but it’s not as bad when she holds him.)

“Hey,” Cellbit gently rolls her onto her back and sneaks a hand under her neck to lift her head up. He feels feathers and heat, heat, too much. Baghera doesn’t react beyond a croaky whine, her chest heaving as she pants. “I’m getting some water in you, right now. Come on.” He slowly, ever-so slowly tips the glass bottle, lets a few drops fall into her open beak. She chokes on her next inhale, coughs painfully, and Cellbit whispers apologies in sheepish Portuguese, tilts her head up a bit more. At least she’s more aware now, cloudy eyes cracked open and darting around aimlessly. “Boa tarde, patinha,” he attempts a smile, but it feels more like a grimace on his face. Baghera hums, rests her head against his scarred-up arm. Mumbles something with harsh consonants and fricatives. “Didn’t get that, sorry.”

“Connard,” she croaks out, and oh, this he understands. She hasn’t spoken anything but barely-legible French in days, too out of it to bother with translating. “So you recognize me. That’s good. Maintenant bois,” he switches to heavily-accented French to make sure she understands. (The lack of, well, anything to do meant that they have spent plenty of time learning each other’s languages in the last few months.)

“Non.”

Stubborn as always. “Discute pas, Baghs. Ou je te donne du thé à la place.” He’s lying, of course — they do not have tea on hand. But the threat works, and the duck makes a weak sound of disgust. “Non, non…”

“Then please don’t fight me on this.” He gently grabs her hand-wing (a confusing anatomy, his packmate has) to curl it around the bottle, letting her feel the chill of fresh water inside glass. “Think you can do it yourself today?”

She can’t — her arms shake too much, her grip on the bottle too loose. So Cellbit pours the water through the side of her open beak, a gentle, slow trickle, until the bottle is empty and his friend silently nudges it with her bill. “Need more?” She nods. “Okay.” Good, that’s good, he thinks. She drains about half of the second bottle before she bats at his arm to make him stop, visibly fighting a wave of nausea. It fades, thankfully.

“How’d you feel about eating?” he asks next, and the look she gives him is hazy and unsure — but not a straight refusal. Food is scarce in this hell, even more so than water — and what little he finds is nothing like the softer things you would feed a sick person. Only the meat of the vermin that can’t outrun him (yet), and tasteless bread from the occasional wheat crops he stumbles upon outside. Still Cellbit tries, carefully ripping up and chewing tiny bits of meat and bread before feeding them to her — munching on solid food is a complex endeavour with no teeth, and if Baghera managed fine with just her bill before, she is no longer in any state to do so.

(He would make a joke about mama birds, but he does not find any levity in it. Not when the only person he has left in this world is fading away, right there in his arms.)

When she’s done (which she makes him understand by turning her head away from his hand), he shoves every soft material he can gather beneath her upper back and neck. Hopefully it will help her keep the food down this time. Manoeuvring her is hard despite how light she is, mostly hollow bones and feathers — but he’s so tired, and he kinda wants to throw up — the nausea getting worse the longer he stays up, vision getting hazy.

“Tu penses que j’la verrai ?”

He blinks, sluggishly. Baghera’s words are slurred and quiet, which makes them hard to parse. “Mh?”

“Pomme.”

A startled mrrrp. Baghera never talks about her. Didn't even open that expansive journal of hers, the one they had found along with all those old blue and red signs amongst herds of bulls and flights of butterflies. She makes a weird sound as her head rolls to the side, like laughter, or maybe a sob. “J’l’entend, des fois. Placer ses panneaux… près de moi.” Her hands curl into fist-like shapes, briefly. “Et puis… j’me réveille, et elle est pas là. Elle sera plus jamais là.”

(He tries not to think of it. Of him. His egg, his baby, his brave and rambunctious kit. Pain and longing blooms inside his chest, thorns and blood-soaked petals, and he ignores it because packmate sad, packmate in pain, fix, fix.) “Baghs…” Cellbit reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she wails, a heartbreaking sound caught between a sorrowful wail and a distressed quack. “Baghs! Shhh,” he pulls her into a tight embrace, making sure she feels pressure from all sides, her head resting in the space between his shoulder and his neck. “Calma— pare, pare. Vai se machucar.”

