saw this post, had to draw it

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In which I dare to rant about Paper Mario

So there's this discourse going around twitter right now about Paper Mario being an AU and Paper Mario not being the "real" Mario and if ANY of the PM games happened in "the real Mario world" or have parallels, do the characters exist outside of the Paper World, etc etc

And all I can think is like, damn, how unfortunate is it that Intelligent Systems deciding to use a charming and timeless art style back on the N64 led to this. The idea to use 2D sprites on 3D backgrounds to create a storybook feel eventually spiraled into the series' ENTIRE IDENTITY. Gameplay does not unite the whole Paper Mario series, depth of story does not, shared characters do not, only the art style and the idea of 2D vs 3D.

And it's a shame because the first PM was a lovely fairy tale that clearly followed in the footsteps of SMRPG as an extrapolation of what the Mushroom Kingdom could be, and how Mario's world works. It was also my first Mario RPG and had tremendous influence on me. Friendly Koopas and Goombas, the Star Spirits, wishes. It was called Mario Story in Japan and the paper aspect mattered nothing to the actual narrative. And then TTYD got a little cheekier with the paper abilities (with them being a fourth-wall-wobbling joke tacked on to what was clearly supposed to still be a Mario Story). And then SPM, much as I love it, bases its entire hook around 2D/3D in a way that's hard to reconcile with Mario's "normal" existence. And by Sticker Star they just said screw it, reboot it, everyone is 100% aware they are made of paper and that's like the series' whole deal now. And it has stayed there ever since.

For the last three games, you can say maybe there's a "real" Bobby out there or a "real" Captain T. Ode but it's impossible for their plots to take place in a world divorced from the craft universe unless we substitute in a lot of body horror and viscera (and even then, what of the Things? Etc). And that's ok for these games, they work within their own context and can be fun for what they are. But it's now got people thinking the first three games fold into this same AU. And you can blame Paper Jam for this but the PM series did it to itself. PJ just clearly spelled out the dual reality that Sticker Star and its follow-ups obviously necessitated. And now the whole series has retroactively been wrapped up into this Paper Universe.

Look, I know "Mario lore" doesn't actually matter, and most RPG characters never show up again even in their own series, and as long as you enjoy each game in a vacuum that's what matters. But it's frustrating that we've reached a point where PM characters have to be the odd ones out who may or may not "actually exist" or have actually met the "real Mario". Mallow is definitely real, Cackletta is definitely real but Chuck Quizmo- WHOA SLAM THE BRAKES, IDK ABOUT THAT ONE CHIEF. Thankfully most people don't give a shit about this drudgery and it won't stop people from drawing Vivian and Geno interacting, because it's just fun and good.

But my point is, I don't think the people working on the first PM (and TTYD) really could have foreseen the series evolving into what it is today, and it's unfair to wipe out their lovely narratives and relegate them to some kind of side universe not worthy of The Real Super Mario(tm) [especially because, taken in sum total of characters and vignettes, TTYD is the greatest Mario narrative there has ever been IMO]. SPM, so strange in both its style and its entire concept, is in some kind of weird limbo where I don't even really care what people think of it anymore, just let me enjoy my game that makes me cry every time in peace lmao

I can't think of another example of a series where an arbitrary stylistic gimmick (not a gameplay or story gimmick but a STYLISTIC gimmick) consumes it and becomes its entire thematic identity. Can you? It's Flanderization on the scale of a franchise, not just a character. Closest is perhaps the Yoshi series, where Yoshi's Island had a childlike crayon look to stand out on the SNES and fit the theme of Baby Mario, which got expanded to Yoshi's Story being a storybook and now we have craft themed Yoshi games. But it's still not entirely the same thing because the gameplay has remained somewhat consistent, if getting rather easier.

Anyway peace and love I just want Johnny Jones and Cortez to hang out

pls pls elaborate singing in the shower & spy au im so curious!! <3

"Singing in the Shower" is the tentative title for a shower sex jake fic with too much plot added in.

here's a snippet from the rough draft under the cut, 18+ only:

His voice takes on a familiar tone, the same one from flight school when he’d be picking apart why a maneuver didn’t work, or more specifically why someone else had failed at it. Like your inability to orgasm tonight is just an engineering problem. A little math, a little grease, and he can fix this. “What isn't working?” “Well, every time I get close I remember whose dick is in me.” He rolls his eyes, his voice taking on a bored tone, “We’ve established that you do not hate me enough for that." You stay silent, refusing to admit that you do not, in fact, hate him enough to deny yourself an orgasm. He hasn't done anything genuinely hackles-raising in some time, having toned down at least twenty percent of his dickishness, so there's less active resentment being worked out while you're fucking.  It's easy and fun being with him. Oh god, you like seeing his texts light up your phone. You enjoy his purposively bad sexts, that you're sure he only sends so you'll come over and fuck him to get him to stop. You come to the horrifying, jarring conclusion that he may very well be your friend, sort of. Fuck. Biting your lip, you amend, “Fine, maybe it's not that.” “I gathered.” He nudges you, “I can tell something’s going on up there, wanna fill me in?” “No.” You admit with a little sigh, “I don't know.” “Well, I'm tired, so we’re just going to sit here.” “Sorry, my pussy is broken today.” Your phrasing draws a little stomach-tensing laugh out of him, eyes creasing as he looks at you. His perfectly calloused palms slide up and down your thighs. His lips are curved into a soft little smile. “It’s fine.” “You can just…” your eyes focus on a water droplet on his collarbone, eyebrows jumping in allusion, unable to really say it, “if you want to.” He catches the implication; he can just get off and be done with it if he wants. Annoyance twists his features, his brow furrowing, though it doesn't feel wholly directed at you. “Jesus, I can feel myself getting soft,” he scoffs, “You're not a fleshlight.” And you actually can feel him start to lose his erection under you.

The spy au I'm currently working on came about mostly cause I saw Greg Tarzan Davis in the newest Mission Impossible and simply couldn't help myself. I also love spy stuff, I've always been intrigued by media that had spies in it since I was a kid. I grew up watching the Bond movies and shows like Nikita, Covert Affairs, Burn Notice, and Chuck. Most of which have a decidedly more pg or pg-13 tone than my au.

I'm planning on it being a few different interconnected series (maybe?).

All of their call signs and the nicknames for the reader are codenames in this.

So, an agent who was previously presumed dead, Spectre, she and Jake, aka Hangman, were partners and after her death he was never really the same. He's been on desk duty for the past two years.

Bob, an analyst on the team, was asked by Jake to put an indefinite facial recognition alert for her. So it kicks off with him getting a hit for her in London. The Operations Manager, Mav, brings Bradley onto the case, ordering him not to tell Jake about the revelation until they know more, and sending him to London to track Spectre down.

There in London, to play nice with a foreign government and give the impression that they respect jurisdiction, he's teamed up with an MI5 agent, Rook.

Shit spirals from there.

here's a snippet:

A last wet little gurgle leaves his throat as he goes still, his eyes left staring toward nothing. His head hangs back limply, red clinging to the corners of his slack mouth, the viscera of his throat exposed. Blood rhythmically drips to the floor. The pool grows beneath him. This sort of thing used to shake you, now you just follow a well-run routine, not necessarily numb, but devoid of the emotions doing something as grotesque as this should provoke. Violence should stir, you know this, you used to be stirred by it.  The first time you killed someone it was sloppy and panicked, you cried afterward. Mav sealed it with the stamp of self-defense, a good kill, but it didn't rid you of the lingering feeling of being damned. Maybe, the last vestiges of growing up catholic. You used to be a mourner, silently giving them their last rights, knowing the weight of every life. A witness to people’s final drawn breaths. Now, you're a butcher. You don't leave the blood for long, scrubbing your hands in the sink before it settles and dries in the cracks.

So, this is something my sibling and I came up with a while ago but after seeing a homestuck tma crossover i thought maybe others would be interested in seeing our thoughts? I was thinking of running an rpgstuck game that has Magnus archives fears baked in. So my sib and I decided to connect each aspect to a fear. It’s not perfect, especially because there’s 15 fears and 12 aspects but I think what we came up with makes enough sense. Here we go!

Space=Spiral: I feel like this one is pretty obvious. The spiral often manifests as physically changing the environment you’re in, from teleporting you to strange never ending corridors to fractals and impossible structures. And space is the building block of the universe. I can’t remember how much of Jades powers were from her being witch of space and how much were from the green sun, but I believe her spatial manipulation is from the space part. Which is very spiral of her. Oh, and I had a land name that I thought sounded pretty fun for this: Land of Mazes and Marble

Time=End/Hunt: this one was harder to pin down. I don’t really know why I associate the hunt with time so much. It just fits the vibe for me I guess and maybe I just like the idea of a time manipulating hunter going after you. There’s also the fact that time is constantly after you and there is no escaping it. The end probably makes more sense given that all known time players from the comic have connections with death: Dave collected dead things in jars and constantly dealt with dead Daves, Aradia was a ghost in the beginning and also liked archeology, Caliborn has a skull head, and Damara basically serves Caliborn. Hm, now that I look at some of my old notes, perhaps the corruption also fits time. It’s about rot and decay, infestations, and definitely brings to mind corpses, if only ones specifically infested. Or maybe the extinction for the heat death of the universe is inevitable and coming for us all. Eventually everything we know will crumble into dust. Man time is a hard one.

Light=Beholding: I think this one is also fairly obvious. Though light isn’t directly equated with knowledge all of the light players we see are very knowledgeable, and guide the others with their knowledge. Well, maybe not so much Vriska and Aranea is probably more of a glorified gossip, but Rose guides! Jokes aside, there is a pretty big association between light and knowledge at the very least. Also, light is implied to be something that draws attention, see when Roxy and Calliope were hanging out but Calliope kicked them out when Rose arrived saying something like “you can’t bring a light player here that’ll broadcast our location to everyone!” So, light brings information into the spotlight. Which is kind of like how the beholding knows all and watches you all the time.

Void=Dark: I don’t really have much to say about this one. Because, again, I feel it’s pretty self explanatory. The voids hides you and is obfuscation and nothingness. And the dark is… dark. In the podcast the dark has a way of blocking out the eye, and Johnny can’t just know about it. Possible land name: Land of Shrouds and Pits.