“I want to see her,” she sobs, and Cellbit is so startled by hearing English again he doesn’t respond. “But I’m— ’m a bad person, failure. She was good, so good, she was my baby and I can’t go where she is.” A cough; it sounds so bad, like there’s fluid inside her lungs. Cellbit prays it’s not blood. “My Pomme is in Heaven, Cellbo, and I’m going to Hell.”

(Few of them believed in such concepts, back on the island — many were acquainted with deities, ruling over things such as Creativity or Death or Beauty, or with entities from the Other Side, yes. Baghera herself had chosen to give herself over to Chaos, but never seemed the type to adhere to more classical religious beliefs. But Purgatory had happened. Purgatory was something you didn’t walk away from unchanged — or at all, in their case. They were both sinners, as the Watcher had oh-so-helpfully drilled into their minds over and over until they broke.)

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and he could scream at how wrong that is, nothing is okay, our kids are dead, your only friend is dying and in pain, are you fucking stupid? “Shhh.” He places his lips on her forehead, winces at how hot it is still. She needs to cool down. “You’re not bad to me, patinha. You’re the best thing I have left.”

Baghera chirps and quacks unsteadily, eyes clouding over as she descends back into avianspeak. egg, egg, baby, where, nest, flock, where, help, and the trill-name she uses for Cellbit, several times over. Something like flock-blood-brother-me. “Estou aqui,” he murmurs, keeping one hand squeezing hers as he lays her back down to pick up the dry rags around her. “Je suis là. Avec toi.”

“You’re not going to die, are you? You’re not going to leave me?”

“I told you,” he hums, pouring cool water onto the rags and placing them on her chest, her arms, her forehead — he has considered just digging out a hole, filling it with water and dipping her into it instead, but he was afraid it would be too much of a shock to her system. “I won’t leave you. So you don’t either, okay? Stay.”

She doesn’t reply, eyes closed and chest heaving with short, hot puffs of breath. She’s out again.

Cellbit sighs, drapes one last damp rag over her tear-swollen eyes. He gently presses his forehead against hers, angling himself so her beak doesn’t poke at his chin — the rag is blissfully cool against his skin, but he can already feel the heat of her sickness radiating through it. “Por favor,” he whispers, aware she can’t hear him — let alone understand him. He lets himself sag against her, exhaustion pulling at him, heavy head resting upon her feathered chest just above her heart. He can hear it: rabbit-quick, restless, fighting. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. “Por favor. Viva. Pra mim.”

“No. We promised, right?”

“Right…”

“Você também me prometeu,” he slurs out, tendrils of darkness creeping in. He’s so tired, sick, and his entire being begs for reprieve. “Não… não me deixa sozinho. Não posso perder você também...”

"Please don't leave me."

"I won't. Never."

Within a dilapidated cave, Cellbit and Baghera drift. Atop the waves far away, a little motorboat sails, leaving white foam and inky black feathers in its wake.

#qsmp #fanfic #baghera jones #cellbit #chainsawkillers #tw self harm mention #i miss em #we'll see them in about ten days tho #god i hope they are FUCKED UP

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dreamsclock · 1 year

Note

Writing prompt for Quackity being sad. Just having an all around bad day. Bonus points available based on the sadness levels attained.

i tried my best 🫡 i fucking love writing c!loudduo — genuinely one of my favourite duos to write along with c!diskduo — and i think i Like this !! they might be a little out of character but HEY you can take this as like. deviation from canon or something idk ,, , i just wanted to write Themb

warnings: blood, death, murder, destruction, mentions of torture and gore, emotional distress, trauma, toxic relationship

“This has gotta be like a new low for you,” Dream muses, “I mean, like. You’re always low. But this has to be a record or something.”

Las Nevadas is in ruins. Full awareness throbs through his skull like there’s a pickaxe driven right through his brains again. Diamonds, clubs, spades, and the heart of Quackity’s country has been blown up in front of him.

Tears burn just as bad, but even they won’t give him the kindness of falling.

Instead, it’s Quackity himself that’s fallen, stopped on his hands and knees and staring numbly at the wreckage of his self-fashioned home. Las Nevadas was supposed to mean something to people. It was supposed to be loved, be lived in. The worst part of the destruction is the stone cold prickling silence that makes all his previous ambitions ring false.

Quackity is on his knees surrounded by all he’d loved, and Dream stands above him; gaunt, still, hollow from where he’d had everything carved out of him, but, somehow, still standing.

In his hand is a cigarette. Unlit. Crisp. Pristine.

And when he stoops, netherite armour clanking as he gets to his knees, he lights the cigarette with the acrid flame curling up between them from rotting wood.

(It had been a wedding venue, yesterday.)

“Look at that,” Dream says, and amusement curls his lips upwards, “I guess this place was less useless than I thought.”

Quackity’s heart pounds. Dream’s hand reaches out, pushes the cigarette into Quackity’s shaking fingers.

“Enjoy what’s left. Because when I come back, I’m going to make your last days a living hell.”

(“I’m going to make your last days in this prison a living hell,” Quackity spits at a cowering Dream, hands slick with blood and gore, “enjoy what’s left of your time until then.”)

But even when Dream gets back to his feet, he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. Instead, he steps closer, and fists his hand around Quackity’s beanie, pulls it off. Hair falls around Quackity’s face instantly, and somehow, more than his country at his knees, he feels bare. Vulnerable. Helpless.

When Dream speaks next, there’s a smile in his words.

“At least I have the decency to kill you after I’m done ruining you.”

#> c!loudduo confrontation tag #> c!loudduo #> vegas disaster #> that one clock guy #dreblr #> sparrow’s writing !!

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vertebrates-and-pieces · 2 years

Text

@lichenlad

Look, I was going to write a little snippet of him getting a cake. I swear that was my intention. Somehow this happened instead?? No cake was had, but the yearning was strong and things got way out of hand.

A Regular Thing

Warnings: some angst in a hurt/comfort context, foul language. Also this is hardly edited, unbetaed, and written entirely in one sitting, so it's a little rough.

At first he had you pegged for a sucker. Because, honestly, why else would you become a regular at his store of all places? Scam you once, shame on him. Scam you twice, shame on you. Scam you what? Over twenty times? Yeah, he wasn't sure who should be feeling shame at this point. Probably your parent(s) and/or guardian(s). Because if this grown ass adult still didn't understand that he didn't exactly have their best intentions in mind, something somewhere had gone wrong. It almost seemed unrealistic. No matter how many pieces of useless, defective, and sometimes actively harmful, junk he sold you, you still returned for more. Your skull must be full of nothing but unsalted pistachio shells. But then again there were people out there that earnestly believed that celery oil would cure them of degenerative bone diseases and make their ex take them back; there were people who actually clicked the limited time link to renew their car's extended warranty with this one simple trick [doctors hate him].

He knew from the fact that he still managed to pull in the occasional sale that there were, in fact, some real suckers out there.

But there was something different about this customer, about you. You didn't look, sound, or smell particularly desperate. Nor did you reek of excessive funds to waste on trash. Maybe his dumpster exile had left him noseblind, but he was pretty sure he was still sharp enough to sniff out a rat, and your behavior was giving him some definite hints of cheese. You apparently liked scrounging enough to linger, never ordering to-go. You took your time browsing his selection. You seemed to enjoy it. You smiled when you entered his little storefront. You smiled at him and there was an amused little twinkle in your expression that would always make all the hollow dusty spaces inside him fill up with nervous anticipation. It felt almost like a hopeful ember. Over and over he smothered those distracting sparks under his heel like a discarded cigarette butt. He was aware of his flammable nature and wasn't about to let himself get burned again.