Life=Flesh: This one is pretty fun. So life is very much associated with healing. And also with taking life in the case of the Condese. And that leads me to thinking about how medical procedures can be kinda horrifying. Like I personally have a fear of syringes and I also get grossed out by the idea of a colonoscopy or Stiches or surgery. And especially with how we lose control of our bodies during these procedures and how we can be objectified by doctors. This is what leads me to really connect life to the flesh. For we all live in a gross meat sack that needs constant upkeep. Uh, that rant went in a different direction than I was expecting but I think it describes my thought process well enough. Land name: Land of Sinew and Viscera. Land of Bones and Mutations.

Doom=The End/Extinction: Doom and Time are very similar. Part of why they’re so hard for me to put a fear to is because I want to neatly pair them all up but it’s so hard to decided which aspect fits better with the end! I was tempted to mark doom as corruption but I don’t think it fits. Doom is about fate, about restrictions. Doom is the futility of your life. The extended zodiac describes them as “fates chosen sufferers” and that doesn’t say corruption to me. Now, end and extinction are like doom and time. They’re very similar and while I understand why they get separated it’s still hard to do it for my brain. For doom, I think extinction works better. Thinking back to doomed sessions, they are kinda apocalyptic in that they cannot go on. And for fate and being a chosen sufferer I think Doom vibes well with the end of the world. There’s also an element of sacrifice to doom. Sollux sacrifices himself to get the meteor to the green sun, Mituna sacrifices his mind for the other trolls. I don’t really know if that fits with the whole extinction thing, I am only about halfway through season 4. Honestly the end probably works well too. Death and sacrifice fits. God it’s getting late this is harder and longer than I thought this would be. Heh heh.

Ok I feel asleep and am gonna continue. No editing I can’t be bothered this is all inane bullshit anyway now where was I?

Heart=Lonely: Ok, so I see heart as the internal conflict aspect. Dirk being… well Dirk is a prime example. His whole story is how he splinters and fucks hi self over and all that jazz. Nepeta has a whole thing about her crush and shipping her fellow players and I think she does get in her own head especially about Karkat a lot. And out of all the conflicts you can have I think internal conflict is the most lonely one. It’s all in your head, and usually someone with lots of internal conflict doesn’t go to a therapist or seek outside help. It’s usually something the character needs to work through themself. Land of Contemplation and Philosophy is the land name I wrote down and I just think that’s funny. So Dirk. Anyway, next!

Blood=Buried: This was another hard one, but I think it fits. Blood is all about bonds between people, and it’s a pretty short leap to thinking of bonds as chains pulling you down. The blood player often acts as a leader, which is another responsibility that weighs people down. And what better fear to bury people under their own responsibility and connections to other people than the buried! I also like the land name I wrote down in my notes: Land of Spelunking and Roots.

Rage=Slaughter: I don’t have much to say about this one. Rage is the most violent of the aspects and has the most chaotic character as one of its players. And I think slaughter is the least selective of the fears. Anyone can face brutal, chaotic violence. No one is safe from it. It’s something that affects wars and crime ridden streets alike. They both have this energy that isn’t directed at something in particular, just at their surroundings wherever they happen to be.

Hope=Desolation: This is an interesting one, because I feel like desolation is more of the opposite to hope. However, hope can be a destructive force in of itself. The loss of hope can be devastating and the things you can do while holding onto hope can be destructive to yourself or to others. Desolation is a fear about loss and destruction. fear of pain and cruelty. And I think that while hope is usually associated with happy thoughts it can hide a darker side.

Breath=Vast: shit I was trying to keep the aspects paired with their opposites. Oh well I can’t be bothered to fix this. Anyway I don’t have that many thoughts about this, breath is freedom and wind and vast is huge empty spaces that freak you out. I think Simon Fairchild with his tendency to throw people into the sky is the best connection I have. It just makes sense to me and I don’t have the words to say why. Next!

Mind=Web: This one i find to be a little ironic. Terezi, who is blind, has the fear with all the spider themes and Vriska, with the spider theme, has the fear with all the eye shit. Anyway, mind is about knowing people. Knowing how they work, what makes them tick. Mind is all about decisions people make and the consequences of that. Terezi, greatest troll don’t @ me, shows this off when almost everyone dies and she has to write out a plan for John to execute to change the past and fix the timeline. Also when she kills Vriska to stop her from going after dog jack and leading him to the other trolls getting them all killed. Mind players are manipulative lil bitches just like web avatars is what I am try to say. (Love them tho) the land name I wrote down was Land of Marionettes and Pointed Smiles.

Whooo and there they all are! If you read all of this nonsense I am sorry. It’s probably incoherent nonsense that you struggled through but I do appreciate it. This was longer than I thought it would be. Also if you disagree that’s fine. This is all subjective and it’s also futile to perfectly separate the fears and probably the aspects as well. While Hussie takes the “they are definitely different” approach and Sims takes the “eh theyre kinda different but also the same” I think it’s pretty interesting to pit these philosophies against each other and see how they compare. Or maybe I just have a problem. That’s more likely.

They should invent a me I can tear to pieces and shred down to misted viscera until I'm ok again

I need to be fucking sedated

Could fix me tbh

Either of them I'm not sure which is better but I have a hunch tbh

They need to give me medications that shut my shit up cuz I've been spiraling for like 4 days minimum this time around and there's no reasonable exit from the brain maze and I'm thinking maybe sleeping through the days might make it better but then time will just pass faster and I think that might be worse

I just need to put something in my brain that will make it be quiet for a while so I can just draw and be a stupid little fucking idiot.

Love being a cute little fucked up girly for my entire life and people loved that too apparently and now I'm getting older and it's not so cute and girly and fun anymore cuz I have real responsibilities and real people that need me and I think I should just go back to 17 sitting in my bedroom alone crying on the floor and then eating peanut butter by the spoon full cuz I'm actually very good at it and at least I knew if I wanted to fuck myself up about it all that I very much had the freedom to do that and it was some form of comfort from it all

When you're a teen or in your younger 20s you can do whatever the fucking shit you want but then you get older and older and you have to make a plan for the future and quite frankly I'm still not done trying to just survive so I think you should just let me go back in the woods and not expect me to come back.

Or you know whatever it doesn't matter anyway so yipeeeee 🥰

synopsis: one stolen kiss leads to another.

Once in a Blue Moon | Michael Myers x Reader

It is after midnight but not quite dawn, when the world exists in shades of muted grey and all is still and silent. You lie on your side with the covers pulled up to your chest and listen to an early-morning breeze whistling through the trees outside, watching it blow in through the window above your headboard to ripple like water through the curtains. 

Michael lies on his back and he doesn’t make a movement. Not a sound. But he’s not asleep; you can tell. He holds a subtle tension in his jaw and his breaths are far too controlled. You absently caress a lock of his dark hair, just behind his ear, rubbing it slowly between your thumb and fingers. 

Michael is aware of your touch. And yet he allows it.

You aren’t surprised. Michael is living proof that even the most vicious of predators will tolerate a gentle petting; so long as it’s in the right spot. 

You bite back a yawn as you wind the fleecy curl around your index finger. Sleep hangs heavy over your head and every blink is a battle and still you fight it off with tooth and claw. This moment is far too precious to let slip away. Sleep can wait. Mornings bring with them uncertainty, the possibility of pain, of worse; but in the here and now you are safe. In the here and now, he will not hurt you. 

And in the here and now, you want nothing more in the world than to touch Michael for just a little while longer.

The moon and stars outside your window shift in the sky. Dawn draws nearer. You think you can tell the point when Michael falls asleep; when the subtle tension in his jaw slackens and his head dips slightly toward his chest and his breaths come and go as steadily as a tide, sweeping in, filling out his powerful frame, retreating again. You look at his hands where they lay at his sides and for a moment the are not murderer’s hands but just human hands instead, hands with long fingers and broad knuckles and strong, distinct tendons. Capable hands. Beautiful hands.

And then you look again. And you see the dark viscera caked beneath the blunt fingernails. The faint rusty discoloration staining the long fingers. 

And even in sleep, Michael’s body radiates all of his murderous potential. A resting tiger still has its claws.

But for now the threat is placated, dormant; and so long as you are careful, very careful, it is safe to admire Michael’s body in ways that he would never consciously allow.

 You lean in and press your mouth to his burning neck. It is an utterly forbidden place and it only makes the stolen kiss sweeter. You can feel the thump of his pulse against your mouth, slow and unhurried; you imagine the hot blood pumping through his thick arteries, feeding his body and his brain, and you imagine the strong heart in his chest, and imagine it beating harder as he hunts some faceless victim and strikes and spills their blood, and the thought is both terrible and beautiful somehow, and by having thought it you make yourself shudder.

You don’t linger at Michael’s neck for long. You know not to push your luck with him. In a matter of seconds you are pulling back again, looking up to study his restful, moonlit face.

You quickly draw in breath.

 Michael’s eyes are open. He’s not asleep.

 He stares at the ceiling and not at you, but still you know that he is watching you, considering you, unreadable.

 “Sorry...” you breathe, your voice the faintest whisper. You doubt he even heard it. And it doesn’t matter. It was a hopeless gesture to begin with.

Michael turns his head and looks at you. His eyes are pale and steely in the muddled darkness and their gaze freezes you like a deer caught in the headlights and so you lay there dumbly, struggling to blink, to draw breath, to do anything but wait for the moment those violent thoughts and familiar urges flood his brain, urges he will act on without hesitation.

He turns on his side and props up on his elbow. You flinch like you’ve been shot. He reaches with that dangerous hand out toward your head and you shut your eyes, petrified, and when his strong fingers lock in your hair you quiver like a leaf in a storm, bracing habitually for hurt; 

hurt that never arrives. 

The hand in your hair does not yank harshly upwards, does not wrench your head back, does not harm you in any way; and maybe if your heart were not a runaway train in your chest, if your breathing weren’t so shallow and your lips not so trembling, you could understand that the hand is not there to hurt you, but to secure you, to hold you in your place against the pillow, to make sure you can’t wiggle away from what happens next.

You feel the space between you vanish as Michael leans in close. His hair tickles when it brushes over your cheek and oh, he’s going to kiss you, and it’s probably going to hurt.

Michael’s lips are remarkably soft. Soft and warm, and as they press against your own their warmth and softness almost brings down your walls in one fell swoop, almost has you melting eagerly into the kiss, almost has you kissing him back. Almost. 

And that’s just what he wants, screams a frantic thought through your frantic mind, and so instead of walking headlong into a trap you go as stiff and still as a corpse and let Michael have his way.

This kiss is different from all the other times Michael has kissed you, which isn’t many at all. He takes your bottom lip between his front teeth, nibbling, pulling at the tender flesh, and in return you whimper, grabbing the sheets beneath you, dreading that inevitable moment when he bites down hard and makes you hurt again, squirm again, bleed again. 

But the moment you are dreading never arrives; Michael’s teeth retreat. And now his hot tongue is prodding at your lips, insistent, and when you open up for him he slips it lazily inside, exploring your taste, your heat.

The gentleness of it all is shocking, baffling. Although Michael’s gentleness is not entirely foreign you know that there is always a catch to it. Always.

And here it comes, you think, as Michael switches the hand in your hair from his left to his right, his freed one slipping down now to snake around your waist and squash what little space lies between your bodies, anchoring you against his powerful chest so tightly that you have no hope of wiggling free from his arms, not if your life depended on it—and it very well might.

Michael’s breath beats steadily down on your nape. He tugs at your hair—adamant, yet with a gentleness that leaves you whimpering in a different way—and you obey him mindlessly as he tugs and tugs and tilts your head back until you’re looking straight up, neck cleanly exposed to him.

The tender brush of his lips makes your breath hitch in your throat. He drags them up your skin, his mouth burning where it makes contact, stopping just below your ear; your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you realize that oh, it’s the very spot where you had kissed him.

You wait for him to bare his teeth. To take his revenge.

And Michael does nothing. He rests his lips on that spot and his breath curls against your skin and he doesn’t move a muscle.

Your heart beats faster. Every second Michael does nothing it beats faster. Faster, faster, until the anticipation of it all is suffocating, choking, and you are sure that Michael’s hesitance is a deliberate act, sure he knows you are so frightened of him that he can do nothing at all, nothing but touch you, softly, as gentle as a lover, and still you quake and quiver beneath his hands and lips and do all except beg him not to hurt you. 

You think he likes the way it feels; you think his complete and total ownership of your mind and your body is an endless source of twisted entertainment for him; as easy and accessible as turning on a favored television channel.

You think he likes the way it makes you feel, too; utterly powerless. Powerless and frightened and small, small, small.

Finally, finally, Michael’s lips part over your skin. He captures you in his mouth and starts sucking leisurely, as though he has all the time in the world and then some, and you can feel his everything on you, his teeth, his tongue, the hand in your hair, the arm around your waist, and he sucks and sucks and sucks away at the spot until you are sore, aching even, but not in a bad way, not even remotely.

There comes a brief moment where he pulls away. And you think it is over.

Instead, his mouth shifts an inch down your neck. And he starts all over again. And a twisting feeling in your gut tells you that every square inch of your throat is getting covered in his ugly red hickies.

You try to remain indifferent at first before deciding that indifference is a terrible idea; if it is a reaction Michael is looking for then you would be wise to give him one. Before he resorts to other measures.

So when the moans begin to dribble like thick syrup past your lips you do absolutely nothing to stifle them.

Sometime later, when your neck glistens wetly beneath the pale light seeping between your fluttering curtains, Michael’s mouth retreats, along with the hand in your hair; and they do not come back. You feel him settle in against your pillow and you wonder if that is the end of it.

You stop wondering as soon as his fingers wrap around your throat.

Oh, you think, amidst the rising wave of panic flooding your brain. The whole thing really was a trap, then. Of course it was. And now you’ve stumbled headlong into it like all the rest. It’s no small wonder that Michael has so much fun with you; you practically serve yourself up to him on a silver platter.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight and pray that if he renders you unconscious now you’ll still wake up again in the morning.

Quickly, you discover that the hot hand around your neck is not there to strangle you. The fingers fan out—the thumb settling beneath your jaw—and they contract around your neck with just enough pressure to make your heartbeat thump against them, and no more.

Michael isn’t hurting you. He’s just observing you. Just listening to the motions of your body. 

You breathe deeply beneath Michael’s fingers and try to soothe your rapid pulse; a frantic heart might excite his urges, might make him decide that no, you know what, he actually is going to terrorize you tonight.

But before long, the hand around your neck loosens. The fingers go slack. The warm chest pressing up against your back contracts steadily in time with the breaths on your nape, which even out, growing loose and rhythmic. And sleep has finally claimed Michael.

You fight the pull of your own sleep for awhile longer because even now, this could still be a trap. You could wake up to him choking you or molesting you or doing any number of cruel things to your vulnerable body.

So you wait. And you wait. And wait.

Maybe he was too tired to finish the job. Maybe scaring you half to death was enough. Maybe he’s going to make you hurt twice as bad in the morning.

You ponder these things as you reach carefully up to your neck, mindful not to graze the fingers still resting there, and inspect the tender markings Michael left behind. 

All because of a stolen kiss. How reckless of you. How stupid.

It is much closer now to dawn than midnight. You wait for just a minute longer. Just to be safe. Just to be certain.

But all is quiet. Nothing stirs. Nothing more happens.

And for once,

for once,

despite if he meant it and despite if he didn’t,

a kiss is just a kiss.

@ the anon who asked for kandreil angst: THIS IS YOUR RESPONSE tumblr fucked up the editing of the post so I copied the response to a new one whoof

see my first thought was, death but the thing about writing about death.....see death in fiction is never as important as death in real life, right? oh it still can hurt a shit and a ton, but at the end of the day, nobody real has died, and you can read the beginning of the story again... so what would be worse? :) (3 guesses if you can figure out what I’ve been reading in quarantine, starts with p and ends with ercyjackson,)

---

The dawn wind rose from the spray of the sea, briny and humid up the pitted rock of the cliff to ruffle the flight feathers at the base of his thumb, tickle the fringe of his secondary coverts. Andrew grumbled and lifted his head from under his wing, snapping his beak a few times to get the sleep-taste from his mouth. He would have preferred a lie-in. Eat, little cousin, the wind said. Its tone was amused. Patronizing. Andrew wanted to bite at it, but he could feel the edged ache of emptiness in his stomach and crop both; the wind was right, today was a day he could not fail at hunting. Already the wind was carrying to him good smells, food-smells, fish-smells, sweet and fatty. His stomach rumbled. 

Nicky was always telling him to stretch his wings properly in the morning so he wouldn't cramp. Andrew took a special pleasure in ignoring that advice, unwrapping his wings from his body and hopping off the edge of his nest on the next up-draft. The muscles of his breast and shoulders soon lost their morning stiffness to slide into familiar rhythm, gliding lazily down towards the flashing waves. Silvery scales, just under the surface, promised a filling breakfast. Andrew considered for a moment, but his tongue was insistent; he was tired of fish. Something different, then, today. Andrew turned his head towards the sandy shore.

There were food-smells here, rabbit and mouse and other mammal. With no-one close enough to hear, Andrew allowed himself a quiet chirrk-chirrk-chirrk of anticipation. His brother-nest-mate told the others Andrew didn't like anything, and Andrew figured that was correct in all the ways that mattered. The hunt, the chase and dive and tearing of talons in flesh, all in instinctive drive to soothe the ache of hunger-- it wasn't that Andrew enjoyed it. It was that he appreciated the brutal utility of it. The plants ate the the sun, which Andrew could not; the fish and rodent ate the plants, which Andrew had not the beak for; and so Andrew ate these small things, these creatures too weak to cling to life. Muscle to muscle, bone to bone, and Andrew kept alive another day. Apollo and Demeter were no matter to a hunter, though Andrew had never sworn the heart-oath to his father he was commanded. He was free as the wind itself; freer, for he rode atop it. A new scent had him ducking in-- not interest, for that was too strong a word, but attention, maybe; a large creature this, larger than was safe even for a bird of Andrew's size, but today Andrew had a mighty hunger. He banked left and followed the meat-smell to a jagged rock jutting out from the cliff into the sea, streaked with generations of excrement from fowl and creeping lizard alike. The churning of the waters around swallowed the cries of the poor creature, and so Andrew was right against the rock before he realized how big the thing was. Quickly, he landed on a spike hidden on the backside of the outcrop, poking his head over the top to catch a glance of what was on the other side. It howled in pain and confusion, struggling; why was it not running? Andrew saw why a moment later, the iron manacle chaining the animal to the rock. So: a stroke of someone else's luck (for Andrew never had any luck of his own). He was surprised no-one else had come to pick at this choice offiering. Perhaps they were waiting for the correct hour. Andrew would take it then, while it was still early, before it could be stolen away. With such a feast there was no need to stint himself. With a cry Andrew spread his wings and rose up over the sea-cracked rock, diving towards the softest meat of the animal's belly. Skin gave easily beneath his talons, spilling the warm viscera from within. Andrew stuffed his beak again and again, lost to the frenzy of eating, the wholly sensate experience that was the only time he felt truly in his own body. His stomach bulged now, yet Andrew knew he could fit more. He dug into wet meat and felt the blood spray across his feathers. Look, the wind said, look at what I've given you… Fuck off telling me what to do, Andrew thought at it, but he was a suspicious bird by nature. He chanced a glance upwards as he paused to draw breath between bites, talons tightening in his prey. The face that looked back at him wavered strangely. Andrew blinked, lifting his beak to smell, and all at once the face and his memories sharpened into awareness. "Andrew," the face was saying, tear-streaked from pain. "This isn't you, I know, think, remember," a wave cut the words off, dashing the side of the rock and filling the mouth with saltwater. When it turned to cough Andrew saw the thin marking of a number two. Why-- How-- What had Andrew done? He tried to throw himself backwards, horror rising like bile in his throat, trying to carry Kevin's bodyflesh  back out of it, but Andrew was trapped, his talons twisting stuck in bleeding muscle. Andrew cried out, beating his wings. He only succeeded in battering Kevin's face, making him flinch backwards more than he already was. Ah, the wind said. Ah ha, ha ha ha… If Andrew could not get away, he would at least stop this. Against his trembling panic he made his muscles relax, seeking to keep himself as far back from Kevin as he was able, giving his wings only enough lift to keep from dragging Kevin's skin down under his hanging weight. For a moment he managed it, and he saw Kevin's eyes fix on his, hopeful; hopeful, even though Andrew in the worst of senses tearing him apart. But then against Andrew's explicit instructions his muscles seized, drawing him closer. He watched as his right claw rose without his own permission, diving deep into Kevin's guts. Kevin threw his head back and screamed.