You weren't a sucker, he eventually concluded. You wanted something. Why else would you refuse to leave him to rot like anyone with half a brain already did a couple decades ago? He'd passed his sell by date: a washed up has-been in a rusty tin can hanging on a thread. A stupid fake phone with no one on the other end of the line. What you'd want from an old broken puppet was beyond him, but as you began to actively engage with him more and more, talk to him, listen to his empty promises, ask him questions, tell him about your day, he knew it had to be something. You looked at him with some strange sort of longing. The vulnerable honesty of the look was almost admirable. It made him feel like he had something of value to offer. It felt good. And damn if that didn't scare the 1 pair vintage white slacks [gently used] off him.

His suspicions were all but confirmed when you started complimenting him. He was being buttered up and he could hear the pot boiling in the background. And in some out of the way corner of his mind he was starting to wonder if it would be that bad to dip in his toes to sample a taste of the broth he was about to be cooked in. Looks like the only real sucker here was him. Lining up at the gate to string himself up again and dance for the first deceptively friendly hand reaching for his reigns. He stomped on embers again in an effort to stop them from catching, but it did nothing. You were apparently some sort of Phoenix/Hydra hybrid [Has Science Gone Ttoo Far??] A trick candle that refused to be blown out, and he was running out of breath.

You weren't freedom. He knew this. You had no scissors to cut him loose from the fate he'd found himself woven into. You wanted something.

And apparently the thing you wanted from him was to take him out to dinner??

"WHAT."

"Nothing fancy, sorry, can't really afford that, but, uh," (and yet you could afford an overpriced one of a kind novelty crazy straw with a crack in the middle THREE DIFFERENT WAYS TO SUCK ??) "Maybe to like Dark Chilli's? Crap, I forgot its actual name, but the place a couple blocks away? The one with the 'Romhack Ribs'?"

"WHAT???"

"Sorry if I'm overstepping a boundary here. It doesn't even have to be a date! It can just be as friends if you'd prefer!"

Date??? Friends??? Where you… actually? Seriously??? Real?? [Not Clickbait].

"YOU ARE . ARE YOU. [SPECIL OFFER]ING ME???.. WHAT [what?] ARE YOU???"

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just, well, I guess I enjoy spending time with you. If you don't want to eat with me I hope you wouldn't mind if I dropped off a hot to-go meal? I really want to give you something to thank you for letting me hang around your shop. I'm probably not the best for business."

A part of him recoiled instinctively, doubting the sincerity of your claim. He'd made enough "Too Good To Be True" offers to know that there was always an ulterior motive, every bait hiding its inevitable switch, the juiciest worm wriggling on a hook, daring some idiot to take a bite. Spamton had bitten before, been pierced and reeled up, given a glimpse of blue skies and a shining sun. A world where giants walked. He'd been laid breathless on heaven's pier and measured by hungry eyes. He'd been told such sweet lies. Then he'd been tossed back into the murky pond in silent indifference, floundering and scarred, never given a reason for his rejection, though he knew all along he was too small to be a keeper.

But the way you were averting your gaze, stumbling over your words, face hot and blotchy from embarrassment seemed so unplanned, so real. Either you were one hell of an actor or even more crazy than he'd originally assumed.

"YOU. WANT TO [Thanks for Visiting!]??"

"Yeah, I do," you responded quietly, finally meeting his gaze, "Maybe I'm moving too fast but… I like you. A lot."

And in that moment it was as if you had finally laid out all your cards. You were not bluffing. This was really the hand you were playing, the hand you were offering.

"YOU. LIKE ME."

"I… really do," you confirmed with a sheepish smile.

And fuck if this wasn't the best thing he'd been dealt in a long time. For the first time in that very same long time, he really, truly felt like a lucky sonofabitch.

He couldn't help but laugh, and he couldn't stop laughing. You were serious. You liked him. You had asked Spamton G. Spamton out for a dinner date.

His retreating reservations made way for other ideas. This could be his next big break. He could work with this, play along and twist it to his advantage. Find a way to use this opportunity, wring this generous sponge for every last drop of wine and use its dry and depleted husk as another step up and towards his ultimate communion. If he was what you wanted all along, you were really a Class A Fool and he could easily play you as one.