Another scent rose on the laughing wind, like Kevin's, man-scent and metal. Andrew wrenched his head to look, and before he was wrenched with a compulsion like iron to bite again, he saw a lone figure toiling over the algae-slick rocks, sword held aloft and red hair tangled from the brine. Your hero. This is my favorite part…who do you think wins this time? Why are you doing this? Andrew cried to the cruel wind, fighting against bonds he could not break to stay his ravage of Kevin's body. The fresh meat tasted good; that was the worst part, and Andrew gagged to know it. The flat of Neil's sword caught the sun and shone into Andrew's eyes, but he was not permitted to close them, to hide from the sight of his own inescapable gluttony. Why? Why, because I like it. I think it's fun. Don't you think this is fun, Andrew? You can't keep Neil from killing me. I won't stop him. Ah, ha. But for that he'd actually have to make it to this rock, no? I've reconsidered, I think this is my favorite part, the wind said. It was high-pitched now, too cold for summer, stolen from some place where ice froze too thick to stand grain. Every day, you still think you have a choice. Oh, yes, and Andrew's horror grew to blot out the sun, have you forgotten? That's okay, I can tell this lesson tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrows for all the rest of time...

Witchers Were Never Girls

TITLE: Witchers Were Never Girls

AUTHOR/ARTIST: @alistairmoonshine

PROMPT DAY #: Day #8: Free day

SUMMARY:   Witchers were never girls. Geralt had heard that his whole life, but he wasn't girl. Geralt had just been born with all the wrong body parts. He never thought someone could accept him for him until Jaskier waltzed into his life and paid no mind to what he did or did not have. It was so refreshing for once, Geralt didn't have to answer questions.

WORD COUNT (if applicable): 3817

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Trans character, penis in vagina sex with said trans character. Mentions of forced transition for the sake of becoming a witcher. 

RATING: E

ADDITIONAL NOTES: @geraskierweek

“Girls don’t become witchers,” That was what Geralt had heard his whole life. Yet, here he was. Well, he wasn’t exactly female, but he had been assigned female at birth. Geralt was raised male most of his life. It was all he had ever known.

He was only a child when Vesemir had scooped him up from his mother. Even during training, no one knew Geralt’s secret; only Vesemir did. Geralt did his best to bind his chest and was never seen naked by anyone. The training was hard, harder so for someone who was assigned female at birth. He had to work extra hard, train extra long, and bulk even more than others to finally get the body he needed.

When it was time for the mutations… Those had been horrendous. Only three out of ten boys actually survive. For some odd reason, Geralt was one of those three. He had handled the mutations so well he was given extra mutations and set upon even stronger potions.

Though, they had some great side effects. With the help from some magic, his breasts had all but disappeared and turned into nice hard pecks. He had grown several inches and bulked out tremendously. The only thing that had been left was… Was the parts between his legs. Granted, some parts of the mutations had caused certain… Areas to grow but he still kept his original set of genitals in tact.

Geralt really had no dysphoria over that part of his body so it had never occurred to him to go find more magic to maybe change it into what “normal” men had between their legs? He just decided to keep that part of him to himself. Even the women he slept with had no idea he wasn’t fully male thanks to some lovely crafted items he kept stowed away.

He had no qualms in pleasuring just about any woman but always refused her to pleasure back. It wasn’t that he didn’t ache for that connection. The want and need on his dick was sometimes real. So real, he would play with himself and stroke himself to completion alone. The orgasms just never seemed to scratch that itch… That itch deep within his body, but he just could not bring himself to share that side of himself to anyone.

Until that damned bard walked into his life. This perky 18 year old boy came waltzing into his life singing about fake mythical creatures and abortions. The man who used a pick up line about bread in his pants. It was almost unbearable. “Come on, don’t wanna keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting,” he had said before he had sat across from Geralt. Geralt had just grunted trying to ignore him.

Though, something perked his interest and the way the bard licked his lips was so delicious… No, no he could not fall for some strange and young bard. He was almost 100 himself! He was just a boy!

And somehow, said boy had gotten Geralt naked and was happily bathing him after the fight with the selkimore. Jaskier had glanced between his legs and Geralt was ready to attack if he made any comments on the folds and smoothness. Yet, Jaskier had not said a word and happily sprinkled bath salts in the tub and sang his praises about helping him at the damned banquet.

At least he hadn’t mentioned Geralt’s lack of a huge cock. Most people automatically assumed the 6 foot 2 man with the broad chest and broad shoulders held something monstrous in his pants. At least, that was the tales in the brothels and Geralt would like to keep it that way; thank you very much.

Yet, Jaskier had said nothing nor told anyone of his plight between his legs. Geralt had for once actually felt a little insecure with what he held down there. That was pretty unusual considering he actually didn’t mind for the most part. It was just easier to not explain to people that yes, girls CAN be witchers but in fact, they end up still becoming men in the end. It was part of the side effects of the mutations.

After that bath, and the banquet, Geralt was a lot more free with undressing and bathing with Jaskier. Jaskier would rake his eyes over Geralt then turn away and not say a word about what he did or did not see. Jaskier would gladly help Geralt bathe and even bathe with him if the tub was large enough or the pond warm enough. Geralt could handle almost freezing temperatures to wash off in but Jaskier was a lot more soft. He was prone to hypothermia. Which ended in them cuddling against one another during the coldest nights when they could not afford or be near an inn.

Jaskier was almost the same height as Geralt, but he was incredibly lithe with just the tiniest of pudges around his stomach. The “noble softness” that it was called. Geralt loved pulling that lithe body against his as Jaskier was spooned. Jaskier fit so perfectly against him and sometimes Geralt would have to stop himself from pulling him even closer to smell the scent of chamomile or Jaskier’s own strong musk.

On nights like those, he was thankful his cock wasn’t big enough to tent his pants and press against his friend’s bottom. Jaskier never made any advancements towards Geralt in any way. He never initiated the cuddling when it was cold, or any of their touches unless they were bathing of course. Then Jaskier was all over him, rubbing his back and even massaging his scalp and untangling the long strands and smoothing it away from his forehead. Geralt actually enjoyed these moments the most.

~ ~ ~

Now, here they were. It was late when Geralt entered the shared bedroom with Jaskier. A young bard maid screamed at the blood covered witcher and even without thinking, grabbed her clothes and ran. His eyes were still black from the potions he drank and he was panting loudly as he dropped the sheath with a loud thunk on the floor.

“Geralt!” Jaskier chastised as he sat up. The bard pulled the sheet over his own naked body as he swung his legs to the floor and planted them on it. “I was having a lot of fun!” He pouted a bit as Geralt growled, showing teeth. He was still high on the potions, “oh, oh don’t give me that!” Jaskier snapped as he stood.

Geralt being like this had never bothered or scared the bard. Maybe that was why Geralt had kept the bard around for so long? Jaskier tsked as he started to help remove the blood soaked armor. Geralt still growled and huffed but did not fight the ministrations of his friend.

“Stop your boorish growling. You need a bath. I am guessing drowner guts?” He made a face as he pulled strands of viscera from his hair. “Yes most definitely a bath!”

“Jaskier…” Geralt warned as those fingers worked on his scalp. A large hand came and clasped around Jaskier’s wrist and Jaskier stopped, dropping a few pieces of entrails to the floor. Geralt put his nose against his friend’s wrist and snuffled lightly as he moaned in the scent of chamomile, Jaskier’s own scents, and the scent of arousal and sex from the bard.

“G-geralt…” He murmured back and cleared his throat as he tried to pull away. Geralt did not allow that to happen as he started to lap and suck on the inside of his wrist with a quiet moan. “C-come on lets get you undressed. You need a bath… Ah!” He cried out and his cock twitched when he felt the witcher bite down. He did not draw blood but it left a small purple mark. Geralt grunted and dropped the wrist lightly. Geralt seemed to relax again as Jaskier finished removing the armer.

Geralt helped as he slowly undid his own belts and buckles letting them fall with a clang. Next, he kicked off heavy, black boots and they went flying across the room with a thump against the wall. Jaskier helped undo his pants and pressed on them to get them to go down. Geralt allowed this but soon moved to help and his pants and underpants also made it to the ground.

Jaskier cleared his throat again as his eyes glanced over the now naked form of the witcher. Geralt stood, bare without moving as he let Jaskier stare. “Ah, yes bath.” The man finally broke his gaze free and went for the tub. It had a pump built in thanks to being a much nicer inn and he started to pump the water quickly. It came out in splurts of steam and he hummed as he filled the water with floral scented bath salts.

How could one man be so flowery? Geralt had yet to know but he wouldn’t complain. He actually liked it. Geralt closed the distance between them and bent down to pull Jaskier up. Jaskier came willingly. Geralt could sense he was stiff, but there was no sour smell of fear. No, only the sweetness of arousal mixed with flowery balt salts and chamomile. “You aren’t afraid…” Geralt said calmly and Jaskier shook his head,

“I have no reason to be afraid of you,” Jaskier replied as his gentle hands came to rest on his friend’s arms. “You have never given me a reason to be afraid…”

“I bit you..” He murmured ever so gently and bared his teeth again. “I could kill you if I wanted especially right now. No weapons. Just bare hands…” He snarled gently and Jaskier tensed, adam’s apple bobbing along with his cock.

“Yes, you could.” Jaskier replied gently, “but you won’t. Now, if you don’t get in this bath I will have to wrestle you and we all know I am not that strong. So, in!” He pushed at Geralt until the larger man slowly entered the tub and sat down as he groaned from the warm water. It was almost heaven on aching muscles and sore limbs.

Jaskier sat to work and grabbed a bucket to start to pour warm water over his hair. Geralt grunted in between the motions but said nothing as Jaskier started a lather. He smelt lavender this time and closed his eyes as Jaskier hummed a song. “Come on, wash your own body you big brute,” Jaskier encouraged and Geralt growled but grabbed the cloth that was offered to him and started to wash the blood off his neck and face.

Jaskier’s fingers felt like heaven buried deep into his scalp as he massaged and worked until he felt all the viscera and blood slowly ebb away. Jaskier poured more water over his head to rinse and repeated the process until the water ran clear of blood. “There, nice and clean! Oh, your eyes are going back to normal…” Jaskier mentioned quietly when Geralt looked up at him with gold eyes,

“Yes, that is what happens when the potions wear off,” Geralt grumbled faintly as he leaned back and sighed. Jaskier just smiled gently and slowly stroked his friend’s shoulder. “How can you not be scared of me?” Geralt asked again lightly. “All I smell is… is your arousal. It’s so sweet it makes me ache,” he admitted and Jaskier fllushed lightly,

“Well you did catch me in the act of having a nice romp with a beautiful young bar maid…” He said softly, “but you really are a dense man.” He said softly. “I have always been attracted to you. I know you have always felt my eyes on you when we bathe. Yet, you have never brought it up or mentioned it. Can you not feel or smell my arousal when you spoon me on bitter winter nights? How I have touched myself in my bedroll next to you?” Geralt grunted softly,

“Oh, I have… I just thought you were thinking of others. I thought the reason you looked at me was curiousness you know because…” He pointed to between his legs and Jaskier snorted,

“I don’t care what is between your legs, Geralt. I care about you as a person,” Jaskier admitted softly, “though the tales of the brothels is that the witcher is hung like a horse!” He almost giggled softly and Geralt rolled his eyes,

“I wanted people to believe that. It is easier than explaining that not all witchers were born male,” he said calmly, “because witchers are never girls.” He made a face and turned away.

“Hey… Whatever your gender is or lack of or whatever… You are who you are,” Jaskier soothed and pulled Geralt’s chin so they were looking eye to eye. “I care about you. Not your gender, not what is between your legs, but you…” Geralt gave a faint smile and surged up. Their lips meshed and Jaskier moaned softly as he returned the kiss with just as much vigor and want.

They kissed for several minutes before Geralt pulled away and nodded to the bed. Jaskier nodded as well and was the first to make it to the bed. Though, Geralt easily closed the distance and toppled them both down onto the bed as he started to kiss Jaskier happily. Jaskier groaned and ground up, his hard cock touching and rubbing against Geralt.

Geralt gasped and threw his head back lightly. He was hard and swollen but his lips were incredibly wet and demanding. Geralt hadn’t really ever played with below his cock. It had never occurred to him that he could. Now, he just wanted to feel Jaskier play with him below. “Jaskier… Please.” he almost begged and Jaskier raised an eyebrow,

“Is that begging? Do witchers beg for sex?” He teased and was able to easily roll them. Of course, Geralt allowed the smaller male to roll them so he was now on top. He shifted his hips and started to grind low and slow. A small bead of precum smearing between them as Geralt ground back and whimpered at the friction of Jaskier’s normal sized cock against his own small dick.

“W-witchers don’t beg…” Geralt growled out but his head fell back and his hips bucked at the sensations as he moaned again.

“Oh-ho but I think they do,” he breathed softly and kissed Geralt gently on the lips. “If anything I do bothers you, please stop me alright?” Jaskier murmured and Geralt gave his consent as Jaskier quickly moved down his body.

He spent little time nibbling and sucking nipples before he traveled down the well furred body. His tongue dipped in and out of a clean belly button and he grinned at the way the strong muscles tensed and relaxed under his tongue.

Soon, he was settled on his knees in front of the witcher’s crotch. He leaned forward and sniffed lightly and moaned at the heady scent of arousal and slick from his friend’s crotch. “Oh, you smell divine… I bet you taste just as good,” he murmured and Geralt just moaned softly as his legs opened to better accommodate Jaskier between them.

The bard shuffled between strong thighs and gave light kisses to said thighs. Geralt tensed but soon relaxed as he felt soothing rubs on his hips. Geralt almost cried out when he felt the first tentative licks upon his small shaft. His cock twitched and he groaned as Jaskier moaned softly, “you taste amazing…” He murmured before he took all of Geralt into his mouth and started to suck gently. Geralt fisted brown mousey hair and held him close.

Jaskier was able to take his small size all the way within his mouth and he happily licked and sucked as his nose rubbed against Geralt’s pelvic area. Geralt ground up and moaned as he bucked. Jaskier was sucking him with vengeance and Geralt knew it would not be long before he was cumming. He had yet to let anyone touch him like this so it was all new sensations.

Jaskier felt the way Geralt shifted and was whimpering as he neared his release and refused to let up until he felt Geralt stiffen and he moaned loudly as he bucked twice and came. Jaskier groaned at smelling and sensing the other leaking so much between his legs. Jaskier pulled back; lips red and spittle sliding from his chin to Geralt’s small and twitching cock.

Geralt looked down at how debauched his friend looked and moaned gently as he pulled Jaskier up and into another kiss. “Jaskier…” Geralt slowly said as Jaskier pulled away,

“Hmm?” He asked softly and Geralt flushed,

“I have never let anyone touch me so… intimately.” He admitted and Jaskier turned red,

“I am glad you allowed me to, my dear witcher. I quite enjoyed sucking your cock,” he grinned a bit and Geralt gulped a bit and sat up,

“I want you to penetrate me.” He said and Jaskier gasped and sat up fully,

“Pe-penetrate you? Like… there?” He pointed and Geralt nodded,

“I haven’t even touched myself there. But I want you to. Will you?” Jaskier nodded and they shifted so both men were fully onto the bed.

“I will be gentle. Please, you have to talk to me and tell me to stop if I hurt you.” Jaskier replied and Geralt hummed lightly and opened his thighs more. The man settled between them and slowly let his fingers trace circles until they met his friend’s labia. He pressed one finger forward and felt Geralt buck as the finger slipped in oh so easily.

He rested and waited for Geralt to relax and slowly started to massage and move it around. Geralt’s brow was furrowed and he was grunting softly, but he did not tell Jaskier to stop. So, Jaskier pressed in a second finger and Geralt’s face relaxed slightly and his jaw went slack as he moaned out loud for Jaskier. Jaskier moaned along with him,

“Oh Geralt, you are so wet,” Jaskier breathed. “I can’t wait to feel you around my cock so wanting… Ohh you are clenching so beautifully,” Jaskier praised and Geralt felt himself really getting off on the praises as he moaned and clenched around the two fingers, “I wonder can you take three hmmm?” At that, a third finger entered Geralt’s hole and Geralt cried out happily as he bucked against the feeling of being full.

Jaskier figured he tortured his friend enough and slipped his fingers out. Geralt keened at the feeling of being left empty, “shh now my dear friend. I promise to show you exactly what it is like…” He said softly as he slowly grasped himself in his hand. He rubbed against the folds gently and then slowly pressed forward and gasped as his head slipped in oh so easily.

Geralt tensed and his face looked like a mix of fear, and concentration. “Geralt? Geralt speak to me.” Jaskier had not slid any further than the head as he waited for the other to allow more. Geralt nodded,

“I...I’m alright. I was expecting more pain but I am only feeling pleasure. Continue please?” Jaskier hummed and nodded as he slowly pressed closer in and buried himself deep within Geralt’s cavern. Jaskier had to hold back just a bit because he felt as if he could spend just from entering his friend. So, he waited until he felt Geralt relax more and slowly started a swift pace.

It wasn’t hard just the thrusts were quick and shallow. Every thrust in, Geralt groaned or cried out. Jaskier was surprised how vocal the witcher could be and it allowed himself to be just as loud. His own moans encouraging the ones from Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier leaned forward and his lips locked with Geralt. Strong hands encased him so they were lying chest to chest; stomach to stomach. Jaskier kept the fast and shallow thrusts as they shared a loving kiss. Soon, the witcher pulled away. His pupils were blown and there was almost no gold left, “more, harder.” He panted and Jaskier groaned as he sat back up on his knees. He slowed to a stop so he could adjust and quickly grabbed his friend’s legs about the knees.

He adjusted his friend’s hips and was holding tightly to the legs and bent Geralt forward just slightly. Geralt moaned softly at the deeper position and Jaskier jack hammered his hips roughly. Geralt felt his larger body slide against the bed and he cried out at the sharp thrusts. Jaskier really was giving it all he could. He was thrusting long and hard and moaning as he deepened the thrusts. Geralt took it all quite happily as he thrust back and kept making obscene moans.

The loud sounds of slick sex, and skin to skin smacks rung between their cries of pleasure. Geralt couldn’t handle this almost. He pressed a hand between their bodies and started to stroke himself roughly in time with the thrusts his friend was giving him.

It didn’t take long before Geralt was crying his release. Though, this time liquid squirted out of him and he cried out as he felt as if he had peed all over himself and Jaskier. Jaskier seemed to enjoy it and moaned ,”oh, oh yes look at that!” He cried and panted, “you just came all over me, Geralt. Beautiful oh, oh I’m close. Where at? Where can I cum?” He asked between pants.

“In me, cum in me!” Geralt panted and that was all it took. Two more thrusts and Geralt felt the first spurts of an orgasm deep within his body. Jaskier moaned as his hips slowed and he rocked his way through his orgasm as Geralt still stroked his stiff little cock. Geralt moaned too at being slightly over sensitive and worked now. Once Jaskier was finished, he pulled off and plopped upon the bed. Geralt groaned and rolled over to pull Jaskier to his chest,

“We need another bath…” Jaskier murmured and laughed softly,

“I..I’m sorry for uh getting all over you.” Geralt said gently a little shy now, “that has never happened before…”

“Geralt, you didn’t pee if that is what you think. You literally ejaculated. I have only experienced that once before with a very willing milk maid. I won’t go into details but people with ah… vaginas can have ejaculations just like men.” He said softly, “and I quite enjoyed feeling you spend over me. It was quite sexy. I hope to make you do it again. If, I have proven myself a worthy bed partner?” Geralt snorted softly as he pressed his nose deep within his hair.

“Mm, you have proven yourself far more…” Jaskier just smiled as he let his eyes slide closed. Maybe a short nap before another bath?

Apocrypha Chapter Thirty Five: Admissions

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Thirty Five: Admissions

 Note: Vergil’s EX taunt is the only thing keeping me alive right now. I’m so sleepy lol  please help me! This chapter is going up four hours earlier than normal because I need a NAP! Sorry for any errors. I’ll double check everything as soon as I get a chance.