"Spamton, are you okay? You don't have to say yes. Please don't feel obligated to-"

"YES." He cut you off with a force that surprised even him. "I [Accept All]."

Your eyes were blown wide and though they were hidden behind his [Funky Limited-Edition Spectacles] he knew that his were about the same.

"Wait, when you say accept all, do you mean that you want to go get dinner with me? Or that you are okay with me liking you? Or…" you shifted nervously, weighing your next words carefully, "That you… also… likeme?"

"ALL OF THE ABOVE," he replied before his mind even had a chance to fully process what he was admitting. And, well, screw it all, turns out you were BOTH suckers, because he meant it. Here you were offering him a chance to get everything he'd been dreaming of, yet somewhere along the line those dreams had shifted. He didn't want to walk on top of you. He wanted to walk beside you.

And you wanted the same thing, as crazy as it was. Smiling like the idiot you were, offering a hand to shake to seal this ridiculous deal, and he took it, holding on a little too tight, idiot that he also was.

"See you tonight then." You told him. Despite what were meant to be parting words, you didn't let go of his hand. That suited him just fine. He didn't particularly want to let go either.

"WHY WAIT!! YOU DON'T HAVE TO [Stop]. I'M [Right here, Right Now] [take advantage of this once in a lifetime] ME!"

It was your turn to fall into a fit of laughter.

He didn't tell you that his presence in any restaurant constituted a health code violation and that you'd likely get yourself banned for attempting to enter with him in tow. He didn't tell you how all the jokes you'd told him were bookmarked in his memories with little hearts. He didn't tell you how fast you made his fractured code race through his entire being, lighting up pleasantly tingly gates and pathways he had no idea he still had. He just laughed along with you. And neither of you let go.

#spamton x reader #my writing #long post #sorry bout that #actually im not sorry

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fatedstrands · 11 months

Note

Legato, what is a regret you wish you could undo?

The question from the being catches him off guard, having welcomed his Strands in for the evening sermon in the city they'd paused in, seeing each out with a warmth reserved only for them. The last to leave lingered, clearly asking from a place of pain themselves. At least, that is how the witch had seen it.

He motions for them to join him at a pew of the church, slowly settling on the smooth polished wood. The words still mulled about in his mind, mingling with memories as he touched his arm, where a small human skull rest, cut to fit perfectly on his limb.

"Well..."

Where did he even begin? What of his many failures would he undo? What would he give anything to fix, even if it cost him everything to do it?

He thought of the child, as illness and injury took their life, their pleas to travel, their begging, the soft voice pleading;

You promised I'd see the world when I was older. Please, never let me cease walking.

It was the hardest final plea he'd taken on, when they'd begged to go with him, how he'd carefully cleaned their skull, carved the front plate off and strengthened it with the aid of the God. How that youth still rests with him every day on his arm, a reminder of mortality and life after death.

Lips parted, as if to speak of this memory only for teeth to sink into his flesh as another struck him with a violent ferocity he doubled over. The pain so cruel, so foul like a beast tearing his stomach open to leave his insides bare to the world to rot away.

It was his own failure, as it always was. He'd been caught in the crossfire of pantheons warring, of Gods versus a Goddess with a violent hatred of all things homo sapien.

He'd thrown the wolf from the target of fire, eyes flashing up as pure energy roared like a dragon to his body. He couldn't move fast enough, the Punisher and it's handler having taken all his momentum, he was stuck, drained from his own fight. His threads writhing in his brain matter as blood slipped from his ears, his nose and stained even his teeth as he bared them.

A moment felt like an eternity, the blackened purple energy charging through the air, he found himself welcoming it. His life was over, but his last act was saving a dear friend, giving a chance to those around to make their move. Lips had curved, a serene smile as heat bloomed ever closer, eyes slipping shut with a soft prayer;

Let my death be the linchpin in this fight.

But Fate was a cruel Mistress to the living.