 (-~-)

Sunday, August 25th, 1:00 am

With a thundering crash, the oversized demon toppled over like a broken tree, taking the lower portion of the old warehouse with it. It hissed it’s final breath, melting into a gooey puddle of broken glass and blood, no longer a threat to anyone in the general area. Alas, there was no time to celebrate their hard earned victory, as their defeated foe was far from the only Empusa Queen walking the streets of Capulet City.

In principal, the request had been relatively straightforward. Meet with Morrison, find out what the customer wanted them to do, and then receive their well earned payment. The only issue was that the execution proved to be less straightforward. For reasons that were totally beyond them, the assailant that had brought to beir the disaster they currently found themselves in the middle of had been extraordinary difficult to track down, the two of them still not entirely sure where their opponent was, what they looked like, or why they were up to basically anything that they were embroiled in. All they knew was that nearly half of the city had ran for the hills the second several dozen large demons had started marching up the streets with a thirst for blood and a need to kill.

This was a fact that Vergil in particular found incredibly annoying, not at all pleased to be so out of the loop when it came to such critical information. This entire situation could be over and done with within an instant if the eldest Son of Sparda Simply knew where to point his beloved blade, and the fact that they didn’t even know what kind of being they were up against didn’t help in the slightest. With a discontent sigh, Vergil directed his ire towards the nearest unfortunate Demon. If only the useless things were capable of telling them who had been insane enough to unleash them and where the portal or gateway was located.

“Look, I’m telling ya we should just call them.” Dante said as he kicked the demon he’d just impaled off of the other end of his blade, knocking it backwards towards his twin. The devil slayer in blue shot him an irritated look, cleaving the half dead demon in half before turning his attention back towards the queen he’d targeted. Dante shot the creature in the back, causing it to turn it’s attention away from the hapless pedestrians and towards them in a move that probably negated the element of surprise that Vergil had hoped to start the fight with. Or it would have if he’d teleported towards it even a millisecond later as he collided with the snarling beast, cutting clear through it. He landed a moment later, sheathing his blade and turning his attention back towards his younger twin, showing no concern towards this opponent who was too slow to realize that it was already dead standing. 

A spray of viscera and blood soaked the ground as the second demon in less than half a minute met its end, the ringing click that signaled Yamato’s return to its rightful resting place finally causing the creature to topple over and just miss flattening a nearby car. As police sirens sounded in the distance and what few citizens that remained fled in terror, Vergil shook his head, absentmindedly delivering his younger brother his answer. “No. Absolutely not.”

Just then, a small swarm of smaller assorted Empusa came crashing through and over a nearby shop, sending shards of broken glass flying every which way as they hurried after a small, startled dog. The canine bolted into a nearby park, sufficiently losing them in the process as they lost sight of it, the crafty pooch scampering underneath a nearby truck with reckless abandon. Dante put away his blade and drew King Cerberus before charging up a powerful strike and drawing a line in blood through the crowd of demons, the ice spikes it created shredding the minor demons with minimal effort. Vergil spared Dante a brief look of disbelief before silently joining him in his attack. Despite the fact that his mind was elsewhere, destroying the demons was a no brainer, and there were few, if any times that Vergil would pass up an opportunity to strike down his enemies.

“You're no fun, ya know that, right?” Dante said with a shrug as one of the unlucky demons caught a mouthful of buckshot at point blank range, rendering it lifeless quicker than it could probably register.” They aren’t kids, brother. I’m pretty sure they can handle themselves in a fight. Or are you just scared they’re gonna upstage you?”

A flurry of swipes and slashes ended in a devastating charge as Vergil made mincemeat out of four of the smaller demons, his attention turning towards the flying Empusa that accompanied them. As the small ugly creature attempted to charge up an attack, Vergil teleported towards it, ending it’s pitiful existence in a single swipe. It perished with a loud screech, dissolving as it was carried away in a gust of chilly night air, it’s green essence wasted on it’s enemies as they had yet to be injured and required no mending.

“I’m just going to pretend that I didn’t hear you say that.” Vergil said in a flat, humorless tone as he and Dante finished off the remaining demons with a combined assault, the two both executing a charged attack to strike down their weaker foes before giving one another a perplexed look. Neither of them had been aiming to shred the hapless creatures with a combined Drive strike, but they had done so nonetheless. It was strange how they occasionally managed to mirror one another so seamlessly without any conscious effort to do so on their part. While it wasn’t entirely unwelcome, neither of them truly knew what to think of it, either. Perhaps it was simply a result of them being twins. But there was no way of knowing for sure. Regardless, they both found it slightly unsettling how they consistently managed to read one another so well.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is that this whole city is gonna be up in flames by this time tomorrow, so it might be a good idea.” Dante shrugged as he put away his weapon and started towards the end of the street. An explosion could be heard from around the corner, and the youngest of the Dark Knight Sparda’s twin sons was almost certain that he would find more opponents to do battle with at its source.” I’m the last person looking to take a smaller cut on this gig, but two cities in one year is a bit much, dontcha think?”

If it was possible for a look to kill someone, Vergil’s icy glare would have done so. He followed Dante along at a distance, not quite searching for the same thing that his younger doppelganger was headed towards. There had to be some sort of pattern to this attack. Unless there were multiple breaches, then they had to be able to figure out the basic vicinity of the portal that these demons were coming from.

At this point, spite alone was enough to drive Vergil into searching every crevice of this wretched city for their unknown advisory. He’d agreed to tag along with Dante in the hopes that he might get to blow off some steam and try not to think about V’s condition for a short while, only to be met by an insurmountable task the likes of which he accustomed to but no less annoyed by. What was it with this region and the constant demonic attacks. Fortuna, Enamel, Capulet, Redgrave… the list just went on and on for no foreseeable reason, and there was no discernable logic to it. All of the gates were closed, and the conduit that the cult had once gathered around seemed to have either been damaged in some way or destroyed since it no longer functioned. And yet, for as long as Vergil could remember it, this entire area had been plagued by demonic attacks. It was unusual for one municipality to have such a high concentration of demonic activity for such a prolonged length of time. 

He furrowed his brow slightly as he wondered whether or not their father had settled in this region for this precise reason. After all, it would make perfect sense. A quiet pang of something he refused to acknowledge gripped him for a moment as he wondered if he would ever have the chance to ask their father something like that for himself. What would the legendary Dark Knight think of the things that the two of them had done in his absence? Would he feel pride and vindication, or profound disappointment. It had been so long since Vergil had spoken to him that he honestly wasn’t sure what to think about that situation. That being said, despite a lifetime of searching for him, Vergil had never been able to find a concrete answer to his questions, and that was something that occasionally deprived him of a well earned nights rest. There was only so much that someone could take in a lifetime when it came to losses, and although logic dictated that he simply let the matter go and move on, the Darkslayer was confident that that was something he was incapable of doing. He’d never truly tried to, and he felt no desire to attempt to do so. Maybe at some point he’d simply have to face what could be the truth, He just hoped it wouldn’t be anytime soon, and knew that this wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. After all, he had a plan.

(-~-)

Saturday, August 24th, 11:00 pm

As the sun had fallen below the bridge of the horizon, it had become increasingly clear that Nero didn’t actually have any immediate plans to head back to Fortuna that night. A quick call to Kyrie had insured that she wouldn’t spend the night up worrying about what they might have gotten up to, and the youngest Descendant of the Sparda was safe to continue sitting in a dusty, chilly, townhouse that had been practically abandoned for the better part of two decades. 

Nero only knew the sparse information that V had shared with him over the last few days as he’d prepared to leave, but he couldn’t help but wonder what V was going to do there all alone with nothing to do but read and shiver due to the lack of heat. While the house was entirely structurally sound, and had an incredibly interesting look to it, that didn’t change the fact that the power and other utilities wouldn’t be on until around noon, and that it was freezing inside of basically every room in the house. V didn’t really own that many items, so things were going to stay relatively chilly for the reminder of the night at the very least, and there was a part of Nero that wondered if V was going to freeze to death in the meantime.

“So how cold does it have to get in here before you start burning books?” Nero said, entirely joking but genuinely curious as to how V would react to that question. Although he was basically sure that his older sibling would probably sooner die than disrespect a work of literature in such a profound way, there was always the chance that even V had limits to his insanity. The question was did those limits actually make sense.

The part devil in question glanced over at him from his position on the floor nearest to the fireplace. There was no kindling of any kind present aside from the boxes nearest to them, most of which probably did actually contain books if their weight and V’s track record was anything to go by. While he didn’t seem surprised or unamused by the question, V did seem somewhat horrified. It seemed that ever though they were in a cold house in the dark, V was still in relatively high spirits.

“... I would sooner burn my own shirt.” V said in a tone of voice so matter of fact and blunt that Nero couldn’t help but laugh a little. There was no doubt about it. V was deadly serious when it came to his books, but this was a whole new level of insanity.

“But V, if it’s that could, wouldn’t you be better off just keeping the shirt on and burning the books?” Nero gave him a curious look, clearing his throat slightly as he shifted in his spot on the floor slightly. He felt the draft blow in a little, and was certain that leaving a few of the windows open to allow air to come in over night was going to be the death of them. It was truly very chilly outside, all jokes aside.

Stretching slightly, V nodded diligently.” Yes, it would be. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t. But on this one specific occasion, I choose to be illogical. For what is the point of victory if a man loses his own soul?” He paused for a moment, seemingly thinking. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he glanced back over at Nero, opting to stand up and make his way over to one of the nearby boxes.” A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent”

Nero nodded to himself, noticing that V had once again quoted that book that he carried around with him everywhere. It was strange, but this time, he actually understood the context of V’s words, and he couldn’t help but find that slightly fascinating. It was rare that he understood what his older brother was going on about, but despite the fact that he didn’t share the same devotion to the literary arts that V did, he understood the sentiment that he was trying to convey, even if it was purposefully dramatic purely for the hell of it.

“So… what are you going to do with this place? I mean, you just moved in, but you don’t really have anything to put in it.” Nero gestured towards the vast nothingness around them, noting that there were only a few pieces of furniture scattered about the place. All of them were covered in a tarp or something akin to it, and they seemed to be protecting the tattered remains of whatever furniture remained in the house after it’s former residents had vacated the area.” What’s the plan? I mean, whatever it is, it’s gotta be better than whatever Dante has been up to all this time. I’m still shocked that he keeps the power on half of the time.”