Arms found his form, ready for the end of life, cradling him close as feathers wrapped around his kneeling shape, cocooning him and protecting him from the sudden burst of plasma from beyond. Eyes snapped open, head jolting up to lock teal with gold, confusion turning to horror as he watched blond rapidly bleed black.

Thank you. For showing me that no matter what happens... Humanity has hope.

Words stained his soul, marred his flesh with vibrant cursive and warm geraniums across his heart, gouging his pulse as the memory consumed him now, the world falling away from his awareness.

He remembered the way he'd cried out, begging the other to stop, that he wasn't worth the Angel's life. The vivid memory brushed his cheek, wiping the bloodied tears that had formed, falling as he watched the Divine give everything for him.

Never change, Legato.

Angel burned away and when the energy finally ceased, the wretched scream of the horrid Goddess was nothing on the agonizing silence that soft smile left as his body turned to ash right around the human. It held nothing on the emptiness in his mind that formed as the other's consciousness faded.

It was nothing on the agony in his very soul.

Nor the burn of something powerful threading through his veins, blue lights burning over his plant scars he'd carved into flesh, only to turn a vibrant purple, the shapes morphing into something different, something new.

It held nothing to the rage as he stood, despite the blood, despite the agony of overexertion, despite it all, he stood against the Goddess, with kin alike strewn around in weakened but equally enraged states, converging with a violence unseen.

He came to the present once more, lights burning under his clothes, hidden barely by their weave, hands shaking as tears plipped against the ground whilst his gaze had been cast down between his ankles.

"I lost a... Dear friend because of my own weakness... If I could undo one thing... It'd be letting Him stand in the way of my own demise."

Without you... Where will we go? Where will we turn?

His head snaps up as he feels the faintest brush along his forehead, like a tender kiss of the angel.

To the stars and forward, Legato. Always forward.

That same serene smile found his lips, eyes falling shut in the moment as he let the Strand leave on their own terms.

"I suppose I never truly lost Him... For He will always light our way."

Eyes looked upon the statue, the angel depicted before him as he does in every Strand operated Temple. Memorialized in his sacrifice for the hope of Humanity and Plant alike;

Vash the Stampede.

#bishopinblue #v//the faith and the fighter (legato bluesummers)#lore//the faith and the fighter (legato bluesummers)#So the playlist that inspired this pain #It began with Smash Into Pieces Counting On Me ACCOUSTIC specifically #BRIEFLY Citizen Soldier's Limit ft. Lo Spirit because Being held as an angel dies ouch #finally #the moment he stands #Born Again by Black Veil Brides #as he takes on his new faith #his new mission in life #the rebirth of LEgato as Vash's remnants merged with the developing Plant DNA within the devoted #from the Plant Metal he'd shoved into his brain from before he was a teen #The inhuman man vowing to carry Vash's dream of human and plant harmony #even if he struggles to hold the pacifism #this is the start of him holding back on murder and leaving it at maiming #yes there is a dragonheart reference fight me #FUCK YEAH this was fun let's do this again sometime!#The Angelic Choir

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slumberingcorpse · 1 year

Text

The Wolf and The Fox

Part 4 “Awake”

Summary: Not remembering much after their drunken venture, only a bad taste lingers in Eskel and Geralt’s mouths up until a small redhead finally opens his eyes.

Vesemir wasn’t lying about the trails being the most painful experience in his life. Even then, that description wasn’t close to what Lambert felt. It was a pain that made you beg for death and gods know that he did. His body contorted, twisted, and tore. He felt his bones shatter internally, and stab into his internal organs before mending back together. Halfway through, he became blind. All he felt was his eyes melting. It was as if hot coals were stuffed in his sockets. His whole body felt as if he was burning.

He tried to pull at his restraints but there was no use. He had no control of his body. Even his vocal cords gave out shortly after. Lambert tried to weep but even his tears burned him. He couldn’t bare it anymore, he was going to die. He wanted to die, he wanted it to be over.

For a moment, he thought of his mother. Her words hammered against his skull filling him with nothing but rage. How could she? She didn’t even try to fight to keep him.