A soft smirk crossed V’s face as he considered that for a moment. It was somewhat insane that their uncle had managed to keep the office open considering how chaotic his payment schedule was and how often he tended to get himself into either deeper debt or dicey situations. V had overheard Lady and Trish talking about how the devil hunter in red had been forced to replace the front door and jukebox on numerous occasions due to accidents, attacks, and simply bad judgement in the face of all perceivable common sense. He had to admit that not being able to keep the front door on your own office had to be the mark of an insane person, but it was too early for him to be able to say that. After all, he hadn’t been in his new home a single day yet.

“Making sure I actually own furniture has never been one of my strong suits. I don’t tend to stay in one place for very long, so I’ve never actually needed it.” V opened the box nearest to him as he spoke, digging around in it’s contents as he continued to speak to Nero.” Thankfully, I do have something set aside for this kind of situation. Financially I mean. I really don’t own much of anything. That must seem strange.”

The younger of the two shrugged nebulously as V attempted to make himself comfortable on the plastic covered sofa after producing a familiar blanket from the box. Nero shook his head as he realized where V had gotten that from, not at all surprised that Kyrie was simply incapable of allowing V to leave without at least one parting gift. It was just who she was. When she cared about something or someone she needed to make sure that they knew that and that they were safe. Since she wasn't a fighter, she did little things like make someone a blanket to show her appreciation.

“It’s not that weird, V. And why am I not surprised that she gave you that blanket.” Nero said with a small laugh.” That’s basically been yours since you showed up. What did you used to do before we met you? I can’t picture you with a normal job.”

V nodded thoughtfully as he wrapped himself up in the blanked. Nero had no idea how right he was. The very first night that he’d spent in their home had been under this blanket. Kyrie had gifted it to him in an attempt to make him more comfortable. And when he’d chosen to leave, she’d asked him to keep it as something to remember her by. Despite the fact that he’d gently reminded her that he wasn’t moving very far away, and that he’d see her again very soon, she had insisted that he take her up on the offer. And he was smart enough to recognize when he’d lost a battle, much like he’d realized that he had nowhere to run to escape this conversation with Nero that he now found himself in. Sometimes it was best to simply tackle a problem head on. Metaphorically at least. V was positive that he’s never physically tackled anything in his entire life.

“I suppose I should tell you, then. But only on the condition that you won’t laugh. It’s a bit fantastical.”

Ch. 2

The town was blanketed in a cold silence as we walked shoulder to shoulder down the road. The sun had long ago dissolved into the comfort of night, leaving the weighty task of illumination to the dull streetlamps and the waning crescent of the moon. A tender warmth radiated through my right hand, soaking through my pale skin.

“Is it really a good idea to bring me to your super secret safehouse?” Sarisa teased, jerking my hand towards her. “I could be a plant put here in some nefarious plot. I’m clever, pretty, and I’m pretty sure I cast a spell on you when we were little that demanded your undying love. A true triple threat.”

"I think I'm a quarter undead on my dad's side, so I don't know if actual undying love is something you particularly want from me."

I knew she was trying to lighten the mood, and our jokes came naturally. Plus, I’m also rather sure love spells didn’t exist since emotions like love are extremely strong and hard to properly control.

Not that it stopped Sarisa from trying when we were kids.

“Don’t believe me? Right now I have you in the palm of my hand and you’re taking me by foot to a place you could call a sanctuary. When we step past the wards, maybe I’ll draw my curved dagger and-!” Breaking her train of thought, she pushed me in front of her, raising her right hand in a mock stabbing motion. I spun on my heel out of instinct, but did nothing as her closed fist tapped my chest. Putting on a look of deep satisfaction, Sarisa nodded.

“With great force, I thrust it in. It penetrates. In the end we are all satisfied, and you are set free.”

My laughter split the night, with Sarisa’s following a second later. She always had this penchant for jokes when the atmosphere got too heavy. I suppose there’s no choice but being great at reading the mood when your best friend doesn't speak much. I was always envious of her prodigious talent at, well, everything.

We walked along the road in the summer night, hands no longer joined, but our shoulders remaining close. The blood on my hand had long dried and I picked absently at the flecks, mind lost in thought. My brain urged haste but my body refused to follow through. From a logical standpoint I knew we had time, and we needed to plan a course of action anyway, so undue haste was meaningless. From an emotional standpoint though, I was in turmoil.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was drawing everyone into a spiral of destruction. My mother and father. My town. My best friend. She came along without a question and with open arms, plunging into what would probably be a rondo of blood. It bothered me. If what my father said was true, my magic was like a whirlpool. Little could stand against the current and those in my path would be swept up to be pulled under in the end without much thought or reason, motivated by some sort of overpowering compulsion. I didn’t like it.

My feet had mechanically continued the motion of walking, but I found myself stopped. The footsteps next to me came to a halt a moment later, and the soft scratching of pavement told me that she had pivoted to look at me. I looked up to meet her gaze, guilt washing over me as I tried to find the words.

“Stop.” Sarisa’s voice was crystallized power, temporarily breaking my reverie. Confusion set in on my face, but she continued.

“You haven’t told me the circumstances, but they’re obviously dire. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m free to make my own choices, and I choose to help the idiot that I’ve been graced with. The idiot that probably spends valuable time worrying about the people who care about him when it’s the time to worry about himself. Just tell me at some point, okay? Being left in the dark isn't fun unless there's shitty music and glow sticks.”

My gaze faltered. Her’s didn’t.

“I could always remind you of the time you came after me in our tenth year when that warlock wannabe tried to kidnap me. You were acting like some big action hero. Well, I don't know how many big action heroes turn people into actual mincemeat.” Sarisa smiled. Sure, academically I knew she could have handled herself in that situation, but who reacts in a logical way when the person they care about is in anything close to danger? Well, probably some people. Not myself. I realized we had resumed walking, and were almost at the bridge where the safehouse was, but it seems our trip down memory lane wasn’t quite over.

“Or that one time a Mage Hunter managed to catch you outside after you were training with your dad. You were pretty drained, yeah? I know you probably wanted to kick his ass yourself but it  didn’t stop me from breaking his jaw the second I saw you were in trouble.”

She smirked when my cheeks went red. I wanted to make a point to by knocking him out in one hit but he just kept swinging that oversized scimitar like a madman. I hated Mage Hunters - people who had just enough power to be dangerous and just enough sense to be senseless - so I wanted to kick his assassin...ass without magic. I chose to remember the part where she protected me, though. It was a better memory.

"My point is, well. Where I go, you go, and where you go, I go. It's always been this way. And...I don't want it to change. Not that part, at least." Words unspoken hung between us, that elusive "something" that we'd recently awoken to.  I met her eyes and nodded. Was it the dying sun that tinted her cheeks? I don't know, but...

I didn't want it to change either. Not that part, at least.

Our feet carried us down the slope and to the barren concrete wall that supported the bridge above us. Placing my right hand on the slab, I channeled my power through my fingertips as I spoke the words of unlocking and revealing. A portion of the wall disappeared in a flash of red, revealing an ornate door. As I placed my hand on the knob, I felt a strange sensation of apprehension wash over me. Shaking my head, I decided it was nothing and gently pushed open the door.

A stench of blood and carrion assailed us. Even from the dark doorway, we could make out trails of gore and viscera, bone and fat clinging to concrete.

I recoiled visibly, and Sarisa’s hand found mine for a fleeting moment. I wouldn't usually be this affected, but tonight...ah, tonight, I was on edge. I nodded curtly to her, and we stepped into this unknown hell called a safehouse.

I Spent All Day Working On This - New Collaborations and Documentation

Hours of a Saturday spent trying to adhere to a nebulous and completely imagined aesthetic, for a scene for a video which probably won’t be on screen for more than two seconds... and it’s still not quite right! Maybe it was this illustration which made me decide I needed to blog about this new project of mine.

I spoke to an old acquaintance of mine about Jane’s death a couple weeks ago. I stated that I wasn’t sure I’d be making videos anymore in light of the fact so much of what I’ve done over the past several years, as far as video making goes, was supporting Jane’s projects, which unlike my own, were actually produced and finished.

This acquaintance has known about my film making interest since I was a teenager- maybe he didn’t like the idea of me giving it up, or maybe he simply saw an opportunity for his creative outlet and my own to cross paths. He has a band, and wanted me to select one of their songs to use in a music video. Ultimately, he chose this one for me, and I was unsure about it at first because the idea I dreamed up would have been outside of my scope of illustration and animation skills- think of the gruesomeness of Garbage Pail Kids, but animated, organs pulsating, twitching, spurting. Eventually, I started thinking about 8 bit viscera- NES games like Lifeforce where so many levels feature “organic” themes to it

What I ended up envisioning was the suggestion of a NES style video game, which explains the wildly inexplicable events that take place in the video. Imagine a Dr. Mario style playing field, except the “jar” is a stomach, and the “pills” are candy, now throw in some Arkanoid style brick breaking, side scrolling space shooting, and worlds that look like something from Sim City, Final Fantasy IV, and the Game Over screens from Tetris, depending on your height off the ground, and you get... this.

I want to treat this new collaboration like an audition, so I want to aim high, work hard, and stay positive. That being said, it can be very daunting. Like Action Figure Bullshit, I can’t help but think to myself “I can’t do this!” and “What the hell am I doing!? I’m heading straight for disaster!”. Those thoughts are distracting, but it’s nice to have somewhere to vent. In the AFB notebook, many pages had some variant of “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!” written in the margins. Since I want to extend that positivity to my new notebook devoted to this project, I’ll have to dump the negativity somewhere else... why not here?

It seems strange for me to start writing about making a music video when this is supposed to be a blog for my action figure bullshit... project..., but there’s actually quite a bit of overlap, if not in content, then in execution. Like I said, I have a notebook for this project. By coincidence, it has a black cover, too. To be cute, I could say it’s black like VHS tape... I might go with that, too, especially since I have an unofficial, sort of subconscious color coding system with these ordinary 70 sheet spiral notebooks. Colors such as Green, Purple, and Blue are reserved for other productions, for instance... and if only I could find a School Bus Yellow-Orange notebook again...