Lambert knew he wasn’t the best child, he constantly caused trouble sure, but he always thought he was loved. Maybe not by his father but at least by his mother and brother.

And yet all he can remember is his mom telling him to leave, his brother not even bothering to say goodbye, and his father being more interested in finding another bottle than the fact that he was going to lose a son.

Now here he was, dying the most painful death imaginable. He would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. Maybe this is what his family wanted all along.

Lambert started to feel numb. The pain was still there but his brain couldn’t process any more of it. He felt tired, he was so tired. His head rolled back against the torture chair as he finally succumbs to the darkness.

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

Geralt anxiously paced around Lambert’s temporary room. It was a small dingy place covered with cobwebs and dust but it was the warmest place in the keep and the closest to Vesemir’s room.

For hours, the only sound in the room was Geralt’s incessant pacing. His heavy snow boots constantly banged against the rotting wood under them.

“Geralt, either you stop that right now or I’ll cut your legs off,” Eskel threats. Unlike his brother, he was calmly sitting on a chair next to Lambert’s bed with a comfortably large book laid out in his lap.

No doubt, it was a book from the keep’s library, the spine, and the cover was starting to rot, and the pages smelt of nothing but dust and the dead skin of the last witcher who read it.

Geralt finally stops and turns to his brother huffing, “It’s been three weeks.”

“It has...” Eskel confirms delicately flipping the page and making sure not to do any damage to the priceless piece of literature.

“He still hasn’t woken up. Shouldn’t we be worried? What if something’s wrong?” Geralt questions unable to stop his body from shifting anxiously as he taps the tip of his boot against the floorboards.

“And you think pacing around as a madman will make him wake up faster?” Eskel questions finally looking up from his book.

Geralt glares at him, “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Eskel dismisses turning back to his book, sighing when realizing he lost where he left off.

“The hell you do! Ever since that night, you’ve been acting like a right asshole! So put that stupid book down and tell me what the fuck is your problem!” Geralt demands stomping over to his brother, grabbing and throwing the offending book to the ground causing a few pages to come loose and tear.

Eskel’s eyes widen at the sight before finally getting up. Even though they were the same age, the teen witcher towered over Geralt, “YOU! You’re my problem! One minute you’re telling me how there was no chance of the kid surviving and the next you’re worried sick for him? Who do you think you’re fooling!?”

Geralt couldn’t help but flinch and step back from his brother’s onslaught, “We were stuck in a room only listening to his screams. I was scared!”

“AND YOU THINK I WASN’T!? I was terrified and I wanted my best friend, no, my brother to at least try to comfort me. Find a way to comfort each other. Instead, I had to stand there and listen to you telling me how all that waited for me is a horrible death!” Eskel shouts causing the young witcher to bow his head.

Geralt has never seen Eskel this livid before. Sure they fought before but he’s never seen him like this.

Panic and shame start to set in. Did he really say that?

In all honesty, the whole night was a blur. He remembered the screams, wanting to leave, breaking into the caller, and then waking up the next morning next to Vesemir and Eskel with a need to vomit. Everything else was a blur.

“I-” Geralt tries to explain only to be suddenly interrupted by the sound of panicked gasps and choked sobs from the bed.

Both boys snap their heads toward the sound to find that it was no other than poor Lambert finally waking up and panicking.

“Don’t just stand there, get Vesemir!” Eskel orders shoving Geralt out of the way to get to the young boy. It was shocking how quickly Eskel switched. Sure, he was still fuming but for the moment, it was replaced with concern for their newest member.

Geralt frowns but knows better than to argue. Giving his brother a saddened glance, he quickly leaves the room to fetch their master.

Now completely focused, Eskel gently rubs Lambert’s chest, “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he coos using his free hand to gently brush his hair back.

The small boy’s heart thundered under his palm, his new witcher eyes were frantically dilating unable to adjust to the light. It also didn’t help that Lambert kept trying to shove him away to no avail.

Eskel couldn’t help but pity the poor Lambert. The first time experiencing Witcher's senses is a terrifying one. Your smell, touch, sight, hearing and even taste were expanded tenfold. Suddenly, a soft scent of a flower became an explosive stench of pollen, petals, and the bees that landed on it. Things were no longer hot or cold, they were scorching or freezing. Someone whispering to you from a mile away will sound as clear as day. You were able to see everything, tracks, and even scents. Focus hard enough and you could even see the sound waves bouncing off a person as they talk. It was no surprise the poor pup was in such a state.

“You’re going to be okay. Just breathe,” Eskel tries to help, ignoring how Lambert clawed at his arms trying to find some kind of grounding.

“I...ca...c-can’t…” Lambert gasps as hot tears run down his cheeks. Eskel gently smiled and wiped away his tears, “Yes, you can. You just have to calm down. Take a deep breath and tell me what you need.”

Slowly, his gasps turned into shaky puffs of air, “L-loud...too l-loud...” Lambert managed to say. There was so much noise now. The songs of birds, the howl of wolves, the rushing of water, and even the sway of the trees. He can hear all of it thundering in his ears, it felt as if his eardrums were ready to burst.

Lambert whimpers feeling the hand on his chest start to leave him, “N-no...” he begged, digging his nails into the arm as if the hand was the only thing keeping him alive.

“It’s okay. I’ll be back. I’ll just get you something to help. It’ll be no less than a minute.” Eskel comforts as he slowly pulls his arm away.

Though it was only a minute, it felt like hours to him. He felt lost. He could feel, hear, and see everything and yet he couldn’t understand anything at all.

Lambert shuttered when he felt his bed dip followed by a calloused hand cupping his cheek, “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay. Just keep breathing,” the soft voice tells him before slowly putting something in his ears.

He can still hear things but not to such a degree. Instead of hearing the whole forest, he only heard the room. The fireplace crackling, the creaking of the room, his rapid heartbeat, and the older boy’s much slower heartbeat.

The bed shifts again as the boy stands up and walks toward the window covering the natural sunlight with a large wolf fur blanket before coming back to his side.

“Better?” Eskel asks tenderly picking him up and placing him down on his lap. It wasn’t until now, did Lambert realize how cold he was. His body was covered in sweat and lay next to the fireplace and yet he was freezing.

Eskel seemed to notice and quickly bundled him up in one of his fur cloaks just as Vesemir and Geralt rushed in.

“How is he?” Vesemir asks walking over to the two boys. From the looks of it, the grand master witcher was currently working on fixing the wine cellar’s door. He was covered in sawdust and reeked of sweat causing the tiny witcher to scrunch up his nose before burying his face into Eskel’s shoulder finding the subtle scent of juniper berries and honey much more pleasant.

“Better now. I put earplugs in to help with overstimulation, but his eyes are dilating wildly and he has a fever,” Eskel reports holding the redhead close to his chest.

“It seems he’ll need a bit of help to control his eyes, we’ll try the trial of dreams,” Vesemir states only to be quickly interrupted by no other than Lambert.

“No! No more trials! Not ever again! I’ll kill you if you try!” the young boy shouts unable to stop himself from trembling in fear only to feel the arms around him tighten.

“It’s alright, the trial of dreams doesn’t hurt. You’re asleep the whole time.” Eskel explains causing the young boy to relax.

Vesemir nods in agreement, “He’s right. There won’t be any work on your part but I'll send have to send word to Aldid. He’s a sorcerer that has helped the school for many, many years. You’ll be in good hands, but until then you should rest.” he says before turning to Geralt and Eskel, “Take him to the hot springs, clean him up, and get him dressed. As the older brothers you two have to take care of the younger ones, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Eskel replies confidently while Geralt only softly muttered it under his breath unsure on what to do.

It became clear to Geralt that he was already a shit younger brother so how bad can he fuck up being an older one? I guess there was only one way to find out.

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Tags: @wrongdodo

#witcher fandom #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #witcher lambert #witcher eskel #witcher vesemir #papa vesemir #kaer morons #eskel is a good brother

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