So, it’s the same thing as with AFB. I have scenes in my head that go along with the imagery. Even if I feel like “it’s too much” to animate or similarly outside of my range of abilities and resources, I still write it out and draw it out. I find that video production- at least from my perspective of someone who does it as a hobby and uses old and/or shitty programs to do it, the journey through the project is likely more significant than the finished result, meaning that a big reason I feel like I can’t do something is because I can’t see the end point, but I can’t see the end point because it hasn’t been defined yet. How many times does an idea morph along the way, with each new day, each new page, each new second of video? I can’t see the end result because all the in between steps haven’t been put in place yet.

Or to put it another way, I try to replace “I can’t do this.” with “I can’t do this yet.”, which satisfies that need inside of me to be negative and put myself down, but also puts in a qualifier that makes this doubt both okay and filed away so I can continue to forge ahead. So far, I’ve head to hit any significant block. If there’s a challenge to an idea or scene, a solution is never too far away.

Did you see that word, CHALLENGE? It’s another one of those things you might read in a self help book- struggles should be seen as challenges to overcome, puzzles to solve, not obstacles to avoid, sign posts telling you to turn back.

So here’s what’s going on:

I have a song, which I’ll call “Track #4″. It’s about 150 seconds long (and I say this instead of 2 minutes, 30 seconds for a reason), with maybe an additional 30 seconds of footage to bookend the music. Those bookends are well defined and could be filmed today (they’re the only live action bits in the video so far). As for the main part with the music, over a third of that, 56 seconds, has virtually every single second illustrated and described in a loose storyboard kind of format. The rest is in my head, but still needs to be documented. I’m a big believer in the “write it out” idea- these notebooks have helped me take that to an admittedly eccentric level, but I have success with it, and fun, too! Isn’t that weird? That there would be, not only fun, but a feeling like the notebook is as much a part of the project as the video.

Once I’m done drawing out every scene for this fever dream, I’ll then move on to what I guess you could call “sprites” because so much of this, I want to look like something in the vein of Parodius, Dr. Mario, all those trippy-ass games which I have so much nostalgia for. Actually animating this is a scary idea, because I feel like it will be a failure on my part if I don’t get the 8 bit aesthetic down. It’s not a requirement, and “The Journey” through this project could lead me to an acceptable alternative-- I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, though. This is what can trip me up. I’m worrying about how to animate little candies and blood vessels and Moai heads when my focus should be on documenting what I imagine for the video, let the rest come later!

Still, sometimes creativity strikes in such a way, you can’t help but work on a part that’s further down the road, possibly down a road you’ll never travel- such as this screen, but that’s part of the bookend, which is so separated from the rest of the video, it’s almost like a different video, like a framing device, and one that’s a lot less complicated than the main course.

One final thing- and one which gives more reason to blog about this on the AFB blog- I might use AFB characters in one particular scene.

Picture the game over screen from TETRIS, specifically the “B-Type” game. Clear 25 lines on Level 9, Height 5, and you see various NES characters on a multi-tiered platform celebrating your victory. Now picture this as a building that’s not too far away from the “action” of the video, and these characters are looking on... when suddenly, an Arkanoid type capsule (similar, but legally distinct! Actually, it would look more like the paddle from Alleyway) appears and abducts some of the characters and takes them on a wild ride into this weird semi-organic machine with a terrible sweet tooth.

Those characters: Greta, Trent, and Douglas. I’d love to have a little nod to AFB, and I’d love to animate some “bridge lurch” if they come under attack from something. We’ll see.

If I keep blogging about this video, I’ll go into more details, such as why looking at the video in terms of a pile of seconds is extremely important.

Tuesday Brewsday 02:

Exhume the Position

Welcome to the second article where I attempt to introduce you to new & interesting brews, as well as new takes on established decks. This week I’m continuing down the brewing rabbit hole to bring you a fun Exhume deck. Reanimator has always been a powerful deck in modern as well as legacy, but you don’t see it very often in pauper. The problem is there isn’t a payoff card that pretty much wins you the game on the spot that you see in other formats. There is also the problem of having access to very few reanimate spells, exhume being the most popular one of the bunch. So what you get are either UB variants that rely on counterspells to protect your investments, or RB versions that go more all in for turn 2 or 3 kills with an Ulamog’s Crusher suited up with a Dragon Breath. I was going to post an interesting take on a UB decklist this week, but a notable YouTuber (congrats to the person behind Stompy MtG Blog) ended up beating me to the punch and went 4-1 in a league a better decklist than what I was trying to come up with. This got me to thinking outside the box and got the brewing gears running. After a bunch of tinkering I present to you this fun mono black exhume deck.

4 Peat Bog

10 Swamp

2 Witch's Cottage

4 Exhume

4 Horror of the Broken Lands

3 Street Wraith

4 Viscera Dragger

1 Greater Sandwurm

4 Gurmag Angler

3 Ash Barrens

4 Grisly Survivor

1 Mountain

1 Ghastly Demise

2 Disfigure

2 Twisted Abomination

1 Syphon Life

2 Ransack the Lab

3 Faerie Macabre

2 Sign in Blood

2 Snuff Out

1 Monstrous Carabid

You’ll notice right away that this deck relies on cycling, the sweet ability that can’t be countered which draws you a card. We are running two creatures which benefit from our constant cycling, Grisly Survivor and Horror of the Broken Lands. I absolutely fell in love with these guys after a few playtests and found the deck to be very organic and synergistic. Your gameplan is pretty much cycle your creatures to draw cards, play one of your pay off creatures, and exhume big creatures that you cycled into the graveyard. So now that we have identified what our game plan is and which creatures really play well with cycling and discard, let’s get into the rest of the deck.

We will start off with Exhume, one of the main reasons we’re playing this deck. For one colorless and a black each player returns a creature from their graveyard to the battlefield. A sweet line of play will often times be to play a Peat Bog on turn 1, then on turn two play a swamp, cycle Horror of the Broken Lands and then cast Exhume to bring it back to the battlefield. A turn 2 4/4 is nothing to sneeze at, especially one that you can pump by pretty much just playing out your deck naturally. Other great Exhume targets are Street Wraith if you’re facing opposing swamps, Greater Sandwurm, Twisted Abomination (so long as you have regeneration mana up), and if you really need to get in damage quick there is Monstrous Carabid.

We’re running an abundance of cycling creatures to help fuel our payoffs, draw cards/swamps, and fill the graveyard for Gurmag Angler. Street Wraith in this deck can act as a combat trick for free at the cost of 2 life that draws you a card. Viscera Dragger can cycle and then be Unearthed from the graveyard to put even more pressure on your opponent. Horror of the Broken Lands can be cycled for one black mana till you can either exhume it or hard cast it. Twisted Abomination has the unassuming swamp cycling ability but here’s the sweet kicker - Witch’s Cottage can be fetched which allows you to return a creature from your graveyard to the top of your library so long as you have 3 other swamps in play. There is Faerie Macabre which can be cycled for free as a combat trick or get rid of creatures from your opponents graveyard when you cast Exhume so that it benefits you more, and finally we have Greater Sandwurm & Monstrous Carabid.

Our removal package consists of 2 copies of Disfigure, 1 copy of Ghastly Demise, and 2 copies of Snuff Out. I’m still on the fence about Snuff Out and think that maybe Victim of Night might just be better, but often times I’ll tap out trying to cast creatures and cycling so it fits my play style best. Obviously in a mono black heavy environment this removal package won’t work all that well, and in that case I’d go 3 Disfigure and 2 Defile. If tokens start making a comeback it might even prove necessary to run one Echoing Decay mainboard with one in the sideboard as well. You could also get cute and use Wasteland Scorpion as removal which has the added benefit of being able to cycle as well. There are tons of options out there, but what I have been running works well enough.

Rounding out the deck we have 1 Syphon Life, 2 Sign in Blood, and 2 Ransack the Lab. You’ll notice that by playing Street Wraith and Sign in Blood that your life total takes a serious hit, so to mitigate that and also add in a little inevitability we are playing Syphon Life. It’s also one of those cards that synergizes well with the deck when you cast it from your graveyard by paying its cost in addition to discarding a land. Why the split between Sign in Blood and Ransack the Lab you might ask? Well, as previously mentioned we lose a lot of self inflicted life by drawing cards, and it just seemed too risky to play 4 copies of Sign in Blood, so we are playing Ransack the Lab alongside it. I love what Ransack the Lab does for black, it digs three cards deep to help you find exhume or a relevant card for the situation, and fills your graveyard for Gurmag Angler. It might be correct to just run 4 copies of Ransack the Lab, but I felt like the deck needed a couple of advantage spells instead of cantrips.

Finally I’ll touch on the mana base really quick before getting into the sideboard. Peat Bog is essential because it allows you to cast Grisly Survivor on turn 2 and can help “ramp” you into some nice plays early on. After you’ve exhausted the usefulness it also fills to graveyard for Gurmag Angler which is another added benefit. Another interesting addition is Ash Barrens instead of Barren Moor. My reasoning for this is that in a pinch Ash Barrens can come into play untapped ready to go, and it can also fetch our lone mountain if we ever wanted to hard cast our Monstrous Carabid. I’ve already mentioned Witch’s Cottage, but the value it offers the deck is worth mentioning again. It gives extra life to our cycled creatures and can be fetched by Twisted Abomination, something I found to be amazing.

1 Faerie Macabre

4 Geth's Verdict

2 Crypt Rats

2 Vampiric Link

2 Monstrous Carabid

1 Victim of Night

2 Disfigure

1 Raven's Crime

The sideboard is built to fight burn, hexproof, and aggressive decks. Crypt Rats is my favorite card to bring in post board and almost warrants a spot in the main as well, the only thing I don’t bring this in for is Tron and hard control decks. Raven’s crime is a card that is brought in against control decks as well, being able to be recast by discarding a land and boost your Grisly Survivor or Horror of the Broken Lands.

Now start cycling some creatures and forcing your opponents to “Exhume” the position. I’ve had a lot of fun coming up with this decklist and bringing another article to you as well. If you have any brews you’d like me to write about, please email them to [email protected]. As always, I play the decks in the free tournaments hosted by gatherling every Tuesday night and do a quick report on how the deck fared. Till next time folks, have a happy Brewsday!